The Janus Library

Chapter 9, Parts 2-4

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The colors are angry, and so are you. You want to hurt somebody, something, anything. You need to tear this whole place apart. But your body isn't here anymore. You left it behind, and you're soaring through the aether. You can't destroy anything, because there isn't anything. Only the colors. The colors can't be hurt.

The colors wrap around you, making fingers, toes, eyes, ears. Yes, you think. If I have a body, then I can cause destruction. A new, bitter consciousness overtakes yours.

Despite my best efforts, I am not yet a killer.

I haven't yet had the pleasure of watching life disappear from fearful eyes, nor do I know the feeling of sinking a dagger deep into flesh. In fact, I'm not even sure I've seen someone die. However, if the Countess continues to speak, that may change.

Her nasally, rapturous voice bounces through the room as she dabs paint on a canvas. "I told the buffoon I wanted scarlet stitchings, and what color did he use? Carmine!"

The rest of the room bursts into laughter, and I indulge a smile. The Countess seems blissfully unaware of my distaste for her, for now.

"What did you do then, your Ladyship?" Signe asks, eyes wide, hands on her chin.

I suppress an eye-roll. Signe, always the dutiful handmaid. Her pretense is painfully obvious to anyone with half a brain, but, of course, the Countess falls for her fawning every time.

"The Earl had his permit revoked, and the dressmaker had no choice but to fire him. Last I heard, the fool hung himself from his misery."

The rest of the handmaids laugh again, and I turn away to fake a cough. I can't let the Countess see me cringe. What would she do, if she knew I detested her pointless and cruel anecdotes? She'd likely dismiss me, perhaps enacting some ridiculously excessive punishment. I can't afford that. The Countess is an opportunity I can't allow to pass.

"I wish we didn't have to deal with so many simpletons," Molveig says, mixing paint on her palette. "They make things so... unnecessarily difficult."

I have to resist from retorting about how Molveig both exemplifies all the qualities of a simpleton, and has made my life extraordinarily difficult, as I must resist strangling her in every waking moment. I place a brush to my canvas, a deep sapphire streak running down the side of the white expanse. It's a few shades darker than the vase we're supposed to be painting, but I prefer this shade anyway.

"Tell me, Ingrydd..." Signe asks. "Are there many halfwit elves in Cylaisa, or is it solely an Antorian ailment?"

I pause, lifting my brush, detecting the implicit insult. "Of course there are fools in every kingdom. Cylaisa is no different."

Eager to change the subject, I continued. "Though where I'm from, there weren't any comets."

The room goes quiet for a moment.

"Do you really think comets are a sign of bad luck?" Molveig asks, applying a ridiculous amount of black in an attempt to represent the vase's shadow.

"Of course they are!" The Countess says. "Why, years ago, a comet was seen over Helsetine, and the next day, my father fell off his horse and broke his leg! It's no surprise the Duke canceled the banquet. Something horrible is going to happen!"

"Some people say it wasn't a comet," Signe ventures. "That it had wings. Perhaps it was a dragon?"

I find the suggestion ridiculous. Dragons haven't been seen in Antoria for millenia. "If it's a dragon, then we have far more worries than the Duke's canceled banquet," I grumble, giving Signe a look.

"Indeed," The Countess says. "Don't spread such rumors. The Duke himself said it was a comet, so a comet it was."

"But—" Signe starts, and the Countess gives her a glare.

The silence of the next few minutes is welcome, and I manage to flesh out the shape of the vase. It almost seems to jump out from the canvas. Signe's noticed how far I've gotten, and is desperate to beat me, aggressively making deliberate strokes to create her version of the vase. The Countess is the slowest of us four, but also the most meticulous. She's barely created the outline of the piece, taking great care in each stroke. Molveig, however, is completely hopeless at painting— it's obvious her place as a handmaid to the Countess is due to her lineage, and not any talents of her own.

A manservant enters the room, bowing to the Countess. "I have a message for you," he says, rather obviously.

"Don't dawdle, what is it?" the Countess says, beckoning him forward.

He approaches her, whispering in her ear.

"You don't mean—"

More whispers.

"This is delightful news. Is the Earl bringing them here?" The manservant nods. "Thank you, Enrí. You may go now."

As the manservant leaves, the Countess laughs to herself. Curiosity nags at me. Should I venture to ask what that was about?

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What does Ingrydd do next? Comment below!