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distress, 13
Marisa’s eyes darted between her brother and her mother, as she softly dropped the fork on the table.
“Frankly, I was afraid you were never gonna settle, but you excel at proving me wrong, Marisa.” Madame Delamare said; she had a newfound interest in her daughter, the sort of attention Marisa found delightful, yet it came with expectations Marisa was afraid she couldn’t meet.
Her monkey - now officially a golden monkey - had settled three days before that, a lustrous and vain creature, whose fur shone even with no light in sight. Marisa felt pride like never before, with how beautiful he was and how suddenly every promise made by her mother seemed real and accurate. Madame Delamare had praised Marisa’s development, how quickly she was becoming the woman she was meant to be. Marisa, for once, felt like all the yelling on her mother’s part was now validated and it filled her with relief.
“I’m sure you’ll be with your settled daemon, soon.” Their mother looked at Marcel, who simply looked down at his plate. They were the same age, so the fact his daemon hadn’t settled yet intrigued Marisa immensely, but asking her mother would grant her nothing but half-answers and common sense.
“I’m sure it’s gonna be something puny, like a beetle.” Marisa scoffed and he looked at her with disdain; the settled daemon had granted Marisa a certain immunity, as their mother now saw her as a young woman while she saw Marcel as a childish brat.
“I hope it’s not a stupid monkey.” He barked back.
“You’re stupid!”
“No, you--”
“Enough! I’m not raising savages in this house.”
Marisa noticed she was digging her fingers at the table wood, ruining her nails; she wanted to keep on scorning him, but their mother was now fully paying attention to him. They always sat across each other at the table, and their mother sat at the head of it, an hierarchical sort of structure so she could stare at them both at the same time and force them to watch each other struggle not to fail at pleasing her.
“You used to talk for hours about what you wanted your daemon to be, now you decided to be silent. What do you want your daemon to be, Marcel?” Maman said and he warily looked at her. Marisa had told him, again and again, that he shouldn’t be so resistant, so defiant, because it accomplished nothing. He was clever enough to know that, but he was also very stubborn. She glanced at him, as if to tell him to not engage, but he took it as an act of defiance on her part.
“It doesn’t matter what I want.” He hissed. “It’s not like I have a choice.”
“Your actions make a difference, so if you keep acting like an insufferable and savage brat, your daemon shall become a savage too.” Her voice had a sweet tone that put Marisa on edge; she felt like she knew where that was going to end and it was bad, so she looked at her brother and shook her head, very discreetly. If he kept talking he would end up causing trouble for them both.
“I’m not a brat.”
“Certainly not, I’ve raised you better than that, yet you still behave like one.” Maman took a sip of her wine. “You should try and be more like Marisa. She behaved expertly yesterday, at the soiree, unlike you. Pierre was not pleased with what you said.”
Marisa bit her lip as to avoid laughing. Marcel had really put on a bad behaviour the night before, especially when Binaud had tried to approach him and converse. Their mother never truly confirmed their relationship, but the man was often at their house and Marisa assumed Marcel had seen something really explicit, because his distaste was rather showing.
“Oh, did I hurt his feelings?” Marcel spat.
“You were rather unpleasant, yes. Everyone saw it and I was utterly embarrassed.”
“Oh, maman, I hurt your feelings then.” He hissed and his daemon shifted to a raven shape, her wings open in a threatening pose. “I didn’t think you had any.”
Madame Delamare finished her glass of wine, slowly, and Marisa knew she was angry because she clenched one of her fists and her daemon rushed to whisper in her ear. She was beautiful, but every angle of her face twisted into a vicious expression, filled with an indignant aura as if she couldn’t believe in her son’s audacity to speak to her that way. But to her, Marcel and Marisa were a single entity, which meant that she was bringing her wrath upon them both. Marisa braced herself for it, a stoic expression in her soft-featured face, as her monkey gripped her leg, tightly.
“Don’t be nasty, Marcel. It doesn’t suit you, you’re barely out of your boyhood yet.” He opened his mouth to retort but she raised a hand to interrupt him. “No, I will not have it. You’ll address me, polite and reasonable, as sensible as I’ve taught you both.”
“Maman, I’ve done nothing--” Marisa started to protest, but she was also interrupted.
“It doesn’t matter. The two of you seem to forget every single sacrifice I make for you, in order to ensure your success. I’ve raised you both so you could consort with kings and lords, and the highest social standing people in Geneva, and what do I get in return?” Maman said, barely waiting for the servant to finish pouring her wine for her. She took a long sip before continuing, as Marcel and Marisa talked together, one trying to protest louder than the other and both failing terribly at being understood. “All I hear are complaints and a total lack of gratitude, especially from you, Marcel.”
“It’s not fair--”
“What it’s not fair, is that I ask you to behave properly, like the young man I’ve raised, for nothing more than a couple of hours, and then you go ahead and make a scene in front of a family friend.”
