Matilda, Child of Fire

The Scarlet Reckoning

1 The Scarlet Reckoning

"Daddy, if one of them is a boy and his name is Henry, he belongs in the second bedroom. If the other is a girl and her name is Matilda, the third bedroom is hers; she likes fire."

–Maya Madalena Valensi, age 3 re: her future twin siblings, "Of Ginger & Spice," Ch. 28: HM2V: The Spiral Staircase

8 pm GMT/Noon PDT, Tessera Nightclub, Manchester, England

Upscale waitressing was a wonderful way to build one's character, make a name for oneself in the magical realm, and boost the bank account. At least, that's what her father reminded her each evening in his British accent, before she portaled to the nightclub from the second floor of her mother's Vera Manor Garden laboratory.

Black cravat: check. Pleated white silk shirt: check. Black sleeveless vest: check. Black silk slacks: check.

Twenty-one-year-old Matilda Valensi strode the nightclub's perimeter purposefully, her trimmed fingernails poised just so above the pen and pad of paper peeking out of her hip pocket, her curly auburn hair tied in a high ponytail; she had inherited her mother's distinctive Afro-Caribbean cheekbones and her European father's cream-colored complexion.

Teak serving tray in hand, she examined the metallic light sconces in each corner, all enveloped in flowing plum-colored floor-to-ceiling drapery as far as the eye could see, much of which had remained the same throughout the past century, according to her all-knowing, preternaturally young father. Weaving her slight fingers through the dangling rose quartz crystals, she listened for their delicate mellifluous fairy-like chime. She knew those gemstones like the back of her hand.

The saxophones' brassy, booming timbre echoed throughout the crowded nightclub, its Gatsbian patrons dressed to the nines; the ancient ivory and ebony piano keys plinked as a pair of finely-gloved hands hammered forth from the bottommost clef to the very treble. The bass performed, the familiar rhythmic thrum of metal-worn strings vibrating across the stage, as Matilda detected the familiar scent of floral jasmine notes intermingled with Boswellian frankincense and Tamil patchouli.

8:40 pm GMT/12:40 pm PDT, Tessera Nightclub, Manchester, England

Out of the corner of her eye, Matilda observed a leering middle-aged man and his friends, all in nondescript uniforms, exchange their quid for a house special, the "Salem Witch Cocktail" (club soda, melon liqueur, lime juice, grenadine, and several shots of mystery liquer), continually whispering what seemed to be lurid, unseemly remarks at the female bartender, whose porcelain countenance began to turn a deep puce.

Ducking under the bar table's barrier, she sidled up to Nancy, glaring at each of the leering men in turn, none of whom appeared sorry in the least. Matilda's faux diamond studs kept her flame-throwing capacity at bay, but her temper began to flare, seeing how poorly her friend was being treated. "Eh, Billy," shouted one coarsely. "'ow's the daily offerin'?"

"Assets aplenty," another shouted, and her fists clenched.

The men seemed temporarily chastened with a quick glare of her flashing red eyes, but one man in particular continued to rankle Matilda's shackles. As he grew increasingly inebriated, his pawing continued, a burly arm on the countertop winding its way toward her own behind while, preoccupied, she took orders from two other clients; she shrieked in pain and whipped around, flushing with anger as the men roared and jeered. Oh no he didn't, she thought to herself, incensed with rage.

She removed her stud earrings, placing them in the bottom of her pants pocket. No more Miss Nice Girl, she decided. Enough was enough, as she felt a sudden heady surge of adrenaline course through her veins, winding its way through her upper arms, past her elbows, her slender wrists, and finally to her nimble fingers, which began to sparkle and crackle as she began snapping them against the vintage bar's tabletop.