𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

Asturias, Spain.
1810.

MARCO BAYLOCK SHOULD have known the morning star belonged to Lucifer. Perhaps if he hadn't woken early, Satan would not have alerted a soul of his existence.

Marco curled his slender fingers into the matted fur of the cat in his arms. A servant eyed him warily as he stepped into the drawing room.

Helena immediately rose from the black settee, abandoning her embroidery beside their elder brother, Andrés. Out of the three Baylock siblings, she and Marco resembled each other the most. Marco's hair was a shade of blond darker, hers was closer to the gold in her hairpins.

The cold January sun stretched through the arched windows of the drawing room, making her pins glint when she grabbed the cat from Marco.

"Where was she?" Helena asked as she slung the poor creature over her shoulder.

Marco smirked. "Playing with the quill you said you would put away yesterday," 

Andrés sat up, squeezing the armrest slightly. "You will not find this amusing, sister, when we have rats living with our horses."

"It's much too cold for a cat in the stables," Helena pressed her cheek to the cat's back. "Perhaps she may even heal you, brother."

Marco passed behind the settee, where the open window let in a whisper of bitter air. Andrés twisted his head around. He had brownish hair that stopped at his chin with a dusting of stubble on his face.

Andrés sighed. "Coco, leave the window open. Madre believes it will help me."

"Do not call me that," Marco said, although a small smile was already touching his lips. As it usually did. "The air smells strange."

Marco allowed another breath of winter air to grab hold of his lungs like a dinner knife cutting his insides into neat pieces. Thick smoke twisted through the sky. Marco shut the window when Andrés coughed from taking a slow inhale.

Helena sat on another chair, smothering the cat that struggled to break free of her grasp as she murmured gentle phrases to her.

Pushing her embroidery aside, Marco settled beside Andrés on the plush settee. He threw his arms around Andrés neck, humming softly.

Andrés lightly patted one of  Marco's arms. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"I know why you do this, you know."

Marco didn't answer.

Andrés tilted his head back to try to examine him. "How, in the name of God, did you have any friends at Oxford?"

The mere mention of the school Marco had left behind nearly a month ago stirred something raw and hideous inside him. He forced himself to ignore it. He would not allow a second more to be wasted on the sheltered fabrication of life that was Oxford university.

"Oh, hush, you." Marco said in a mock-offended tone. "Am I not allowed to hug you?"

Andrés let out a playful scoff. "Not when I'm aware of the motive for it."

Marco released his brother. "Fine. I shall require you to create a rather troublesome mathematical equation for me."

"You're much more pleasant when you're truthful, brother." Andrés flattened his hair with the palm of his hand. "Why would you need a mathematical equation?"

To forget. To be so consumed by a near impossible feat that Oxford could fade away like a wine stain. Gradually and carefully. Until the servants gave up and replaced the damaged tablecloth with a fresh one. A blank slate. A mind wiped clean.

Before Marco could answer, the doors to the drawing room burst open. Lucia, the maid that had taken care of the Baylock siblings since they had first entered a nursery, nearly ran into the room. Against the black and gold accents of the room, she looked quite pale in contrast.

"They're coming," she said breathlessly, her voice exceptionally rough today. "Your parents are making their way downstairs, and there's a carriage on its way."

Helena blinked rapidly. "Marco, you said the air was odd—"

Marco tried to assist Andrés in getting up, but Andrés swatted him away.

Lucia spoke rapidly, as if there was not enough air in her lungs to finish a coherent thought. "The rest of the staff can hear the army coming from downstairs."

Marco stared back at Lucia, at the lines on her sickeningly pale face. Lines that were the proof she had led a more pleasant life before dealing with Helena's pranks and their father's mood swings.

"And what of you, Lucia?" He murmured.

She simply curtseyed, keeping her hollowed eyes towards the floor in dismissal of him. Her grey hair–the hair that had always reminded him of ashes–covered her face like the veil separating a living being from the afterlife.  "Mister Baylock."

Andrés grabbed Marco by the arm. He took Marco's sketchbook from the table by the settee and shoved it at him. Helena walked ahead, letting out a tortured sound when her cat squirmed free at last. They rushed down the tiled staircase. A cacophony of noise flooded the estate. Marco reached forward to yank Helena back when they approached the bottom of the stairs.

And there it was. It began with harsh words exchanged in French.

"Stay here," Andrés whispered.

He began working his way back upstairs. Marco knew his panicked expression must have been mirrored on Helena's face. They stood at the bottom of the staircase like birds abandoned by their mother. The heavy footfall of French soldiers dictated the rhythm of Marco's heart. It was only when a pair of calloused hands dug into his shoulder that Marco ever truly wondered as to how he might die. Helena was roughly dragged to the courtyard by the second soldier that held a rifle to her back. A silent promise that could be understood in any language.

The soldier holding Marco had a beard that grew over his square-shaped face. Marco turned to call out to Andres, to their parents, to Lucia. To anyone familiar. But as soon as the slightest sound escaped his lips, the soldier pushed him forward. Marco nearly tripped over the servants strewn across the floor as if they were beads from a broken necklace. Or more accurately, as if they were pomegranate seeds. Flesh exposed. Crimson liquid seeping into the cracks of the tiles.

In the courtyard, Helena's pins were ripped from her head. Marco's boots stained the thin layer of snow with blood as his own clothes were searched. Greedy hands touching. Tugging. Pulling at the buttons of his waistcoat. Yanking away at anything that seemed valuable. Marco clutched his sketchbook. Somehow, the soldiers didn't bother with it. Shivering beside his younger sister, his thoughts drifted to Andrés.

Stay here.

What had that meant?

The soldiers bound Marco and Helena's wrists. Marched them past the fountain their father enjoyed eating berries in front of. Out on to a wagon where other distraught Spaniards sat uncomfortably. Marco and Helena shivered against each other as the wagon began to pull away from their home. If Marco hadn't shoved his sketchbook down his trousers while the soldiers pocketed their finds, he would have lost it.

Marco forced himself to stare at the first flames that swallowed up their childhood home. A monster from a bedtime story clamping down its jaws. When his honey brown eyes began to sting and his vision blurred, he forced himself to hum. Helena's head slumped against his shoulder. Her lips turned blue and Marco's muscles grew sore from the cold.

Once they arrived at the French military encampment, the soldiers separated them. Helena shouted for him as they led her down rows of tents. When they came for Marco, he called Helena's name as they urged him forward. All in vain. At last, a different soldier pulled back the entrance to his tent. He pulled Marco inside.

The tent blocked out daylight. Candles flickered. This soldier seemed twice Marco's age. His thin lips curled as he unbuttoned Marco's clothes. Once again, hands touched him. Grabbing. Tugging. Pulling. Marco couldn't even free his bound wrists. The sketchbook thudded against the ground.