After an unassuming trip by train, we arrived in London two days later. We arrived at the heart of the empire. The Empire which, even after all these years, still fills me with awe and dread. To those who have a mistaken impression on what the Empire was let me correct you. London is, was, and apparently will ever be an elegant and interesting jewel, wrapped in a filthy, damned, and almost frightful city. The awful noise and the almost unbearable stench followed us from the station to the carriage, and then from the carriage theatre. From the theatre to the house, and I thank the heavens it stopped there. But when we arrived in London, the city was in the middle of a renovation. Making living there and even traversing it, far more difficult than it once was.
At the beginning of the 21st Century I lived in London. I lived there every summer for four or five years, I cannot quite remember. Back then, I remember my parents recalling this period. According to them the city will never be as busy as it was during the 1860s. The Tube opened earlier in the decade, but it had not done a thing to help with the filth and overall chaos around us.
I did not live in the house back then. In the 21st century, Athenida House simply does not exist. It was -according to some records I found- destroyed during the London Blitz. This visit was the first time I ever encountered the place.
Athenida House had the marvels of the modern world at its disposal. A glorious example of Victorian era engineering and architecture. Unlike royal palaces, the place had no impressive exterior; it lacked the grandiloquence and elegance of places such as Hampton Court or Saint James's Palace. The white outside had a coldness to it. styled in the neoclassical fashion of the time, I saw the house as a modern temple. A temple on which only a descendant of the Gods could live in. I found it amusing that my Father refused to live in the house while staying in London, preferring to use the old one which stood at Lambeth. Athenida House was, by all accounts, Uncle's domain.
Unlike in Wales, the house has no permanent staff. My parents brought the people from Wales when they needed someone here, or hired help for a party or guests. While my Father was away, Uncle ran the place of the Master of the House. He does not use staff. I do not know why. He proclaims himself to be self-sufficient. Mind you, as far as I can tell, he works only 3 hours a week so he does not have to juggle much between his so-called responsibilities.
“Your Father said I shouldn't leave you alone here,” Uncle said when we arrived at the house. “Since I have to go to the theatre later, your sister will come and stay for supper. Try to make yourself at home.”
At home. An empty manor with the weight of history and tradition in every corner. To make myself at home would be impossible. However, this gave me an unusual opportunity. I knew this was the first of only a handful of times I will be inside his house. As I said before, it got destroyed during the War. You can call it bad luck here; it was only one of the few buildings flattened by the German attacks on the area. I always believed something else happened there. By the 21st century Father’s base of operation remained at the old Imperial Club. At least what was left of it after the organisation was dissolved during the Thatcher Administration.
I went upstairs. five floors, including the mansard, were a lot to cover if I wanted to finish before my sister arrived.
My feet echoed; the soles of the shoes clashed on the wooden floors. I went through each and one of the empty rooms, at least those which were open. The rooms at the attic, though Uncle would very much prefer I call it the mansard, were empty, nothing there but painted walls, mouldings on the corners and edges and stray pieces of furniture which had no place anywhere else in the house.
Uncle's domain was the second floor. his bedroom, the first one you would find next to the stairs. Everything else had been turned -ages ago- into wardrobes, small stages, or gathering places for him and his troop. Actors.
A large room absolutely empty of everything that was not the mirrors which paved every single wall. Well almost every single one. there was an empty space on one of them which I assume was the place for the mirror which Ariel had sent to London.
Chambers up on chambers of wardrobes. most of them filled with costumes or wigs or stockings or I don't know whatever the hell those people need. a couple bedrooms filled to the brain with boxes with Scripts either ones he acted on or those he wrote ages ago. a painting study which I have seen better days because no one had painted there since my Uncle moved to the property. last Almost hunched on the corner of the house, a small breakfast room with large windows overlooking the public garden.
If the second floor had Uncle’s domain, the first one was my parents'. I had a bedroom there. I barely used it, but I had one. It was just below Uncle's breakfast room, which meant it also had large Windows overlooking the public gardens. This floor also included a Moroccan bathhouse, Father’s office, Mother's study, and their respective bedchambers. Besides the bathhouse and my own room, I have no idea what any of the other places looked like. Almost all the first floor was closed, with padlocks with intricate designs.
An hour later, while I was exploring the house Uncle left for the theatre. I quickly became bored counting windows which made no sense on the outside. Since no other visitors were expected, it was not hard to know who entered through the main door. I knew even before she spoke.
“Marcus? Alice? Is anyone here?” The voice of my sister echoed through the house. She even made the small crystals on the chandelier tingle.
I answered back And soon I heard the footsteps she made going up the grand staircase.
