Going Your Own Way, but with Magic

Chapter 16

Teleporting is not fun. It sucks all the air out my lungs and feels like a five second rollercoaster. Minus seatbelts and vision. And the tunnel stinks of smoke. And it drops me to the floor from about ten metres up. The ceiling isn't ten metres high. Cecelia, of course, lands perfectly on her feet. The disgruntlement is quite nice; gives me a break from sheer terror. The apartment is exactly the same. Same sheets on the window, same never-slept-in beds. Same pretty silver teapot. Same two cups, one half empty and one untouched. Same smell of death. I stand with my fists clenched, not sure if I should sit. Ignoring the aforementioned sheer paralysing terror, this is awkward.

"Sit down! I'll get tea for us both. I'll make it myself. My friends are nice, but it lacks that personal touch, doesn't it." Wonderful. I'm going to need a very good excuse not to drink this time. I walk to the window, trying to look casual. In case she can see me through the walls, which - to my horror - is a very reasonable precaution. I pretend to be enraptured by the cityscape (honestly I kind of am), and I check out the room. One exit. The door, no sign of the massive hole I blasted in it. Very sturdy. No visible lock, but the tendrils of magic are so thick I can see them. There's a vases and a few ugly china statues of dogs. Those could be thrown, provided I take her by surprise. If I get even more desperate, chair legs could work as a weapon. I tentatively reach for a spell, whispering the words. The power surges, so bright it hurts my eyes and then it's crushed by searing pain that nearly knocks me off my feet. I'm sure bones have cracked, but the pain disappears with the power. I try again. Mottled blue, burning agony, nothing. Well, shit. I already knew. It's still depressing.

Cecelia rests a hand on my shoulder and it takes incredible willpower not to flinch. I didn't hear her approach, didn't even hear the kitchen door shut.
"You've been trying to use magic, haven't you?" She going for 'loving mother chastises unruly child'. With a bit more menace. I take a breath, and become 'sweet, slightly scared girl'. I'm not much of an actress, but I'm discovering hidden depths now my life depends on it.
"I was. The city was so beautiful, and I felt the power come up. I guess I wanted to make a lantern or something. I love the way it feels. It's all shades of blue. So pretty." I don't like sharing what my magic's like, which is dumb. She can probably sense it. It still feels like a betrayal.
"How lovely. But I'm afraid I've put up some blockers, for now. Can't be too careful, can we?" If her voice was any sweeter I'd get diabetes. I honestly can't tell if there's a taunt in there or if she's one hundred per cent genuine.
"Did you bring the tea? What kind of tea is it?" Safer conversational territory. This is weirdly funny. I want to laugh. The alternative is screaming.
"Chamomile-" She jumps about half a foot into the air in one of her marionette movements. "But I can change it if you don't like that! I can get anything you want!" She's jumping around a bit, but she's forgotten to move her head. It's creepy and funny and a little bit sad. People pleasing is one hell of a drug, I guess.
"No, chamomile is great." I sit down in what I think is a proper way. Back straight, a little forward in the chair, hands folded in my lap. Pretty smile. Let's all pretend we're Victorian ladies doing whatever Victorian ladies do. The more surreal this situation feels, the more I can detach from it. I sniff the tea, suspicious, and then laugh. I'm locked in her house, I don't think she needs to drug me. It's tea. Chamomile. A little over-sweetened, but comforting. I don't turn into a zombie. When I thank her, she beams. It reinforced how pretty she must have been a long time ago (I think of her as old, despite the flawless skin). She has a sunbeam smile.

"How do you channel your magic?" I thought she knew already. Maybe it's polite to ask. I almost take out my ring, and then think better of it. I point to a bracelet I'm wearing instead. 2 pounds at a market, twisted red and gold thread. It didn't call to me, exactly, but it's pretty. Pretty, and the start of an identity. Quite a bracelet-focused one, but an identity nonetheless.

"Rather plain, isn't it?"
"I thought...the elders have their fancy wands. But we can be twice as good as them, with whatever we want to use." It's uncomfortably close to the truth, and Cecelia seems to love it. "What's yours?" I forget to put on the voice, but it wavers enough from fear she doesn't notice.
"I don't have one. Not in the traditional sense. It might- you might- but it doesn't matter, does it? Really, it's what you said. We don't need to follow those old men, we can do whatever we want." Her eyes are big and imploring. It's like she wants my forgiveness, or my blessing. "I store my magic in people." I must look more blank than shocked, because she scrambles to clarify. "Everyone, even mortals, has an internal store of magic. We have enough to use without killing ourselves. I keep all my magic safe inside people, and it makes them...quiet. Happy, thought! And then I take it, and..." She trails off, leaving me to guess. I think I can guess very well. I bite down hard on my lip to keep the disgust off my face. At least I know what the shop's for.