“He’s not a family friend, Maman. He’s not even your friend.” Marisa let out and her mother raised an eyebrow, furious but also slightly amused at the remark.
“What he is, is not important. I don’t owe any of you anything; as you both seem to be forgetting, I am your mother and you’ll do as I say.” She turned to Marcel and he blinked to disguise his instinct to flinch, that he so expertly hid as their mother had taught them. “And if I say you should be nice to any of my friends, you’ll do that, without complaining.”
Marcel scoffed, loudly. “If papa was here, you wouldn’t be doing any of that, I’m sure.”
Marisa heard the sound of glass shattering and at first, she assumed it had been inside her head, as if her instincts suddenly had sound effects, but her mother had actually dropped her glass of wine. Marisa had never seen her so angry, her face all twisted into so many emotions she had no ability to discern. Marcel realised his mistake the moment he said those words, and their mother stood up and walked up right to him, and slapped his face in a violent show of total lack of control.
She realised she was holding the edges of her chair with a lot of strength, afraid that she would be next, so her daemon jumped on her lap and she dug her fingers into his fur, preparing for the worst.
“Your father? Look at me!” Maman grabbed Marcel’s face, holding him by his chin; she leaned down to stare him in his eyes; her big nails scratched his cheek when she grabbed him, making a little cut that swiftly bled. “Look at me, you little fool! Your father didn’t love you, neither of you, it’s why he left.” She looked at Marisa, deranged and distressed, her blue eyes red from the tears she was holding back; she turned back to Marcel, holding his chin violently. “If he loved you, or me, he would’ve stayed. He is nothing, he’s done nothing for you, but I have. I have, so you should be grateful for that.”
She let him go and Marisa watched as she put her hand over her mouth, inhaling deep to keep her tears away. She watched her little brother, small and frightened, recoil on his chair. Fear had made him pale, but his cheek was still red where their mother slapped him; he had his hands over the spot, rubbing it as if to make the numbness go away. The scratch on his face was also very red and it looked very painful too, to a point where Marisa actually felt sorry for him. Marisa’s monkey watched everything with a sick and sad curiosity.
The sound of the hand against his soft cheek was so loud that it kept on echoing in their ears, which is why the silence left between their mother’s sobs and Marcel’s daemon wincing was awful. The woman seemed to go back to her senses, as she kneeled in front of Marcel, turning him away from the table. Marisa watched, tense, as her mother put both her hands around his face and stroked his hair away.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” She mumbled, several times, as she kissed his cheeks and his forehead, but Marisa found it more interesting to watch his reaction, how he barely acknowledge her apologies, his eyes set somewhere in the distance.
Later that night, when Marisa was preparing to sleep, she decided, after a long time pondering with her daemon, to take a look inside Marcel’s room.
She found him, in the dark, sitting at a corner in his bedroom; his head resting on his knees, as he braced himself.
“What are you doing?” She asked, quietly; her monkey peeped at his daemon, who changed from his snowy owl form to a cat and rubbed her head against Marcel’s hands.
“Leave me alone.”
“No. What are you doing?” She spoke every word slowly, and as he resisted looking at her, her monkey approached his daemon and clumsily stroked the cat’s fur. Marcel looked up, his face wet with tears.
Marisa twisted her nose at the sight of that. He had left his window open and cold air made them both shiver.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Yes.” He mumbled, so quietly Marisa barely heard him. “I think she might have broken my tooth.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It hurts a lot.” He rubbed his cheek; Marisa observed as his voice broke when he spoke.
“Don’t cry.”
She felt frustrated when his lips quivered and her monkey let out a soft noise of distress; Marisa didn’t exactly feel regret for saying what she had said, but she certainly realised she was using the wrong method to get what she wanted. His daemon let out a soft noise of distress and the monkey took a step away from her.
“Stop. Breathe.” She hissed and the monkey took a step forward again and reached for his daemon, carefully stroking her little robin-shaped head.
Marcel held his breath, in fear; he had suffered enough in Marisa’s hands to know she could cause him more pain than that slap, but then he noticed how the monkey was being nice to his daemon. Marisa watched his relief with delight.
“Crying won’t help you.”
He took a deep breath and slowly calmed himself down. The monkey let his daemon go, and quickly returned to his place at Marisa’s side. She watched Marcel quietly recompose himself, resting his cheek on his hand. She went back to her room, quietly, and searched a box under her bed where she found a small steel flask, filled with her mother’s finest whiskey. She had stolen that to try it on an occasion where she was alone, but she felt like Marcel could use it more.
“Here, take this.”
He looked at the flask with suspicion; Marisa sighed with impatience.
“It’s whiskey. Drink, it should help with the pain, I think.”
“You think?”
