IN WHICH DOMITILLE IS INDUCED TO RUIN HER MAKE-UP, BUT NOT HER NIGHT

[little_lady_d]

Domitille sat in the interrogation room like a queen upon a throne, shoulders back to bear the weight of her realm, eyes far-seeing and implacable. Her wrists flicked in handcuffs as though they were no more than modish jewelry — one of the inevitable sacrifices of mobility for fashion — and she studied her nails for any unseemly chips or cracks. She, of course, found none.

A mirrored wall stretched before her, reflecting her in her cool perfection, and reflecting the back of the disheveled, plainclothes officer playing Good Cop badly. “All we’re asking,” he said, “is how you got in and out. Because we know you did, but how you did matters. Breaking and entering is one thing. Theft is one thing. But thaumaturgy, that’s a federal offense. Neither of us wants a federal investigation, ma’am. Do you know why?”

Domitille didn’t ask, didn’t care to. What were federal laws to her? But listening to the complaints of courtiers and hangers-on was, if nothing else, a queenly duty. She lifted her chin and let him speak.

“Because,” he said, “a federal investigation would be a shit-show.”

That much she believed.

Sooner or later, she expected Good Cop to give up the interrogation the way that Bad Cop had. With less crass throwing about of furniture, perhaps, but the same frustration and exhortation that she say something. The police must have underestimated her, in her dainty frock, her pearls. Now they presumed to warn her about suspicions of thaumaturgy.

Amateurs, the both of them. Didn’t they know the last thing you wanted was to make a thaumaturge talk?

Still, it suited her to have her silence. Some duelists fought with overwhelming force, others with precision. Even if there were power in speech, it served Domitille nothing to say the most out of everyone. Let petty men waste their words.

“The Bureau of Thaumaturgy doesn’t know what it’s doing,” he kept explaining. “Which is bad for us, but worse for you. You’ll wait in custody for their so-called ‘experts,’ who won’t even be cops, and you’ll wait some more while they argue up and down, trying to prove the impossible. And there’ll be paperwork for days.” And so on, and so forth.

And so: Domitille ignored him, studied her nails anew. Curved them against each other, talon-like, and with deft, decisive pressure, she clawed a line straight through the varnish. It came flaking away, spoiling the unspoiled look it took layers of creams, powders, and polishes to attain.

It was the first sign of restless fidgeting she’d shown. More nervous, somehow, than when she’d been sitting stoic as a Grecian statue, Good Cop laughed a jittery laugh. “You’re annoyed,” he said. “I would be, too. You don’t want to be stuck here forever — I get that. I do.”

Domitille moved on to the next nail, and found something soothing in the focused act of destruction. Revelatory destruction, breaking through clean, carefully-defined barriers, and leaving only the marks of the break. A light scent of lemon and lavender lingered.

“And here’s the good news. We want you out of here, too. Give us a nice, straightforward confession, and you’ll get a nice, straightforward trial. Then a nice, straightforward sentence. Something you can serve in this lifetime.”

Once more, Domitille flicked her wrists, and her handcuffs flashed silver. She lifted her hands and held them forward — her fingers arrayed like the ribs of a starving animal, and hooked as though to trap its heart. Good Cop looked at her with pity. A detestable expression.

“Come on,” implored Good Cop, “you know I can’t let you go. But I can move this along. Just tell the truth. It’ll set you free.”

A trigger-twitch, and the tips of her fingers stretched outward. They formed a circle in the air.

When Domitille spoke at last, it was in the world’s own language. It wasn’t English — it was a language with no nation, a language older than Babel. All who heard it understood it, not just the humans gathered, but the elements, the ether, the two-way glass of the mirror that shivered as if in an earthquake.

What she said was come to me.

The lines carved at her fingertips shone, with a light like the horizon slit open by sunrise. In the world’s own language, they spelled out a name.

The mirror shone with that same light. And then, the mirror shattered.

Gun-fire sounded, and high, shrieking laughter. On the other side of the breaking glass, Bad Cop staggered backward — an arc of white lightning dashed the gun from his hands, then flung him with a whirlwind twist to the floor. The lightning surged up in the shape of a girl, and she turned and she smiled with predator’s teeth.

“Make way, fellas, ‘cause I’m stepping out.” Thus spake the lightning in the voice of angels. "Me and my girl are crushing out of here. Sorry to say, but you’re just a couple of flat tires, and when I hit, I hit on all sixes. I’m the bee’s knees and the stinger, too — I’m the cat’s particular’s and the claws. And I’m done with you, so go chase yourself.”

Before Good Cop could reach for his side, she snapped. Lightning struck near enough to singe his hair. “What’d I say?” she drawled. “Dust out. Drift. Scram.”

As Good Cop scrambled for the door and slammed it shut behind him, Domitille permitted herself a small, private smile. There would be alarms, of course, and radio calls in code no less arcane than Domitille’s, entreaties for protection and assistance by the old agreements of the station and the city. For now, lightning crackled and spun and split to show the girl’s shape inside it — a flapper-girl, with a cloche hat and yellow eyes, skirt flaring as she slowed.

“So you’re Mademoiselle Domitille Decoudreau?” she asked. “Heir to Léonide?”

Domitille inclined her head in a graceful nod, still in her role as regent hearing her subjects. To this one, at least, she granted an answer. “Yes.”

“Copacetic. I am — ”

The lightning said a name, and it was a name that shattered glass. Shards strewn across the floor shuddered, and snapped. Her name was a note, piercing and perfect, and when it sounded, all barriers broke. Thunder rumbled, tumblers turned in distant locks, and the cuffs dropped from Domitille’s hands like a welcome rainfall.

“But you, mademoiselle, can call me Clarion,” she said, and she offered a sharp-edged smile. She stepped back with a curtsy. “The sons and daughters of our house defend you and yours … and all that jazz.”

Comments

[ernest]

I love Domitille already, and I can't wait to see more of her. And Decoudreau, I recognize that name! :D

She lifted her hands and held them forward — her fingers arrayed like the ribs of a starving animal, and hooked as though to trap its heart.
That's a terrific image and reminiscent of the cage-golems (which I assume is intentional)

And Clarion! I love her tooo!

[little_lady_d]

success! :D it was tricky to write a character refusing to speak after writing so many chatterboxes, but i wanted her to leave a strong impression. and i wanted to introduce clarion who is, of course, the bee's knees.

thank you for reading!