She stormed down the long driveway where a footman followed her with a turning head. Off to the side, she heard hooves crunch over the stones. She turned over and waited as a rider trotted by. Her eyes lolled off to the green where she froze.
Emerging from a brush, Johannes carried a handful of white morning glories. He hadn’t noticed her staring. He pulled the flowers to his nose and inhaled. As his abyssal hazel-green eyes opened, they locked onto her.
A curl rolled up her spine.
When he took a step towards her, she jumped forward and continued away.
At the gates, she waited until it was wide enough for her to slip through. She twirled around it in time to see Johannes had moved onto the driveway. She tempered her chest as she stared, before Ophelia ran.
She clambered down the incline for a moment, hand trailing along a stone-wall fence until she felt there was enough distance. When she looked over, she was alone. The sun and sky above her, and an empty stone street.
As she drew closer to the main thoroughfare of the Vista, she turned towards a tall, white stone complex with winding lines of ivy up the side. A cherry blossom tree warbled in the wind, casting petals towards her.
Sitting under it, one of the residents stared. It was then that she realized she had forgotten to cover herself. Ophelia lowered her head as she slipped into the metal and glass doors.
She moved through the ornate lobby without a word and to the lift operator. She stepped in and crossed her arms. They gave a single nod, wound the leaver, then ignited it with magic. The engine hummed as the metal doors closed.
It rattled as it climbed up the several stories, all the way to the top.
After a few moments, the doors opened and she stepped off. She slipped a hand into her pocket and tipped the operator. Then the lift rattled again as the doors closed and sunk below the floor.
Ophelia fixed her hair and skirts.
Standing at the doors of the penthouse, her penthouse, were two guards in tricorne hats and leather garricks. On their lapels, a golden G. Their arms were across their chests. Expressions stoic. Golden lines were painted across their lips.
Diggers. --They were mid-level in Goldie’s ranks. Sworn to silence, but not violence.
The fact they stood guard in the Vista meant they were honored, and dusted. Those that had risen properly in her ranks and could rise to the Vista were gilded in gold. While gang crime occurred in Midtown, and was operated from there, Goldie was powerful enough to station herself wherever she liked. She lived in the Vista, but ran her operations in Midtown. Her members were all Low and she took special pleasure in making sure everyone in the Vista knew.
As Ophelia drew closer, she could see the little speckles of gold painted across their skin to make them appear more sun-kissed. One of them held out a hand to the door behind them, knocked once, and then pushed it open.
“Thanks,” she muttered. There was no reply.
Ophelia stepped in the penthouse the Manchesters had gifted to her years ago as payment.
She could never bring herself to live there full-time. The expansive walls and never-ending sunshine, would have been wonderful if it didn’t make her skin crawl. She had tried once, but as she lay in the master bed, she swore she could hear the rattling of bones climbing up the walls. She swore the longer she stayed there, the louder their buried bones shook.
She rounded a corner, past art and statues, and into the cathedral ceiling of the living room. A wall of windows illuminated it. Long strands of lace curled in the wind and from the open balcony door. The sun painted everything gold.
Lounged on a chaise, Goldie sipped from a goblet of wine. In her house-robe, also fur-lined, she wore minimal clothes. Relaxed and indifferent in an embroidered stay and luxurious chemise and skirt, she rolled her wrist. The golden bands and rings glistened in the sun.
Goldie turned eyes to the man kneeling before her. He whimpered. She reached over and grabbed him around the chin. Her golden nails dug into his cheeks.
“Say it again.” Her voice was as velvety as the dark wine staining her lips.
“We pledge to you.”
Goldie hummed. Her mouth split and her radiant, golden teeth looked lethal. “Good.” She turned her eyes and lit up. “Darling!” Her smile turned genuine.
She sat up, the man’s chin still in her talons. He whimpered as he moved with her.
“Auntie,” Ophelia replied.
“Come, come, make yourself comfortable. Chef’s poached salmon today, if you’re hungry.”
“I’m alright.” She turned rose eyes to the man in Goldie’s hand. “I can come back.”
“No, no.” Goldie chirped and turned back to the man with feral eyes. “We’re done. Right?” He squeaked. “Good.”
Goldie dropped the chin and the owner of it massaged it with a whimper. They crawled away from Goldie and into the legs of two of her lackeys, more Diggers.
Goldie reached a hand out to Ophelia. “You get my message?”
Ophelia answered by heaving out the purse of coins from Viscount Manchester. She dropped it into her handler’s expectant palm.
“Ohh,” Goldie cooed, “the guilt has been doing wonders to my dividends.”
She pried open the purse and pulled out coins, balancing it between two fingers and the others that still held her wine. She huffed in pleasure.
Ophelia watched as Goldie moved to her feet and then to the desk. She placed her wine, snapped her fingers to her lackeys --who picked up the whimpering man at their feet and dragged him out the door-- and spilled the purse into a bowl atop a scale. She pulled coins out, then stacked them in a neat row on the desk.
Goldie turned back to Ophelia. “You informed them that if you’re going to be called with this frequency, that we will be expecting more, yes?” Ophelia nodded with a clench in her fist and jaw. “Come closer, sweetie, make yourself comfortable.”
She stepped forward, her arms over her chest. She eyed the man who had appeared at her door this morning. He was higher-ranked, the highest-rank under Goldie. A Cap. He had been coming to her door with jobs for years. She still didn’t know his name, or what his voice sounded like. His golden broach was bigger and more ornate.
“Are you doing well? Eating enough? You look famished.”
Ophelia nodded. “I am.”
“Good, good.” Goldie moved the stack of coins into a chest on the desk. They clattered over others in there. Then she took her goblet again and sat on the edge. “I’ve collected my rate, the rest is yours.” She waved her hands and another of her employees rose from a table in the corner. They were elegantly dressed in proper Vista clothing. On their face, a golden bauta mask. A Face.
The Face collected the coins from the desk and brought them to their own, where they counted and wrote in the ledger.
Goldie crossed her arms over her chest, and curled the cup of wine. “Was that what you wore?”
“What’s wrong with it?” She looked down.
“You have enough to buy everything in silk if you want; why do you wear such ...uncomfortable fabrics?”
“I was gardening.”
“Yes, I can tell.” Goldie shook her head and took a long sip. “Now, more business, the van Croix’s party, you’ve picked up your dress?”
“I still need to.”
“Well, good, there’s been a change of plans.” Goldie pushed herself from her carved desk and crossed back to the lounge.
Ophelia shifted her gaze. “What for?”
“You and I need to chat.”
“About?”
“The Manchesters.”
She stiffened. “What of them?”
“They’ve been out bid.”
“What?” Ophelia’s stomach sank.
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