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When Helen came back from traveling, she was unsurprised at finding her father waiting for her at the steps of her mother's manse. From the distance, he had seemed little but a drop of water, clad in blue as he was. Helen knew it was him, even as far away as she'd been. Her father had made an habit of waiting for them to come back whenever they left his fretting gaze. He didn't like any of them leaving, she knew. For his sake, Helen tried to keep her outings short and timely, but sometimes she had to leave. Leave her mother's house, where everything and everyone was subjected to her whims.
"You're early today." He seemed inexorably pleased at the sight of her—he always did.
"I caught the game earlier than I thought," she replied, dismounting her ride. She was not oft fond of riding—her father had never liked it, despite admitting to her that it was something done in Idris, where he'd grown up, where the Nephilim lived, as well—but she admitted it was more useful when she went traveling.
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, the faint smell of vanilla and jasmine and peppermint clinging to him.
"That's nice," he said when they separated, in a tone that told her he could not care less. Her father had never been a squeamish man, but neither could Helen ever imagine him as a demon hunting knife wielder. It didn't seem like anything he'd ever do. Her father was a simple person, who enjoyed books and long walks and flowers, as well as sweets and the shallow sea.
He had simply always been her father, terrible as it was. The person to whom she would go and beg for the myths that he so loved, which he always relied upon her tenderly, who indulged her and let her sleep with him when there was a thunderstorm, and who brushed her hair every night in her girlhood, even though a dozen of servants could have done the task. He looked at her with a gaze that was at times too loving and too raw for her to withstand, making the ugly pressure of guilt rise in her chest.
He ushered her inside. The hue of his clothes brought out the blue of his eyes, the color of the vast expanse of the sky. Helen had always loved she’d inherited his eyes.
The architecture of the manse, a sprawling thing made of white marble with high raised pillars and open courtyards, was simple and deceptively plain, though elegant; a pleasant place to be in, airy and lovely, a residence made for pleasure nd relaxing. It was adorned with stained glass windows that cast colorful shadows on the white floor and marble statues as well. Whenever guests from the Court came to visit they always praised her mother for her beautiful abode. There were beautiful terraces that overlooked the inside of the manse, and thus had a good sighting place for the numerous pools and fountains, their pit decorated with delicate jewel-toned frescoes, shaded by plum and cherry trees.
There were other plants as well; her father's pink sea thrifts, small flowers that spread slow, the moss roses and yarrow and daylilies, star shaped flowers that in the myths her father loved had been created by a goddess. Helen knew the story well. The adulterer king of the gods wanted his lawful wife to breastfeed his bastard child, who would one day become a mighty hero of his own right, while she slept, but she rose to find a foreign baby on her bosom and hailed him off of herself, drops of milk falling to earth and creating the lilies.
When Helen had been little, her mother had seated herself next to her while they watched her father and Mark, walking away from them, frolicking where the sea lapped gently at their feet. Helen had been young, then, she recalled. She had wanted to know why they were moving away, away from Court and the high tower where they'd lived and from aunt Nene.
Her mother had smiled, her eyes catching the light.
"Your father likes the sea," she had told her, brushing a hand over Helen's hair, threaded with spider silk ribbons, the same color as her own. "This is a gift to him."
Helen had leaned towards her mother, pressing her body close to her, feeling the brush of her soft feather cape. "Why?" The thought of a gift had seemed terribly exciting for Helen. She loved gifts. Her mother always gave the best gifts. She gave Helen whatever she wanted, even when she couldn't see her every day like she did with her dad.
"Bad people told him to leave me," her mother had said. "To leave you and Mark as well. But he decided to stay with me, and this is a gift to him for that. He loves the sea."
Shadowhunters, Helen understood now, coming back to collect their dues. Not like she would ever dare say so. Those were days past, now, and neither of her parents liked to talk about her father's life before he was the lady Nerissa's husband. It made her lady mother cold and it made her father sad. I had a brother, her father told her once, and I loved him more than anything.
And then?
And then I had you.
“Did anything happen while I was gone?” Helen inquired.
He shook his head. "Nothing important. Go wash up," her father ordered her, as if she were still naught but a girl of three and ten, despite the fact that he didn’t look a day older than Helen did, now.
"I will, don't fret." She shook her head, letting one of the servants get ahold of the game her hawk had hunted.
"Wear something nice," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Your mother comes back from Court today, and Nene is coming to visit as well," he added, placating, seeing the expression on her face. "We're going to have dinner to welcome her." He took her hand into his—long-fingered and slender, a plain ring on his finger. "Please try not to fight with your mother, dear heart."
