Lux's blouse hung from the curtain rod above her, swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of fresh laundry danced around her; a intoxicating mix of soapwort and lye. It mingled with the song from the distant wind chime, muffling the patter of the maid’s slip-ons as they came and went with towels folded in their hands.

  An array of odd trinkets poked out of Lux’s satchel, gathered sparsely from across Benaill’s rustic townscape. A glass frame, screwdriver, parchment paper—and flowers. Freshly cut. Items she’d searched for from morning to afternoon; now forced to spend the latter half of her day toying with.

  However, she refused to allow her entire day to be wasted on art projects. Her attention wasn’t on her hands; thoughts swirling with the memories she needed to transcript. The sigil on her wrist blinking with quick flashes of light as she guided a floating quill with her eyes. One by one, writing footnotes beneath the line of spells, a guide for the thesis she’d eventually write, to ensure she wouldn’t forget a single detail of her time in the Avaritia house.

  New World 07/ 08/9600 Stratum Years

  · Though it has been twelve years since Azazel Avarice’s curse was placed upon her, the Avarice family remains almost entirely clueless on the why, or how, of her cursing. What they have gathered is as follows; Azazel’s Avarice’s cannibalism is involuntary. (14:35) She exists in a treasonous, undead state which requires a great amount of sustenance to maintain. (14: 41)

  · This curse does not strike me as unique, it functions similarly to every mortal species’ need for sustenance and is comparable to hunting. No matter if because of the nature of her feeding, those around her consider it otherwise. This is the argument I will use when confronting the Upper-Plane about Azazel’s “sin.”

  Lux spread the petals of a crested iris, placing them carefully between two sheets of parchment paper, pressing them flat with a hot iron. Only a few seconds at a time.

  New World 07/09/9600 Stratum Years

  · Abigor Avarice has dealings with the Lower-Plane that I do not know the full details of. Presumably, he has contracted a soul seeker; however, in accordance with mutual law between the Upper and Lower Planes, (the Angel & Devil Separation Act) I cannot interfere with these dealings.

  Alongside a quick pattering inching closer, a small gasp sounded behind Lux. Her eyes flicked away from the magic scroll, following young Madeline’s silhouette around the ironing board.

  “What are you doing? . . ., Why are you ironing flowers?” Madeline’s voice was a blend of awe and amazement; her curiosity strong enough to break through her bashfulness. “Is that hard—er, no, I mean—can you teach me?”

  “Be careful—,” Lux said, catching the girl’s eagerness. She held up her palm, stopping Madeline in place before she inched any closer to the hot iron. “If you burn yourself, my god will hold me responsible.”

  “What? You’ll get in trouble?” Madeline gasped again, “Is Solstice really that strict?”

  “Just about—and It’ll be a lot of trouble at that,” Lux insisted, watching Madeline shiver at the thought. She glanced down; how much is enough to prevent a tantrum?

  Lost in thought; a long drag came from beyond the window, exhaling in a series of disordered whispers. All of them incomprehensible.

  Lux parsed through her arrangement of ferns and flowers, splitting them into two bundles, pointing towards the smaller one. “You should at least let them sit overnight—if you can be patient, a day under the sun is even better,” Lux explained, though her words came and went in a blur; focused only on the clamoring treeline.

  I can’t be imagining it—there’s something outside.

  “Thank you, Lady Angel!” Madeline exclaimed, in loudest voice she’d spoken with yet. Though still quiet for a child her age.

  Lux gave a silent nod, watching Madeline scurry off. She listened closely; another incoherent line sounding behind the wind chime. She wrote another footnote in her transcript.

  · The woods here are strange. They whisper incoherent sentences, they whistle loudly, they’ve learned my name. (07/08/9600, 13:07) Yet, the maid Edith claims she’s experienced nothing like it. (07/08/9600 13:56) I have yet to inquire about this with any other individuals. (07/08/9600, 14:44) (07/09/9600, 18:24)

  ~

  Lux hadn’t had the patience to let her bundle of dried flowers rest a day under the sun. She’d begun to feel truly restless, swearing that if she spent another day idling away she’d go mad. So, she’d accepted her hypocrisy as an extension of her resentment of the Avaritia house, the Avarice family, and the Mortal-Plane.

  Is it even worth giving Azazel this much time to simmer down?

  One by one, she plucked the flowers from the tray on her windowsill, arranging them along the bottom of a glass frame. Each bit of green she placed a careful mirror of the Avaritia house’s decayed courtyard, manifesting her guess of what it would’ve looked like if it were still alive. If she was right, with no moisture left to feed on, Azazel’s curse would spare the flowers; leaving them to retain their color while long dead.

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  She pressed another sheet of glass on the arrangement, enclosing the flowers between the two layers with four screw standoffs. She held the completed frame in front of the window, peering through it. She forced her logic to step aside, taking in the sight as the monochrome courtyard appeared to blossom with life. As if the frame were an optical illusion, lending Lux a vision into the past.

  ~

  Lux’s satchel hung from her shoulder, digging into her spirit by the weight of the glass frame within. Sparse crinkling sounded under her arm as she unlocked the entrance of the East Wing, stepping into the dirt-splattered hall.

  This entire assignment might be for naught. She dragged her eyes over the stained windowpanes. Her gaze caught on the corpse of the crow from mere days ago. It appeared to have been hurled from the sunroom window, now slowly dissolving into the brittle, bloodied grass. Forget maybe—this assignment is no doubt for naught.

