Chapter Text
Part 1: The City of the Future
When Krat’s first factory had been built the newspaper had proudly declared the coming of a golden age.
The City of the Future , it proclaimed. Krat Enters the Modern Era.
Technology had progressed in leaps and bounds, new inventions were being tested, developed and manufactured at lightning speed, all ready to sit on shop floors for the newly wealthy citizens of Krat to purchase. First they had been poor fishermen and miners, now they had the opportunity to be something more, something greater than their humble beginnings. Singers, dancers, sculptors, painters, architects and engineers or even, Alchemists. As, some thirty years ago, something had been found beneath Krat.
Ergo.
And with Ergo came invention, and with invention came puppets. Puppets to stand with a smile and a wave, to lift and to fix and to work in ways that humans could not. And so, a golden age. An era of art and creativity, all blossoming from a tiny fishing village in the French countryside.
The City of the Future .
The common people did not quite understand how puppets worked and that was ok by the Alchemists and the newly formed Workshop Union. They were tools of convenience, and few people wonder why some things were better than others for a job. They simply were. By the time Krat was ready to present themselves to the world, to present their shining peak, things took a turn for the worst.
The Petrification Disease first, rapidly turning the entire city to stone, only made worse by the meddling of Alchemists looking for evolution in its blue viscera and black calcification. And then, worst of all, the Puppet Frenzy, turning docile servants on their owners and creators. Those that were not succumbing to the mutated Disease were instead being bludgeoned to death in their own homes by the family maid.
Frightful stuff.
What happened next is different depending on who you speak with. Some say that Giuseppe Geppetto, Father and Creator of all puppets caused the Frenzy, for a purpose one cannot fathom. Some say that Simon Manus, a leader among Alchemists, further destroyed the city, allowing Kroud to proliferate, the earth to crack and monsters to reign in some mad attempt at evolution. Some say a woman returned from the dead, fought her way through the Alchemists’ fortress to confront a nascent god before dying in the embrace of her lover. Some say that her love couldn’t keep her from him and she rose once again.
Do you believe this story? Doesn’t it sound like a fairytale?
What’s true is this:
Giuseppe Geppetto stands on trial for starting the Puppet Frenzy, pleading not guilty. He tells the jury that the Grand Covenant broke and that the King of Puppets led his subjects into battle, a merciless slaughter against the defenceless citizens of Krat, regardless of whether they were healthy, sick or mutated. The King refutes him, giving a testimony he claims can only be true. The Grand Covenant did not break, and a puppet cannot lie.
The puppets worship a young woman, saying she is the Saintess reborn and spreading hope for those hoping to regain their lost humanity. The people fear such change, where their servants can be just as equal as them despite their inhuman hearts.
Krat now enters a new and uncertain age, where servants can be just as equal as their masters, where a creator is just as much a destroyer and where the divine is no greater than a human. And now, a Wizard, with eyes tinted green, makes his move, pieces falling into line just so. The stage is set, the actors await their cues, and I, dear Listener. Well I do what I do best.
I watch, I wait. And when the time is right I will say my lines, act my part.
Are you watching? Are you Listening?
–
Just as much as Krat is infamous for its rains, Krat has just as much a propensity to beautiful sunny days. Today, the sky is a bright clear blue and the sun shines down, warm enough that the ocean breeze blowing in from the cliff sides is not so cold. On Rosa Isabelle Street, people and puppets hustle and bustle to and fro, workers on their way to jobs, shoppers on the way to the newly reopened Arcade, a street band strumming and blowing at slightly out of tune instruments. From their bedroom window, Romeo finds his mouth quirking into a smile. Krat has its problems, what city didn’t, but this has always been the thing he liked about it most. The way Krat was able to bounce back, to build and rebuild over disaster and misfortune as if it were nothing. You’d never know that, three years previously, Rosa Isabelle Street had been a flaming wreckage of his own making.
Behind him, a sleeping figure shuffles and rolls over, disrupting the carefully placed sheets on his side. Sophia makes a soft moaning noise, eyes fluttering open.
“Morning,” she mumbles.
She’s beautiful like this, hair like starlight across the crisp white cotton, skin milky pale and only faintly blemished, bare shoulders just peaking out from beneath the sheets. The scar on her chest is barely visible when she levers herself upright, not bothering to cover herself as she smiles at him.
“Morning,” Romeo replies. “How did you sleep?”
He crosses to her, wrapping an arm around her and leaning over to press a kiss to the top of her head. Sophia just moans in response, the kind of noise that indicates maybe she hadn’t slept as well as she’d like.
“How’s your pain?”
“It’s fine,” she mumbles into his shoulder.
“You gonna be ok?”
Another desultory moan. Romeo hums, holding her tight for a moment before pulling away.
“I’ve just heard the mail come in so I’ll go get that but I’ve gotta go to work soon. Do you want to eat breakfast together?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll see you downstairs then.”
Romeo kisses her again, on the cheek this time, and leaves the room, trotting downstairs to allow Sophia to put something on so they can eat breakfast together. Romeo still doesn’t eat, but it’s all part of the experience, the act of spending time with each other. He goes to the kitchen first, filling the kettle and putting it on the stovetop for Sophia’s cup of tea before heading to their little entryway where a small pile of mail has been left for them. Romeo picks it up and sifts through, tossing a few bills onto the side table for later. The letters and newspaper he brings with him, returning to the kitchen to begin adding tea to a strainer for when the water is boiled.
First on the pile is a letter addressed to Sophia from her lawyer, likely following up on the long and arduous task of getting herself declared alive. Another for Sophia with a return address from Syroy, the front face covered almost entirely with stamps. From Giangio most likely. This one makes Romeo grimace a little and he probably sets the envelope down on Sophia’s setting with more force than necessary. And, at the bottom of the pile, a letter addressed to him, in big swooping cursive and smelling suspiciously like roses.
Adelina.
He rips the envelope open and yes, the actress has managed to stuff a whole heap of rose petals in it that scatter everywhere, before pulling out the paper haphazardly. The kettle begins to whistle so, one handed and only half paying attention, he begins pouring water into the teapot as he reads.
Dearest Romeo,
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. I quite enjoyed our time together last week, walking around the park as we did. When we stood beneath the oak I found myself wondering what you tasted like. Patricia is insistent it would be copper and oil but the colour of your lips brings to mind that fanciful little sweets they sell on Clavering. Turkish Delight.
I believe I would delight in the taste of you.
I look forward to seeing you later today.
With all my love,
Adelina.
Romeo grimaces as he sets the kettle down, stuffing the letter and all wayward petals back into the envelope and then holding it over the still open flame. It burns merrily, filling the kitchen with the scent of charred petals.
“Why does it smell like a tea shop caught on fire?” Sophia asks. She’s put her night dress back on and she’s leaning heavily on her cane, nose wrinkled at the smell.
“I dropped some,” Romeo replies, the lie slick and oily on his tongue. “Tea’s in the pot. Want me to toast some bread?”