Helen smiled tightly. "I'll try." She was not sure how much that resolve would last once she saw her lady mother, but the attempt at conciliation made him smile. She remembered when she’d been younger, and her father’d had little reasons to smile. She’d always thought he had a lovely smile. It lightened his whole face.
She walked the stairs up to the second floor, the walls there adorned with mural mosaics, pretty designs that were bound to be changed whenever her mother grew to dislike them or her father grew antsy in confinement.
Her bedchamber was an ample room, with the same plain white floors as the rest of the house and the same walls of white stone, though sea green and lavender tapestries decorated the room. Strong but simple furniture, colorful and painted all over by her brother, and shutters painted with images of flowering gardens by a far more expert hand than her brother's. She had a balcony as well, held by two plain white pillars, with view to the ocean.
A maid was already there, drawing her a hot bath, rose petals and orange scented oils, and after thanking her and dismissing her, Helen doused herself in the warm water, enjoying the heat loosening her muscles.
She closed her eyes and enjoyed the presence of the beach, below her. She could perfectly picture the jade green ocean, with splatters of riparian-blue ebbing here and there, gently drenching the shimmering sand, shining like stardust under the sun; the soft and constant hum and murmur of the tide breaking and waves crashing against the bow of a shore. Above head, the sky threaded with puffs of white cotton. The air, fresh and cool and carrying with it the salty sea perfume.
She enjoyed the moment in silence, savoring the peace and calm that was sure to be disrupted when her aunt and mother arrived. Helen loved her aunt, but she would be a fool to be thrilled for her coming to the summer house. Nene so rarely did such and she usually did when her mother dragged her (that meant her mother was in a demanding mood, which meant that she would be expecting nothing short of perfection from her children, and worse, that her father would be forced to fall under heel no matter how well he had behaved prior), when there were matters that required discretion (of which Helen preferred to be as uninvolved as possible), or when there was further business that required not directly discretion but rather involved their family altogether, which was somehow worse.
Helen slipped out of the tub, rinsed herself from the droplets of water that clung to her figure, and changed into a plain red tunic. She spared a moment to brush her hair until it had lost all of it’s tangles, threw herself at the featherbed and fell asleep in a moment.
She was roused by her brother, who was standing over her, looking unamused. “Wake up, Helen,” Mark urged her. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Helen groaned and covered her head with the thick wool blanket she didn’t remember grabbing. She could see that the sun was already going down, tinting the sky pink and orange. Likely, her father had entered her bedroom and thrown it over her, as he had a thousand times before. She felt a surge of warmth for him.
Mark shook her again, without showing an ounce of regret at the way she jolted. “Wake up,” he repeated.
Helen blinked away the blurriness of her eyes and tried to will her eyes to focus on her brother’s figure. “I’m awake,” she complained.
“Mom’s already back,” he said. “And Aunt Nene is here as well.” Helen hummed, stretching on the bed, feeling her back crack pleasantly. “She gave the kids sweets and then she left to change, which you should be doing as well, fool.”
“Who?” Helen asked. “Aunt Nene?”
“No, you are the fool.”
“No, idiot. Who gave the kids sweets?
“Aunt Nene.”
Helen felt her stomach drop. “And mom?” She asked, feigning carelessness.
Mark made a face. “She and dad are in their bedroom and no, I don’t know what they’re doing and I don’t want to know.”
Helen felt the familiar dread in her stomach. “I’m awake now,” she dismissed him. “You may leave.”
Mark’s face went sour, the way only a little brother’s could be whenever an older sibling spoke. “What am I?” He complained as he left her rooms. “The page?”
Without further ado, and feeling like she had spent the whole day riding (which she had) and then some, Helen called for a maid to help her do her hair in something that would not have her mother clicking her tongue and telling her she looked like a serving girl. Who knew what her mood was, but if the lady Nerissa had immediately sought her husband upon her arrival, Helen could guess it was not a good one. She spared her father a moment of pity before she changed into a blue gown with sleeves made almost entirely of spider web lace, fastened at her hip with a white ribbon, a gift her aunt had sent for her, and she descended to the dining table, squaring her shoulders.
The dining room’s wide windows were open, the nighttime air making the gauzy curtains billow and tremble like leaves under the harsh wind; it was illuminated by flickering torchlight, and everyone was seated around a long table of carved and gilded wood, covered with plates full of drink and food.
Helen lingered at the threshold of the door, her gown dragging on the cold stone floor, the chill creeping at the sole of her feet.
Her mother had not changed in anything from Helen’s earliest memories, she had an ageless quality that made Helen feel cowed when confronted face to face. In human years, it would be hard to say if she was twenty five or double that age.