“Yes. Just drink the damn thing, Marcel.” She hissed, quietly. “And it’s not a gift, you’ll have to give it back to me later.”
He took long sips, and Marisa watched with curiosity to see how long it would take for him to get drunk, which was only half the flask. He made a funny face at every sip, the bitter taste making him flinch, but distracting him from the pain. She helped him get on his bed, her monkey carefully placing his daemon beside him, his curious eyes watching the little robin change into an owl again.
“She hurt me.”
“You upset her.”
“I just told her the truth.”
“Well, the truth can be very upsetting, sometimes.” Marisa closed her flask and walked to the door. “Wouldn’t you rather live a lie?”
He laughed, quietly, already dozing off.
“You’re stupid.” He mumbled.
“No, you’re stupid.”
daemonless, 18
“Marisa! Marisa! Did you hear what I said?” Marcel’s voice echoed in her ears and it took a great deal of effort to not completely shut down.
“I’m sorry.” She rubbed her temples, feeling slightly dizzy. She urged her daemon to come closer, as he was staying a bit too far from her; she felt uneasy. The sound of Marcel setting down his glass on the table seemed to echo forever inside her head. “I’m still getting my senses straight.”
“Are you sure you haven't got one of those fevers they have down there?” Her mother spoke, her caustic voice making Marisa flinch, because it sounded like nails against a blackboard.
She never told them about her trip, at least not what she did in Benin; truth be told, she knew she would never tell anyone about it. It was unspeakable. She could feel her monkey's eyes on her, unforgiving and in pain, but she ignored him. There were no amends to be made, she hardly even felt like apologising; he knew that and he resented it.
“I'm sure, Maman. They check everyone who comes from other continents, I'm merely unused to our current time zone, I shall be fine.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor anyway, to make sure you won't spread anything to us.”
“I'm fine, Maman.”
“Maybe you've been indiscrete.” Marcel mocked and Marisa shook her head, although she forced a smile through it all.
“The only indiscretion in this family is your lack of self-awareness.”
He clicked his tongue with delight.
“Oh, there she is! I was beginning to worry.” He laughed but she saw a glimpse of worry in his eyes all the same. He didn’t buy that whole thing, he knew her too well for that.
They never shared a twin bond, not like many people always spoke of; as children they struggled to satisfy a never happy mother, but now that they were older, they learned how to read people very well, as their mother had taught them. So, they learned how to read each other, and they both had the benefit of seeing each other at their worst because of all the time they had spent together. Marisa couldn’t hide behind her sweet smiles and he couldn’t evade her questions by gushing over her, so they just ignored the truth for everyone’s sake. He knows, she thought to herself when she realised he was respecting her space, which was something she couldn’t even fathom if she wasn’t experiencing it. No, that’s not possible, it’s something inconceivable.
“I don't understand what could you possibly want in a country like that.”
“They have an interesting type of construct there, clockworks, that I've read about and I thought it would be interesting to see them in person.” Marisa said, and she put an extra effort to smile and sound pleasant and perfect. It worked well on her mother, as she was already drunk and uninterested in anything scholarly that Marisa did.
The conversation about St. Sophia bored her mother as well, which explained Marisa’s success in guaranteeing her mother’s support. While discussing her trip details, she tried not to think of the pain she felt when she split herself from her daemon; the numbness was gone now, but whenever she thought of it, trying to understand it and measure it, her thoughts would also flood her monkey’s mind, who would whimper in distress. That did none of them any good.
“I don’t understand why must you go so far away to study.” Her mother hissed, in a disinterested tone. Marisa felt so uncomfortable with herself that she hardly minded it.
“They have a great program on experimental theology.” Marisa said, taking a sip from her wine; the taste was really rich, yet she still felt like nothing tasted like anything. Her monkey looked at her, but she couldn’t read what he wanted to say. She noticed Marcel was looking, so she smiled. “And I enjoy going to new places, breathing different air.”
“I still think you would do better to stay here and find yourself a proper husband, Marisa.”
“Men value intelligence nowadays, Maman.”
Madame Delamare frowned, but she didn’t discuss any further. They finished dinner in silence, a whole mood of sheer gloom hovering over their heads. St. Sophia was a choice she made without much thinking; she wanted a place where she wasn’t known or recognisable, a place where she could focus on herself, a place to get away from her mother’s suffocating presence. England felt like a good pick, as her mother didn’t enjoy the English very much.
In her bedroom, later that night, she was beginning to pack her things; she had a whole month to prepare but keeping herself busy helped her to ignore her monkey, as in her zeppelin to England, they would have to endure each other for a couple of days. A knock on the door made her sigh; she knew who it was before even opening the door.
“What do you want?” She asked and she heard a hum she interpreted as his laughter.
“There is something wrong with you.” Marcel said, calmly. “I want to know what it is.”
