#fate witch

[queenofnevers]

Been a while since I've posted any selfies here.

[readwithjoy]

Name Change

I’ve had a couple of questions on this (you all move fast!) so I thought I’d tell you what I know. Yes, I have heard from a couple of different people who should be in a position to know that the name of the character Sexy Witch might be changing to Fate Witch. 

I haven’t seen any official confirmation on this, but if the character is re-named in the official instagram, FB page, or in the next edition of the program, then we’ll know for sure. If we get some sort of concrete message from Punchdrunk or Emersive that her name is changed, then we’ll will figure out what to say on the cast list. 

[minervacarducci]

“...That, when I wak’d, I cried to dream again.”

The suite to which Igor had escorted her was altogether more luxurious than she had expected. The thick carpet that covered the smooth stone was soft underfoot, and kept the room warm. The fire, crackling cheerily in the hearth, lit the room with a comforting glow, and she felt instantly at ease. The windows were shuttered against the howling wind of the storm, though they did little to keep out the noise of the thunder, which clapped and rumbled so loudly it made her jump.

She dispensed of her heavy fur cloak, no longer chilled to the bone, and set about unpacking her meagre belongings. It took no time at all, and she found herself with nothing left to do while she waited for Igor’s return; he had insisted he bring a light supper and a restorative tea for the residual motion sickness to her, that she would feel better for it after that hasty trip up the mountain. As she looked in the mirror, attempting to tame her lion’s mane of dark curls, she noted how ashen her face was. Even in the warm light, she looked as ill as she felt. A good night’s rest, and a meal, would do her wonders.

After wrestling with her hair, she set down the heavy brush and approached the bed with a childish glee, before flinging herself down upon it. It was so soft, like a cloud had swallowed her. The heavy silk duvet was old, but still beautiful, all deep greens and faded gold. The pillows bore much newer silk, almost unused, and she found it harder and harder to coax herself away from the promise of a warm bed. The knock at the door a few moments later was the necessary motivation.

“Thank you Igor, I-” she began as she opened the door, and was startled into silence. Vladimir smiled in amusement, his hands laden with the meal Igor had promised.

“May I come in?” She nodded, flushing a deep red, caught so off guard, and found herself thankful she had not yet changed into her night-things. He breezed past her, his cloak notably absent, and she shut the door behind him. He set down the tray, laden with a hot broth and bread, teapot and cup, and a bottle of wine. Two glasses, she noted. He turned back to her, a softness about his eyes that she had only caught glimpses of in the past. Since their epistolary confessions of affection, it seemed he had relaxed his guard somewhat. She felt the knot in her throat tighten, keeping her eyes firmly on his if only to ignore the steady twisting of their thread. “The sight of you before me is… a delight I can barely articulate.” His voice was soft, as if speaking to a frightened animal. “You did not look well when you arrived; are you much recovered?”

It took a second for her to find her voice. “I- I am recovering, though I am still yet a little delicate.” He crossed the room to her, ushering her with a gentlemanly arm to the small table and stools by the hearth. As she began to eat, he uncorked the wine and filled their glasses, and let her eat in silence for a time.

“Igor suggested such a gentle meal might be warranted,” he said at last, as she finished. “I promise I shan’t keep you late. I wished to make sure of your comfort, and… if truth be told, there was a certain selfishness about my decision. I wished to see you; I did not wish to wait until tomorrow. I have missed you.”

“And I you,” she replied softly. “Far more than I ever wished to acknowledge, even to myself.”

“My affections are unwelcome?”

“You know that is not true. It’s more… complicated than that.”

“You wrestle with your conscience, I know that. I am not unsympathetic. But you must surely allow yourself some happiness.”

