A Delicate Web (gxg) | ONC2020 |

5. the interview

chapter five: the interview

word count: 1517

"What is your relationship with your parents like?"

Gem's first question snaps me out of my faked indifference.

"I—sorry?" I ask.

"Sorry. You don't have to answer if it's too personal."

I let out a somewhat breathless chuckle, all my false dignity torn away. "It's not that, it's just... wow, you're really heading straight out of the gates with the deep ones, huh?"

"Is that okay?"

"I mean, yeah, I guess so."

She stares at me for several moments and I realize she's still waiting for an answer. I raise the bottle to my lips and take a drink, tasting cherry. The fizz stings my throat, but it gives me a moment to stall, twisting my lips in thought.

"It's fine."

"What?"

"I said it's fine. That's my answer. Is that alright?"

"Well, yeah, but it's not very quotable," she laughs. I find myself smiling.

"I think you'll find I'm not very quotable," I reply. "I'm actually fairly uninteresting."

"Maud Freeling? The princess? I don't think so."

"Just because I'm royalty doesn't mean I'm an interesting person."

She bites the end of her pen, the stylus tip glowing against the screen, which is set to mimic the pattern of lined paper.

At least I've distracted her from that particular question.

She looks up at me, and I catch the way her dark eyes trace the burn scars visible on my face and neck, and then immediately dart away again, like she feels guilty for looking. That tends to be the reaction. I tilt my bottle upwards and swallow the burning drink.

"You going to ask about the scars?"

"Well, probably not. You've never answered anyone else who asked that question."

Once again, she's respecting my privacy. And she's intuitive. I find myself grinning against the rim of my bottle.

"No, I haven't. That's never seemed to stop the others, though."

"I like to think I'm not like most reporters."

She's got that part right. I was prepared for her to be just like the others, to be chasing fame or a scandal or simply to suck up and try to get on my family's good side. She doesn't seem interested in all of that.

"What do you know about me, Davis?" I query, staring at her. She meets my gaze evenly, not blushing or looking away or suddenly fidgeting and becoming awkward under the harsh eyes of me or my mother or father. I think back to what she said last night, about rambling when she's nervous. She holds herself in a composed way—hands folded neatly over her digipad, pen tucked between her fingers, shoulders squared. I, the princess of the Northerns, don't make her nervous at all.

"I know you were born in October and that a week from now will mark your eighteenth birthday. I know you were caught in a bad accident that caused those scars when you were twelve, but you've refused to reveal to the press what happened. I know you're a pretty well-rounded spellcaster. I know you're notoriously difficult to get a hold of and you tend to leave conferences and interviews without warning. I know you've been described by some journalists as a 'composed, but otherwise stone-cold bitch.'"

I burst into a laugh that makes my shoulders heave. I blink tears away from my lashes and reach up to adjust a strand of my red hair, a single shimmering gold sash falling over my shoulder to puddle on the sofa's armrest.

"You're very straightforward," I say at last, still smiling widely.

"And you're, luckily, not as offended as I thought you might be," she replies, a grin twitching at the corners of her lips.

"So," I say, composing myself, "you know about as much as everyone does."

"Yeah, I guess so."

I dismiss the wandering idea of telling her that I'm the vigilante before it can properly cross my mind. She may already treat me differently than most people do, but I won't put my second identity at risk. As the Black Mamba, I'm safe from the criticisms of my mother and father and the eyes of the world, watching me for a single wrong move. I can help people in my own way, and I can experience a taste of what it's like to be someone who isn't Maud Freeling.

And as soon as one person knows, my secret isn't completely safe anymore.

"Where did you learn magic?" She asks me.

"Found a spellcaster who was willing to teach me and made it one of my classes."

"Your mother and father users aren't magic users."

"I know."

"How do they feel about you being a spellcaster?"

I tap my index finger against the cold side of my bottle and tilt my head to the right.

"They've gotten over it," I reply after a moment.

"They weren't happy about it at first?"

"They're not happy about a lot of the things I do."

The bitter comment slips out before I can stop it, and I press my lips together, watching as the tip of her stylus scrambles across the surface of her digipad, undoubtedly writing that down.

"Hey, what are you writing about, anyways?" I ask. "What makes your story different than the thousands of others about my family?"

She pauses, raising the warped, chewed-on end of her pen to her lips again.

"I guess I just feel like most journalists don't capture the right angle," she says at last, haze trailing out to the buzzing cityscape beyond us. "Like, royalty could easily be a breeding ground for corruption—no offense. I have this feeling that maybe there's more to you and your family than what's currently covered in the media, you know?"

Maybe I need to be more careful around her.

I settle myself deeper in the plush confines of the sofa and quirk an eyebrow.

"That's a new take, but alright. I'm intrigued."

"So, what's your connection to Capital's new vigilante?"

"What?"

"I mean, he's the one who organized this meeting, right? Tell him I said thank you, by the way. Anyways, you must know him. Do you know who he is under the helmet?"

"I—yes, I do," I reply, grabbing at the strands of composure I still manage to maintain. I hadn't expected her to ask about the vigilante—about me.

She grins. "But you won't tell me." It's a statement, not a question.

"No. Sorry."

"Your father has been known to hate dark magic and has imposed some pretty severe rules on punishing those who are caught using it. Is that where the tension between you two comes from?"

So we're back to this topic. I turn my head away slightly and take a sip of my drink, trying to look like the cool, unflappable Maud Freeling I'm supposed to be.

"First of all, there's no tension. He hates the use of dark magic, and that's all there is to it. What I do doesn't matter."

"What about you? What do you think of dark magic?"

I hesitate. The vigilante's entire goal is stopping dark magic users. I can't form too many lines that can be drawn between us.

"I think it's dangerous and unpredictable." The scars on the side of my body feel like they're burning again. "That's all."

"Alright. So, I'm sure you heard about the destruction of Neilson's office headquarters yesterday."

I nod, keeping my face impassive, like my only knowledge of it is from news sources. Like I wasn't there, wrapping my arms around the girl asking me this very question, protecting her from the heat and the impact.

"Yeah. What about it?"

"I hear your family worked closely with him on occasion. I guess I was just figuring they must not have known what was really going on down in that basement, or your father would've had him arrested a long time ago."

Another nod. "Definitely. If you're looking for me to tell you that my parents are actually involved in this whole dark magic thing, you won't get it. There's no conspiracy to uncover in that regard, sorry."

She glances down at her notebook. "Hmm. Well, that's too bad; that would've made an interesting story." She smiles at me, and even though I roll my eyes, I can't resist the way my lips tug up as well.

She gets to her feet, and I realize our interview just be over. I hadn't even noticed time passing.

"Well, please do thank the vigilante for me," she says, tucking away her digipad. "And thank you, as well."

I stand up as well, setting my bottle on a low glass table. "No problem. Good luck on your story—I don't think I gave you much to work with, though."

"Oh, that's alright. I'll find another source, maybe." She smiles, the expression infectious. "Uh... I'll see you around, I guess."

I walk her to the door. "Right. We'll see, I suppose. Jones will escort you back out."

She extends a hand to shake, and I take it, feeling the clasp of her warm palm against mine. Then the door slides open, and once again, I watch her leave.