From Grace (Excerpt)

By Rory Hatchel 

***

“Your tea is getting cold,” whispered Mother before taking another sip. 

“I told you I don’t want any.” 

“Come dear, don’t be so nasty.” 

Margaret sighed, turned to face Mother, and sipped her tea slowly, maintaining eye contact the entire time. 

“Sugar?” she asked. 

“I don’t take sugar.” 

“You used to. As a girl, you would always ask for three -” 

“What have you called me here for?” 

Mother sat up, taken aback at Margaret’s tone. “Why darling, it’s tea time.” 

“Yes, but why must I be here for it?” 

“You love tea.”

“Yes,” sighed Margaret. “But why must I love tea here? Today. With you.” 

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” 

“Yes, I’ve gathered as much. What, pray tell, do you wish to discuss?” 

“Yes. Right.” Mother put down her tea and smoothed out the many folds of her dress. Margaret took another sip of her tea. It did need some sugar, but there was no reason for Mother to know that. 

“Pants serve -”

“Mother!” Margaret shot up. Mother paused, glaring at her daughter, until Margaret lowered herself back to her seat. She held Margaret in her gaze, her golden eyes sharp against her ashy skin. 

“Do not interrupt me.” The nerves and games were gone from her voice. “Is that understood?” 

Margaret looked down at the offending pants, avoiding Mother’s eyes. “Yes, Mother,” she whispered. 

“Speak up, girl. No one can understand you when you mumble so.” 

“Yes, Mother,” said Margaret. 

“Good. Now, I know you don’t like it, but I grow tired of this conversation, as I’m sure you do. Pants serve a purpose. Perhaps if you were on a job, or had to assassinate someone, I could understand the temporary use of pants. But to wear them all the time is not simply indecorous, it’s lazy.” 

Margaret resisted the urge to storm out. “I should wear dresses all the time?” 

“Or skirts. Yes. What’s wrong with dresses?” 

“It’s just …” Margaret sighed. “What would you do right now if someone came to assassinate you?” 

Mother laughed. “No one is coming to assassinate me.” 

“Yes, but don’t you need to be ready? Surely you have enemies after -” 

“Spart is run by the Velorens. It has been for centuries. Who would -” 

“Don’t we have -” Margaret froze when Mother stood. She crossed the sitting room in two quick steps and slapped Margaret. The blow instantly numbed the side of her face until stinging heat spread from the point of impact. She wanted to cover it with her hand, but she knew better. 

Mother casually returned to her seat, picked up her teacup, and took a sip. “Is that what you fear? Assassination? Is that the reason to dress like a warrior at all times?” 

Margaret counted to ten in her head. Then did it again. And again. She exhaled slowly, took a sip of her bitter tea, and then spoke. “I want to be ready for anything. A dress limites my maneuverability. I can’t -” 

Mother reached for her holster and brandished her firearm. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, made by Margaret’s great-great-great-great grandmother when she descended centuries ago. It was one of a kind: plated platinum with six barrels. It used magic and not lead or blackpowder. It was a masterpiece, and Margaret knew that Mother could shoot the same spot six times in a row, five hundred paces away, in a little under four seconds. Of all the family, no one shot like Margaret Veloren the Fourth. 

“If someone comes to assassinate me, I don’t plan on moving much.” She lowered the sight of the gun, aiming at the offending pants. “Neither should you.” 

“Yes, Mother.” Margaret counted to ten again. This wasn’t a conversation; it was a threat. Mother was using the classic Veloren Way to get her point across. 

“Pants are fine for training and missions, nothing else. Understood?” 

“Yes, Mother.” 

“Tomorrow we’ll go into town and buy you some nice dresses.” 

“I have plenty,” muttered Margaret. 

“Speak up, child. I swear, no one can ever understand you.” 

“I don’t need any new dresses.” 

“Of course you do,” said Mother. “At the very least, it will be a good excuse for a little mother-daughter time. Won’t that be nice?” 

“Yes, Mother.” 

“Good. Drink your tea.” 

Margaret took another sip of her tea. It was an Assam. Good, rich, but bitter. Mother’s eyes darted to the cup of sugar cubes as she smiled, and Margaret cursed her. 

The door to the sitting room opened and Elizabeth, Margaret’s cousin, entered. She, of course, was wearing pants. Her clothes were tight and dark, probably meaning that she was going on a mission for the family. Margaret rarely got to leave the manor, and if she did, Mother came and babysat her the entire time. 

“Is it tea time?” asked Elizabeth. “I hadn’t noticed.” She handed Mother a note and stood, waiting for a response. 

“Care to share?” asked Margaret. 

“Not particularly,” said Mother. She scribbled something on the note and handed it back to Elizabeth. “Tell me, Elizabeth, do you think it appropriate for Margaret to wear pants as much as does?” 

Elizabeth noticed Margaret for the first time. Her golden eyes widened in a flash, then narrowed as she inspected Margaret’s outfit. Elizabeth had the classic Veloren look: pale hair, tall but thin frame, ashen skin, and dark lips and fingernails. She had been like a big sister to Margaret since childhood, but once she was recruited into working for the family full-time, they’d barely spoken. 