She looked at him, dark curls falling into her eyes. “Vladimir, I have spent every day thinking of you. Wondering when we would meet again, how we would meet again, what you might say to me. I have watched the very thread that connects us twisting and growing stronger as the months have passed. And it terrifies me that I might love someone as I love my husband, that I might love two men so equally that it is impossible to choose my loyalty.” She stood, restless, and began to pace, wine in hand. “To be with you once more is a terrible conflict; I am elated beyond words to be reunited with you, and yet I am afraid to be near you, lest I be tempted to break my holy vows. Theus preserve me, I have tried to be a good wife!” Her pacing picked up in speed, and her voice was strained. He watched her gulp her wine, her cheeks flushing pink and pale. He stepped up, and caught her arm, stopping her mid-step, sweeping her into his arms. She looked up at him, stunned, and realising for the first time exactly how much taller he was than her. Her heart battered against the inside of her ribcage, making her tremble.

“You have been a devoted and faithful wife, Minerva, no one can ever say otherwise. But must you condemn yourself to a life of denial, to a life devoid of happiness and love, in order to uphold a vow to a man you may never see again?” Her eyes were wide and wild, and the firelight sparkled in the tears forming therein. “Oh darling, beautiful lady, I would keep you safe here, I would make you smile and I would hear you laugh, if only you would let me. You could stop running. I could keep you hidden away, safe and loved here by my side.” Cupping her cheek with his hand, he bent and kissed her, brazenly upon the mouth. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes fluttering closed, tears spilling from their confines. Her stomach turned somersaults, and he drew her close. With that kiss, he devoured her reticence, her fears, her indecision, and she found herself returning the kiss with ardent fervour…

The knock at the door startled her awake.

She blinked, confused at finding herself still laying on the flocculent duvet. She scrambled to her feet as the second knock came, polite but insistent. She smoothed her rumpled dress and pushed her hair back from her face as she walked to the door. Still dazed by her dream, she found herself disappointed that the man on the other side of the door was not Vladimir at all.

“Your thupper, madam, and the rethtorative that I thpoke of.” She stepped aside and allowed Igor in. Upon placing the tray on the table, he turned back to her with a small bow of deference. “The mather thendth hith regretth that he will not be rethieving your company thith evening; he inthtead wisheth to tell you to retht and convaleth at your leithure.”

“Thank you Igor,” she nodded. “Please give your master my kind regards.”

With another short bow, he departed, closing the door behind him, leaving Minerva to her altogether befuddled thoughts.

[minervacarducci]

Drawing Closer

She woke with a sharp gasp, sitting upright with a start. Her eyes were wide and her skin clammy and cold. Her heart raced almost painfully. She was alone in the carriage - the rest of her companions stood outside, conversing in tense tones. She squeezed her eyes shut against the impending threat of tears, inhaling deeply. It seemed she could only outrun the Game for so long - she was still playing her part in it. The old strega in her dream… She hadn’t seemed familiar, and it was Minerva’s best guess that she was of Villanova’s clan. She couldn’t work out how she fit in to this woman’s grand plan. Yet she had no choice but to continue to play. Fedele was still at risk, and her family would be high on the list after him. If she had refused the ball of thread… She had no idea of the consequences. It was simply too dangerous.

With a moment of concentration, she watched the ball of thread materialise in her hands. It had barely any weight, but she could feel the sticky texture of the thread, reluctant to let go of her skin as she handled it. There was nothing to be done now. She needed to hold on to it, if only for the time being, just until she worked out what to do with it. Already, her thoughts were churning over the potential possibilities. The threads, a mass of white, grey and, unnervingly, black, did nothing. They reached out to nothing. They simply were. They were potential, as yet unused. She would be patient. She would bide her time. Her next move had to be precise.

