Chapter 2

            After taking a detour into a clothing store to purchase another pair of the Katharine Hepburn type of wide-legged slacks our dear Observant favored, Peregrina meandered back to the hotel building. She exhaled a tiny breath of wonder, still stunned by the eerie beauty of the Crepuscular Resort’s architecture: a cluster of thick, silver spires and towers topped off with sumptuous onion domes in hues of bubblegum pink, robin’s egg blue, buttery yellow and lavender. Terraces appeared throughout the wide spires, offering places for toast and tea protected by wrought iron. Pixies fluttered over and around the hotel, shrieking out their glee to each other.  

Bonnie and Sil were sitting on the ledge of the lobby’s dead fireplace, arguing about the particulars of the disaster onboard the Titanic, a vessel upon which they had both been passengers.

            Wincing together, they offered her a hello, the demon in a gruff monosyllable and the vampire in an oratorical masterpiece.

            “You two have bad news for me,” Peregrina said flatly, dragging the bag of her purchases onto her wrist.

            Bonnie and Sil exchanged a glance and then the latter said, “We’re, uh, hiring someone else for the assistant director position.”

            She clicked her tongue, dismissing her disappointment before it could appear. “I see.”

            She remained standing, hovering over them.

            “He has the management experience we were looking for,” Bonnie said in a frightfully good impression of a human resources manager. “He comes from a background of managing projects and initiatives that seek to improve Verdant magic against Oblivion pollution.”

            “Who is he?” Peregrina asked shortly, folding her arms across her chest.

            “Brademagus Finch VII,” Bonnie replied as Sil frowned.

            “So.” She forced a laugh, recognizing the name, for the well-established family of Finch had called this country home before the Oblivions had, and because they populated the pixies’ gossip with their scandals. “You’ve gone with an inbred sorcerer?”

            Bonnie smirked and held up a corrective finger. “A well-connected, inbred—”

            “Bonnie,” Sil snarled, shaking his head.

            “Well-connected?” Peregrina repeated as a quartet of gawking ogres passed them, their clawed, bulbous feet silent on the scarlet carpeting. “Is that what it’s about?” She fixed him with her most challenging gaze. “But I have connections.”

            “Yes, my pet.” He affected a pout that might have been sincere, but one could never be sure. “Monsters adore you…”

            His pause was significant, leaving room for a realization.

            “But the sorcerers do not,” she said, hoarse. “And you’re looking for a new, different kind of support for the Shadow Guard.”

            It was sensible, she had to admit that, but pain carved at her heart, not so much at this disappointment, but at what it summoned up: a recollection of her own mother, radiant with sapphire sorcery, as she snarled at her daughter for her worthlessness. Observants were an abomination to sorcerers, particularly when impotence was born into a family of might. But Bonnie and Sil knew nothing of that, and it would remain that way.

            “I understand,” she said, smoothing her features into a close-lipped smile. “I’ll see you both at the party tonight,” she added crisply as she slipped away from them.

*

            Several hours later, Peregrina, clad in a gauzy, ivory cocktail dress, stood beneath the purple, twilight sky, clutching a glass of bubbly fleurfrost fresh from the glacial crevasses of the nearby Yeti cluster. The spiky heels of her pale blue pumps dug into the cobblestones. Laughter, chatter and dissonant music ricocheted around her, culminating into a mess of indiscernible noise. The word Everleigh stuck out every now and then, volleyed back and forth between the finely dressed partygoers, and Peregrina swallowed back more frigid, fortifying fleurfrost. Warmth circulated around them, from the mages employed by the Resort, to ensure that the guests kept warm at the Arctic Circle.   

            Vampires kept to the shrouded tent that offered magical protection from the midnight sun. For a moment, she watched Bonnie’s silhouette sashaying about. Monsters clustered around him, amused by his absurdities and his embellishments, for Bonnie was a consummate performer who preferred his duties as Master of Ceremonies at the Resort’s Nightingale Theatre to all other responsibilities. Even the snobbish sorcerers found it difficult to hide a smile in his presence.

            “Someone needs to kick his ass,” Sil grumbled, tugging at his gray bowtie as he squinted at Bonnie’s shadow.

            Peregrina offered a nod as a sorcerer and sorceress, arm in arm, strolled by, twirling parasols and laying plans for their emigration to Everleigh.

            “We will take a cottage in the Umber Forest, my love,” the sorcerer was saying. “Near the centaur herds—they will help deter the basilees.”