She dropped the clothes she had just folded on her bed and turned to face him; she used to be taller than he was, but time had favoured him in the past year. Out of a sudden he looked less like a boy and more like a man, and he was also preparing to go to a university, except he chose to stay on Geneva. She knew why: he had decided to start a career in the Magisterium, another thing that life had favoured him. His snowy owl daemon was nested on his shoulder, comfortable, giving him a confidence Marisa would have found amusing, if she wasn’t feeling so out of her own game. It was distressing because he could notice it too, she felt vulnerable and she hated it.
She felt a gush of envy by watching them, and then she felt her monkey’s hand reach out for her. To keep up appearances, she understood, as she picked him up in her arms. His warmth failed to make her feel whole.
Marisa realised she was staring her brother in silence.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t be foolish. Something happened to you in Benin.”
“Nothing happened--”
“Marisa! What happened there?”
“Nothing, I--”
“Did someone hurt you?”
“No! Back off, Marcel!” She snapped and her monkey growled, showing his sharp teeth at them. “Mind your business.”
He shook his head, displeased, then turned around to leave. She was almost relieved, when he reconsidered and walked back at her, close enough so he could whisper and they wouldn’t be heard.
“Something happened to you, I know it happened because this isn’t you. Frankly, it’s unsettling.” He said and his owl opened her wings. “I want you to know that shall you ever decide to tell me, I’ll be waiting to hear all about it.”
She let out her breath and laughed.
“To be honest, I’ve never seen you so distressed, so I’m curious to know what did this to you.” He kissed her cheek, careful not to touch the monkey in her arms, and walked away.
As much as she felt the urge to tell him all about it, she never said a word.
diamond, 21
Marisa straightened herself in her chair, so stiff and uncomfortable she was afraid it was visible. The moment she set foot on Geneva, she felt the intense regret that came with a disturbing nostalgia; even her monkey shivered but he didn’t voice his concern.
At the dinner table Marisa smiled, unnaturally and with all her willpower, and gently played with her engagement ring, big and bright and extremely non-discrete on her thin finger. Marcel had told her to take it away and not mention the engagement, which was incredibly useful advice, if Marisa had bothered listening to him - that was another regret she had during dinner. Her vanity took the best of her and she glanced over Marcel, only to find him with an obvious expression of “I told you so.”
“An Englishman?” Her mother kept on saying, between sips of wine, in an erratic tantrum, so unfitting of the woman she had known as a child. Old age had made her bold and scandalous, loud and far more critical than she had ever been. She refused to speak in anything but French, much to Marisa’s boredom.
“Edward is a good man, very well-connected.” Marisa tried to argue back, but her mother clicked her tongue in disapproval.
“But he is English!”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Marisa set her glass on the table; her daemon, seated beside her, looked at her as if begging her to drop the matter before it got out of hand, but she ignored him.
“Is he even civilised?” Marcel said, in English. Their mother looked at him with scorn, and chastised him in French about using English, which made him roll his eyes.
“Three years without seeing you and you remain charmless, Marcel.” Marisa scoffed but all he did was laugh.
“You wish.”
Marisa ignored him and turned to her mother again.
“Yes, he is a civilised man, whatever that means. A politician, connected to the King’s council. And if it’s all the same to you, he has family here too. An uncle, I believe.”
“If that was someone worth knowing, we would already know of him, Marisa.” Her mother snapped again, and the servant filled her glass one more time. Marisa couldn’t tell if her mother was being nasty or just being drunk at that point, but truth be told the difference was pointless. “And a politician? That’s unacceptable! You should be marrying into the Magisterium, someone of notable influence, not some backwater politician!”
It took an enormous amount of strength within Marisa to keep her from sighing out loud. Maman used that moment of silence to sip again at her wine.
“Is he at least a man of faith?” Maman asked, and Marisa heard a weird noise from Marcel’s direction; he almost choked on his own wine.
“Well, he is pious enough.” Marisa’s voice almost broke while she said that, and while her mother didn’t exactly noticed it, Marcel did and he laughed.
“Ah, amazing. That’s her way of saying he is not faithful enough.”
“Is this your attempt at comedy?” Marisa hissed through a smirk; he stared at her, unflinching, but his daemon nested on his shoulder moved, uncomfortable. “Because if it is, you're failing badly.”
She wished she could slap the smile off his face, but much to her dismay, she was seated a little too far for that, across him at the table.
“Don’t be so uptight.”
“No English, Marcel.” Maman said in a warning tone, and he looked at her before scoffing and downing his glass of wine.
“Or what? Are you going to exile me with Marisa’s soon-to-be-husband?” Marcel spat. “I don’t think so.”
Marisa sighed when her mother turned again at her, ranting in French about Marisa’s lack of ambition. She spun the ring around her finger again, hearing everything the woman said but not actually listening; it was stupid and it would take a while for her to calm down, especially with Marcel being snippy like that.