Victorie Fawkes was my sister. By this point in the century, she had dropped the Baudelaire from her hyphenated surname. More traditional and apprehensive Minds would prefer if I didn't call her my sister since she is technically my Father's adopted daughter. Now this is absolute hogwash. I recognize her as my sister, in the same way the rest of the world recognizes her as one of the greatest artists since the 17th century. The latter, of course, can be just because she has been around since the 17th century. Unlike me, she has travelled the path through the long road. immortality can do that to you.
She took her time to get upstairs. We talked as if we were next to each other, but the truth was that I was upstairs in one of Uncle’s stages. Victorian clothing has many downsides, and lack of movement is one of its most outrageous. Every time one must go up a set of stairs, one must be very mindful where the bottom of her skirt is.
“Duck!” I heard my sister’s voice, before hearing a sizzling sound coming towards me.
The glow or a fireball coming at great speed made me throw the book I was holding and myself to the floor. it flew right above me, and hit the wall at my back. I rolled on the floor, away from more fireballs coming and reached the windowsill and the glass pitcher full of water on top of it.
Even as a fourteen-year-old I knew this drop of water would not do much against the attack. as a distraction, however, it worked better. I threw the pitcher towards my sister. Not the water, the entire glass pitcher, and jumped out of the window. Hoping to land on a bush in the public gardens.
I did this knowing the gardens were six metres below. I was a dumb kid. a broken bone would have been the best case scenario death was more likely. The only thing I thought when I jumped was that I hoped to not get impaled by the iron fences around the paths. Certainly, I did not expect to stop mid-air, held in place by claws grabbing my shoulders. When I looked up, I saw a dragon.
“Now, that was very stupid of you.” The voice of my sister came through the maw of the dragon. “What would have happened if someone had seen you jumping out of a window?”
She was right and we were lucky. With the advantage of flying, I looked around the park. No one walked through the icy path, nor bothered to open the drapes on their windows. one of the positive things in the middle of winter. My sister flew us both back through the window and into the stage. When we were back inside, she turned back into her human form, in an exploding cloud of green smoke.
“Ariel said you wanted to train. they wrote to me before you arrived,” she said as I sat at the corner of the stage. “What's too much?”
“No but a warning would have been nice!” duck!” I took off a shoe and threw it at her. She obviously avoided it. “See? That is a fair warning!”
“It is the same as I did, but I'm sorry. Marcus told me you needed a companion. Someone to accompany you throughout the city. I have the carriage outside. We can eat something first and then go wherever you want to go.”
“Not yet. I am lacking some information.” I looked around and noticed the fireball had not touched anything. “And Ariel is right. I really can use some training, maybe it would help.”
“Sure, let's deal with it after lunch.”
We went down, through the service stairs and into the kitchens. I have never been to the ones at Featherhill, at least not when they were new. The ones in London are nice. A little outdated, though that just may be my perspective. We had a light lunch at a large table which other times may have seen staff. some fruit, cheese, a mixture of nuts, and curated Meats. nothing too fancy, complicated, or time consuming. Half an hour later we were going upstairs, again to the stage. My sister told me Uncle had coated some of the rooms in the house with fireproof paint. Therefore, they could be used for training and will be safer for the house.
“Yes, this is perfect." She moved to the centre of the room. “Now, take off your shoes and walk over there.”
She pointed at the corner of the room away from the stage. I walked barefoot to it. I saw my sister make a fireball appear by blowing air on her fingertips.
“Listen closely, I can create non-flammable fireballs, they are better for training. Do not ever try to do this yourself; you will end up burning every single nail. It does not burn, does not hurt at all, and beyond the scare, nothing happens when you go and crash into them. I will throw some and you will try to avoid them. Do you understand? Am I clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, again, duck!”
With the warning, I managed to avoid every single one of the Fireballs she got to throw at me. up, down, left, right. was not hard, just tiresome. Once I began to learn her patterns, she added new things. Pieces of furniture suddenly appeared in my way. floorboards broke. At some point I had to battle with more than one fireball at a time. Each time I managed to finish a part of the training; the process began all over again.
After an hour of this we were both exhausted. I, from the exercise. My sister showed the symptoms of magical exhaustion, as she had more trouble hiding her dragonian traits. For example, her right hand showed bright green scales and her nails had grown into sharp claws. We decided to call it quits, and sat on top of the furniture to rest.
“Now you know I must 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 sight, and while in London you are under Marcus charge, or mine. Did something happen? I noticed your first visit to London since your return but still…”
“I want to learn. Father cannot keep me at the house for much longer. I cannot be trapped until the end of time, though I know he'd like to try.”
“He tried with me.”
“And you joined a sect, tried to overthrow The Witches Council, and burned half of London.”
“It was not a sect; it was an alternative movement. Who told you?”
“You did, back in 2007.”
“Alight, before I have a stroke. Let us try again. On your feet, now.”
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