Stepping out of the carriage, she looked around at the flaming barrier and the… unnerving wave of rodents that threw themselves against it, the tiny shrieks of mice and rats sending a chill down her spine. By Theus, she would be glad for a life of quiet solitude on days like these…

It was another few weeks before they reached the great mountainous pass that bordered Ussura and Eisen, and several more days before they came to the vicinity of the Dragon Peaks. She had been weeks without a letter from Vladimir, once again on the move as they were. The last letter she had penned to him had been from Pavtlow. She had thanked him in stumbling Ussuran for the gift of the hairpin, and done her best to describe her impressions of the Spire, but lacked the vocabulary, and soon gave up in favour of her native tongue. Her Ussuran looked like a child’s handwriting, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment when she had sealed it and handed it over to the messenger bat. The rest of the letter had been a somewhat lengthy exposition of her recent behaviour, and an almost too defensive rebuttal of Violet’s concerns. In truth, it had irked her rather more than she cared to admit - the questioning of her moral compass was, in her mind, completely unwarranted. She had only ever acted with the best interests of those close to her. What Violet seemed to take issue with was Minerva’s lack of desire to be selflessly heroic for every poor plebeian who crossed their path.

But now as they approached the foothills of the mountains, she found her stomach twisting in a way that had nothing to do with the motion sickness that the rocking of the carriage induced. She felt nervous to see Vladimir again, unsure of how their reunion would play out, and with the renewed threat of harm to her loved ones, she felt afraid of the slowly twisting Cups thread that joined them. Each thread that formed, each relationship that grew with her companions, put everyone at further risk.

Vladimir had little described his home. The mountains were exactly as she had imagined, sharp, jagged teeth gnawing the sky. The highest were capped with snow, forbidding and unwelcoming. The whole scene before her had an air of indistinct menace, like somewhere one wouldn’t come unless absolutely necessary. She gazed out the window, mind a million miles away, when Tegrida’s voice pulled her back to the present.

“I’m sorry? I wasn’t listening,” Minerva looked over at her with a lazy disinterest. She enjoyed seeing Tegrida’s mouth twitch in annoyance.

“I said, why are we going here? Who is this friend of yours we are going to see?”

“Oh, of course.” She shifted in her seat, stretching a little. “The eminent boyar of this region - that is, a count I suppose,- Vladimir Bellakoff, was our companion for rather a while before we… encountered you.” The pause was a mere half beat, but it was not unnoticed. “He is a close confidante of ours, and one who may offer us shelter and respite after this damnable travelling.”

“You don’t seem all that excited to be here,” Tegrida offered, in a tone that only barely suggested she thought she was being clever. Minerva’s dismissive shrug and half roll of the eyes came easily, as if it were natural and not a carefully rehearsed motion, and offered nothing more. But the Castillian seemed determined to make conversation. She groaned inwardly.

“What is he like? Is he as brutish as Seamus, or may I actually find refined company?”

Minerva levelled an inscrutable look at her, and for a moment was silent, collecting her thoughts. “You’ll find no such brutishness with the Count. He is a true nobleman, of fine breeding and impeccable manners. Though I daresay you will find him… odd.”

“Odd? How?”

“Oh, nothing really. Just little things. His sense of fashion is rather behind the times, but then, they have no real use for such frivolities here. He keeps to strange hours, sleeps all through the day, wakes only a little before dusk, and stays awake through the night. He is rather fond of the darkness. And I rather doubt he shall dine with us. He seems to prefer to keep to himself when it comes to meals.” She said all this with the most perfectly feigned disinterest, as though it were all passingly amusing, but mostly beneath her notice. The icy aloofness that formed her armour was well tempered, and settled around her so naturally. In the months travelling with the rest of her friends, she had thawed, if only a little, and let through glimpses of herself. Rannveig, Violet and Vladimir remained the only ones who had truly seen her vulnerable, and while none of them had seen her completely unguarded, they remained among her most trusted companions. It surprised her to feel the burgeoning trust for Violet, but since her confession in Breslau about Fedele, she had softened if only a little.

Tegrida looked at her, momentarily stunned into silence. “Well.” Minerva smirked. “Well, I suppose one mustn’t judge a man before one has made his acquaintance.” She laughed under her breath, and turned back to the window. The road was beginning to wind and pitch upwards, and her stomach lurched a little with it. She hoped it wouldn’t be long before they reached the village.

But the welcome they received upon arrival was hardly what she had expected. Through the glass in the half light outside, she could see the villagers gathered, farming tools and torches in hand. Her eyes narrowed, apprehensive. The carriage lurched to a halt, and she waved Tegrida into silence as she began to ask what was happening.