“So,” Madame Delamare said, after taking a long sip of her wine; Marisa lost track of how many glasses she had had herself. “When is the wedding?”
She smiled, natural and cool and self-assured, but her monkey dug his little hands on the chair’s wood. Marcel’s voice echoed in her head, from two hours ago: “Don’t tell her about the wedding, don’t invite her. Spare yourself that headache.” Marisa wanted to heed that advice, as she told him, but Edward insisted that she should invite her family. He was so insistent about it that he brought up the fact his mother was already gone and how she would’ve loved to see their marriage; Marisa felt like trying to work her way around that would’ve been far too bad even for Edward’s clueless taste.
“We haven’t settled on a date yet.”
“And I assume you’re marrying in England, no?”
“Yes, maman, that is likely to happen.” Marisa sighed; she was just glad the ranting stopped. So much for three years of peace and quiet, she should’ve known her mother would wait to yell everything that needed to yelled when she eventually returned. She resented Edward for that. “Edward’s been busy, so we still hadn’t have the time to settle on a date. He has been promoted to a higher ranking position, which demands him to act as a diplomat, forcing him to travel a lot.”
“How… interesting .” Marcel raised an eyebrow.
“Ah, you’re gonna love him. He’s as dull as you are.”
“Well, you’ve always had bad taste in men, so I’m not surprised you chose a boring man to marry.”
“When are you getting married, then?” Marisa scoffed; his daemon opened her wings in a distressed way. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Oh, right. Never.”
“Marriage is not mandatory.” He spat.
“Your sister has a point, Marcel.” Maman said, slightly amused; there was only one thing she enjoyed more than tormenting them and that was pitting them against each other. Marcel dropped his fork with a soft sound, clenched his fists and sighed, loudly. Marisa held her laugh back.
“No, she doesn’t. ”
“It would help settle the rumours.”
“The rumours aren’t true and I have too much work to do to actually care about marriage--”
With her mother’s attention back on her brother, Marisa felt a certain relief. They argued for a while longer, and when dinner was over, Madame Delamare got up and went to the living room to greet a guest.
So, Marisa quietly moved towards the balcony, only to find Marcel there, smoking a cigarette under a gloomy expression. He looked at her with scorn.
“You’re in my spot.” She mumbled as she approached him; he offered her his lighter.
“Fuck off. I got here first.”
Marisa swallowed the smoke with a vicious distaste.
“You weren’t very helpful during dinner.”
“Well, the marriage card wasn’t very nice either.” He grinned. “She’s gonna start that all over, you know that.”
“Yes, I do. Serves you right for not helping me.” She smiled back; her monkey reached out for the owl, that quickly evaded his grasp. He let out a quiet noise of frustration. “I heard you were promoted. Congratulations.”
He shifted his stance from one leg to the other, annoyed.
“I appreciate your skill to make every compliment sound like an insult.” He rubbed his eyes. “Nevermind. You're right, I'm assistant to the secretary general of La Maison Juste.”
“I thought it was an important promotion.” Marisa mocked him and he clicked his tongue with impatience.
“It is. He usually has two or three assistants and he eventually trains one of them to take his place." He spoke with a sardonic tone that made Marisa laugh; he frowned. "It's an important job!”
“I thought La Maison Juste was just an old group with no relevant take on the Magisterium's current politics.” She sighed, taking another batch of smoke from her cigarette. "Why would you bother joining them?”
“It's a place that can be shaped into something greater. An easy power ladder to climb if no one is craving it.”
Marisa raised an eyebrow in disbelief; the cold night breeze made her straighten herself.
“That's not easy, Marcel. Easy would have been priesthood.”
“Do I strike you as a priest, Marisa?” He scorned and she shrugged; he lit a new cigarette and blew the smoke her way. She slapped his shoulder to make him stop. "I'm too indulgent."
“Are you serious? You have no meaningful friends, no relationship that isn't strictly professional, your life is to work at an old building and then go home." Her laughter made him arch his eyebrows. “That’s not indulgence.”
“You left for a college in England three years ago and only now decided to visit, we all have our quirks.”
Marisa looked at him with suspicion. “Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Get sentimental. It's distressing. Besides, I wrote you several telegrams.”
He chuckled.
“You shouldn't have cut us off entirely. I mean for maman’s sake; she resented you after you left and didn't come back.”
“Well, I wrote to her too.”
“That was not enough, Marisa. She wanted you to visit, to come back even; she had plans for you.”
“I know and that's why I left. I had plans for myself too.”
Marcel mumbled something under his breath that she didn't quite understand, but his face had a sign of understanding she interpreted well.
“So your marriage - a way to spite maman's lack of respect for people's own decisions?” He said with a smirk.