Sophia stumps over to a chair and sits down, ignoring his question for a moment as she looks at the letters on her place mat. She picks up the one covered in stamps and rips it open, scanning through it quickly.
“Sophia?” Romeo prompts. “Food first.”
“Oh.” She sets the letter down and stands, using the edge of the table to walk over to him. He leans down automatically, allowing her to press a kiss to his cheek. “I would love some toast thank you.”
Romeo busies himself with a pan, setting it on the stove to heat up while he cuts her bread. Meanwhile, Sophia organises her tea, adding a splash of milk to a cup before pouring the aromatic liquid over top. She sits just as Romeo places her plate in front of her, lightly toasted and smeared with butter, taking the seat adjacent.
“Thanks.” She once again returns to the letter, absently chewing on her toast as she reads.
“Sophia,” Romeo says. Her eyes flick up to him and she pauses mid chew. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
She swallows.
“Sorry, just, this one’s important.”
She shuffles through the sheaf of papers and hands one to him, indicating a paragraph for him to read.
“Giangio found my aunt.”
Romeo skims the paragraph, mindful that this is generally private, picking out what she’s just told him.
“That’s good!” He says. “So you can take that to the lawyer right?”
“Well.” Sophia brandishes her toast for a moment. “I’ll need to write to Tatty and tell her that I’m alive and then get her to write to the lawyer verifying myself as her blood relation and that I am who I say I am. But I didn’t know where she was and I mentioned it to Giangio…”
“Oh, well that’s nice of him,” Romeo says neutrally. “One step closer to be being Sophia Monad again I guess.”
“Only so I can claim any inheritance that might be left,” she states. “For all I know everything got forfeited to the city when I went missing but I’d like at least some of it, you know?”
It was the most likely scenario but Romeo wouldn’t know for certain. They’d tried to access the records house, to make an attempt at following where Sophia’s rightful inheritance had gone, but the place had been destroyed and looted during the Frenzy. The legal system Sophia was currently attempting to navigate was far more complicated than Romeo had the head for, but he knew it wasn’t as simple as producing a birth certificate and claiming it was her.
“Of course,” Romeo agrees. “Might be nice to get the old house back.”
Sophia giggles, finishing up her toast and taking a sip of her tea to wash it down.
“It would be nice to start up another Charity House,” she muses. “It would give people jobs and a place for children without families…”
“Thought you hated those.”
“I mean…” She tilts her head from side to side. “It’s kind of all I know.”
Romeo reaches a hand forward and pats hers, giving her what he hopes is a reassuring smile.
“Don’t do something you don’t want to,” he tells her. He spies the clock over her shoulder and grimaces. “I’ve gotta head off. Do you need me to pick up anything on the way home?”
“Ah, no, I think I’ll be fine. I have to go to the pharmacy anyway so I’ll just grab anything while I’m out.”
Romeo nods and stands, kissing Sophia quickly on top of her head before heading upstairs to dress. Shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark trousers, heavy boots, hair pulled back with a dark blue ribbon. He checks his face in the hallway mirror, no blemishes, and thumps back down where Sophia is standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame and holding her cup of tea.
“There’s other good news in the letter but I’ll wait until you get home, ok?” She says.
“Sure.” He leans down and kisses her, before opening the door to the bright summer’s day.
“I love you!” Sophia calls. “Have a good day!”
“I love you too!” He calls back.
—
Since the end of the Frenzy, Romeo has worked in the newly established Corday Theatre Company, working as a stage hand. The pay is only just ok, just covering bills and food for Sophia, but it’s about the only work he’s been able to find. He has few skills beyond Stalking and most humans are leery at the thought of hiring a puppet bodyguard. Putting a weapon in his hand is out of the question, and he shouldn’t be able to harm anyone even if he wanted to. That was the assumption anyway. So, Romeo spent his day doing construction, repairs, moving heavy items around and setting up lighting and pulleys for Adelina’s theatre. While she would have preferred to use the Opera House, she had confided in him once, most people wouldn’t be willing to brave the chambers of the King of Puppets to see a performance. So, the theatre they currently occupied was smaller and a little run down but it suited a post Frenzy Krat just fine.
Romeo punches in and gets to work, helping a few of the puppets in Adelina’s employ with packing props into crates. Adelina wanted to run a series of performances outside while the weather was still good so they were currently in the middle of transporting everything to one of the amphitheatres for set up.
A lot of the puppets dip their heads as he walks by, paying deference to their King. As much as Romeo would prefer they didn’t, it got a little obvious when there were large groups just nodding at one person, but he finds the returning nod he gives is far from automatic. They have a lot of respect for him and he won’t let that fall on deaf ears.
As the morning wanes, the actors begin to show up for practice. Singers and dancers and musicians add a lively backdrop to the monotony of packing and carrying and when Adelina finally appears things seem to explode with chaotic energy. Adelina is a force to be reckoned with, filling the room with her sheer presence and booming voice. While no longer able to sing properly, her voice still rings out loud and clear as she begins directing actors through scenes and musicians through their songs.
“Places everyone!” She bellows. “I want to see that from the top!”
Even the stage hands are not beneath her gaze, flurries of silk sweeping through their midst as she directs humans and puppets alike.
“You must be careful!” She cries. “These props are valuable and I will not have them ruined!”
As Adelina navigates actors and stage hands, humans and puppets alike, all are given the honour of her touch. A shoulder, an arm, the tops of heads for some of the children darting about, and Romeo, the longest of them all. A reassuring pat and squeeze on his arm and a meaningful look.
Endure it, he tells himself. She will get bored.
Patricia is not here today and that fact makes Romeo grimace slightly. Adelina was much more likely to keep their clandestine meetings short if her sister was waiting to escort her home.
The day wears on, actors finishing their practise and the last box packed and loaded into the carts for the move tomorrow. Romeo sits on the back step with a group of puppets as one of them passes an Ergo battery around, taking turns connecting it to their internal motors as a form of energy. He waves it off when he reaches him, content to bask in that comfortable warmth he’s now able to keep himself at.
“So Adelina says there’s going to be big news,” one of the puppets says. “Something about the company. Did you hear anything about that your- uh, Romeo?”
Romeo shakes his head.
“Hopefully only good things,” he says.
“I heard the last play didn’t do so well,” one of the little marionettes says. She’s fiddling with the length of wire kept on the coil on her back, a metallic clicking filling the space between her words. “Hopefully we won’t get fired.”
“We won’t get fired,” Romeo tells them with far more certainty than he feels. “You’d have to be stupid to fire a workforce like us.”
With Romeo as the exception, puppets couldn’t really tire in the same way humans did. Sure, they could only run at peak performance for so long before they had to slow down, but a puppet could work almost indefinitely in the right conditions. The Ergo battery being passed down wasn’t necessary for many of them, the behaviour far more akin to sharing a cigarette and socialising. Around him, the puppets give rumbling noises of agreement.
Romeo checks his watch and stands, shaking out a slightly stiff joint in his knee.
“I’ve gotta head on off,” he tells the group.
“You still doing audiences this week sir?” One puppet asks.