“Hello friends!” Minerva shook her head. Oh Violet… Their response in Ussuran was aggressive, and a little afraid. “Oh! Of course, you don’t know what I’m saying!” The eye roll was uncontained and unadulterated, and Minerva pulled her furs close around her and stepped out of the carriage. Seamus had begun fumblingly fielding their questions about who they were, and why they were here.

“We come to see your lord,” Minerva’s voice cut through the din like a clarion call. “We wish to send word to the castle, and to take lodgings in your good township.”

An older man, bearded and weathered, looked at her with only a little suspicion. “How do you know the Boyar?”

“He’s a good friend of ours!” Seamus interjected helpfully.

“Oh aye?”

“He is, in fact.” Minerva placed herself commandingly between the party and the restless mob. “He was a companion of ours for many months while he travelled abroad.” He didn’t look convinced. “We have money for lodgings for the night.” To that, the tension relented, and after a further interrogation to determine that they were speaking the truth, they were led to what they were assured was the best house in town. Their carriage was unhitched, their horses stabled, and everyone seemed ready to turn in for the night. The sun had long since disappeared behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the land and robbing it of what little warmth it had bestowed. Minerva, in the privacy of her room, looked out the window, up to the silhouetted castle beyond, and watched the towers for any light. She spied the messenger, sent up to the castle to inform Igor, no doubt, of their arrival. A slight smile lifted her lips; she did not unpack a thing.

They ate simple meals from their own supplies, and Minerva joined the conversation only half heartedly, as if staring into space. When the clatter of horses and carriage wheels came into earshot, she looked up, almost smug. A knock at door was followed by Igor’s arrival, and Lorenzo’s ever undignified shrieking in response to the, understandably, unnerving appearance of the Boyar’s manservant.

“Don’t be unkind, Lorenzo. It’s not Igor’s fault,” she said haughtily as she breezed past him, motioning to Igor to collect her things.

“Yes, of course, my lady, my apologies my lady.” She rather enjoyed his terrified grovelling, and was immediately thankful to have a competent manservant once more in her presence. But of course, Lorenzo’s craven objections began to make themselves known.

“You mean we’re going up there tonight? But it’s dark! Why don’t we go tomorrow? Why are we following this- this- man up to this damn creepy castle in these godforsaken mountains, we’ll be killed for sure!” She was sure she caught amusement on the rest of the party’s faces as they piled into the carriage. Violet sat upon the carriage roof with aplomb and glee, and they were soon underway.

Minerva had learnt many things over her years with Rannveig, not least of which was how to keep the contents of one’s stomach down when it threatened otherwise. It became rather a matter of dignity now that she exercised that skill, for it seemed Igor was in on tormenting Lorenzo. They traversed the winding, precarious road at breakneck speed as a heavy cover of storm cloud lent its own special brand of horror to the situation, lightning punctuating the sky and clapping great beats of thunder through the air. She dared to look out the window, and was faced with crevasse and chasm at every turn, just mere inches from the wheels at any given time. Beneath the voluminous fur cloak, she shuddered.

At last, with the thunder continuing to bellow overhead, they slowed, and drew to a halt before the grand castle. She felt silently grateful for the solid earth beneath her feet. Igor ushered them up the weathered stone steps and inside. This place was ancient, stately and imposing. Inside, the grand foyer was lit dimly, lending it warmth and movement in the shadows.

“Greetings.” She did not look up immediately; his voice felt the twist of a knife in her chest, and as if in time with the sensation, their thread twisted sharply and fell still once more. “You should not have come here.” She met his gaze sharply, but found him instead looking at, it seemed, everyone but her. His attention seemed to slip over Violet and Lorenzo as well, and instead, he directed his displeasure at the rest of them. “But you are here now. There’s nothing that can be done for it.”

