Of Fox and Misfortune

By Catherina Rose

I 

‘When a young lady first debuts into society, they are told three things;

Firstly, to mind themselves amongst their elders, in the awful case of potential slips of the tongue that may deem them irreparable in the eyes of marriage-minded mothers.

Secondly, to focus on the happiness that is finding one's husband, whom they will share their life with and bring prosperity to the continuation of our glorious empire.

And lastly, which above all else, was deemed the most vital of the three by their guardians;

To never be caught alone with the infamous playboy that is Gideon Von Frison, lest they be ruined for all time.’ 

• Valcrin Herald, Tuesday 5th of Martius

______________

The gods never bowed, and if I am their daughter, then neither shall I. 

Not even in the face of the man they call my soon-to-be lord husband. The very pompous face of a most grotesque nature. One so unsightly it only paled in comparison to the obnoxious behaviour that seemed to always befit the gestures of men like him. 

Roses lathered in stardust carefully crafted by the nimble fingers of the downlanders bundled up in an oversized, and completely overcompensating bouquet, were still not enough to mask the pure-blood righteousness of his proposal. 

It was downright nauseating, and frankly, I was bored. 

“Believe me when I say that not a thousand chains of the celestrials could hold me from our fate, dearest Navi. I knew upon my first sighting of you that our union was written amongst the purest of the stars.”

This situation I had unknowingly, and quite literally waltzed into, could not get worse. 

Flurries of drunken party-gooers being the crowd that would christen this humiliation was not predicted in this morning's daily horoscope. I could only picture what the papers would print tomorrow in spite of this. 

‘Lady of Misfortune, born under the solitary moon, brings the manifestation of yet another sheer calamity upon our floating paradise; the rejection of the poor, widowed Duke Morring.’  

Yes, I imagine it would read something like that. 

“Not even the financial ruin of your father could dissuade me from seeking your hand.”

Sniggers follow what was most likely a sincere yet unguided addition to the speech. Each mask hid a set of onlooking glares that could ridicule the weakest of hearts into the grave. Luckily, I’d had my practice, and unfortunately, this was not my first experience with a wayward suitor. 

Even if he was almost thrice my age. 

“You are the sun celestial reincarnate. The petal that blooms the most vibrant. The frost that glitters–”

I can’t help but raise my hand. There’s only so much of a ramble I could take before the very epitome of repulsion rears its head upon my face. The masses murmur, sickly amusement morphing into the concluding shock of each biweekly encounter. They’d flap their fans faster, spit titbits of distaste at my imminent rejection, and eventually, there would be a disbursement. Whether it was at afternoon tea or the wrap-up of a flute exchange at the end of the night, the talk on each venomous tongue would be the ridicule of my name. 

“My Lord,” I start, the density of dryness weighing on my tongue like wind sands. “Though I wholeheartedly…appreciate your offer, I am afraid I must decline.”

He fumbles, the bouquet shaking as nerves boil into redness that climbs his full neck to the chub of his perky cheeks. Huffs and puffs are the beginning signs of his rage, and the coined term ‘curse’ travels the crowd in ripples. 

“But why? Is my heart not sincere? Am I not your safe passage through this storm?”

The only safe passage for me is a life without the sniffling clean-up of men that rivalled my grandfather once upon a time. Alas, the ill-fitting tunic and rough shaving somehow tells me he still envisions himself in the body of that once fruitful young man. 

“I am the storm that would blow you off course. Best not to risk it by marrying me.”

“You are young. I will bring you wisdom that will change your mind on those ideas of misfortune.”

“I don’t believe you will.”

“I do.”

“My lord, please.”

“Marry me, Navier.”

“I am not the lady for you. I cannot make it any simpler.”

This fuels the flames, even some of the nearby dancers pausing to keenly listen in. One couple nearly stumbles into the next, barely watching their footing in the ruckus. There’s even a squeak of laughter that is covered with incessant coughs as glares reach its owner.

“I have never in my entire life been so mocked and–”

“Good evening, Lord Morring.”