“On Sunday, after church,” he says. “I’ve had a few people asking so I’ll extend the session.”
The group lets out a chorus of agreements and a few “say hi to Miss Sophia”’s before he gives them all a wave and heads back into the building, grabbing his coat and punching out before heading to Adelina’s room.
Adelina’s room is part office part dressing room, the space dominated by a large vanity strung with glittering lights. Adelina may no longer be able to sing but she can still act so it’s not uncommon for her to feature herself in a pivotal role within her plays, a wise mentor or powerful queen forced to hand the reins of her power and knowledge over to the heroine of her plays. Romeo knows for a fact that these rankle at her, as those cast in these leading roles are young and beautiful and with voices to rival even Adelina’s prime. He also knows that she wouldn’t be casting these women in these roles if she had any say in it, but their financier, a former Syrese aristocrat, always put his foot down whenever Adelina threw a tantrum about casting.
“You cannot sing,” the man had said bluntly. “This is… grand music. Ah, opera. The lead must sing and you… well you cannot. So, this girl will sing instead and you will play different role, if you must.”
Adelina is currently sitting at her vanity, twisting her hair this way and that as she experiments with different pins. Romeo goes to the middle of the room to stand by her desk, as he always does, taking note of how piled with paperwork it is. She had no head for the management of the company but refused to allow another to take her place.
“Ah Romeo,” she purrs.
Petrification has taken her voice from light and silky to something deeper and slightly gravelly, almost smoke sultry with the right intonation. She stands from the vanity and sasheys over, reaching a hand up to stroke down his cheek.
“I’m so glad you came,” she says. “You got my letter?”
“I got your letter,” Romeo says, keeping his tone flat and neutral. Get it over with.
“Good.”
She runs a thumb over his lips before sitting on the desk in front of him, crossing one leg over the other and hitching the hem up to show a truly scandalous amount of ankle. She blinks and tilts her head, giving him what he assumes is meant to be a seductive smile.
“Have you heard?” Adelina asks.
“Heard what?”
“Well, it’s quite unfortunate.” She takes a sheet of paper from the desk and begins to read it out.
“‘ Adelina has lost her touch,’” she says, affecting a slightly mocking tone. “‘ A play so lacklustre and boring I swear I fell asleep for a moment. I’ve come to expect more from our Lady in Red and this was an unacceptable offering.’”
Adelina tosses the page aside and gives Romeo an expectant look but he just continues to look at her blankly. He’s only a stage hand, and a puppet, he’s got no say in the production of the show.
“The reviews for the last show were bad,” she finally snaps when he doesn’t rise to take the bait. “Ticket sales were lacklustre. Now, Ulric has told me I need to cut back on my spending, tone down my next production. Obviously, that is out of the question but it occurs to me that perhaps I have… too many stage hands.”
Romeo feels himself stiffen up and he exhales, loudly, through his nose. The air is incredibly warm.
“The puppets are already on reduced rates,” he says stiffly.
“Oh yes, I know.” Adelina waves a hand dismissively. “But we trim the fat where we can. Unless…” She gives him a meaningful look.
Stage hands were not paid well, especially puppets. It had been a fight to get puppets properly employed by people, the first concession being made is that they would only be paid three quarters the amount of a human. It was unfair, and something the King fought with Volfe about regularly. Unfortunately, it put Romeo in a precarious position. Their loan repayments made up the majority of their bills but there were still utilities to think of, and food, medicine and doctors appointments for Sophia. She did not work, could not work, so Romeo was the sole provider. He hadn’t told her and wouldn’t tell her of their money struggles because she didn’t need to know.
Adelina had been offering him money for… favours.
Innocent enough at first. Running small errands for her, escorting her to some of the galas that had started up again. Unfortunately, every encounter had a sexual tinge to it, hands that wandered and lingered where they shouldn’t, looks and innuendos that always spoke to a deeper purpose. He had taken her for a turn around the park only last week and she’d pulled him behind a tree, standing on her toes as she’d caressed his cheek.
“Like this, you’re almost human,” Adelina had said. “So soft, pliable. I bet I can make you whimper.”
Under normal circumstances, he would have rebuffed her and lived with the consequences. But… he needed the money. Sophia needed the money.
“What are you suggesting?” Romeo asks, fighting to keep himself neutral. The last thing he needs is to find himself fired because Adelina doesn’t know how to manage her money.
“Well obviously all of the puppets need to go,” Adelina says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “But I’d be willing to keep a… few on.”
She smiles at him, showing too many teeth.
“What do you want?” Romeo asks stiffly.
“Must I spell it out dear Romeo?” She replies, sweet and simpering. “You’re smart, for a puppet. I want you , my dear, and more than what you’re giving.”
Romeo clenches his left fist, feeling the hard press of the ring on his finger as it scrapes against his palm. This is for Sophia.
—
I have another piece of good news.
Some of the Alchemists working in the hospital have managed to develop a device that would allow us to see inside you without needing to cut you open. It would allow us to see if any metal still exists. My assumption is that this is the cause of your pain as the areas you have described line up with my notes. If that is the case we may be able to operate and remove them.
You would need to come to Syroy though. The machine is very large and from what I understand still in its early stages and I highly doubt they’d want to sell the plans on so it could be produced elsewhere. At least, not yet. If you came, I would also be able to provide you with another check up. I know you mentioned that you are attending a doctor regularly but I can’t deny a selfish desire to see how you’ve progressed.
Osmund has been cracking down on Alchemists attempting to leave the city so I haven’t been able to visit. I’m sorry I missed your wedding. Please, bring some photos if you can.
I
Sincerely,
Giangio.
Once Romeo leaves for work, Sophia prepares herself for the day.
It’s a slow process, pain and lack of sleep making her joints stiff and fumbling, but by the time midmorning rolls around, she’s dressed and ready to go. A cream blouse with pretty pearl buttons down the front and a bifurcated skirt in a light weight blue wool with a matching jacket that flared slightly at the waist, giving the illusion of a figure she no longer possessed. Her silvery hair is braided and then wrapped around her head like a crown, any flyaways held down with pretty jewelled pins and the finishing piece is the big silver butterfly brooch pinned to her lapel. Leaning over her vanity, Sophia inspects her face. That light smattering of freckles, the slightly pointed chin and cherubic cheeks. Her lips are too thin, and even the eye shape is wrong.
“This is you Sophia,” she reminds herself sharply. “And Romeo loves you .”
Huffing, she grabs her cane and stumps heavily down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to catch her breath. She has to go to the pharmacy to pick up a refill on a pain prescription and then she needs to visit Father Beysild’s puppet clinic, a job she’s been avoiding despite the promise she’d made. Only two things but she’s exhausted already. Does she bring the chair? On days like today she can barely wheel it herself and she always burns with embarrassment when one of their neighbours offers to help. She could just wait for a good day, when she hasn’t been plagued by nightmares that leave her stiff and sore and exhausted when she wakes up, but those have been so rare lately and she hates the idea of waiting for Romeo’s help. He’s so busy, with work and with being the King. He shouldn’t have to be running around after his deadbeat wife like he often does.