            “Our children will be born sapphire, perhaps, even emerald with magic,” the sorceress said, stroking her small belly. “They will not fear Oblivion technology.”

            Peregrina rolled her eyes and Sil did the same. A century and a half earlier, as the Industrial Revolution raged on, a sorcerer named Cornelius Everleigh discovered the door to a world that would bear his name. It was rumored he had found other worlds, but Everleigh was the most hospitable. He had encouraged dying Gossamers and weakening sorcerers to emigrate there—despite the presence of the less than hospitable basilees.

            War had waged ever since between the émigrés and the masked monsters, one that the sorcerers and Gossamers struggled to master.

“I don’t understand,” Peregrina hissed to Sil, resting her arms and her drink upon a high-top table. Hedge animals rushed across the courtyard around them. “Why would the sorcerers enter a war-torn world?”

Sil shrugged his shoulders. “Magic flourishes in Everleigh, you know that. Power also flourishes during times of war.”

She thought about this, squinting at a distant point in the sky, where the orange sun met the craggy peak of a profound hill. There, they said, in that direction the door to Everleigh opened, supposedly under the ministrations of an anonymous enchantress hidden in the alleyways of Everleigh’s capitol, so that tourists and immigrants could travel between the worlds.  

Stories of Everleigh were told in hushed wonder, even by the fiercest of monsters. There, fairies still lived, enacting extraordinary trickery. Unicorns frolicked, bringing inexplicable joy with their whinnying songs. Phoenixes pirouetted overhead, and trees whispered to each other. Sprites sang as they traveled, eerie and lovely, while sorcerers created cities that shone with diamonds.

The basilees were always in the shadows, but still it was beautiful, a haven for Verdant, so-called good magic. The ugly, violent Resilients, the mages that relied on Metallic rather than Verdant magic, and the worthless Observants were not permitted entry.

Pain dug into Peregrina’s right eye, a scythe stabbing at her brain. Here was the migraine she needed to escape the encroaching exposure to Everleigh.

Sil coughed suddenly after staring at her pained expression. “I, uh, hope you get it…you know, why we picked Brad Finch.”

“We?” she repeated, affecting indifference. “So you, Eileen and Bonnie all agreed that Brad was the better fit?”

Despite herself, her voice carried a high pitch of hurt. Sil might have been a demon, but she had rather hoped he would be her champion in most things.

“You know the sorcerers don’t support us,” he murmured. “What the Shadow Guard does matters, but the sorcerers will only support us if one of their own tells them to do it.”

She winced against the intensifying migraine. “I get it,” she said shortly. “You don’t have to explain it anymore.”

            A parade of phantasmagoric pastels erupted around them: fire-breathing goblins; pixies flocking in elaborate, Metallic formations; acrobatic sorcerers twisting out glistening fireworks as they moved their elegant limbs; and dragons snarling and sneering, chained around the neck. The twang of cymbals, the whine of fiddles, and the boom of drums accompanied these movements, and Peregrina could not wait for the noise to pass.

            Her head hammered, her Observation flagging, so she did not notice the dragon winding around her own bare legs until the small parade had passed. The creature seemed a long, scarlet snake dotted with gold feathers. Tiny, impotent wings protruded from its back while squat, clawed legs appeared along its body at various intervals. Its fangs were remarkable, and its eyes were the milky white of blindness.

            Sil swore as Peregrina remained completely calm, familiar with the various methods of handling various beasts. Slowly, she snuck her index finger under the chin of the dragon, tickling it even as its whiskers slithered around her hand like curious snakes.

            “Calpurnia!” Xenophilius Silverfang emerged from a throng of muscular, alabaster vampires. “You naughty girl!”

            The blind dragon hissed, exposing barbed fangs that nearly sliced open the palm of Peregrina’s hand.

            “A Killer Dodo,” Sil said, frowning at the dragon. “They’re s’posed to be real friendly.”

            “Good evening to you, too, demon,” Silverfang grumbled, wrapping his gnarled hands around Calpurnia’s throat, severing her breath until she slackened and slipped off of Peregrina’s leg.

            Peregrina shot Sil a look, reminding him of Silverfang’s recent generosity to the Shadow Guard.

            “She’s strong,” she said with a little laugh. “And beautiful.”

            Silverfang sneered at Peregrina and then at his own pet. “I have no use for beauty—it requires a lot of kopper skales to maintain, and it doesn’t win Wrangles.”  