“Edward is a well-connected man and as a scholar, that can be helpful.”
“Ah, the scholar thing… that does make sense. Maman hates it, you know?” He sighed. “She thinks it's a waste of your 'talents'.”
“Do you agree with her?”
“When have I ever agreed with her, Marisa?”
“That’s not much of an answer, Marcel.”
They stood in silence, as Marcel offered her a new cigarette and they both watched the view of Geneva, dark and shimmering with shy lampposts in the distance; it had rained during the day, so the nighttime was filled with a fresh scent of earth and water and something else, the sort of fragrance that messed with her sense of belonging. Marisa would have to stay for at least a couple of days, but all she could think of was the day she would depart for England again.
“Am I really gonna like your husband?” The disbelief in his voice made her chuckle.
“Definitely not.”
“Is he really that bad?”
“Ah, Edward’s a fool. He’s chatty, but never says anything worth listening too. A common sense man, good with people but that’s as clever as he gets.” Marisa sighed. “He is gentle enough, I suppose. He likes me a lot; I can think of worse men to marry.”
“Is there anyone who doesn’t like you, sister?”
“You.”
“Well, I don’t count.”
The servant interrupted them to say their mother was demanding their presence in the living room, to greet their guest. Marisa laughed at Marcel’s face of disgust, as he put out his cigarette on their mother’s plant at the balcony.
She turned to leave, but he held her arm; the monkey growled but he ignored him. When they were younger, he never confronted her so boldly; she liked that sudden change, it made him less boring and predictable.
“Tell me, Marisa, if he’s such an idiot, why marry him?”
“I told you, it’s a good marriage. He has influence, a good career and he likes me. He practically worships me.”
“Do you like him, though?” Marcel had a know-it-all smile on his face that made Marisa edgy.
She shook her arm to force him to let go, smiling cooly, and then walked away without saying a word.
dishonor, 26
The silence in the room was disconcerting, but Marisa made sure to try and look comfortable. They were sitting at their usual places, their mother at the head of the table and Marcel across Marisa, which was not very ideal. After everything she had gone through, from her marriage to Lyra’s birth, then Edward’s death and the scandal that followed, to surviving a wild flood then building her life up from the mud, literally and metaphorically; Marisa felt like she didn’t owe her mother anything, but her mother expected nothing from her, much to her surprise. Instead, she looked at Marisa with a newfound curiosity, as if her immaculate existence, shaped and molded so carefully since her youth, had now been tainted with something she found magnificent.
Marisa read it as delight even, or amusement; as if her mother expected all of that to happen. She couldn’t quite understand that, but she chose to go with it as it was.
“How old is the girl?” Her mother asked, drinking a dark wine; she coughed a little, and Marisa noticed how pale and thin she looked now, so different than the last time they saw each other.
“I don’t know. Four or five, I suppose.”
“Is she baptised, at least?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think so.”
“You don’t know ? You mean, you don’t have her with you?”
Marisa glanced at Marcel before addressing her mother. Unlike Madame Delamare, he had barely spoken to Marisa since her arrival, instead sulking at his own spot, angry and moody. She thought it was funny, for the first hours, but as he refused to speak to her, she was beginning to get irritated.
“No, I don’t. She was put in the care of nuns, but during the Flood her father managed to get her to Jordan College.” Marisa sighed; she felt a sharp sting on her mind when she thought of Asriel, but she refused to so much as think of his name. “An ancient law has her out of my sights, or anyone else, in fact.”
“Her father, huh? I heard he was a lord.” Her mother’s amused tone left Marisa on edge; she didn’t want to discuss Asriel, not with her, not with anyone. She tightened her grip on her fork.
“I heard he is a heretic.” Marcel hissed and he stared Marisa down.
He looked impeccable in his suit, clean, immaculate, very formal. She thought he looked funny, but the rage in his eyes gave her pause. She tilted her head to look at him, a disdainful smile on her face. The Magisterium brooch on his suit glittered under the lights; she admired his deference to the charade his was playing, because she knew very well the whole “Magisterium man” he was pretending to be was nothing more than pretense. She liked to think they were born without fear, thus making them poor at being faithful, which was why they both excelled at their Church careers.
“La Maison Juste is truly doing a number on you, aren’t they?” She hissed, almost baring her teeth; he barely flinched.
“What is that suppose to mean?”
“What were you trying to say?” Her monkey growled when she dropped her fork, and Marcel did the same with his, except much more loudly. He took his napkin and cleaned the corner of his mouth, without looking at Marisa. That made her furious. “Now, look at me. Be a man and tell me: what were you trying to say?”
“You know very well.” He shoved the napkin on his plate and looked at her. “He was a disgrace even before you helped him disgrace himself.”
“Watch your tone with me!”