In the dim light, his eyes sought her out at last, and for a bare moment, his face softened almost imperceptibly. Their reunion must wait for the formalities to be done, and explanations to be given, from both sides. Yet she felt a pressure lift from her chest, as if it were suddenly easier to breathe. Several long months without each other’s company - they could wait a few hours more.

[minervacarducci]

The Night Is For Secrets

“Please Fedele, what harm could I possibly cause?”

“It is completely inappropriate. If anyone is on deck, if anyone sees you-”

“I won’t be long, I promise, it will be only for a few minutes. You can keep a look out, if anyone is coming then I will put it straight back on-”

“I trust you, you know I trust you, but the crew may not be so forgiving-”

“I won’t look at anyone! Please, Fedele…”

He sighed, pressing his hand to his forehead, torn. He wanted to give Minerva everything, and yet he was finding it harder and harder where to draw the line. Already, as their ship sailed across the open seas towards Avalon, he knew he would never forget the look of absolute joy when he told her he was taking her with him. But he was afraid he would regret allowing her such freedoms when it came to the time that he would finally refuse her.

“My darling,” she whispered. “Please…”

He opened his eyes with a sigh, and looked down at her. She sat on the edge of the berth, wide eyes looking up at him, begging. She so rarely looked vulnerable, and even more rarely begged. With a slump in his posture, he shook his head slowly. “Theus help me, I cannot deny you a thing.” Before she could question him,  before he could change his mind, he took her hand and led her up to the deck.

Their world began and ended at the edges of the ship. The vast sheet of water surrounding them bordered their wooden nation with canvas clouds was inky and shone dimly in the starlight. The moon, a bare sliver, lent little help to illuminate their path from cabin to prow; it was as if an almost closed eye, watching in secrecy the scene that played out between the newly wed lovers. Hidden in the pitch of night, Fedele looked around them, furtive and vigilant; Minerva followed, whispering reassurances that no one was around to see them. His shoulders were curled, holding her close by his side, protecting her as much from the world as he protected the world from her. Her back was straight, her eyes bright behind her veil, her footsteps quick and silent as a shadow. She approached the prow, the wide eyed expression now full of wonder and delight. She could hear, more clearly now, the splash of the bow wave, and she shivered as the seaspray caught the breeze and blew back to her.

Fedele watched his beloved wife with a mixture of anxious anticipation of being caught, and a heart squeezing desire to give her all she wanted. It was a simple enough request - to see the stars, the sky, the water, without her veil. But it was impossible during the day. The instant any of the crew caught sight of her without her veil, their voyage would be poisoned by fear and paranoia. He knew Minerva behind closed doors; knew her to be gentle and loving and devoted; and he knew her with her veil, full of untapped power and potential, driven by shared ambitions; he knew her to be cold and impassive and at times, utterly terrifying. It was his hidden Minerva that he loved best, the one who danced with him to music only she could hear, the one who spent hours in the gardens surrounded by silence and peace, the one who kissed him tenderly and swore with the gravest honesty that she would never manipulate his threads. It was for this Minerva, his Minerva, that he risked tonight at all.

She made no move to remove the fine lace veil. It was as if, now faced with the freedom she had requested so fervently, it was too much. So it was Fedele’s hands that removed the pearl headed pins from her hair, and with a flourish that was as much the wind as it was his own dramatic flair, the veil flew from her face. He held his hand on her waist, close, comforting, and for a moment she could not open her eyes. When she did, her breath froze.

They sailed slowly into the pitch of night. The water rolled in undulating, lazy hills. The stars, bright pin points piercing the sky overheard, glittered in a dome above them. On all sides, black, dark, empty… Not a single thread extended out before her. Her vision was clear of the web of lives that ordinarily surrounded her. It was as if staring into a yawning void. As the ship rose and sank on the waves, her stomach fluttered pleasantly; she had been among the lucky ones, the captain had commented, that she was not stricken with seasickness.

“My darling…”

His hand tightened on her hip. His lips found their way briefly to her neck, now exposed. “Anything for you, my love. Anything.”