He only loves you because you look like Carlo , a tinny, cackling voice tells her. You’re not even the woman he lost anymore.
Sophia irritably thumps the tip of her cane against the ground.
“He loves you,” she mutters to empty air. “Don’t listen to him .”
–
Rosa Isabelle Street is predominantly populated by puppets, all survivors of the King’s army. Here, puppets work, play and rest all in reflection of regular human lives but that doesn’t mean a few humans haven’t taken up residence here. The street had once been a centre for arts and culture and many of the human survivors had chosen to return to what they knew. It is lively by the time Sophia is able to leave their house so she walks slowly through the crowd, cane tapping on the cobbles as she goes. Three years of independence and self determination has meant that no two puppets look the same, each creating a new identity where most could not find their old. Puppet faceplates, once used in theatre as a form of costuming, were a booming business, each intricately moulded and painted into something different and unique. Gone were the flat and generic smiles of maids and butlers, now there were dignified ladies with stern expressions, jovial men with fantastic ceramic facial hair, every hairstyle and colour possible all clashing wonderfully with brightly painted makeup. And gone were the dull and practical uniforms. Enterprising puppets had scavenged clothing from abandoned wardrobes and taken to sewing with gusto, pushing the bounds of the already ostentatious fashions worn by Krat’s elite. Headed by Colette, one of the spidery opera singers who had decided to give herself an extra set of arms to complement her extra sets of legs, puppet fashion boomed with bright colours, big sleeves and often so much fabric it was impractical. It made human fashion dull and boring by comparison, much to the chagrin of the once elite.
As Sophia makes her way up the street, the slight incline and uneven cobbles playing hell with her balance, puppets call out greetings to her.
“Miss Sophia!”
“Come see-“
“I have this-“
“I’m sure you’ll love-“
They want her to see their latest creations, for her to give praise or a blessing upon it for their hard work. She allows herself to stop at a few, to ask questions as they show her elaborate jewellery or glass sculptures or beautifully beaded fabric that glints in the light. She takes a moment to rest in front of a half human, half puppet band that busks in one of the plazas, clapping along when they finish with a flourish. Sophia doesn’t mind this, not really. She had always liked to wander the streets of Krat to see what was being invented by the engineers or made by the craftsmen, skills she woefully lacked due to a delicate upbringing. Perhaps the only difference now is that the puppets seek her praise, her favour, as their King’s wife.
By the time she reaches the pharmacy, a little shop run by Ingrid, a young woman with curly hair and a thick accent, Sophia is thoroughly winded.
“I’m just here to pick up a prescription,” she tells the woman.
“Of course.”
She hands the slip of paper over and Ingrid inspects it briefly before turning to her shelves of jar, collecting a few and setting them on the counter. A clean ceramic bowl, a mortar and pestle and other such equipment Sophia doesn’t quite know the use for are set out also before the woman gives her a polite smile.
“Would you like anything while you wait?” She asks, indicating just so to a small seating area set up near the front window. “Tea, coffee, water?”
Sophia dithers for a moment before taking out a small slip of red paper, shaped like a petal. The woman nods professionally, this is not the first time they’ve done this after all, and she beckons Sophia around the counter and into the back room, leading her carefully to a curtained off area. A small smokey lounge is presented to her, a low couch with pillows and throws artfully arranged over its back and sides sits to her right while in front of her is an equally low coffee table with a hookah sitting in the middle. Incense tickled at her nose, calming lavender and camomile with a faint woody undertone. The pharmacist checks the hookah, deeming everything sufficient before gently leading Sophia onto the couch, draping one of the throws over her tired, aching legs.
“How long would you like?” The pharmacist asks.
“Just until everything is ready,” Sophia tells her. Just enough to take the edge off, just enough to see her through the day.
“Of course.”
The woman leaves to begin compounding Sophia’s medication while Sophia takes the hookah’s pipe in her hand, raising it to the side of her mouth and inhaling. The effect is immediate, a heady rush of thick white smoke that sits like a coil in her lungs, slowly filtering outwards and dampening her pain before she exhales in a great cloud. She leans back, the pipe clasped loosely in her hand as she allows her eyes to drift shut, just for the moment.
It had been Giangio who had suggested the syrmak.
It comes from the poppies grown outside Syroy, he had written. Helps dull the senses, so it should help with your pain. Speak with a woman called Ingrid Ravikova, I had dealings with her mother. They smuggle syrmak into the city on behalf of the Nome King. It was barely a problem when I left, so I doubt your current government are worrying too much about it at the moment.
Volfe was not concerned about syrmak, not really. Old laws about the smuggling and use of the drug still stood but it was easy to buy, sell and partake in the potent opioid. For that, Sophia was thankful. Her regular medication, taken morning and night, had waning efficacy, a fact Giangio had warned her about. The pain in her limbs and torso was only ever, at best, kept muffled and it often roared to life at the faintest provocation. Syrmak allowed her a time of nothing, to be able to exist without that constant fire in her newly human bones.
“My lady,” Ingrid calls.
She swims into focus, face muddy and swirling. Sophia flinches at the sight, forcing herself to blink and focus through the haze. Perhaps that is the only thing she does not like about the syrmak, the way it dregs up memories best left forgotten.
“Everything is ready now.”
Sophia drags herself upright, setting the pipe down and folding the throw to the side. Ingrid is patient as she composes herself, taking several deep breaths before taking her cane and following the pharmacist out. The drug dulls the pain but it also dulls a great many other things, leaving Sophia feeling slightly detached from her body, so she leans slightly more heavily on her cane, the weight of her prosthesis dragging slightly more on her shoulder. At the counter, Sophia takes another deep breath as Ingrid places the glass bottle of medication, the little canvas bag of syrmak and the invoice in front of her. The words swim for a moment, sludgey worms in bone white dirt.
“Do you need more time?” The pharmacist asks. “I can-“
“I’m fine,” Sophia replies, far sharper than she intends. “Let me just-“
Maybe there is more than one thing she does not enjoy about the drug, but the benefit far outweighs the daze she will spend the rest of the day in.
Sophia pays, only vaguely paying attention to the rising cost of the medication before she stows everything into her pockets and heads back out onto the street. The sun sits high and bloated in the sky, adding a honey gold sheen to everything as Sophia begins making her way back down the street. The Cathedral is her next destination, Father Beysild having taken over the grand building as a secondary puppet sanctuary after the Frenzy. Too many people had died within those walls and the viscous blue muck had been difficult to scrub from the ancient stone. No one wanted to attend mass in a place so desecrated, and especially not from the self appointed priest of a new found religion.