  She stopped beside the coffee table that stood in the center of the lounge, resting her satchel atop it. Silence enveloped her, surrounded by empty rooms with their doors hanging open.

  She pulled the frame from her satchel, peeling the parchment paper from it. Alongside a wooden easel to keep it upright. She dusted off the nearest windowsill with her fingers, ensuring the frame faced the courtyard directly.

  A low sigh escaped her; where had that monster gone? She flicked through the transcripts in her mind until the memory of the East Wing’s exterior replaced her vision. There has to be a stairs leading the second floor somewhere. . .. Brought back to the present in a flash of light, she found herself staring into the stained-glass door.

  I’m likely better off starting there.

  Lux wandered through the rot, the lace drapes above coloring the sunroom in spasmodic light. The message Azazel had written just barely visible through the layers of fabric. Yet, she hadn’t caught a glimpse of the spiraled horns sprouting from Azazel’s head behind the hanging pots. Neither a stray strand of hair curling around the ashen vine.

  She rested her hand on the back of the rusted patio chair she’d sat in on their first encounter, peering through the glass table at the floor previously doused in black blood. Now nearly spotless. At least she cleans one thing, she thought, though the crow’s mangled body splattered across the courtyard still flashed in her memory.

  A rustle sounded behind Lux, a glint of silver flashing in the corner of her eye. Before she could even blink, something sharp pierced her throat and sent shockwaves through her. Her hand shot up to her voice box, feeling at the gardening sickle lodged inside her. She gripped the handle, breath hitching. Why—she yanked the sickle from her spirit, choking on the scalding fluid that gathered her wound—does everything on this foul plane have to hurt so badly?

  She suppressed a wet cough, holding her wrist against her mouth. She turned to her left, eyes locking with Azazel’s—but found she couldn’t even speak.

  “Damnit—,” a displeased huff escaped Azazel, “I missed.”

  If you consider this missing, just what were you aiming at? Lux thought, the tear in her throat already beginning to stitch itself shut.

  “I’m starting to think there’s not a lick of sense in you—,” Azazel spat, “how many times do I have strike you before you realize there isn’t a thing worth saving in this house—and certainly not in me?”

  “I want to ask—,” Lux strained to speak, voice returning in hoarse grumble, “if you refuse salvation; send me back to the Upper-Plane empty-handed, what future do you envision living after I’m gone?” Lux felt the scalding subside, letting her palm fall from her voice box as she gulped down the remaining fluid in her throat.

  Azazel’s eyes thinned, her glare making Lux feel as though she were being pierced again. There was a bout of silence between them. She wondered, had Azazel not thought of the future? How couldn’t she have?

  “Do you need to be reminded what predicament you’re in?” Lux said, “Your brother, the Avaritia house’s heir told me directly that in less than three months time—your fate belongs to him. With his persistence, I’d bet my own soul he’s already contracted the devil that’s going to drag you underground.”

  “And if that devil hasn’t already struck a deal with any of the Lower-Plane’s great houses? They’ll fight over who gets to keep you—regardless, any sliver of freedom you have left in this life will be gone. Eternally.”

  Azazel’s body went rigid as her expression soured further, “you really think I’ll let those haints take me?” Her pitched climbed higher word by word, “you’re not much better—afterlife this, afterlife that! That’s all I hear from every one of you!”

  “Listen close, I won’t be ascending or descending—I’m going to stay right here!”

  “Why?” Lux pushed. She knew Azazel was quick to anger—that by some delusion she believed the future was in her own hands. “Your entire existence is shunned—what here is worth staying for?”

  “My life is what’s worth staying for! I still haven’t gotten to live!” Azazel exclaimed. “Abigor? Oh Abigor—,” she began to laugh, spouting a chaotic string of boisterous outcries, “Abigor isn’t no heir—he’s a kyarn smellin’ vile cunt who stole that title from me!”

  Azazel staggered towards Lux, “And the Avaritia house? It’s MY damn birthright, and so long as I’m here I’ll—.”

  “What—,” Lux uttered before being gripped by the shoulder’s and pulled up to face Azazel mere centimeters apart. She didn’t flinch; swiping at the table behind herself until the sickle she’d pulled from her throat went flying across the sunroom. “Who allowed Abigor to steal from you? It has something to do with that scar, doesn’t it?”

  To Lux’s surprise, Azazel’s grip on her faltered, and she unclasped her hands.

  “That’s what you want to know?” Azazel tilted her chin, glaring down at Lux, “I was killed and cursed in those woods twelve years ago—.”

  There was another bout of silence, thoughtful silence, as Azazel debated the words welling up inside her. “How about this?” she finally said, “find that damned sorcerer and I might consider solace.”

  A series of unpredictable outcomes churned through Lux’s head. The possibility that Azazel might be dissatisfied by her findings, that she might be purposefully distracting her with a request guaranteed to lead her to a dead-end. However, something told Lux this compromise would be the only one offered to her. She swallowed her skepticism, “I’ll do it,” she said, "but you to at least need to give me somewhere to start.”

  For a moment, Azazel seemed taken aback. Then, she sneered—leaning down so she could whisper directly into Lux’s ear, “then how about you start. . .,” she raised her arm, pointing towards the courtyard beyond, “by picking up that rotten bird—and burying it in the wheezing woods?”