            Peregrina did her best not to wince at the utterance of this last word, for Resilients and a strange number of Observants were passionate fans of a bloody pastime: the Wrangle, a series of tournaments that pitted dragons against each other in vicious battles. These beasts did not possess the conscious thought of other Resilients, and so Peregrina thought it horrible when they were goaded into violence. But she knew better than to voice her concerns.

Silverfang snuck away from them, Calpurnia bounding after him. Before Peregrina and Sil could exchange a glance or a word, screeching cheers echoed about, taking the form of a name: Noah Diamond.

“How’s your head?” Sil asked, leaning over to speak into her ear.

She glared at him. “How do you think?”

            The cheers and ebullient snarls had grown around them into an overwhelming cacophony. There were too many bodies, monstrous, human and sorcerer. Too much merriment. Too much excitement over Everleigh, the land that…

            Peregrina gulped, knowing if she thought too much about Everleigh, the pain in her skull would intensify until she was vomiting bile. A magnified voice sounded around them, ubiquitous.

            “Ladies and gentlemen, monsters and magicians…” It was Bonnie’s voice, savoring the volume of his refined accent. “Presenting that charming, mischievous, never dull, silver-throated mage: NOAH DIAMOND!”

            Roars and applause erupted around them, deafening Peregrina’s Observation and threatening to shatter her pounding skull. Sil clapped his hands together lightly and leaned towards her.

            “Go!” he shouted into her ear. Irritation saturated his words, but lurking behind that was concern. “Before you get sick.”

            She squeezed his arm in reply before darting away, pushing through the crowd. She bowed her head as she trudged along the cobblestone path, blinded by the brilliance of the Resort, and pushed on through the courtyard, back inside. From the lobby, she went to the collection of elevators, all operated by goblins or Observants in livery.

The goblin inside one elevator greeted her by name and she mumbled a reply. Without another word, the creature pressed the button for Floor 17 and they rode up and up. When the doors opened, she managed a thank you. Then, she wended through a number of crimson and cream corridors, these permitting sparkling sunlight through barred windows. Tapestries and metal dragons hung on these walls, as well, although the tapestries were a little milder, showing beautiful sorcerers casting lavish spells.

            Soon enough, Peregrina stopped at a black door no different from the others carved into the walls here and there. An iron dragon’s head hung on the door and snarled in greeting. Its eyes flashed ruby over Peregrina. Recognizing her, it grumbled and then the door flew open.

            A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she rushed into the comfort of her suite, one that expired as soon as a furious yapping filled her ears. A vicious creature with matted black fur, too large to be a rat and too small to be a dog, emerged from the adjoining bathroom to berate Peregrina’s shins for intruding into his domain.

            “Hello, Pablo,” she said, holding out a hand that he nipped at. “Bastard,” she hissed, wondering why she had even offered him such friendliness. After caring for the wretched creature for fifteen years, she knew full well that he despised her.

            And yet as the dog (for it was, after all, a dog) sickened and aged, she had poured money into lengthening its longevity. There had been surgeries performed by Oblivion veterinarians and a steady diet of anti-depressants to keep him from pure misery. Not that he had ever stricken her as a happy dog. He had always despised her. Arcadio, her father, he had tolerated, but there was one small child that he had loved. It was a little girl that Peregrina pondered every day even though she dismissed the recollection now.  

She kicked off her shoes in front of the striped sofa and unzipped her dress, walking into her bedroom with her back exposed to the hanging reproductions of art and posters of Oblivion musicals. Pablo traipsed after her, pausing to tell her shoes off for the heinous abomination of existing.

            She headed first for her bureau, crowded with bottles of makeup, vials of fiery liquids, and jars of Resilient flowers that offered ceaseless redolence. She ignored all of this to study her reflection in the mirror clustered with pictures of her father and her. The woman staring back was disarming, inimitable. High cheekbones, a narrow, refined nose, and wide blue eyes were at their best when her ample midnight hair was pulled back into a low chignon style, excess tendrils framing her face. Peregrina could never stand to look less than her best and so she always wore her hair in this style, even if Bonnie had once told her that it made her seem uptight. Her dark skin was flawless, the color of coffee, and unmarred by blemishes.

            Your captivating features are wasted on an Observant, snarled a voice in her skull and she bowed her head, ashamed.

            Memories of her mother had that effect upon her. Pablo issued a guttural growl, and Peregrina imagined that he was condemning her vanity. He was a remarkably judgmental dog.