Sophia pays for a carriage, the journey far too great even on a good day, and allows herself the opportunity to drift as it rattles through a rebuilding Krat. Compared to Rosa Isabelle Street, where everything is well cared for and brightly decorated, the human occupied streets of Krat show their scars more readily. A great deal of Krat had been ravaged by the earthquakes and Kroud growths caused by the Hotel Stargazer breaking and even now, much of the damage is yet to be repaired. Mighty fissures are covered over with temporary wooden bridges, houses are covered in the heavy latticework of scaffolding to assist in their slow repairs. Volfe abhorred the idea of using the puppets as a workforce, especially now they needed to be paid for their service, so it slowed construction work down. Some puppets did work in this section of the city, if Sophia had deigned to look out the window she would have seen some of the larger puppets carrying heavy pallets of material under the watchful eye of human supervisors, but most sites were manned by the human population. There was no proper border between the two groups, the King had made sure of that, but they were still wary of each other. Humans, so used to the easy life given to them by a slave workforce, were now forced to watch as former servants worked when and how they wanted to, now being paid for jobs that were once taken for granted. Resentment brewed easily.
The carriage rattles up the worn dirt path, shaking Sophia from that drifting space she had found herself floating in. Not quite disconnected, but not entirely present either. She rubs at a crusty eye and thanks the carriage driver, the puppet doffing his hat before coaxing the horses around and back down the trail. Ahead is the tram car, a few puppets idling around as they wait for it to return back down the hillside. They notice her approach, staticky murmuring filling the air as she stumps over to one of the available seats and sits down, taking several deep breaths once again to try and clear the lingering haze.
“L-Lady Sophia?” One of the puppets stands in front of her, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. He holds one hand in the other, mangled fingers just visible.
“What can I do for you?” She asks. She pats the empty seat next to her but the puppet kneels instead, blank blue eyes shiny with something like adoration.
“I had come here for repair,” he says. “I-I cannot not afford proper care and I-I heard from Father Beysild…” He trails off.
Puppet injuries were easily fixed by a proper technician but these days the rising cost of materials made care often unaffordable to the average puppet. Thus, most came to the Cathedral where they could receive temporary repairs, depending on their injuries, from sympathetic technicians and the few puppet apprentices that were learning the craft. What most hoped for, and often what Beysild promised, was the chance to be touched by the Saintess.
“Let me have a look,” Sophia says, holding her hand out.
The puppet extends his mangled hand and Sophia inspects the damage, only vaguely understanding what she’s looking at through the heavy cloud hanging over her. The appendage is mangled beyond repair, the best solution being to replace it, but Sophia reached for the puppet’s Ergo, feeling its pitted and marred surface beneath spectral fingertips. The puppet shivers, audibly rattling, as she coaxes joints, wires and crushed ceramic back to its original form, a latticework of starlight weaving itself over the puppet’s surface. The remaining puppets no longer keep a polite distance or their eyes averted as the damage is repaired, restoring the puppet to new again. As the light fades, fatigue washes over her, made worse by the drug in her system, and Sophia closes her eyes as the puppets break out into staticky murmurs and exclamations of wonder.
“Praise be,” the puppet in front of her says. He holds her hand now, rather than she his, pressing his chest forward so her fingertips brush against the rough cotton of his shirt. “Praise be the Saintess.”
The puppet rises, lowering her hand reluctantly and others step forward, offering themselves to her. Broken limbs, mangled gears, burns and rips through the ceramic and wood of their frames. For the puppets, it is only a moment to repair the damage, flashing starlight and renewed vigour leaving them gasping with wonder, but each repair feels like an eternity for Sophia. Each intimate touch to their Ergo bares all, allowing her to see vague, disjointed memories of both new and old Ego. By the time she has attended all those present and the tram finally rumbles to a stop, Sophia is exhausted. Pain might be a distant memory at the moment but it’s no good if she can barely stand.
Her exhaustion is not an uncommon sight and the Saintess Touched offer their bodies to her, lifting and caressing a broken woman, carrying her the short distance to the tram to be laid upon the seats. One of Beysild’s flock, a blank puppet in white robes and too many arms caresses her cheek, murmuring words lost to a static she cannot parse. The puppet’s face shifts and warps, a long straight nose and pale skin to weathered cheeks and a ruined milky eye but Sophia doesn’t have the strength to fight back.
She never did.
The tram ascends like some holy vessel to the heavens and Sophia forces herself upright, fumbling with the armrest to do so. They left her cane behind. Hands reach forward to push down but she recoils, pressing herself as far away as possible.
“Don’t touch me,” she tries to snap but the words come out more like a moan. She takes a deep breath, trying to lift the fog. “You left my cane behind.”
The person in front of her flinches.
“You-You will not need it-“
“I do need it.”
Only the puppets of the Saint’s Order cower and flinch like this. She tries to give them a firm look but it’s hard to keep herself present. Why does she do this to herself?
“I cannot walk without my cane,” Sophia explains, firmly and carefully. “I will not crawl my way up to the Cathedral.”
“No, no, we do not expect you to,” the puppet says, raising their hands reassuringly. “We will give you a chair-“
“And my cane.” The chair does sound nice but she needs the cane to get home.
“We will retrieve your cane. I humbly beg your forgiveness Saintess. We only wanted to make your journey easier.”
Sophia huffs and rubs at her tired eyes. The exhaustion from using her powers is slowly lifting, the effect of the syrmak surely to follow soon after. It will not be long before pain ravages her every limb. Coming today was a bad idea.
“I appreciate your concern,” she tells the puppet, visibly soothing them.
When the tram alights and the doors open, Sophia is greeted by more robed puppets surrounding an elaborate wheelchair. The one manning the tram helps Sophia move from one seat to the other, allowing her to lean heavily on them rather than just carrying her, before quickly turning away and promising to return quickly with her cane. Like this, seated between five blank puppets who all look at her with reverence, she feels trapped, caged by those who see more divine than mortal.
When her body had been moved it had been a whole procession of Alchemists, a congregation of faithful headed by the worst monster of them all. There had been no singing, no chanting, but their murmurs had been almost like prayers to her barely conscious ears.
“Please,” she had whispered to no one and nothing. “Please.”
The procession wheels her up the hill, the chair rattling across a well tended dirt path and swept stone walkways. The Cathedral had always been majestic, built to shadow Moonlight Town with its splendour, and even Sophia cannot deny it. Rubble has been cleared, blood and body parts scrubbed and buried. It will never quite be restored to its former glory, as the Saint’s Order do not have the funding for such an endeavour, but that doesn’t mean they don’t still make it look beautiful in its own way. Candles butt up against walls and railing, urns of flowers sit in alcoves and Ergo tainted plants hang from baskets hung from the rafters, trailing blue-green vines and pretty purple flowers. Stained glass in every imaginable colour has replaced smashed windows, turning the interior of the church into a kaleidoscope of colours. Ahead of her, where several puppets pray, a new statue has been erected depicting the Saintess, the original one, cradling an unconscious puppet across her lap. In her hand she holds a puppet’s heart, the symbol of the Workshop scrubbed from its surface.
Puppets turn as Sophia is wheeled in, many bowing or falling to their knees in supplication. Static hums on the Ergo waves and puppets appear from a side door, some garbed in white, others in the clothing of workers, clutching injuries. These too bow and kneel and the white robed flock begin chanting a hymn. This, Sophia hates. She is no saint, no god, and as far as she is aware no less mortal than the average human. She had never received this kind of treatment from puppets when she was younger, this fawning adoration and religious fervour in her presence. This veers too close to what Simon had wanted, and she would have rather died than be what Simon wanted.