She was seated at the head of the table, dressed in a delicate white gown with a swan feather cape thrown over her shoulders to warn off the chill that made her look like she might take flight. Her face was beautiful, a strange double edged sword of delicacy and sharpness, with haughty features: a derisive nose, cunning eyes, a small mouth painted apple-red, high cheekbones. Her hair shone like beaten gold under the torchlight, and it made her opal eyes, which looked like they’d been carved on her marble face, an iridescent, moving pattern in all the colors of the rainbow.
Her mother met her eyes, raising a single eyebrow. Helen was surprised by how much she wanted to grab her by her neck and strangle her. “Hello, Alessa.”
Helen could feel her father’s begging eyes digging on her skin, imploring her to play nice. “Hello, mother,” she managed to say, surprised at how much she managed to conceal her animosity. “How was Court?”
“As pleasant as it can be,” her mother answered, voice smooth. “Come here and give me a kiss, child.”
Helen did, leaning to kiss her delicately in the cheek. Her mother was, despite everything, warm.
Helen took her seat at her mother’s right side, seated in front of her father and next to her aunt, who, while pretty, was an altogether plainer version of her sister. Her face was softer and rounder, her hair was more like hay and honey than gold, her eyes were not ever-changing opals, but rather two deep pools of black that looked like ink stains on her face. Helen had always loved her dearly . . . but now, she was plagued with doubts. How much did she know? How much was she complicit in?
Her father had changed his clothes from earlier, though he was still wearing blue, several shades of it mixing together to create the impression of flowing water,draped from the left side of his body, clasped with a pearl brooch resting atop a bed of leaves wrought in gold. Around his long and slender neck, hung the silver chain that he always wore-a gift from her mother, as well as a pearl choker. There was a faint blush high on his cheekbones, and Helen wondered if he’d started drinking already.
He looked at her with thankful eyes, clearly pleased that Helen was playing nice with her lady mother, and Helen had to breathe in.
He had been young when he had fallen into her mother’s clutches, and it still showed on his face. He didn’t look older than Helen, save perhaps a year or two. Still, he remained taller than her by quite a bit, and she didn’t think that was ever going to change, as Helen had inherited her aunt’s meager height. Graceful and lissome he remained, as he had come to her. His face always struck Helen as terribly sad, though that may just be because she knew how deep his grief ran. He had a small pointed chin that he had passed to all of his daughters, arched brows, hooded eyes, the color of the sea under the sun, and beautiful long lashes that casted long spider web-like shadows on his face. His wavy hair was a deeper, darker shade than any of the children’s, a rich mahogany color.
He was smiling at Tavvy, the youngest of the siblings, with such a loving expression that at times, Helen wondered if she’d hallucinated those miserable, lethargic days after his birth.
Her mother extended her hand and gently grabbed Andrew by the jaw, so that he turned to look at her. She grabbed one of the ripe green grapes set on the table and he opened his mouth obediently.
Helen looked away.
Further down the table were the twins. Tiberius, was turned away from her and speaking to Livia, adorning her hair, both of them dressed in lavender. Ty, with his big steely eyes and snowy skin, raven-haired and small; next to him, Livvy, with her dimples and her tawny hair with it’s russet undertones and her twinkling sea eyes in her fine face.
It had taken her father longer to warm to Ty than it had to Livvy-and her father always took long to warm to any new addition to their household. The aftermath of their birth had been a war zone. Her father had grabbed her and Julian and Mark, and Livvy, and barricaded in his room and he had refused to speak to her mother, threatening to leave her and to go back. Not unlike the time he’d tried to kidnap her and run away, from what Aunt Nene said, but that had been when Helen was his only child, early on their marriage. Privately, Helen always thought he should have done it. It would have spared him much heartache. That was the only time, as far as she could remember, when her father had dared to go against her mother, matching her scream by scream. Because Tiberius did not look like him and he did not look like her mother, that much Helen knew. Helen was too young to remember everything that had gone down, then, because once her mother’s had the rooms broken in they’d been hoisted onto Aunt Nene, but she did recall a swarm of insults from both sides and the word changeling being screamed more than once.
In the end, the dust had settled, and Helen had gone from having two brothers to having three brothers and a sister. Her mother had been tense and tired, but not angry, looking the closest to shamed she ever had, and her father had relented and allowed Tiberius to stay, even choosing him a human name. And what a name it was.
Helen was her human name, the one she preferred. Named after the Helen from the myths. Helen, of Troy, of Sparta, kidnapped by Paris and bringer of the ruin of Troy, sister of Clytemnestra and Castor and Pollux, born of Zeus forcing himself on Leda.