            She removed her dress and pulled on a pair of pajama pants patterned with smiling, pastel candy skulls. She removed the pins from her hair, shook out the style to reveal a mane of unruly darkness, and pulled on a blue sweatshirt emblazoned with the words Glauer Observatory for Observation. She tugged on the sweatshirt, digging her hands into the ample front pocket and stared at her reduced reflection. Without her heels, she was several inches shorter than usual.

            Pain roared in her skull and she decided against removing her makeup. Instead, she collapsed onto her bed, wrestling excess pillows over the side until she was comfortable. As she reached out for the laptop on her bedside table, she recalled her four years at the Glauer Observatory. There, she had been intent upon a Bachelor’s degree and friendships with Observants who might understand her. While she had attained the former, she had been unable to forge any lasting relationships; she had only missed Bonnie and Sil and the wonders of the Crepuscular Resort.

            Pablo yapped out at her, livid that he must suffer the indignity of remaining upon the floor without her, or, worse, debasing himself by attempting to ascend the bed. She ignored him to open her laptop and seek out a rerun of a television show that would soothe her. Sorcerers might have taken issue with the presence of such Oblivion technology at the Crepuscular Resort, but they had their own wing where these things were forbidden.

            Many Resilients found some Oblivion technologies fascinating, even addicting, particularly television. Of course, the Resort did its best to maintain an old-fashioned sense of magic, but outlets could be found and cell phone reception was provided by Metallic enchantments.

            Now, Peregrina selected an episode of Cheers, set her laptop on the other side of the bed and crawled under the covers. She closed her eyes and let the familiar voices soothe her. Here, let us consider Peregrina Dante at her worst.

Pablo growled, leapt up and landed next to her. He sniffed at her hands, snarled, but then settled on top of her stomach. Her presence would do and she supposed his would, as well. The dog and the Observant woman stayed together, each regarding the other as a placeholder for a little girl loved and lost so many years ago.   

*

            Indistinct nightmares, fleeting shadows and angry lights assaulted Peregrina until she forced her eyes open with a little cry, startled by memories of violence perpetrated in her dreamscape; she’d had claws, horns and tusks. A mask with jewels had glittered on her head as she had sliced up faceless foes. Since she had been offered up to the basilees in her youth, these nightmares had assaulted her intermittently, but she wondered if nightmare was the proper name. While terrifying, she often awoke with a strange thrill that now conquered the pain in her skull. A disorienting sense of fatigue filled her, as if she were a mere specter in this substantial world.

            Pablo snarled as she moved to check the watch on her nightstand. The crackling jingle of a laugh track emanated from her laptop. It was nearly midnight, and she frowned, for she felt as if she had been asleep for hours, not forty-five minutes. She wished she had slept through the Fete’s main event, the opening of the door to Everleigh.

            She groaned, rose from the bed and dragged her limbs over to the window. Pushing aside the heavy curtains, she winced at the midnight sun. In the world below, the festivities raged, fire bursting from the mouths of dragons, and enchantments exploding in bright sparks. Sorcerers, monsters and Observants bustled about in finery, their joy muted by the soundproof windows.

Then, all at once, the fire breathing and the spells abated. Noah Diamond must have halted his music at his golden piano; even without the benefit of sound, Peregrina could see that a hush must have fallen over the crowd. The partygoers tilted their heads up towards the horizon, expectant.  

            She sighed, paused her laptop and let Pablo crawl, sneering, into her lap. Her fingers stroked his matted fur, careful not to accidentally brush the stitched-up seam where his right eye had once been.

            “Everleigh,” she whispered, invoking the name as if it were an incantation.

            Pablo growled. 

            Blots of darkness suddenly appeared in the sky, congregating to eclipse the sun until the darkness seemed to change its mind, turning into light. The sky had gone a nauseating hue of green. The light melded into a knife, a fissure that sliced the horizon in two.

            The partygoers clustered together, and Peregrina imagined the cries of wonder echoing from their open mouths. It was all as it had been every time the door to Everleigh opened. Soon enough, the border agents would emerge in their white uniforms, wielding bows, arrows, sharp spells and orders for tourists to line up. One or two would be centaurs, and the rest would ride unicorns. The sprites would appear, bursting into song.

            But none of this happened.

