Based on the notes of Alice Fay Athenida
After an unassuming trip to London by train, we arrived at the heart of the Empire. To those who think this is, somehow, an elegant and interesting endeavour , let me squash this idea. The city is filthy, cramped, and noise and stench followed us from place to place. From the station to the carriage, from it to the theatre, and from there to Athenida House in Belgrave Square. The city is in the middle of a renovation period, which made living there and traversing it, far more difficult that it once was, or will be in the future.
I lived in London, back in the twenty-first century, every summer for four years. I also know from my own parents' recalling, that the city has never been as busy and annoying as it was in the 1860s. Yes, the Tube opened earlier in the decade, but that hadn't done a thing to help with the filth and overall chaos around us.
Athenida House has the modern marvels of the world at its disposal. The four-story home is not a place from the times of Hampton Court or the original court of St. James. It has some coldness to it. Grandiose rooms with expensive furniture and antiques. High ceilings and plastered walls with mouldings in the Greek revival style which made the era famous. My father turned Athenida House in a world exhibition of multiple things he saw in other places. The indoor pool and spa, with Moroccan hand-made tiles, is an example; I've never seen my father enter a pool in my life, but he built one here.
Unlike Featherhill, Athenida House has no permanent staff. My parents bring the people from Featherhill and hire others while having parties or guests. Since my uncle is master of the house while my father is away, he doesn't use staff. He likes to proclaim himself as self-reliant. Mind you, he works three hours a week, on his busiest, so is not as if he had to juggle a lot to serve himself.
"Since I have to return to the theatre later, my brother said I shouldn't leave you alone", my uncle said when we arrived at the house. "Your sister will come over in a few hours. Make yourself at home."
At home. An empty manor with the weight of the world on its roof. I decided to look up some rooms at the house. I knew this was the first of a handful of times I'll be let inside. No such house exists in the future, as it was destroyed during the Blitz. You may call it bad luck, since it was the only building in the area levelled by the German attacks, but I think something else happened then. By the twenty-first century, my father's base of operation remained in the Imperial Club, or what was left of it after the organization dissolved during the Thatcher Era.
I decided to begin my exploration on the rooms on the mansard. Not much there. A lot of large chambers without furniture. My feet echoed on the wooden floor as I went from each and one of them, noticing only the change in the moulding of the plaster walls, and nothing else.
The second floor was my uncle's domain. His own bedroom was the first room you'd find on the way of the stairs, and everything else had been turned into either a wardrobe or something regarding his profession. A large room with mirrors the size of walls and gas-lamps hanging from the ceiling, making it look endless. Chambers filled with costumes, wigs, and everything which wasn't owned by the theatre. An archive of all the scripts he ever wrote or acted. A painting study which had seen better times, since no one seemed to have entered since my uncle moved to the property. And a small breakfast room with large windows overlooking the public gardens.
First floor had my own bedroom, also overlooking the gardens, and my parents chambers. The Moroccan bathhouse to the left of the grand staircase, with its half-dozen rooms dedicated to this purpose. My parents bedrooms, both my father and my mother's, had locked doors with intricate designs. No idea what's on the other side. Not even now.
Down the grand staircase or the ones hidden inside the walls, one finds the ground floor. Back then, most visitors -if the house ever had any- would spend their time there. Places like the library, the smoking room, the main hall, dinning hall, and others were kept in pristine condition. Just on the off-chance someone would visit the house. From there, hidden staircases led to the cellar, the kitchens, and the permanently empty servant's quarters.
About an hour after my uncle left for the theatre, and tired of counting windows which made no sense from the outside, I heard the main door open.
"Uncle Marcus? Alice? Anyone here?" The voice of my sister echoed throughout the house, making small crystals tingle.
"Up here!" I answered, and soon footsteps of my sister came through the stairs.
Victorie Fawkes-Baudelaire, though she will drop the 'Baudelaire' part of her name in the following years, was my sister. More apprehensive minds would like for me to tell that she technically isn't my sister, but my father's adopted daughter. Now, this is mainly hogwash. I recognise her as my sister, in the same way the rest of the world recognises her as one of the great artists since the 17th century. Though this is due to her being around since the 17th century through the long road. Immortality can do that for one.