Lightness meets the tip of my heels as I spin, the height wombling my weakened ankles as I put one quivering step in front of the other. Far too many nervous gulps from an arrangement of cups probably wasn’t the best of ideas, but at masquerades like these, I was far safer clouded than I was sober. Every few nights was the same old routine; wash, dress, arrive to be flattered to my face while deconstructed behind my back. It makes me wonder how they still think the daughter of the celestial for sound wouldn’t pick up on even the distant whispers.

The nights left alone would be spent pursuing only what I desired. Reading a few pages of the newest mystery by the downlanders, walking the night dew with bare feet against the grass. Recently, I’ve found myself cruising past the brass gates and chipping limestone walls of the inner city to reach the cliff's edge. Right at the celestial hour when the twin moons peered their highest, I’d muscle up the courage to inch a step or two closer to the fall. From there, you can peer down at the ruins below, thousands of feet beneath the new world that rested among the clouds. 

As my fingers latch the handles of the patio doors, I peel through the curtains to my escape, looking up at the stars barely visible against the vibrancy of lit sconces. From here, you couldn’t count the residency of the gods, but from that small patch of grass I’d risk resting on on those nights, the constellations burned brightest. 

There's that familiar scent of storm-born rain that tickles the nose as the breeze pitches the edge of my dress. Once the door clicks, I let out the breath I’d been saving. Pushing my gloves off, I grab at the back of my corset, the bones constricting against my ribs. 

The garden looked as though the nurture gods had spewed every drip of pale cobalt they could across each corner. At the top of the staircase, roses clung in intervals around the railing and twirled into a brush at the bottom, disappearing off into the gaudy maze. 

“There is something seriously wrong with that girl, besides the obvious,”

Click, swing, click. My feet are already skipping down the cobbled stairs before the insult can finish. I don’t hesitate, entering the labyrinth and taking the first corner. I’d recognise that sickly sweet gaggle of giggles and its high pitched mistress anywhere. A nightmare wrapped in the prettiest of silks, paired with that signature pop of red on her lips. The colour brightens against the embellished blonde strands that somehow always miraculously stayed curled, come wind or snow. 

Guinevere Silverwood. 

We had been friends once, many years ago. At the sound of her coming, I would’ve jumped up like a loyal pup at the call, and embarrassingly, I would’ve dropped anything to make her happy. How times have changed.

When she’d told me of her crush on the earl’s boy, Nathaniel Bowmont, I’d made it my mission to bring his frivolous attention to her. Problem was in my efforts, apparently I hadn’t noticed the everchanging affections of men could float in my direction. He’d proposed, in a teahouse, publicly, in front of her and all of society. Unfortunately, the ring was not pointed in her direction, and from there, I was on the receiving end of a woman spurned; boiling, red rejection. 

“Did you see that mop on her head? Goddess, it just sits there all flat. You’d think redheads would have more flare with that flame-kissed colour.”

Laughter follows, the clique knowingly on my tail. I can’t help but tug the ends of my hair, tossing the strands back over my shoulders as though it had burnt at the touch. 

“Oh, poor Lord Morring. I imagine he’s got days left now, her rejection curse probably already taking effect.”

I roll my eyes as I come to an impasse, looking left and right before following the least questionable of the two options. 

It happened once. Okay, I’ll admit twice, but both of those men had died in tragic, unforeseen circumstances no-one could have predicted. Just because they had been subject to my refusal right before their deaths doesn’t mean I’d cursed them into an untimely demise. Yet, from the first instance there was a wary rumour it had been my fault, and by the second, it was solidified; from then onwards I was the ‘Lady of Misfortune’.

I don’t control death. In fact, I don’t control anything. Though at this moment, I seriously wished I could control silence. 

Perhaps then I wouldn’t hear his call.

Somehow through the twists and turns, I’m back at the staircase, and I stiffen. Footsteps rush around the last corner, and the panic sets in. 

My choices are limited. Up the stairs, I’d be forced back into the limelight of the main hall, but doubling back meant a certain collision with the pack of silver-tipped wolves. High heels weren’t meant to be walked in so fast. 

“I could’ve sworn she came this way.”