            The screeches emerged first, and even through the soundproof windows, Peregrina heard them. Pablo jumped to his feet and then dove under her bed, whimpering. She rose, gulping, for she recognized the noise, the call of shattering diamonds: basilees.

These monsters emerged from the fissure in the horizon, nearly a hundred of them marching down the great slope where the land met the sky. The females’ flesh gowns rippled around them in iridescent colors. The male consorts accompanied them into battle, their flesh formed in lavish frock coats and breeches. Claws and horns were raised as eyes blazed ruby, ready for battle.

They were not all that came through the horizon, however; sorcery soldiers in emerald uniforms appeared, bearing sabers or turning up their palms to summon spells. In a rush, they appeared where the midnight sun met terra firma, bolting towards the basilees—all of them careening towards the Resort. Mayhem erupted as the partygoers fled in every which direction. Violence surged, multiplied by those guests that stood their ground and fought.

Peregrina gnawed on her index finger, hoping to spy out Bonnie or Sil or any member of the Shadow Guard. She hoped they were fleeing, behaving logically; surviving a basilee encounter was rare, and this was no mere encounter, but an onslaught. She pressed her face to the glass, absurdly, hoping for a clearer view.

More sorcerers filtered into this world from Everleigh. With a jolt, Peregrina realized that the soldiers were led by a tall, imperious woman clad in a gray flounced gown. A man stood at her side, clad in the same shade of gray. The woman, the Queen of Everleigh, carried a glittering staff that she bashed against the ground with emphasis. Sapphire magic coursed from her limbs, shooting in every direction until the five basilees surrounding her tumbled down, dead.

Another screech sounded, divorced from the battle cries of the basilees. This was from a green creature that rocketed out of the fissure in the world, wrestling with a quartet of basilees. The green creature moved at a furious clip, slashing out with black claws and blacker magic as the split sky yawned to a close. As the creature moved, it became clear that it wore the shape of a woman. Steel-colored tendrils whipped around her skull, a nest of angry vipers. Blood oozed from her mouth as untethered fangs cut into her lips.

“Violet,” Peregrina gasped, recognizing the green creature.

Pablo burst out from under the bed, his tail wagging as he whimpered expectantly. Peregrina gathered the little dog in her arms even as he wriggled in protest.

“Look.” She held him up to the window. “Look what’s become of her.”

He snarled and bit her hand until she dropped him, as if he blamed her for the apparent monstrosity of the little girl they had loved and lost.

Violet flew overhead, floating with wild, copious amounts of magic. On the ground, a trio of basilees congregated in a burst and remained completely still, their movements unfolding not in space, but in time. Then, in a blink, there was a burst of light emanating from their forms, careening towards Violet and propelling her into one of the Resort’s towers.  

Peregrina winced, realizing from the proximate creak and shatter of materials that Violet had crashed into a nearby room. Pablo finally writhed from her arms and bolted out of the bedroom, towards the door that would take him out of the suite. His squeaky yap threatened to enact an encore of her migraine. She ran after him, pausing at her bureau to collect some vials of fiery liquid—alchemical potions. Stuffing them into the oversized pocket of her college sweatshirt, she slumped towards the door.

Pablo barked as she tarried, thinking, wondering. She had held the odious Pablo so closely and guarded his health so jealously because Violet had loved him. She often suspected that the dog had tolerated her for this very reason. Dog and Observant had nursed the absurd hope that Violet would return, neither believing that it would ever come to fruition.

And yet, it had. Here she was, in the next room, in a monstrous form, but neither Observant nor dog would begrudge her this; they had faced and tamed their fair share of monsters. What was more, they knew that Violet suffered from a condition, one that tugged her between addictive, sugary sweetness and dangerous, billowing bitterness.

Pablo gave another bark and tugged at the hem of Peregrina’s pajamas. She hesitated not because she was afraid of the green monster in the next room; no, she was afraid of the girl beneath that: her sister.

Nonetheless, she let out a little cry as she threw open the door, realizing that she wore no shoes and feeling, all at once, that it was too late to go back. Pablo charged ahead, his canine ears detecting the green monster’s movements in a suite several doors down. The iron dragon’s head on the door in question faced Peregrina with glowing orange eyes, warning guests to stay away from the beast within.

She lifted a finger and scratched just under the dragon’s scaled chin, provoking metallic, almost robotic laughter. The orange faded from the knocker’s gaze as the door swung backwards.

