Chapter 3 Witch
WITCH
Ineeded to get cleaned up, maybe get a few hours of rest in.
I pulled on my street clothes after rehearsal, which comprised of soft, black, high-waisted pants with suspenders and a loose button-up shirt.
During the war, women had stepped into many professions where they had traditionally not been allowed.
They couldn’t be bothered with elaborate dresses and constrictive fashions anymore, so many of them started wearing pants, button-up shirts and suspenders instead.
The trend had not ended after the war, to my delight.
I loved dressing up, but on a regular day, I would much rather slip into a pair of comfortable leggings than petticoats and skirts.
I let my wavy hair out of its bun, the tightness of which was giving me a throbbing headache. The curls, still damp from sweat and the morning rain, hung just past my shoulders. I donned my still damp wool jacket, slung my bag over my shoulder and headed out into the atrium.
The Lutesse City Opera House resembled a palace more than a theatre.
Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, and everything shone gold and glittering in the warm lights of countless candelabras.
The sweeping marble staircase, the focal point of it all, ascended to the upper mezzanine levels.
I could have spent entire days analyzing the intricate artwork.
Every detail was exquisite, from the starburst patterned tiles on the floor to the damask carved pillars and the frescos painted on the ceilings.
The design spoke of a time before Scion’s brutal authority.
A time when art and dance and music were valued above all else.
I was always a little wistful when I imagined a time like that.
My thoughts meandered through the annals of history as I walked around one of the intricately detailed pillars, where I slammed right into Seff.
Seff looked resplendent as usual. His white-blonde hair swooped in front of steel-blue eyes.
He wore a tan coat over a clean-cut white shirt.
His light brown pants were in perfect contrast to the coffee-brown leather shoes, the entire outfit accentuating the leather holster he always kept strapped to him—just in case.
He had a tie loosely placed, but not tied, around his neck.
It looked purposefully effortless. He took great pride in the way he presented himself.
I smoothed my hands down my wool pants, which were still wrinkled from spending all morning crumpled in my bag.
I had to wonder what someone as composed and collected as Seff saw in me, when I looked so disheveled most of the time.
Seff stepped back, placing his hands on my shoulders, and looked me up and down. “That was a long rehearsal, you look tired.” The gaze that raked over me was not altogether flattering. “Why don’t we walk back to your place, and you can get cleaned up.”
My face flushed from the suggestion that I didn’t look my best but also from the possibility of what might occur when we went back to my place.
“Sure,” I replied, breathless. “Carlotta will be at rehearsal for the rest of the afternoon…” The statement hung in the air, suggesting what I would have wanted to do with the afternoon.
My face heated. Our physical relationship had not gone far.
Not for my lack of trying. I was desperately attracted to Seff and would have launched myself into bed with him from the first moment I saw him after all those years.
But he was taking things slow. It was both sweet and frustrating as hell.
“Let’s go, then.” Seff took my hand and led me toward the door.
“I want to take you to the club tonight,” he continued as we padded through the palatial atrium.
“My parents are in town, and my father is dying to finally meet you. He’s hosting a party at Montmartre.
You and the girls would be very welcome—VIP guests, of course. ”
Seff came from money. In fact, his family was positively dripping with wealth.
I had never met his parents—they had been largely absent, even when Seff was running around the coastal town where we first met as children.
His father was a viscount, signifying old money.
A well of wealth that ran deep. Seff, as their only child, was to inherit it all.
It was overwhelming to think about. The viscount was also deeply enmeshed with the Church of Scion.
I wasn’t thrilled at the possibility of meeting Seff’s father tonight.
I would have much preferred spending the evening alone with him.
However, it did show that Seff was taking our courtship seriously.
He wouldn’t introduce just anyone to his conservative and traditionalist father.
The thought had my stomach twisting in knots.
Impressing the viscount would be no easy task.
But I steadied myself, putting on a brave face for Seff.
“Sure. As long as you’re sure your father won’t mind having a celebrity in his midst.” I gave a half-smile.
Evenings spent out on the town with Carlotta were a spectacle.
As the prima donna of the opera, she was well known around Lutesse.
She had plenty of gentlemen suitors, sending drinks, paying for bottle service and putting us up at VIP tables.
We were never undercover or subdued. Maren and I were happy to go along for the ride.
“Oh, it would be an honour. My father is looking forward to meeting Carlotta, too.” Seff’s eyes sparkled.
We walked in companionable silence for a bit, through the city streets which were now mercifully dry.
On the southern side of the River Sequana, the cobbled streets were lined with cafes, restaurants and bistros.
Dotted between the many food establishments were florists, dressmakers, barbers and clothing stores.
The streets were home to all kinds of performers, musicians or artists painting portraits for a fee.
On the northern side of the river stood a towering limestone and stained-glass monstrosity: the largest cathedral in the city belonging to the Church of Scion.
The northern side was beautiful in a different way, filled with ancient structures dedicated to the angry god who was worshipped by adherents of the Church of Scion.
It had not always been this way. During war times the streets were subdued, filled with the homeless and destitute.
Darkness had spread over the whole continent of Ereba.
But now, three years later, the city was alive again with light, art and music.
And even though the whole continent was under the control of Scion’s strict theocratic authority, the solemn bells of the cathedral still added to the vibrant thrum of the city.
The economy had bounced back in the wake of Scion’s victory, and people had jobs again.
There was once again money to be spent on art, performance and entertainment.
The city was alive. Times were good, if you could look past the sinister shape of Scion’s authority encroaching on all areas of life.
As we walked, we approached a young woman strolling along the cobbled street.
She wore a sleeveless black dress befitting the fashion and the warmth of the early spring afternoon.
It was cut low to the small of her back and revealed her shoulders and upper back, which were completely covered in tattoos.
Small markings, whose origin I did not recognize, took up every available space on her arm.
Running down her spine, between her shoulder blades, were four larger tattoos—a knife, a cup, a coin with a star in the centre and an arrow.
She was stunning, her wavy chestnut brown hair cropped tight to her neck, in the masculine bob style that Carlotta and so many others currently favoured.
Her dress swung to her knees, and her well-heeled shoes clacked on the cobblestones.
She had deep brown skin, and her dark eyes swooped up at the corners.
She was breathtaking. She turned and sneered as she saw Seff.
His own face arranged in a distasteful scowl.
“Why do they have to do that?” he muttered.
“What? Who are they?” I asked, my eyes lingering on the woman. What did her tattoos signify? Why were they so important that she felt the need to ink them on her body permanently?
“Witch.” He spat on the sidewalk, shocking me.
“What do you mean?” I had never heard him speak like this before. There was a coldness, a cruelty, in his voice.
“She’s a witch. Didn’t you see the runes and symbols on her? She made sure to dress slutty enough to show them off.”
That was a serious accusation. Not that I believed in any of the “heretical magic” and “witchcraft” that Scion fundamentalists liked to go on about.
But they took it seriously. And witchcraft was a crime punishable by death—burning at the stake.
It was one of the most horrible ends I could imagine.
Since the war had ended, the war on “witches” had only just begun.
It was more and more common to see smoke on the horizon, a black smear hovering over the northern side of the river.
But the women they burned there were not really witches, to my understanding.
They were most often women who had tried to end a pregnancy.
Sometimes, they were women who had merely lost a wanted pregnancy, accused of using dark magic to cause the miscarriage.
That lack of personal autonomy was one of the more unsavoury aspects of living under the strictures of Scion’s theocracy.