Based on the notes of Alice Fay Athenida.
I turned to see him. Edgar looked familiar to me, which was weird. Since my return, the only people I saw were those who worked at Featherhill or the glances at Sophia. He dissipated my doubt when talked again.
“So, you’re cousin Alice. I thought you would be…taller.”
“Cousin?”
“Cousin in the Olympian sense. My mother used to be married to your father a million years ago. We share siblings.”
“Icarus?” He nodded. “Meaning your mother is…”
“Clio, muse of History. Yes. She’s fighting to change some labels while we speak. That piece over there is from the 6th century.” He was pointing at one of the engravings. “Mr. Joshi always labels them wrong.”
Before I could ask who Mr. Joshi was, three people entered the room, arguing almost to the point of yelling. One was my sister, who kept waving towards where we were. The second one, a stylized woman with short curled hair and dark skin, who motioned to the engraving Edgar talked about, almost to the point of touching it. And the poor sod in the middle, an Indian-looking man with salt-pepper hair and beard, dressed very similar to my father. He didn’t talk, just kept listening to the others complain with a miserable look on his face. A look which seemed more miserable by the minute.
By the time they reached us, I could hear snippets of the arguing.
“They belong to posterity, not back into some mouldy basement!”, my sister shouted.
“They belong with their rightful owners! This is Rome all over again!”
“Better they inspire others, than to be fuel for the Ottomans.”
“One can’t build the future stealing other’s past!”
“Enough!” The man lifted a hand in the air. “Ms. Wilcox, I understand your point, but the purpose of this museum is to keep tabs on priceless pieces of History, not to rob people of their past.”
“I very much doubt it.”
“And Ms. Fawkes, you are the least indicated to point which pieces go to a museum, since you won’t relinquish some of your own treasures!”
“I won’t until I know they are safe here!”
Since the two women noticed their arguing would lead to nowhere, both decided to let it go. The man, who I assume was Mr. Joshi, sighted and went back to his office. They approached Edgar and I, and saw we were in front of a piece. Both of them made the same expression of disgust.
“What a horrible piece. I wish this wasn’t here”, Ms. Wilcox said, to which my sister nodded.
“For once, I agree with you. This is just like those paintings of the battle of Arcadia all over again.”
“Is this your sister?” Ms. Wilcox pointed at me.
“Alice, nice to meet you.” I always hated introductions, but most of all, I hated those when one cannot speak for themselves.
“Such a polite young lady. I see you’ve met my son.”
Victorie and Ms. Wilcox exchanged a few more pleasantries and then we left. For what seemed hours, my sister didn’t speak.
Waved the chauffer to not wait for us. She decided to walked back into the museum and we did a hurried tour through the building, and into the different exhibitions. She made a point to show me the unassuming doors which led to the curator's are of the building. After she seemed satisfied with the tour, we walked back outside.
We took one of the many omnibuses on the street. Said nothing to no one, walked upstairs, and sat in an empty seat. She kept looking out of the omnibus. Waiting for something.
Suddenly, she perked up, stood and pulled the cord to signal our stop. I had to run to remain by her side, since she began to glide slightly above the air. We were in a street filled with stores. Bookstores, apothecaries, furniture makers, a couple carts selling out-of-season fruit. She ran through all of them.
Stopped briefly at a small antiques store, before walking in.
Lestrange & Co., as I learned later, was a front. Made out to look like one more of these stores around Charing Cross Rd., the Council curated the place so people could meet without being noticed.
Suits of armour. Versailles-style mirrors. Baroque furniture. The smell of dust, everywhere. Walked past all of that and went to a second room. Filled with medical specimens in jars, or plants under bell jars. Then to a third room. Portraits. Many of them, from different periods, but all of them familiar.
Saw my sister, standing in front of a burning city. Saw my mother, in a derelict throne room with dark green banners emblazoned in gold. Saw my father, on ancient purple robes, looking at a stormy ocean on a sunny day.
Saw my family.
A young man carried boxes around. Stopped when my sister reached him.
"Ah, Victorie. See something familiar?" He said, smiling.
"Yes, I see you got replicas from my paintings. Some of them are on loan to the National Gallery."
"Not really." His hand went to the back of his neck. "Orders from the Council to replace the originals at the gallery with copies."
"WHAT!?"
Fiery sparks flew out of her mouth, and her hands turned into claws.