"Don't hunch," her father chastised her youngest sister. Dru, round-faced and brown-haired, pouted at him, but he remained firm and she straightened her back impossibly so. Her father sent her an unimpressed stare. Dru had such lovely hair, Helen had always thought so. Thick and full and dark, with the same lazy ringlets as her father. She was playing with a decrepit looking straw doll that had seen better days.
Helen'd had dozens upon dozens of dolls and toys once, which she had dragged her father into indulgently playing with her through most of her childhood. Most of them had been redistributed to her younger siblings.
“Alessa,” her aunt interrupted. “Are you well? You’ve barely eaten.”
Helen plastered a smile on her face. “I am, aunt. I was merely thinking.”
“Save that for later,” her aunt advised, voice soft in the myriad of conversations and screams her siblings conducted. “Your mother wants to talk to you after we dine.”
Helen frowned. “Has something happened?”
“Can’t your mother wish to speak to speak to you?” Her aunt parried. Helen raised a brow. “Your mother will tell you,” her aunt defected.
Helen pursed her lips. There was no point, she knew, in trying to get her aunt to speak plainly. “This is a lovely gown,” she said instead. “Thank you, aunt.”
Her aunt bobbed her head in a nod. “It’s a very popular style in Court. Many young ladies love it.”
“I’m sure.”
“Would you like to go to Court with me?” Nene asked, looking down at her cup.
The thought of leaving filled her with dread. “I’d rather not,” Helen told her. “Father needs help with the children, sometimes.”
“There’s always servants,” she pointed out leisurely. Helen raised her eyebrow, again. “. . . Which your father hates,” Nene finished for her.
“I’d rather stay here, regardless of that,” Helen told her. “You know I won’t do well at Court. I am . . . What were Fergus’s words? As dull as hay, he said.”
“Fergus presumes himself above his station,” Nene said, shaking her head in a manner that could almost be fond. “Fool that he is.”
“I’m much better suited to live in the countryside,” she continued.
“But don’t you want to leave?” Nene prodded.
She’d wanted to, when she was younger. She’d wanted to travel the world, to escape the constant shrieks and screams of her siblings, as much as she loved them. But-
“It’s very noble of you,” Nene said softly, “to act in defense of your father.” Helen remained coolly poised, tense like a coiled snake. “Mark could remain with him,” she continued.
“But would he? It’s unlike my mother to just be making arrangements for me.”
Nene bowed her head in acquaintance. “Your mother seeks to find the both of you a place in Court.”
“There is no need.”
Her aunt looked at her with two dark pools of chastisement. “Your mother believes otherwise. Your father is too soft-hearted with you children.”
“He is not.”
Her aunt shook his head. “It’s either you or one of the children that goes with your mother to Court. Julian’s old enough that he can leave his father, isn’t he?”
Her father was slightly turned to feed Tavvy, who was babbling along happily, while her mother watched with fondness; the twins were subtly throwing food at each other, Dru was stuffing her face full of roasted duck grease, while Mark and Julian seemed to be caught in a conversation that seemed to involve a lot of exaggerated faces at each other. Out of all of them, he looked the most like their dad, Julian.
She felt a sinking feeling stir in her chest. “There is no need to do that,” she said, mayhaps too sharply.
Her aunt looked at her with too clever eyes. “She seeks to give your brother Mark to the Queen’s knights.” Helen scoffed, remembering the prancing man she’d met, a supposed knight of the Queen who openly wore his favor. Her aunt sent her a warning look. “He may have the skill to join them, with a little polishing.”
“And me? What does my mother wish to do with me?”
“She wishes for you to join her as a lady-in-waiting, so that you may get the pulse of the Court.”
“To what end?” Helen asked, watching as her mother cradled her father’s head on her thin hands.
“So that you may aid her in coming days, Helen. Things are . . . tense, with the Nephilim these days.”
“Aren’t they always?”
Nene shook her head. “It’s different this time.”
Helen leaned close to her. “How?
“The Nephilim are giving trouble,” her aunt admitted at last. “Making demands that The Queen’s hosts join their own to battle against Valentine Morgenstern.”
Helen felt the beginnings of a headache beginning to form. “Wasn’t he dead?”
“Supposed to,” Nene informed her. “Apparently he has risen again and he intends to wage war.”
“With what forces?"
“A demon host-oh, I’ve said too much already.” She took Helen’s hand into her own. “Entertain your mother tonight, niece. What she wishes to speak with you concerns this.”
After a moment, feeling tense all over, Helen nodded.