Page 33 of Anathema

MAEVYTH

Shoulders pulled back, every muscle in my body urging me to run from the room, I stood before Mr. Moros, who sat on the couch across from Agatha.

“I can assure you,” the old woman said in a voice that scratched at my ears like nails on glass, “aside from the small imperfection in her eye, she suffered no other physical deformities.”

In the last hour, I’d begun to appreciate those new imperfections that had now labeled me anomalous in Agatha’s eyes.

“You’re welcome to examine her further.” She turned toward me, eyes sparkling with feigned adoration. “Maevyth, dear, lift your skirts so the good sir can assess you.”

Dryness tore through my throat, my eyeballs bouncing between Agatha and Mr. Moros’ shifting form on the couch.

“Don’t be rude. Do as you’re told, girl,” she chided, ushering me with her hand.

“That won’t be necessary,” Moros said, much to my mortified relief. “I trust she’s perfect.”

“Well, not entirely so. There is the eye, and the scar she now bears on her arm. Grotesque looking thing, though it seems to be easily hidden beneath her dresses.”

“Miss Bronwick,” Mr. Moros said, not bothering to acknowledge Agatha. “Might I entice you to lunch, then tea in the gardens, this afternoon? A public affair, I assure you. A number of respected members of the community and their wives will be in attendance. Some who knew your father quite well.”

While I was inclined to refuse, the prospect of having to listen to Agatha lament about my new imperfections one moment longer urged me to accept. Besides, no wouldn’t have been an acceptable response to her, either, so in essence, I had no choice. I also welcomed the opportunity to hear about the adopted father I hardly knew, one whom Agatha had made a point to exclude from any of the family albums, or conversation. “I’d like that, thank you, Sir.”

“Very good. Perhaps you might want to … consider more comfortable attire.” It was clear he meant my lack of undergarments, and clearing my throat, I nodded. With Agatha’s dismissal, I darted up the staircase for my bedroom, and once inside, I performed a quick sweep for the egg I’d hidden beneath my bed. Thankfully, it remained tucked against the wall, where I’d hoped Aleysia wouldn’t find it.

Once I’d slipped into my undergarments and corset, replacing the high-necked dress and cross, I headed back down the stairs. In truth, I hadn’t yet been to the northern side of the parish, where most of the military and politicians resided. I’d heard there were far more amenities there, including a telescope, which I longed to see someday.

When I returned to the parlor, a new but familiar face stood chatting with Agatha and Mr. Moros. One of the executioners from The Banishing days ago. The one who’d snickered and stabbed the prisoner with his bayonet.

Across from them sat my sister, the anger in her eyes telling me everything.

He was the man Agatha had chosen for her.

Along and opulent table stretched from one end of the dining room to the other, and around it sat twenty-two of Foxglove’s more prominent residents. Mr. Moros had claimed the head of the table, while I sat wedged between him and an officer, identified as such by the embellished uniform he wore. Across from me were the parish physician and his wife, who’d already assessed me prior to the lunch. The Governor’s clerks, some of the women Agatha often gossiped with, one of the Sacred Men garbed in the telling red robe, and a few others I didn’t recognize took up the remaining chairs. A sea of vibrantly-colored attire.

Meanwhile, I wore my usual black dress and choker, which I found oddly comforting amongst uncomfortable company. A second skin that made me invisible for the way their eyes skated over me with the same disinterest as if I were a dried and withering rose in a garden of bright tulips.

For most of the lunch, I sat through mind-numbing, political commentary and loathsome gossip of villagers, until a man two seats down finally asked, “I understand you made quite a discovery while mining in Lyveria. Is that true, Mr. Moros?”

Beside me, Moros frowned, raising a bite of too-rare venison to his mouth. “And how did you come upon this news?”

“News is my business, Sir.” It was then I recognized the man as a scribe for the Foxglove Gazette. He’d come to the mortuary not long ago, scrounging juicy bits on why the vineyard had failed so miserably.

Moros dabbed his face with a napkin and cleared his throat. “I did, in fact, make a new discovery.” From his coat pocket, he pulled a small vial containing three milky white stones, their surfaces sparkling. “The stones were buried in what appeared to have been hardened lava rock at one time.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“No. I’m having it examined. Virtually indestructible, so it may prove useful as weaponry, if we can find a way to melt it down.” After another long stare, Moros tucked the rocks away inside his coat.

“It must be dangerous mining so close to the Lyverians.” The observation came from one of the women, dressed in a flamboyant pink dress. “I understand they collect the bones of their kills.”

“Yes. The Lyverians are quite hostile, but the Vonkovyan forces have been gracious enough to guard our operations there. The good captain here has ensured we remain insulated from attack.” Moros nodded toward the man sitting beside me, and I didn’t bother to turn and look, as I could feel the whole table staring our way. “They’re quite primitive, I must say. Using bones for weapons.” He chuckled, dabbing his mouth again, before setting the napkin atop his empty plate. “As I understand, they worship some ancient goddess named Morsana. The Goddess of Death, and the bones are part of their many rituals.”

One of the women at the table gasped so dramatically, I turned to see if she’d choked.

“Positively malevolent! Call it cultural all you want, but it’s pure witchcraft, if you ask me.” The speaker was an older man, sitting beside her, with tufts of white hair, and his gaze fell on me, as if I somehow embodied the evil to which he’d taken offense. “I must say, Mr. Moros, I was a slight bit hesitant to accept your invitation when I heard that she’d be in attendance.” He gave a nod toward me, and I shrank in my chair at the sudden attention. “Are you aware of the girl’s history?”

“I am. And I find your superstitions to be somewhat …” Moros lifted his glass of wine, pausing to smile. “Ridiculous,” he added, before tipping a sip.

“Ridiculous?” The older man scoffed, shifting in his chair like he’d forgotten how to get out of it. “Were you not in attendance for The Banishing? Did you not witness the evil that lives within those woods?”