“Lady Sophia!”
Father Beysild is easy to pick out, two heads taller than the average puppet and with the broad shoulders and chest of a construction puppet. He has covered his blank face with a jewelled mask, a holy relic believed to have been the death mask of Saint Frangelico, and he holds a long staff in two of his four hands, the end crowned with twisting metal leaves and coins not unlike her mother’s boughs. He towers over her for a moment before dropping to his knees in a flurry of white robes, pressing his forehead to her knees in reverence.
“You don’t need to do this,” Sophia hisses quietly. This adoration stresses her out, cutting through the dense fog. “Please.”
“We humbly welcome you Lady Sophia,” Father Beysild says over her. His voice is rich and deep, barely tinged by static. “Please accept our adoration, if nothing else.”
Sophia squirms in her seat before reaching her hand forward and placing it on Beysild’s shoulder. As much as Beysild insists on the respect and care he has for her they do this every time, this horrible pageantry, despite her discomfort. The Father is not a puppet to be denied his way. He raises his head, staring at her with jewelled eyes before nodding and rising to his feet, raising his upper arms to the assembly.
“Our Saintess graces us today with her presence,” he cries. “To give us respite and hope where there is none. Go, my flock. Return to your work. I will beseech her on your behalf.”
Beysild takes the handles of her wheelchair as the crowd begins to disperse, rolling her to the little room off to the side where he has his office. Sophia slumps, rubbing at tired eyes. Her legs are just starting to feel the first twinges of pain and she still hasn’t been given her cane back.
“I hate you,” she says to Beysil once he has her situated at the desk and he takes a seat opposite.
The puppet tilts his head, unable to properly emote, but she imagines the disappointed frown he’d currently be giving her.
“I don’t think you do,” he replies. His voice has dipped to something more normal, less like an enthusiastic preacher and maybe more like an oily salesman.
“No,” Sophia admits. “But I don’t like that we keep doing this. I’m not a saint, Beysild, you need to stop lying about that.”
“I’m not lying,” he replies. “I can’t. If I believe you could be the Saintess reborn then it is not a lie. The fact these puppets choose to believe and follow me in that is their choice.”
Sophia huffs in irritation.
“You give a lot of puppets hope,” Beysild continues. “You took a puppet’s body and made it human. We all want that. It’s a miracle, not unlike those performed by the One Winged Angel and Saint Frangelico.”
It doesn’t work like that.
“It’s not,” she replies. “Can we just- can we not with the religious fervour? I’m just here to help the injured puppets. I can’t do anything other than that.”
Beysild lets out a staticky sounding sigh. The puppet means well even if she doesn’t agree with his logic.
“Come,” he finally says. “I’ll bring you to the infirmary. There are not many puppets here today but I know a few needed to go to work. I’ll know you’ll wait until they return.”
It will push her day longer than she wants but Sophia nods in agreement.
“Good.”
Beysild stands and rubs his four hands together, circling around once again to wheel Sophia out. As they leave his office, the tram attendant sees them and races forward, crouching in front of Sophia to present her cane like a mighty sword. She takes it, murmuring a thanks, while Beysild jerks her chair slightly, pushing past the prostrate puppet.
The area behind Frangelico’s statue, now the Saintess’, had been destroyed during the Frenzy, most likely by the mutated Archbishop, but the puppets had boarded over the hole with sturdy planks. The space was now used as an infirmary for the puppets, a combination of gurneys and workshop spaces for the technicians who came by. There are none here currently, most likely at their day jobs, but a few puppets are sitting in front of the apprentices, receiving minor repairs. Everyone perks up at her appearance, static buzzing in the air as those capable rise from seats and beds expectantly. While Sophia expects Beysild to stop and allow her to stand and attend those who need it, he instead wheels her to a patch of sun near the back of the room, those in need of care forming an orderly line behind him as he gets her situated. Her cane, sitting across her knees, is taken despite her wordless protest and is replaced by a brightly embroidered blanket to cover her legs, given to her by one of Beysild’s followers. While they tuck it about her knees, Beysild stands in front holding his staff as both shepherd’s crook and defending spear at once. So, the pageantry must continue it seems.
“Lady Sophia graces us today,” he calls. “We must give thanks for her generosity, she who would restore us to whole, she who will lead us into a new era of humanity.” He turns back to her and gives a deep sweeping bow. “Dear Saintess, we thank you for your blessing.”
The line of puppets echo his words, both aloud and through a tingling static on her skin.
Beysild steps aside, turning and beckoning the first puppet forward. The puppet is plain, average, likely to have been a butler before the Frenzy. Now they wear the uniform of a construction worker, thin cotton shirt stained by dirt and dust, heavy work boots leaving flecks of dust in his wake. His arm is kept close to his body with a cotton sling. The puppet bows.
“Dear Saintess-”
“Just Sophia,” she says, holding out a hand. “What can I help you with?”
The puppet shifts the arm in the sling slightly so Sophia beckons the puppet closer. He kneels, although she would have simply accepted him bending slightly and offering his other arm, but it allows her to lean forward and place her hand on the affected shoulder.
“Broken, my lady,” the puppet explains. “Some of the scaffolding broke-”
Beysild makes a sharp hissing noise and the puppet cuts off with a squeak. Sophia sighs, brushing her hand over his shoulder soothingly.
“Has Ardito been told?”
The puppet nods.
“He’s negotiating with my boss for pay due to negligence but…”
Ardito was head of the new Puppet’s Union and a member of the King’s Council who helped Romeo fight for fair wages and proper treatment of the puppet workforce. With puppets still considered disposable, Ardito was often stressed and overworked but still fierce in his fight for puppet equality.
“Let’s get this sorted then,” Sophia murmurs.
She weaves starlight down the arm, easily resetting the broken metal bone and knitting together the shattered ceramic exterior. The fog she has sat in has lifted somewhat, so the use of her powers isn’t instantly exhausting, but more puppets step forward with their injuries, begging for healing. Broken arms, legs, fingers, cracked metal and ceramic, a few disconnected limbs. By the time the line of puppets reaches its end, a little marionette rising onto her tiptoes to press cold ceramic lips to Sophia’s cheek in mimicry of a kiss, Sophia feels the tugs of sleep at her eyes and limbs, a deep seated burning taking root with the return of her pain. The sun has finally begun to sink towards the horizon, midafternoon becoming early evening and worker puppets begin to trudge through the doors to receive their own treatment after a long day. Sophia forces herself to keep her eyes open, forces herself to ignore the pain as finally, the last of the puppets bows and thanks her for her service. Beysild has stood to the side and watched the whole time, hissing impatiently to any puppet that becomes overly familiar or long winded when Sophia asks them questions. He steps forward, adjusting the blanket on her knees and brushing the hair from her brow carefully before taking the handles of the wheelchair and beginning to take her further into the Cathedral. Sophia starts, scrubbing at her eyes and twisting in her chair as the wheels rattle on ancient pavers.
