1213 P.M.—The Button Manor
WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NEW YORK
The ride to the Button Manor didn’t take nearly as long as Octavius wished it had.
He hadn’t been back “home” since he’d left for boarding school almost three years ago. And he hadn’t intended on ever returning either.
The sprawling Button Estate was hidden away, off the side of an inconspicuous road in the heart of Scarsdale (the small hellscape of a town he’d had the misfortune of growing up in).
The road that led to the Button Estate was obscured by a huddle of oak trees, the first of several security measures that were meant to conceal the entrance from the public’s view and deter any stalkers.
Behind the trees were a massive set of iron gates that could only be opened by a very specific configuration of numbers based on a game their father had invented years ago.
Octavius watched as the driver begrudgingly played the game, keying in the desired numbers into the control panel before the gate yawned wide open.
This was one of the many pointless features their father had incorporated into the Manor’s functions; pointless games were Mr. Button’s favorite thing in the whole wide world.
This game setup was meant to keep the property inaccessible to outsiders, but this didn’t stop intruders.
Once in a blue moon the family’s more persistent stalkers seemed to bypass the system and find a way in.
Octavius recalled a time when he still lived in the Underworld (the name he’d given to the Manor) and had snuck downstairs in the dead of the night to steal cookies from the pantry.
He’d suddenly noticed a small man with a camera tucked away in the corner, seemingly waiting for him.
“I’m not gonna trouble you,” the man said, his limbs shaking from either excitement or fear, Octavius wasn’t sure which. “I only want a picture.” In the dark, the stranger’s eyes glimmered, settling on Octavius gluttonously.
But before Octavius could respond, the alarm systems began to blare loudly around the house, red and blue lights streaking the walls and the cabinets.
Octavius sighed. It seemed he would not be getting his cookies after all.
“We’re here.” The memory dissolved like snow as Fola turned to him in the town car.
He felt his chest constrict as they pulled through the gates of hell and the vast Manor house came into view.
It looked as menacing as ever.
“Do you think they’ll believe me if I fake a serious illness?” Octavius said to no one in particular.
“Remember the year that Dee had appendicitis and still had to be there for the unveiling of her latest art piece?” Fola asked, checking her makeup in the small compact mirror she pulled from her bag.
How could Octavius forget? Their sister Perdita had to throw up blood before she was granted permission to leave the grounds. He could never quite get the sight of that out of his memory—as with much of his childhood, it was burned at the stake in his temporal lobe.
“I remember,” he said solemnly, staring out of the window with his cheek pressed hard into his knuckles, the motion of the car making him sway side to side as the tires struggled over the cobbled path. The clouds in the sky looked dark and heavy, ready to release havoc onto their world.
“Cheer up, Tavi. It could be worse,” Fola said, as the vehicle finally came to a stop by the stone staircase that led up to the Manor’s imposing front doors.
Could it? he thought. Octavius couldn’t imagine anything worse than this. Through the semi-opaque button-patterned glass panes of the front doors, he could see vague shadows. Shadows that looked so much like demons.
Two of his father’s security guards were stationed by the entrance, partially blocking the doors, and alongside them, a handful of cameramen, waiting to capture the arrival of two out of five of America’s messed-up genius family—or as most people actually referred to them: the Button Heirs.
It was the silly nickname his father’s cult of devoted followers loved to call them. Octavius had always wondered who first coined this group name and then their individual aliases. It certainly wasn’t their father.
There was Fola the Brain. Octavius the Maestro. Bilal the Olympian. And Perdita the Artist.
He used to think having an alias made him some kind of superhero. But he’d soon discovered that there was nothing heroic about being able to play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on twenty-seven instruments.
The driver briskly exited the car, opening the door for Fola first, who closed the lid of her mirror and stepped out in a swift, elegant manner.
Octavius could feel his muscles tensing as the driver neared his door.
Years ago, he had taught himself how to hot-wire a car engine, and briefly considered whether he’d have enough time to climb into the front seat and drive away.
It would be so easy, since he’d done it many times before.
In fact, as recently as last month (for reasons that would most definitely get him expelled from his boarding school if ever discovered).