“I’ll change my tone with you when you stop behaving like a common whore!” He pushed his chair away from the table and got up, leaning over the table, using his hands as support. Marisa glanced at her mother, but all Madame Delamare did was watch them, with a weird delight, her glass of wine close to her mouth. “Look at you! Whatever has happened to you? A bastard child?! You ruined your marriage and your reputation!”
“You don’t get to talk to me like that.” She said, calmly, raising an eyebrow. “We don’t even use the same name, it’s not widely known we’re related, I doubt you were even affected by anything I did.”
He slammed his hand on the table, making a loud noise that shook all the objects upon it, but Marisa didn’t move. She was, in fact, annoyed that he was acting like he could say those things to her; more importantly she had a feeling where that conversation would end and she didn’t like it.
“Those that shouldn’t have known, do know, and even then, I had to sit in my office and hear, day after day, people talk about you. The things I’ve heard, I… It doesn’t matter. You wasted your life for nothing! How could you be so stupid?”
“That’s enough.” Maman said, her sharp voice echoing through the room. Marisa took a long sip from her own wine as Marcel faced their mother. “You said your piece, now sit. Down.”
He took a deep breath, as if considering if defying her would be worth it, and he seemed to have chosen not to. He sat down, stretching his neck this way and that, his cheeks blushing from his rage.
“I’ll not have you behaving like savages in my house.” She growled, then turned to Marisa. “The ending of your marriage is… well, shameful, but I understand you are doing well enough.”
“Well, yes.”
“Do you believe you will get the girl back?”
Marisa narrowed her eyes. It was an odd question, if anything. One she wasn’t exactly prepared for. She watched Marcel scoff.
“I don’t think so, not unless she is given to me, which won’t happen and frankly, I’m not interested.”
Her mother paused.
“How unlike you.”
Her nurse came a while later, to help their mother get ready for bed, but Marisa stayed, watching Marcel move his glass in his hand, a last vestige of wine moving slowly as he contemplated it.
“Why are you so worked up about this?” She said, in French; he ignored her, so she tried again in English. He looked up as if he was bored, so her monkey growled because it felt like he was being disrespectful.
“Why aren’t you?”
“I don’t understand, Marcel. I’m fine, I have a lot of pull between the CCD and the College of Bishops.” She sighed, drumming her knuckles on the table. “I’m working on a proposal to get a project of mine sanctioned. Everything is fine.”
“You’re stained, you just don’t see it.” He said and she shook her head with impatience. “You don’t wanna hear it, it’s fine. I wish you would at least stop lying about the girl, I know you want her.”
Marisa bit her lip, pondering; was he baiting her or did he actually know things? It was difficult to tell, so she took a leap of faith, granting him the benefit of the doubt.
“If you know that, then you know why.”
“I do. There’s rumours all over Geneva, about how she is a threat or something.” Marcel raised an eyebrow and Marisa let out the air out of her lungs, feeling exhausted. “Whatever she is, they’re willing to fight each other for her, yet she remains out of reach.”
“They almost had her, during the flood. I was close, too.”
“Except Lord Asriel got to her first and barred you from her life.” Marisa looked away when he said Asriel’s name; he did it on purpose, taking too much pleasure out of it. “It bothers you, I can see that. Yet you still claim you don’t care about her.”
“I don’t.”
“I find that hard to believe, Marisa.”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” She hissed. “But think: if they want her, that’s reason enough for me to want her too. As long as Asriel has her, he has an advantage I need.”
Marcel scoffed and measured her up and down with his eyes, with disdain but also a sort of understanding. He looked at her as if he could read her again, after looking at her and not being able to recognise her. She raised her chin, daring him to say anything; he smiled, vicious and amused.
He stood up and glanced at her, and Marisa could see that he still felt hurt, somehow.
“I hope it was worth it.”
“Maman hasn’t complained, so I suppose it was.”
He laughed, reaching inside of his pocket and taking a cigarette: one for him, and then offered the other to Marisa, who took it with a grin. They spoke of it no more, but Marisa still felt like theirs was a wound that, not unlike hers and her daemon’s, would never heal.
dead.
Marcel took the glass, crystalline and glittering, and put it against the light coming from the chandelier. Despite having a flat of his own, he kept his mother’s house as immaculate as anything else in his life, out of a desire to keep things in control over any kindness towards his dying mother. He scarcely believed she would live much longer, and while he had a desire to get rid of the house, he found it difficult to detach himself from his memories there. Like he had told Marisa in the past, he was an indulgent man, just not in the usual sense of the word.
He set the glass down, patient, a soft buzz coming from the contact between glass and wood. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and realised he felt tired; he clenched his fists and opened his eyes, letting the air out of his lungs, through his mouth.
He sat down at his usual spot and stared at the empty chair across him; a glass of wine full, dark, rich, fragrant. Marisa’s favourite. He closed his eyes again and rubbed his temples. He felt utterly alone and it was as glorious as it was empty.