“Where are you taking me?” She demands. “It’s late, I have to-”
“I am taking you to rest my dear,” Beysild says smoothly, tone slick and oily. “I understand that the use of your powers is taxing, today more than any. Once you have rested I can have you escorted home.”
“But Romeo-”
“I have already sent a runner to His Majesty,” he replies. “Worry not. I am only looking after you.”
Sophia chews on her lip and grips the armrests, the left so hard that it creaks. She hasn’t had her cane returned to her and her legs are burning with pain. There’s no way she could go home by herself even if she tried, but she doesn’t like this one bit. She flings her Ergo out, calling to Romeo but wherever he is, he is too far away to even feel a glimmer of his presence.
“I just want to go home,” Sophia says. “Please, Beysild. I can rest there.”
The puppet doesn’t respond, instead opening a door to reveal a small, but clean room. Tucked against the side is a bed with clean sheets and a great deal of blankets while a small writing desk sits next to it. The chair is too wide to fit through the door so Beysild reaches down and picks Sophia up without warning, causing her to gasp in surprise.
“Let me-”
She is just as quickly deposited on the bed, Beysild giving her a condescending pat on the knee.
“I will have food brought to you. Rest my dear. It is only six in the evening, there is still time. Now-” He bows. “I must perform this evening’s service.”
–
When Romeo returns home the house is cold and empty.
“Sophia?” He calls.
No response. He flicks on the hallway light and carefully begins checking rooms, feet placed carefully to prevent creaking floorboards. It would not be the first time he has come home to find her passed out in bed, exhausted from her day’s errands, but he finds their bedroom empty. He flicks his fingers and twirls his ring round and round. Not for the first time, he wishes he could still reach out to the puppets in the area and connect with them on the Ergo waves, ask them where she may have gone to.
“Ok, ok.” He’s pacing. “She’s ok. Of course she’s ok, you’d know if she wasn’t. Maybe she just went for… tea? Sophia does that sometimes.”
She had some friends? Antonia was a friend, and so was Venigni. Maybe she was with them and forgot to leave a note? That hadn’t been a part of her plans though, not from what he knew. Pharmacy for her medication, and then…
“I’m going to kill Beysild.”
It was no secret that Beysild wanted Sophia to himself. He preached that Sophia was the Saintess reborn, physical proof that any puppet could become human again, and he abused her powers every time she volunteered to help the injured at his clinic. He claimed to care for her, to respect her wishes as Saintess above all else, but the amount of times Romeo had needed to do the equivalent of a rescue for her pissed him off more than anything. He wanted her there, at the Cathedral, to be treated as some kind of deity, stripping Sophia of her hard won humanity and making her an icon to rally behind. For what, Romeo did not know. But there was little Romeo could do beyond a reprimand, the puppet had the personality of a very good salesman, a charisma that had convinced so many of the remaining population that it was hard not to see Sophia as some sort of larger than life figure. Queen Consort, City Saviour, Saintess Reborn. Stripping Beysild of power and position risked alienating him and his followers from the King’s rule, one that was already beginning to show cracks due to the tension between the puppets and the humans, headed by Volfe and his prejudice.
Turning sharply on his heel, Romeo thunders down the stairs, only vaguely aware of the knocking at the front door. Coat, hat, keys, a brief glance at where his scythe is kept before he throws open the door, almost running into the tiny white robed puppet with their hand raised to knock again. They immediately backpedal and drop into a deep bow.
“Your Majesty-“
“Romeo,” he corrects automatically.
“Sir.” The puppet straightens. “Father Beysild sends his regards-“
“Yeah, no thanks.” He hates being right about these kinds of things.
He pushes past the puppet, starting down the hill as he mentally plots the best way to the Cathedral. Probably through the Hotel-
“Sir!” The puppet calls. They trip on the uneven cobbles as they trip to keep up with him, legs no match for Romeo’s massive stride. “I can take you to her!”
Romeo stops and turns, frowning down at the puppet. Now that he’s looking he can see the slightly more feminine presentation, the way the robes have been cinched, the barest application of paint to her face that individuates her from the rest of Beysild’s blank flock.
“What’s your name?” He asks.
“Marigold, sir.”
“Ok, Marigold. What’s this about?”
Now under Romeo’s scrutiny, Marigold ducks her head and begins shuffling in place, wringing her single set of hands together. A new addition to the flock, most likely, since most liked to emulate Beysild’s secondary hands.
“Father Beysild sent me to tell you that Lady Sophia needed to rest and wouldn’t be back for sometime,” she says. “But I heard Lady Sophia, she sounded upset. She sounded sick and tired, and like she didn’t want Father Beysild to be acting the way he was. And I thought…” She trails off, holding the knuckle of her thumb to a mouth that does not open. “Lady Sophia is the Saintess? And I thought that we should be doing what she wants, because we love her so much.”
Definitely a new recruit.
“Father Beysild respects Sophia’s powers,” Romeo says carefully. “Not her.”
Marigold ducks her head and makes a staticky noise of sadness.
“I can take you there,” she says. “Quickly.”
Romeo nods, indicating that she leads the way, falling into step as she takes off in a slightly different direction. Romeo, who had never attended church regularly, only knows the routes Sophia would have taken, which were long and roundabout to emulate the path of pilgrims. It would make sense that someone of a more common upbringing would know a quicker way there.
“I think that, because she gives us so much, we should be doing whatever Lady Sophia wants,” Marigold says as they walk. “She saved us, and the city and she keeps coming to heal us even though we don’t deserve it. She keeps giving and giving, a true Saint-“
“Sophia is just very kind,” Romeo cuts in. “She likes to help, she likes people to be happy.”
A beat of silence.
“Father Beysild is taking advantage of that,” the puppet surmises.
“Yes.”
“He shouldn’t be.”
“No, he shouldn’t.”
Marigold leads Romeo through several backstreets of the puppet district until they reach the warehouses by the factories, the way lit by candles and lamplight. It’s evident this is a well trodden path by puppets and even though most of these areas have been abandoned by humans, evidence of occupation remains. Lit windows, neatly piled trash, the dozens of candles and their pools of wax, tattered but bright streamers between buildings. Most likely squatters, a practice Volfe was trying and failing to crack down on.
“Some of the workers live here,” Marigold tells him, noting his obvious curiosity. “Easier to get to work, closer to the Cathedral.”
“Oh.”
Romeo had just assumed all of the puppets were living on Rosa Isabelle Street, especially considering the amount of vacant houses. They cut through quiet streets, the slowly setting sun casting long dark shadows between the buildings until they reach a low stone wall and wrought iron fence marking the edge of the district. So far, this has been quicker than looping through central Krat and the abandoned Malum District.
“We’ll follow the path this way until we reach the tram,” Marigold explains.