Another guttural screech greeted her, and now Pablo recollected his sense; he wound himself behind Peregrina’s legs, deciding that, perhaps, it might be prudent if the showy meal ticket—as he thought of her—preceded him. He nudged her forward with his snout, and she frowned. That dog could be a horrendous hypocrite.  

“Violet?” she called out gently, edging inside.

Sunlight, uninhibited, filtered into the room as a cold breeze rippled through the great gash in the window. Shards of glass littered the tiled floor, sparkling like diamonds. The green monster was not particularly tall, although she gave the impression of sturdiness with ample arms and an ample bosom. Her eyes were livid rubies. Blood—her own blood dripped down her chin. Black claws slashed up the fluffy yellow confection that she wore.

She beheld Peregrina and howled out her ire. Pablo cowered behind her.

“Violet.” Peregrina kept her voice still even as tears crept into her eyes. “I know it’s been a long time, and you were so little when you left, but maybe…” The vulnerability of hope weakened her voice. “You remember me?”   

The green monster screeched, drew back her claws and made ready to charge.

“I’m Peregrina,” she said loudly, desperately, hoping that an introduction might jog her memory. Still, she could not bring herself to put their sisterhood into words; that would have undone her completely.  

Ripples of light bloomed in the palms of Violet’s hands, causing them to glow. No doubt, she intended to spiral this sharpening blade of magic at Peregrina, and the Observant supposed that it would not cuddle her with warmth. She dug her hands into her pocket, her fingers brushing against a vial of alchemical potion: acid fire, a nastiness that she could not bring herself to grip and employ upon her sister. She found herself paralyzed, rooted to the floor that seeped coldness into her bare feet.

Pablo seemed quite overjoyed with the Observant’s imminent doom, and so he pranced around her legs. He chased his tail for a moment between the two sisters, causing the green monster no little confusion. Indeed, it was difficult to tell if the disheveled, one-eyed dog were playing or experiencing some convulsion. But then he darted forward, sniffing at the monster’s exposed shins.

“Pablo,” Peregrina said, warning him, for she knew it would end poorly for all concerned if he took a nip at the monster’s legs.

Instead, however, he licked the green girl’s shin, wagging his tail. A little gasp escaped the monster’s lips, a bubble that burbled into a giggle. And then it was a torrent of ticklish laughter, high and contagious, although Peregrina did not join in. She watched as the green faded from the girl’s skin, ushering in shining porcelain. The nest of vipers around her head gave way to buoyant golden ringlets. Violet was plump, perhaps a little more; the sturdy arms and bosom remained. The glow of youth and joy dimpled into her face, painting it with delicate, floral loveliness that inspired poetry.

She settled to her haunches, hugging Pablo to her. He settled into her chest, and together they collapsed to the floor, curled around each other and fast asleep. Now, after a tense moment of silence, Peregrina released a little, nervous laugh.

“Goddamn dog,” she grumbled, furious that he could bring more comfort than she.

Then she caught herself, realizing that she had uttered this statement with a harsh inflection, one that echoed Sil. Alarming when that happened.     

She took several steps towards Violet, a girl all of sixteen. The puffy yellow frock had torn here and there, revealing patches of flesh best kept hidden for a girl’s modesty. Peregrina averted her eyes, took a blanket from the suite’s bed and settled it over her sleeping sister. The Observant gnawed on her index finger as her chest filled with something heavy and warm.

She might have called it love had she not suddenly bolted towards the suite’s bathroom, to vomit into the obliging toilet. Her hands shook as she wiped her lips with the back of her hand.     

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded of her watery-eyed reflection.

Her makeup was intact, although she smudged away some wayward rivulet of mascara. She dragged herself out of the bathroom and approached Violet, arms folded across her baggy sweatshirt. A troubled grimace tore at her features, giving her a rather nefarious expression as she paced about the sleeping princess, considering Everleigh and her own inconsequence as an Observant.

It was at this untimely moment that several sorcery soldiers rushed into the room. Peregrina turned, eyes and mouth startled as she beheld these men in emerald uniforms with gold epaulets, their fingers glowing sapphire with magic. Their hats were high and peaked, topped with unicorn hair and dragon feathers, too ostentatious to be ridiculous. It seemed, at first, that these hats were a part of their person, and Peregrina feared that these were not sorcerers, but another sort of monster from Everleigh that she could not comprehend. They drew their sabers.

“Observant,” one snarled in the aristocratic, not-quite European, not-quite American accent of Everleigh. He wore the most medals, in the shapes of sunbursts, crescent moons and horned dragons.