Storage. Keeping people until she needs to drain the. Fucking hell woman, can't you have an emotional breakdown over a curtain ring like the rest of us? All my pity vanishes, and with it goes the identity crisis. She saps people of their lives for no apparent reason, I can be mildly callous at times. I think that puts me pretty solidly in team good guys. "But it's okay, right? I give them...colour. I make their lives bright, before-" No nice euphemism there. It takes a lot of effort to keep my face neutral and dumb.
"No, I don't think it's bad. I mean, what would they do left alone?" She nods so frantically it looks like she's headbanging.
"They'd go on living pathetic desperate lives of no use to anyone! Oh, Max, I knew you'd understand. Why do you call yourself Max, by the way?" Her head is tilted. It's a question, and she wants an answer. I need a lie. Or, I could tell the truth. Why not? I don't want to die (don't be silly you're not going to die, don't think about it), never having told anyone. Okay. The truth. The truth I have never told anyone. Let's tell the crazy woman holding me captive.
"My parents called me Elisa. It's a name for a girl in a parallel world who has a nice life with her loving parents. It's not mine and using it feels wrong. Anyway, it's too soft. Max has some edges."
"I'm the opposite, I guess. My mother named me Cecelia. I hate it, but I'm keeping it forever. She wants me to completely disconnect from her, but I never will." I snatch away a comforting hand that has somehow got very close to her shoulder. What she described is not unfamiliar. Stop thinking, start planning. Don't scream.

I'm sitting on a bed. White sheets, white blanket. It's soft. And pristine, apart from the thin layer of dust. She's prepared this place. At least it means I have a room of my own. With a bolted down bed and no windows or glass in the picture frame. She's been careful. Apart from that, it's almost pretty. There's a little watercolour painting on one wall (a sunset, cliché but pretty), and dried flowers (no vase) on the table. It gives me hope, because it's a lot of trouble to go to for someone you're planning on killing. Don't think about that.

I want Jamie to be here. A small, selfish, scared part of me wants Jamie to be here, but that part's taking over right now. I want him next to me. I want him to turn this situation into a joke, I want him to wave his hands around trying to make a point when he can't find the words. I don't want to be alone. I know he's looking for me. Rationally, I know he is. But there's a chance he isn't. He might have gone home and forgotten all about this. Filed it under 'crazy adventure', gone back to doing whatever he does in his free time. It's a cruel, mean and entirely wrong thing to assume. I know he won't. But if I wait, day after day, convinced that someone is coming to save me and no one comes, I think I will die. Some important part of me will shrivel up and I will break. So I'm assuming no help is coming. I cannot sit and hope. I'm on my own. Always have been, always will be. It's okay.

I have a routine now. It seems like we always find routines, regardless of the situation. I wake up early so I can eat breakfast alone. Cecelia has bought cereal. She held it at arms length like it was poisonous, but it's a nice gesture. Leaving aside how I despise her and everything she stands for and am desperate to destroy her, I am getting fond of Cecelia. She creeps me out, but I know what it's like to want to be loved. What can I say. All flesh is grass and mine is especially weak. I almost like her. Daphne hides under my bed all day and sleeps in my hand. We talk all morning. Me and Cecelia, not me and Daphne. She shows me spells, I smile and clap and play the perfect little sister. I constantly think of escape plans, and I enact one at least once every other day. It keeps me...maybe sane is an exaggeration. It keeps me from breaking down. She tends to disappear in the afternoons. Then I pace and stare at the walls and make plans that'll never work.

She leaves the windows open. We're 50 floors up. It's quite an assumption to make, that I don't want to die. It's entirely possible, that I get so sick of waiting I decide that one moment of freedom will be worth hitting the ground. Unfortunately, she's assumed right. I'm fairly attached to my life, shit as it is. I want to keep living and breathing and thinking and all that fun stuff. So the window is a no. For now.

"Would you like to see your parents?" She asks me one morning, so nonchalantly she could be offering a second cup of tea.