From there it’s an easy journey, only slowed down by waiting for the tram to rumble down the hill and rumble back up. The attendant makes themselves small as Romeo stands in the middle, staring unblinking out the wide windows, forcing himself to stay calm and cool. He rarely heats up to the point of damage these days, Venigni had done a wonderful job of replacing some of his old parts, but the fire in his chest has never entirely gone down. He exhales, a gust of hot air blasting from his nose and making everyone else flinch at the noise.
Beysild is holding evening mass when they arrive, Marigold scurrying to the back to join her fellow puppets while Romeo strides up the centre aisle. Sophia is nowhere in sight so he makes right for the priest, stopping bare inches from the puppet.
“Where is Sophia?” He demands.
“The Lady-“
“Cut the cut crap Beysild,” Romeo says in a low voice. “You have no right to keep her here.”
Beysild moves his head, catching the attention of a puppet off to the side and gesturing them over to take his place. Romeo steps out of the way, allowing this as Beysild begins to lead him behind the statue and altar and towards the back of the church and infirmary. Beysild stops, just before a door leading further into the Cathedral, attempting to straighten his posture and gain just an inch on Romeo.
“Lady Sophia was unwell when she arrived, I am simply offering her an opportunity to rest,” he says, every bit smooth and reasonable. “You are overreacting Your Majesty.”
Romeo just about growls at the puppet.
“Well I can bring her home now, can’t I?”
“It might be best if you allow her-“
“Romeo?”
Sophia’s voice calls out from through the door and Romeo pushes past the puppet blocking his way, marching as quickly as he can without starting a full on sprint. There’s a wheelchair parked outside of a room and when he opens the door he finds her half standing, clutching at a bed post for support. He goes to her just as she tips forward, catching her and pulling her into a hug.
“How are you?” He murmurs.
“Sore,” she mumbles.
Evidently quite a bad day if she was struggling to stand unassisted. With her murmured permission he sweeps her into a bridal carry, tucking her close as Beysild fills the doorframe. His jewelled face is expressionless, but the static that crackles off him radiates his displeasure.
“Your Majesty,” he says stiffly.
“Father.”
Romeo takes a step forward and Beysild stays put, unmoving even when Romeo takes another to place him directly in front. Sophia shifts in his arms slightly but stays silent.
“I will see you at the Council meeting,” Romeo says carefully. “After mass on Sunday.”
A pause.
“Of course,” Beysild replies smoothly. He finally steps aside, allowing them to pass, staying motionless as they proceed back the way they came. By the time they reach the main church area mass has ended, the puppets beginning to disperse to whatever duties they might need to attend to, while near the door Romeo spies Marigold holding something long and thin in her hands. She raises a hand, beckoning him over.
“I have Lady Sophia’s cane,” she says, holding it out.
Sophia reaches out and takes it, hugging the beautifully decorated wood close as Marigold follows them out, hands clasped in front of her as she fidgets.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts out. Romeo turns, allowing them both to face the puppet. “I’m sorry Lady Sophia, Your Majesty. I know that I can’t make up for what has been done-“
“It’s ok,” Sophia replies softly. “You didn’t do it.”
“Thank you for being honest with me, Marigold,” Romeo says. While puppets cannot outright lie, it is still easy for them to hide their intent. She had an honest soul, even beyond the rules of the Covenant.
“It’s- Of course Your Majesty.”
Marigold bows and quickly helps them through the door, shutting it behind them and leaving them with the warm night area. Light streams out of the Cathedral windows and Romeo can see candles and lanterns lit even here, adding a magical glow. As he begins to walk back down the path, Sophia still carefully embraced, he prods gently at her Ergo. She’s retreated in on herself, pain, misery and something else making it a small spiky ball.
“You’ve had syrmak today,” he says in a neutral tone. He knows that the drug helps with her pain but he has also found it makes her soft, pliable and altogether too vague to be out of the house on her own.
“Yes,” she mutters.
Romeo sighs.
“If I had known-”
“You would have made me stay home, in bed, unable to do anything!” Sophia cries. “Romeo-”
She makes a noise of frustration, wiggling in his arms until she’s curled in a tight little ball.
“I hate this,” she mumbles into his chest. “I don’t like being an invalid. I’m always in pain and I’m tired and I can’t do anything-”
“That’s not true-”
“It is!”
He can feel her tears wetting his shirt as she begins to cry.
“Sophia…”
Romeo stops walking for a moment, spying a nearby bench so he can set her down and kneel in front of her. Sophia’s face is red and blotchy, eyes swollen from crying and she looks just as exhausted as she claims to be.
“Beysild made you do too much today,” Romeo says, reaching a hand forward and tucking a few loose strands behind her ear. Even like this she is so incredibly beautiful. “It’s ok if you’re tired, it’s ok if you’re in pain. We’ll just take it slow for the next few days, you know it’s not a big deal.”
Sophia sniffs loudly, rubbing at her running nose with her sleeve.
“I don’t have any water on me, but do you want to take your medication now?” He asks.
“When I get home,” she mumbles.
“And do you want me to carry you or do you want to walk?”
Sophia considers for a moment, rubbing at her nose and eyes as she thinks.
“Can you carry me?” She asks in a small voice. “I don’t want to be a burden any more than I am…”
“Everything I do for you, I do because I want to,” Romeo replies reassuringly. “All for you my princess.”
He leans over and presses a kiss to her forehead before sweeping her up again. They begin walking back down the path, Romeo humming softly as they go.
“Giangio says he might be able to help me,” Sophia finally says.
“Yeah? That’s really good.”
“Something in Syroy,” she continues. “I’d have to go there though.”
“Oh.”
Romeo does a quick mental calculation of everything he’d need to save for. Train tickets, accommodation, more medical appointments…
“I’m sure we can work something out,” he says. “If there’s anything that can help, I’m more than happy to support you.”
“Thank you.” She gives a big, wet sniff. “How was work?”
“It was fine.” Don’t think about Adelina, don’t think about her hands, her mouth, the big wad of cash still sitting in your jacket pocket. “Just moving some stuff to that amphitheatre. You remember the one Patricia turned into her sculpture of death?”
Sophia giggles.
“Yeah, Adelina wants to do a rerun there.”
“That play sucks!”
“Sure does.” Don’t think about potentially losing your job. “Do you want me to stay home tomorrow?”
Sophia sags slightly in his arms.
“No I’ll be fine,” she mumbles. “I’ll just… sleep I guess.”
“Mhm.”
He knows how much she hates it.
“We can go to the park on Sunday if you want. After mass and Council and the audiences…” Which would take them well past midday but Sophia hums an affirmative, tucking herself tight against him.
He’d work this out, he always did.
–
The boy wakes with a strangled gasp, lurching forward in the chair and almost hitting the man in front of him.
He’s-
This is-
“Sshh,” the man soothes. “It’s ok son.”
“F-Father-”
“Don’t speak.”
The boy finds the words dying in his throat, nothing more than a squeak of air escaping his lips. His father reaches forward and traces his thumb along the boy’s cheek, tucking a strand of curly hair behind his ear.
“Good,” his father murmurs. “So perfect, so beautiful for me. I’m so glad you’re finally back.”