Peregrina unfolded her arms hastily, dropping them to her sides. Had she not been dressed in her pajamas, she might have cut an intimidating figure.  

Instead, they swarmed around her, issuing sharp demands with no little amount of spittle propelled into her face.

“What are you, Observant?” the same soldier growled, more monstrous than any Resilient. “What have you done to the Princess of Everleigh?”

“Any harm wrought out upon the heiress to Everleigh is a capital offense,” another soldier added.

Despite her absurd pajamas with grinning skulls on them and despite the fear that made her heart hammer out a frenzied beat, she pulled her lips back in a calm, cool smile. “Gentlemen.” She gave a chuckle, the one monsters found so arresting. “As you say I am a mere Observant: what could I have done to harm the powerful princess of Everleigh?”      

Her eyes were a little too intelligent and her smile held a little too much cheek; a soldier gripped her neck, crushing her windpipe.

“Do you know what we do to Observants in Everleigh?” he said, his facial hair scratchy against her ear.

“I’m assuming you don’t throw parades in our honor,” she choked out.

“If a child is born an abomination, we carve it up and throw it to the basilees,” another soldier said, guffawing. He had very large front teeth.

“To save us from their plague,” a third soldier explained, ginger hairs sprouting from his pimply face.

“Well, that sounds civilized,” Peregrina managed to drone around the first soldier’s strangulation and around her own growing terror. She was hoping that if she seemed nonplussed they would simply leave her be; this tactic was highly effective upon bears and bullies.

“I say we slice her up and feed her to the basilees outside,” the first soldier said, tightening his grip.

Really, this had gone on long enough, and Peregrina’s patience had worn thin, not to mention her customary cool. The soldiers were not overly bright, or, perhaps, they really thought Observants so terribly incapable; they had left her hands free so that she was able to dig them into her pocket and grab a vial of acid fire. She crushed the glass against the soldier’s hand around her neck.

Fire coursed from her fingertips now, at her service for a good thirty seconds. Wasting no time, she shot the flames in several directions, letting them catch onto the soldiers’ shining uniforms. They screamed, rather effeminately, and Peregrina couldn’t help a smile.

“Alchemy!” one cried out in disbelief.

Peregrina tossed a glance at Violet who still lay sleeping around Pablo’s huddled form.

“Foul Observant!” The one with orange facial hair cried as flames licked at his face, undistinguishable from his patchy beard.

The soldiers flapped at each other, attempting to douse the flames on their features, impossible with magic, thanks to the compound of the alchemical concoction. They continued in this ridiculous manner for several seconds, hurling insults at Peregrina, who was just beginning to slink towards the open door when a velvety voice slithered into the room: “Enough.”

Peregrina stopped where she stood, and the soldiers halted their manic flapping. The flames went out, as they only refused to expire for as long as one attempted to douse them.

Another sorcerer from Everleigh entered the room: the gray-clad man who had been fighting next to the Queen. It was a long garment he wore, somewhere between a frock coat and a cloak, over trousers, boots and a waistcoat. Cool, refined power radiated from his gaunt features as his green eyes scanned the room. Dark, curling hair hung in his face, and blood dripped from a wound in his cheek.

He flicked his eyes over the soldiers, dismissing them with a sneer, considered Violet with a little more care, and finally settled his gaze over Peregrina. She forced herself to meet the intensity of his emerald eyes even as snaking tendrils writhed into her skull and attempted access to her thoughts. She let out a little cry and willed them out, blocking them. He exhaled, aggravated.

“You’re a Thought Watcher,” she said, unable to shake the sensation of this near violation. She felt exposed and almost as if something cool were sneaking up her limbs, although the Thought Watcher’s gaze remained fixated upon her face.

“You are a sharp Observant,” he said, glowering at her.

“She is an abomination,” one of the soldiers snarled. “An Observant wench that uses alchemy—”

“That will do, Montag,” the Thought Watcher said, holding up a black-gloved hand. “The battle is over, and Menders are treating injuries.” He looked away from Peregrina to regard his soldiers wryly. “It would be a pity for your vanity to suffer alchemical scars.”

If they caught his sarcasm they did not betray it, and, instead, bumped into each other in their haste to evacuate the situation.  

 “You have met other Thought Watchers,” he said, turning his attention back to Peregrina.