“I think she should wear what’s comfortable and cute.” Elizabeth shrugged. “She seems to be both.” 

Margaret smiled at the compliment, but Mother’s lips became a thin line. “And what of etiquette?” she asked. 

“You think anyone will question whether or not she’s a lady? Whether or not she’s Veloren? They’ll take one look at her and won’t say a thing.” 

“But they’ll think it. In private, they’ll whisper about it. You forget yourself, Elizabeth.” Mother took a sip of her tea while Elizabeth assumed a properly chastened posture. “You think we are thieves, and we may have stolen this island, but now we are rulers. We are nobility. We were once in the presence of eternity. Our ancestors didn’t give that up so that Margaret could be comfortable.” 

“Of course, Auntie. My apologies.” Elizabeth’s eyes darted to Margaret, and she smiled. Margaret smiled back, but looked back at the floor when Mother glared at her. 

“Go,” commanded Mother. She waved her hand, dismissing her niece. 

“Yes, Auntie.” 

“Good luck,” said Margaret as Elizabeth left. She said nothing as she closed the door behind her. 

They sat in silence for several minutes, sipping their tea. Margaret waited for her Mother to say something else, but apparently she thought the matter closed. That was the way with Mother. She spoke, and people obeyed. She controlled hundreds of trained operatives. She ruled over an island that the Empire barely influenced. She dealt with the Pirate Empress personally. The matter of her daughter’s clothing was the smallest thing she would deal with today. Margaret supposed she should be thankful to grace Mother’s schedule at all. 

After ten minutes of silence, Margaret stood. “May I be excused?” 

“Where are you going?” 

“I want to go into town.” 

“Dressed like that?” 

Margaret sighed. “I will change into a dress before I leave. May I go?” 

Mother took her final sip of tea. “No.” She put down the teacup and waved in the servants to clean up. 

“Why not?” 

“I want you to stay away from town without me. We can go tomorrow for shopping.” 

“I’ve been to town hundreds of time.” 

“Yes, but things have changed. It’s not safe.” 

“It’s perfectly safe, I’ve been -” 

“We have a traitor.” Mother said it softly, but the words slammed into Margaret. 

“What?” 

“Someone is betraying the family.” 

“How?” 

“That doesn’t concern you.” 

“But -” 

“Your sisters are going to find them tonight and clean it up. I want you to stay away until then.” 

Margaret froze. The idea that someone, anyone, in their family would betray the rest was absurd. They didn’t hire or trust anyone besides Velorens. That was the strength of the family. For someone to betray them, they would have to turn against their own blood, their own nature, their own history. Besides the audacity of it, who would be so foolish? They’d be outmatched in every way. Mother would hunt any traitor to the end of the Sattheim. They all would. You’d be one fool chased by dozens of expert markswomen. 

“Promise me you’ll stay away,” said Mother. 

Margaret hesitated. She had promised to have tea with Rolf. She was already late, and the poor boy wouldn’t understand why she was gone so long. If she scared him off, she’d likely never see him again. 

“I promise I’ll stay away tonight, but may I please go for the day? There’s still time before the sun sets.” 

“What is so pressing it can’t wait a day?” 

Margaret sighed. A little bit of truth was the best way to handle Mother. “There’s a human. A boy. He’s destitute, and I was planning on bringing him some food. I don’t know what will happen if I wait until tomorrow.” More than likely, Rolf will steal whatever he needs, but Mother didn’t need to know that. 

“A human?” asked Mother. 

“Yes.” 

“A suitor?” 

Margaret laughed. “Absolutely not. He’s a boy.” Traditionally, Veloren’s only bothered with humans for mating, then promptly destroyed them. Neither Margaret nor her sisters knew their fathers, and none of them needed to. 

“Then what? Charity? Have you become so weak at such a young age?” 

“No. Not Charity.” Margaret needed a good lie, quick. “A contact. He’s a thief, but not affiliated with any organization. I figured that would be of use.” 

“If he’s a thief, he can steal what he needs to -” 

“He can’t steal caviar.” Mother’s eyes flashed. Margaret braced herself for another slap, but Mother stayed seated, watching her daughter carefully. “That’s what I’ve promised him.” 

“And if he doesn’t have caviar he’ll starve?” 

“That was a bit of an embellishment.” 

Mother fell silent. Her eyes weighed her daughter. Margaret stood still, resisting the urge to rock on her feet. “I want to show initiative,” she said. “I’ll be taking over one day, and I can’t go on any missions without you, and I think it’s time that I -” 

“You may go,” said Mother. 

“Really?” 

“Yes.” 

Margaret sighed with relief. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath. “Thank you, Mother.” Margaret bowed low. 

“Wear a dress,” said Mother. 

“Absolutely. May I be excused?” 

Mother waved her fingers, and Margaret rushed out of the room 

“And bring your gun,” added Mother as Margaret stepped out of the room. 

Margaret wasted no time getting to her room, practically running. She grabbed her gun, carefully put her tea set into her bag, opened her window, climbed out of it, jumped onto the tree, swung through the branches, landed, and sprinted in the direction town. 

She was still wearing pants. 

***