Octavius eyed the ignition system, letting the thought of his possible escape linger for a few moments before he accepted that trying to escape that way would be a ridiculous thing to do.
He was fine.
It was just an event. Two events. But they would be over soon, and then he could return to his semi-blissful life of skipping classes, tampering with unfinished classical pieces, and an endless treasure trove of heartbreak.
He took in several deep breaths, not wanting to have a panic attack and have people see and fuss over him.
When the car door finally opened, Octavius slid his sunglasses on, in part because he was still hungover from the night before and also as an attempt to shield his eyes from the world and their judgments.
He stepped out onto the gravel and the pair were immediately ambushed by bright lights and clicking cameras.
Fola held him in place, her arms encircling his, making sure he was upright like the puppets they both were—all to keep the puppet master inside happy.
Octavius placed one hand in his pocket and felt the cool metal exterior of a half-emptied flask that he used to nurse his sorrows.
He anticipated finishing that flask before the day was over.
When the flashes had died down, Fola grabbed hold of Octavius’s puppet strings and forced his limbs up the front steps, all while somehow maintaining her unflappable gracefulness.
She gave the cameras her usual mysterious but temperate smile as they passed by.
Every picture of her would be perfect. Something Octavius was far from.
And as if to prove just how not perfect he was, the universe struck again.
As he removed his hand from his pocket, he heard the loud clang of metal hitting the stone steps below.
All eyes (and lenses) fell to the ground before him as his once-hidden flask was now laid on the path for all to see.
To make matters worse, the lid from the flask had dislodged, allowing the contents to spill impatiently, dribbling out of the container like blood from an infected wound.
One of the Manor’s security guards coughed loudly and quickly kicked the flask into a nearby rosebush as the other began to usher the cameramen away. Octavius was filled with a mixture of irritation and disappointment. Now he had to somehow brave the day not only hungover but also stone-cold sober.
Great.
Fola did not allow him to wallow in his emotions. Instead she pulled him up the final steps and through the patterned stained-glass entrance, yanking the door open before the security guard could. Octavius was relieved to find the foyer empty. No demon sightings yet.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Fola whispered loudly, dropping her own puppet act as soon as the main doors closed behind them and the cameras could no longer capture her. “Did you do that on purpose? You know he’ll find out, and then what! You’re already on thin ice—”
Octavius jumped dramatically. “There, I hope that breaks the ice and I never trouble anyone again with my existence.”
“You’re such a child,” Fola said, shaking her head. But before Octavius could respond with an equally harmful retort, a voice that did not belong to either of them interrupted.
“It’s good to see you both arrived in one piece.”
Octavius’s head snapped up and he was greeted by the pale face, graying beard, and kind eyes of someone familiar.
“Henry?” Octavius questioned, uncertain for a moment if this old man was the same person that he remembered. His father’s secretary, Henry Xu. Henry, who looked so … old now. As though he had aged decades instead of years in the relatively short time Octavius had been away.
Henry smiled brightly and nodded. “Yes, don’t mind my appearance—Fola reminds me often of how ancient I look,” he said as if reading Octavius’s mind.
“With affection, of course,” Fola said, returning Henry’s smile.
“Of course,” Henry replied.
Octavius stared silently at Henry with mild discomfort. He hadn’t seen Henry since the events of that night. The night three years ago where everything had changed. The night that had finally pushed Octavius over the edge and forced him to leave his family home for good at the age of fifteen.
They spoke on the phone on occasion, but Octavius did not know how to speak to Henry face-to-face now, especially not after the way they left things back then.
Octavius could still see the smashed glass, could hear the echo of his own twisted screams, could see the blood on his hands, the blood that wasn’t his—
“You look well, Tavi,” Henry said, disrupting the vicious memory.
Octavius shoved the bad feelings away to the back of his mind like he usually did and straightened up. “If by ‘well,’ you mean ‘like shit,’ then I guess so,” he muttered. Then, realizing how impolite he was being, he quickly added, “Thank you though. It’s nice to see you, Henry. I’ve … missed you.”