Thunder rumbles through the clouds above, the sky bubbling with streaks of light. Mockingly, they called out the pet name I’d been dawned with, ‘Navi, Navi’ echoing off the garden walls. As the first flash bangs through shaking the ground, I’m suddenly pulled, arms whipped out by a set of loose hands, dragging me under the space beneath the steps. Only a slight yelp tumbles from the lips before I’m facing the owner, eyes of azure set behind a mask is all I see as darkness aids to cover all else. He raises his finger to a set of lips, the curve barely seen in the dim. I only nod, letting his hands slide from my own until I’m left in the space alone. 

Crunches prowl closer until they stop, the sound of loud chatter quieting as a few drops of rain pitter patter in front of me. 

“Well if it isn’t the fox himself.”

Fox?

“I thought this was a civilised event, ladies, but it would appear a wild beast has slivered its way in.”

There's the same tone of distaste brewed from her mouth that she’d typically reserve for me, and I can’t help but curl myself into the limited room, the anxiety thick. Sniggers greet the comment, only cut off in a shriek as another flash lights up the surroundings, four distinct shadows shown in the momentary light. 

“Since you’ve got a keen nose, fox, perhaps you can sniff out what I’m looking for.”

A pause follows, before a deep voice breaks it. The sound eerily familiar, one I’d heard many times before yet couldn’t quite place it. 

“And what would that be exactly?”

It's smooth with no translation of emotion. Cold wouldn’t be the right way to describe it. Plain and curt. No secret meaning.

“A little mouse.”

He laughs, and then it hits. A flood of every feeling washing over in crashing waves that suck me under into a nostalgic shiver. A chuckle I could never mistake.

Gideon.

“If there was a little mouse to catch, this fox would’ve gobbled it up long before you arrived.”

The laughing stops, and the skies open. Rolling downpour floods the flower beds in sprinkles that glisten and all other sound is deafened. The final goodbye sounds above my head, the click-clack that had chased me through the maze bouncing up the stairs to the terrace, squeals following. 

I wait, and wait. It feels like a long time has passed, but the downpour only lasts a few more moments. When it falls into a spittle, gravel crunches, and I hear footsteps meet a thump upon the stairs above.

“You can come out now,” 

It's not as if I mean to hesitate, but the growing reminder of how I’d left him held me down like rocks belted to my sides. Eventually, on shaky nerves, I find myself stepping from under the safeguard, moonlight freeing through the clouds in a brand new light. 

“Navi.”

Turning over my shoulder, I glance up to the sound, the flow of it a mixture between a question and an answer. 

“That’s what they call you here, right?”

He sits, sodden, pieces of raven black hair slicked back from the wet with a matching soaked suit. Even the edges of his mask dribble, the stairs beneath him collecting puddles. Only through the gaps in the dowsed roses blooming fresh with their scent can our eyes meet. When they do, there's a foggy mist lurking behind them.

“Well, yes. Some do.” 

I don’t mean for my voice to crackle, but the strain against the cold meeting a frigid heart can make even the strongest of wills crumble. It had been years since we’d last met, and I had counted every minute in anguish and pleasure. 

“In the old tongue, it means ‘butterfly’”

His eyes meet mine and I pray to become sugar, so I’d fizzle out in the next summer shower. 

I never thought I’d see him in the flesh again. Countless nights I’d prayed he’d relieve me of the fear, with the following mornings spent in cold sweats from dreams inhabited by him. Visions of flushed cheeks, heat against the candlelight, and mild chatter assault me. He turns, plush lips curved into a grin, scanning all of me. Canines nip the cushion, and I remember; the feeling, the taste, the urge sparking inside of me, now as it did then. 

“It suits you,” he adds, barely a whisper, as he stands, making his way down towards me. I shift away, until my bare back meets the beginning of the surrounding walls. “You always did tend to flutter around a lot, all pretty and fragile. Much more of a suitable name than a ‘mouse’.”

Entering my space, fingers traced my jaw as I turn away. Burnt wood and citrus invade me. The smell that once sweetly clinged to my skin like it belonged. 

Now, it only seemed sour.

“Navi.”

Daring to look through tottery lashes, he sighs, and leans closer, closing the gap. 

“Little butterfly.”

Lips barely a breath from mine, I hesitate, but it's enough to feel them linger over mine as he brushes out his final prayer before the fall.

“I finally found you.”