She took her time to get upstairs. Victorian clothing has its downsides. Low mobility, for example, especially when one has to lift ones foot to reach a step.
"Alice? Duck!" I heard my sister's voice say before hearing a familiar sizzling sound.
The glow of a fireball coming towards me made me drop the notebook on the ground and myself out of the way. The glow went flying past me and hitting the wall behind. I shifted on the floor, away from a couple more, and went towards the pitcher of water on my windowsill.
Even as a fourteen year-old I knew a spit of water wouldn't do much against the attack. However, as a distraction worked better. I threw the pitcher towards my sister and jumped out the window and to the public gardens.
I expected to fall on the gardens, six metres below. Or in the bushes which lined the gravel paths. Certainly I hoped not to be impaled by any of the iron fences around. What I didn't expect, was to stop mid-air, held in place by my shoulders. I looked up, and saw a small bright-green dragon, flying in the air. Its claws grabbing my dress.
"Now, that was stupid of you." The voice of my sister came through the maw of the dragon. "What would've happen if some human had seen you jumped out the window?"
With the advantageous point, I looked around the park. No one walking the icy paths, nor looking out their windows with closed drapes. Luck being the middle of winter. Victorie flew both of us going back through the window and into my bedroom. As soon as we were back inside, she turned back into a human form, with a cloud of green smoke.
"Ariel wrote me before you arrived, they said you wanted training", she said, as I sat on the bed. "Too much?"
"No, but a warning would've been nice!" As a way to prove my point, I took off a shoe and threw it at her, which she easily avoided. "See? I gave you a warning!"
"You didn't, but I'm sorry. Uncle Marcus also told me you need a companion to a couple places in the city. I have the carriage outside, we can eat something first and then go wherever you want."
"Not yet. I need more information." I looked around, and noticed the fireball hadn't scorched a thing. "Though I could really use some training on how to deal with dangers. If you could help."
"Sure, after lunch."
After that, we went downstairs through the service stairs and into the kitchens. I have no idea how are the ones in Featherhill, but the ones there are nice. Outdated from my perspective, but nice. We had a light lunch in the large table, comprised of fruit, salad, and a mixture of nuts and curated meats. Nothing too fancy, nor time consuming. Half hour later we were going upstairs again. Not to the carriage, but to those empty rooms on the mansard.
"Yes, this is perfect." Victorie moved to the centre of one of the rooms, she took her shoes off and made them disappear. "Take of your shoes and walk there."
She pointed at one side of the room. I walked barefoot, feeling the floorboards under my soles. She moved one hand up, making a fireball appear, bouncing on the tip of her fingers.
"Now, I can create nonflammable fire. Don't you ever try to do this yourself. It doesn't burn, doesn't hurt, and beyond the scare, nothing happens with it. I'll throw some, and you would avoid them. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now, duck!"
And so it began. I jumped out of the way of these fireballs, and she kept throwing them. Up, down, left right. Once I began learning her technique, she added new things. Pieces of furniture in my way, floorboards shaking in place, and avoiding more than one at the same time. I dove each time and, every time I managed to get to her, the process began again.
After an hour of this, we were both exhausted. I, from the exercise, while wearing winter clothing. My sister seemed to suffer from magic exhaustion, as she had more trouble hiding her "dragonian" traits. Her right hand showed bright-green scales, instead of her ivory skin, and the nails had grown into pointy claws. We decided to call it quits, and sat on the furniture to rest.
"Now, I have to ask. Why on earth would you want training?" Victorie sat, crossing her ankles, on top of a mahogany dresser. "I know father is not letting you out of his or ours sight, and this is the first time you've been in London since your return."
"I want to learn. Father's not going to keep me at Featherhill until the end of time. Though I know he'd love to try."
"He tried it with me."
"And you joined a sect, tried to overthrow the Witches Council, and burned London to the ground," I remembered.
"It was not a sect, was an alternative movement. How did you know?"
"You told me...in 2007."
"Alright. Before I have a stroke, let's get back to business. On your feet, now."
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