Stars Rise

LXXXVIII. "Do you know where Milana Nox is, exequi?"

While Cytheria was watching a beautiful, wild snowfall, listening to live music and sipping a glass of wine, if a plebeian bottle, Terra Demarco was chained up in a dark room somewhere only Justin Marius knew.

Her hands and feet chained to each other, she was waiting, uncomfortable but not scared, for her mother, because nothing would keep Cytheria from freeing her, even if the world had to burn in exchange.

Se mourned her brother, and the only fire smoldering hotter than the burn of words left unsaid was the vengeance kindling for the people responsible. Terra was cold, and hungry, and dehydrated, tired and bored and mutinously, explosively angry, and the longer she sat cramped up like that, the less she would forgive her mother for leaving her there.

It was time for Cytheria to put down the wine glass and get her out.

In the dusty living room of the Demarco manor, young Cytheria sits with Cristo having a smoke. Sunlight filters through stained glass windows in red and green and royal blue. Cytheria revels in her youth. She's pristine, smooth and glossy like she was in her first adolescence, the skin around her sharp eyes under black lashes as smooth as it was when she was a child, her hair soft as honey and full black and glossy. Her lips and cheeks are bee-stung, her face and body are round.

Only her frown is old, and the way she steeples plump fingers and crosses tanned legs while she sits with sophisticated posture. If it weren't for that you would think she was seventeen.

Cristo says, "Your plan is taking a toll on you." He calls it her plan.

Cytheria frowns deeper than before and creases line her forehead — not wrinkles, only creases. She thinks about that for a moment. Silence falls over them.

In the Potestas Tower bar, old Cytheria dropped the wine glass down on a bar top by the window where the snow fell past. The bar was black and hot from the fires. Lights flashed the same tempo as the band. The crowd parted by magic between her and Justin Marius across the party at the other bar. Cytheria stopped in her footsteps, frozen cold, and didn't cross to him. The crowd gave up on her and moved back into the way. Marius disappeared again behind the crush of dinner jackets, long sleeves and fur coats.

The Demarco manor is quiet in the morning. Sitting on a sofa half her age, young Cytheria eyes the annoying youth across her coffee table who will never have a wrinkle for a minute of his life.

She takes a puff of her cigarette. She says, "I got used to the guilt a long time ago," in a strong silky voice. She loves to sing. "It was my fault the first time. It's hardly any different this time. It was my fault both of my children died then, I can take the blame now too."

In the Potestas Tower bar, the old woman took a step. The bodies didn't part to give her a second chance, and her second step forward brought her between suit jacketed backs, someone in a long sleeved short skirted silhouette dress pushed her back, and Cytheria rocked backwards on her low heels, then took the third step. Wading toward Marius, her conscience slowed her momentum like knee-deep water, hesitation weighed her feet down, and dozens of dancing party guests pushed like a tide against her.

She struggled to walk. She fought to stop herself with every step. She fought to step forward, one foot in front of the other.

Cristo leans in toward the pristine young doll on the sofa with her legs crossed and says, "You need to be sure. There can't be a doubt in your mind. It won't be worth the risks we're facing. This is your last chance to tell me if you would have been able to withstand the death of one of your children to protect the future." He doesn't say the name. Just one child. Only one, he says. She shouldn't hold out for that hope, they never should have even discussed it. What if neither could survive? Cytheria had already lost them both, she could do it again. For the good of many.