Even though it was not a question, she shook her head. “No, I haven’t.” Her limbs were suddenly jittery and her stomach, pleasantly hollow, as if she had imbibed too much caffeine at once. “Why do you ask?”

His features remained stony. “You armor your mind well.” He looked past her, at the jagged hole in the window. “But Observants are more apt at armoring their minds than most.”

She considered this, studying the sharp slopes of his cheeks. Blood continued to ooze down one, and he did not move to wipe it away.

“We notice the invasion in our thoughts?” she guessed.

He inclined his head. “How did you find the Princess?” His eyes fell over Violet’s sleeping form.

“I was a couple rooms down and I heard her crash through the window,” Peregrina explained, her voice even.

“And when you found her?” he pressed.

She gulped, strengthening the fortifications around her thoughts; she did not want him, or anyone, to see that Violet was her cherished sister. Now, she felt even more ridiculous in her candy skull pajamas.

“What are you asking me?” She tried on an impetuous tone and found that she liked it very much.

He stared at her for a moment, irritation creeping into the tug of his mouth. “How did she look?”

“I saw her in her Titan form, if that’s what you’re getting at.”  

 He glowered at her and then spoke dismissively: “I hardly think an Observant woman from Terra Incipiens would be capable of identifying the symptoms of Titan Syndrome.”

Peregrina shrugged her shoulders and gave a small smile. “True, Verdant magic has significantly diminished in this world, and it is an over-abundance of Verdant magic that causes Titan Syndrome.”

This was why Violet’s skin had been green, an affliction that an actor-turned-children’s author witnessed at the turn of the twentieth century and immortalized in his Wicked Witch of the West.

“So,” Peregrina concluded. “No, sorcerers are no longer afflicted with Titan Syndrome here, in Terra Incipiens.” She flashed a grin. “But I do read, sir.”

   Silence hung between them, and she did not dare avert her eyes from his. Outside, wafting through the gash in the window, hysterical conversation from terrified creatures mingled together to form a frenzied hum.

“How did you tame her?” the Thought Watcher asked.

“I…” Peregrina turned her body, looking back at Violet and armoring her mind. “The dog did it, not me…He just started licking her and she calmed down.”

“That rat-like creature?” he demanded. “Is it missing an eye?”

She nodded, hiding pained amusement behind pursed lips.

“Ordinarily,” the Thought Watcher said slowly, pacing around her. “I would remove this memory from your thoughts, but since I cannot gain entry, I humbly request that you forget it.” He sneered at her.

She considered his strict posture, and imagined that this was a sorcerer with very little practice at humility. “Sure thing,” she said, smirking and then attempting to wind her away around his pacing presence, towards the door.

He took a long, hasty step in front of her. Perhaps, he could not glean her thoughts, but he was fluent in the language of sarcasm. “I must know that I can trust you to keep this quiet.”

She stared at him, tucking her wild hair behind her ears. She supposed the Princess’s condition was an embarrassment to the Caliborne Throne, the young heiress unable to control her magic. Yes, she was a powerful weapon, but a future queen must be far more than that.

Peregrina spared no pity for the Calibornes, least of all Queen Theodosia. But when Violet had been born, Peregrina had been the one to soothe her cries, and when she was old enough, she held her arms out for her elder half-sister and babbled nonsense to her. Peregrina had been her protector and Violet had trusted in her ability to succeed.

“Look, I’m not going to tell,” she said, tilting her head to one side and maintaining her smirk. “The Princess is a young woman afflicted with a condition that makes people call her an abomination. I think I can sympathize with that.”

He did not step aside or relax his harsh features; however, he did nod once. “Thank you, Miss…?”

“Dante,” she said, laughing at his formality as he finally stepped aside. “By the way, it’s been bothering me.” She turned back and touched her own cheek. “You’re bleeding. And maybe you don’t fear for your own vanity, but you’re among insatiable monsters that take bleeding as an invitation to feed.”

She couldn’t help another laugh as alarm flickered over his features. Without another word she wandered out of the suite, back to her own. The amusement immediately drained from her person and she slouched, exhausted from her most recent glimpse of her sister. Unhappiness exacerbated the symptoms of Titan Syndrome, and Peregrina fretted that the giggling toddler she had known had grown into a bitter monster. She had hoped that their mother had denied Peregrina all of her love so that she could shower it on Violet, the daughter born emerald with magic.

But Queen Theodosia Caliborne was a harsh, pragmatic woman, and Peregrina supposed the woman had very little love to give.