"I thought you knew! Isn't that why you came here?"
"No! I came here from help, but this is more serious. Who made the order?"
The young man left to the back of the store, and came a couple minutes later. A small letter with a black stamp I recognised well: an ornamented monarch butterfly. The Council used it as their symbol.
My sister grabbed the letter. Read it. Waited a second, and read it again. Her claws hadn't faded, and teared small gaps in the paper. By the time she finished the second reading, her mouth open. A stream of fire went out and incinerated the thing in her hands.
"I'll deal with this. Come by the house for lunch. I need to discuss something with you." Victorie forced herself to smile to the man, and walked outside.
He stopped me before following. He whispered at me without moving his lips, all while looking at the portraits.
"Good to see you again, kid. Try to get your portrait made in your best moment, not the worst."
Again? I wanted to ask, but he went away with one of the boxes, and the sound of the door let me know Victorie had made it to the exit. By the time I reached her, she had stopped a carriage. Victorie began to climb it, when she realised she almost left me behind.
Short trip from Charing Cross Rd. to Soho Square. My sister owned three houses around England, but the one on number 3 worked as a place of operations. Not just for her, since her studio occupied the top floor. No. Number 3, Soho Square, is the unofficial embassy for the Witches Council. The slim house even had the same butterfly symbol on top of the front door.
"Joan! God damn it, where are you!?" She yelled from the moment she open the door and walked into a very well-litted atrium.
She snapped her claw-fingers and vanished in a poof of smoke.
"Where are you!?" I heard her scream from somewhere around the house.
The atrium had a reception desk with folders on top. An open envelope above all that clutter. Part of the letter was visible, so I grabbed it and began to read it.
"She's not here!" I yelled at the nothingness.
"What?" My sister materialised next to me. "How do you know?"
"This letter. She's left for Plymouth and will be back tomorrow with father."
"They're coming back tomorrow?" Her whole body stiffened, suddenly forgetting her anger. "Damn. I'll have to speed things up a little."
Went behind the desk and pulled a small bell out of a drawer. She made it rang in the air, and clouds of smoke spread through the hall. A battalion of servants in black and white outfits appeared in front of us. They did a small courtesy to both, and stood, awaiting orders.
"I need lunch prepared and ready to be served in two hours. When you're done with that, I need for all of you to leave the house and don't return until curfew. Addams" -she turned to a sombre looking man- "I trust you can manage this without issue."
"Of course, milady."
"I'll trust you with enough money so all of you can have supper in the city, and to see a play. I heard wonders about the latter from Mr. Boucicault."
"Thank, you, milady. We'll have everything ready in half an hour", said a small woman with curly black hair.
"Take your time, Mrs. Flintshire, and thank you."
With that, everyone else disappeared and my sister turned to the stairs.
"Come, I have to make a few plans before our guest arrives."
I followed my sister upstairs to her study. "Study", however, would be a diminished way to put it. As with Athenida House, the entire first floor worked as an art studio. Easels and oil paints. Drying racks. Empty and finished canvases slumped on the walls. Dard hardwood with hundreds of paint spots, and not a single empty point on the walls. Every inch covered in portraits, landscapes, daguerreotypes, or mirrors.
"Alright." She waltzed into the room, taking her time. "I'm not good at technical drawings, so, you'll have to help me with the details."
"How?" I asked. I hadn't drawn a thing in my life. Well, children's drawings, but certainly nothing as precise as a floorplan.
"You have something I don't. Father's memory. So, close your eyes and tell me what you remember of the room we're at."
I did as I was told, though I had no idea what she was talking about. Tried to empty my mind, and picture the red room of the museum. At first, it worked. The room appeared clear, as I saw it through a picture. However, other thoughts came to mind, and the place looked to me as cluttered as a bazaar. Boxes and papers, and paintings, and sculptures, and pieces of technology I will not see again.
I opened my eyes, and found myself sitting in the middle of a storm. The paintings had ripped from the walls and flew everywhere. Easels, paintings and everything else, were a mess around the room. My sister looked a bit frazzled, her perfectly fixed hair had gotten out of her hair-do, and turned into a nasty mess.
"Alright, let's try that again", she stuttered. "If I recall correctly, he tried to anchor memories to a specific one. We just need to find which one's yours."
"So, what do I do?"
"Stay on the floor. Close your eyes. And think."
So, I did.
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