He poured wine in his own glass and meticulously set it in front of himself. His daemon flew to the table and watched him, as he ran his fingers through his hair, already grey. Last time he had seen his sister, they looked like the portrait of eternal youth, full of life. Now he felt like decay, even though he still looked just fine, and despite that, he didn’t even resent it.
There was a knock at the entrance of the dining room, its doors already open, so he turned his head to look.
“Can I come in?” Lyra said, her pine marten daemon safe in her arms.
Marcel felt as if the air in his lungs suddenly turned caustic. He slightly shook his head, as if to send away whatever his thoughts were, and nodded at her request. She took slow steps, hugged her daemon as if to find confidence, then proceeded towards the table. She chose the side opposite to his.
She looked like a frightened child, disheveled and dressed so poorly, in unflattering colours, that she barely looked like she was the child of a lord and a woman like Marisa. Yet she was, it was undeniable; when he looked at her, Marcel felt like he was seeing a ghost. Her eyes, the shape of her face, her hair and her stupid nose… It was everywhere. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. There was a lot of her father in her too, and that Marcel resented, even though he had never even met Asriel to tell what was his in his daughter.
Lyra had shown up at his office in Geneva the night before, alone and distressed, yet certain of her request: she wanted to meet him. He was with his mother at the time, and when he got ahold of the news, he put his hand over his mother’s door and pondered if he should tell her. He decided not to, and told the messenger that he would meet Lyra in the morning at the family house. For once in his life, he found himself at an impasse to which he had not prepared for. He had sent the entire CCD after her, Olivier and what not, only for his niece to evade him at every turn, slipping through his fingers; the only reason they were meeting was because Lyra decided to confront him in Geneva, which amused him beyond measure. Even in death Marisa found a way to spite him, through her child, if nothing else.
“It’s not poisoned.” He mumbled when Lyra glanced at the wine.
“I know.” She mumbled back, resting her hand on the chair, uncertain.
“I’m your un-- your mother’s brother.”
“I know that too.”
The way she looked at him, lost, hopeless, wounded… He shivered, as she clutched her daemon in her arms, yet they felt so outside of each other. Marcel had seen a gaze like hers before, once in Marisa, and it took him years to realise what she had done to herself, how she tore herself apart, and Lyra had the same intense gaze of someone stuck in a similar pain, yet she felt more at peace, as if she was healing. She looked a lot like her mother, yet she was nothing like Marisa. There was a lack of confidence, an excessive shyness that did not benefit her, and her beautiful face had a twist of pain and melancholia that Marisa - he knew - felt too, yet she hid it so well, in a way Lyra couldn’t - in a way he sometimes couldn’t either. She didn’t even try and he scoffed at that foolish girl’s gall, how she wore her weaknesses as if they were not something to be ashamed of. He felt like Marisa would be embarrassed on her account, and then he felt like he couldn’t know that for sure, as he didn’t know his sister would take off one day in search of that girl only to never come back.
“Take a seat.” He said.
Lyra pulled the chair and slowly sat down, letting her daemon climb on the table and he slowly checked Marcel’s daemon out. The owl barely moved, yet she was cautiously watching the pine marten, as he sat close to Lyra on the table, resting his hands on his paws, sharp. The girl took the glass of wine in her hands, awkwardly.
“I’m Lyra.”
“I know.”
“This is Pan.”
“I know that too.”
“Is there something you don’t know?” She scoffed, so casually it barely felt like an affront. Marcel felt his lips twisting into a grin against his will. She took a sip of her wine and closed her eyes, as it was very strong. So unsophisticated, he thought. “I heard you’ve been looking for me.”
He nodded. He only ever felt understood by his mother and Marisa; he knew his sister had felt the same, until she had met that girl’s father and he knew, even though Marisa never said it out loud, that being understood by Asriel was what made her love him so much. Marcel had never found anyone like that, and if he were to be frank with himself, he never cared much; to him, being understood was a vulnerability, one that he tried to erase from himself at all costs, as if it was sin itself.
Yet when Lyra looked at him, despite all the disdain he felt, all the caution she felt towards him, Marcel felt as if she could read him loud and clear. She wasn’t even afraid, just cautious; he had sent the entire CCD after her, yet all she could do was look at him with almost pity in her eyes. But he saw it further, and that gave him pause like nothing had ever done before, a sense of recognition, as if she was trying to comprehend him.
“Why are you here?” He managed to say.
Lyra set the glass on the table, then straightened herself on the chair. There you are, he grinned, as she suddenly looked so much like her mother, yet so humane. In Marisa’s chair, Lyra almost felt like a hallucination to him, even with all the Asriel in her popping out, in her chin, her posture, her lack of awareness.
“Tell me more about my mother.”
Marcel found himself at loss of words.