They stayed thus for some time, Minerva leaning back into Fedele’s embrace, watching the faint glittering of the water, listening to the breaking of the bow wave. Fedele held her close, inhaling the perfumed scent of her thick, black curls, capturing her warmth, his arm protectively, possessively around her. In that moment, and so many that came before, and that would follow, he felt that nothing in the world would be so important as to have her love.

[minervacarducci]

Trust

Their meals had been finished and cleared away, replaced with tankards and glasses and carafes of wine. The wines of Ussura had a different palate to those of her homeland, but she enjoyed this particular robust, oily red wine that the innkeeper had suggested to her upon hearing her accent. She gripped the heavy glass with a tight hand, and looked deeply interested in examining the patterns it made on the inside of the glass as she drank.

“The guild will have his head as soon as he arrives, there’s nothing stopping us from moving on now.”

“I’m not leaving until I see him in chains, and his return to Vestenmannavnjar is assured.”

“Fine, but that still leaves us with the problem of, what next? We’re not planning on staying here once we’ve dealt with Soren. There’s still the rest of the conspiracy to deal with-”

“And Carmen to find, again-”

“And we’ve still got the curse on some of us-”

The clamour of voices, all vying to be heard, was mostly a blanket of white noise for Minerva. It didn’t matter where they went, as long as they kept moving. She could see the thread that connected her to the one who pursued her, and though it remained only distantly moving, settling in one place for too long made her anxious. It was almost by pure reflex, then, that she spoke up sharply at the mention of Vodacce.

“No.” She looked up from her glass, a cold finality in her eyes. “I will not return there.” Lorenzo looked at her with a slight narrowing of the eyes, and Rannveig sat back in her chair, arms folded and eyebrows slightly raised, only barely concealing the ‘I told you so’ look on her face.

“Why not? I haven’t been there yet. None of us have been there yet! We could go and put paid to this scoundrel who is chasing you!” Violet’s eyes were full of vim and vigour, never to be discouraged by the coldness with which Minerva met her any time the subject came up.

“I refuse. Go there if you must, but I’ll not come with you.”

“If I can ask, what’s it that’s got yeh so scared of goin’ back there?” Seamus’ slurred question drew a withering look, and she could have sworn Brom’s violent and sudden spluttering of his beer was not the cough he made it out to be.

“Suffice to say, Seamus, that if I am ever discovered back in my homeland, it will be as if I had signed my own death warrant.”

“If you’re discovered!” Violet piped up again. “We could just disguise you, you’ll never be found!”

“And the countless other Strega there who might be set to finding me? What of the dozens, maybe even hundreds, of nobles I have known in my lifetime who might recognise me, no matter the disguise? What of my hus-” She caught herself, and took a deep, heavy breath. “No, it is simply not an option. I would be putting not only myself at risk, but others for whom I care.”

“What’ll happen to yeh if yeh get caught then?”

All eyes at the table turned to her.

“Is it not enough to say that I shall be put to death?” The biting tone of her voice, though soft and composed as always, was unmistakeable. “Take me back there, and I shall surely meet such a fate as I have no wish to tempt.” She rose from the table. “I’ll take my leave for the night, but let it be crystal clear, any plan of travelling to Vodacce will be met with my staunch opposition.” She began to walk away, before pausing and grabbing a full carafe and her glass, before returning to her room.

The heavy atmosphere that hung in her wake was broken a moment later. “She’s right, you know.” All eyes turned to Lorenzo. “If she’s done what I think she has, she has no hope.”

“What’ll happen to her?”

“It doesn’t happen often. I never witnessed one myself, but something tells me she’s seen it. Sometimes the runaways are punished, severely, and then allowed back to their husbands and families, albeit on a very tight leash. But the lady… She’s got book learning now. She’s broken some of the strictest laws we have. She’ll be deemed too dangerous to be allowed to live, and… well, they’ll burn her.”

“What do you mean, burn her?” Rannveig’s brow furrowed.

“I mean just that. She’ll be tied to a stake, in the city square for all to see, a cautionary tale for anyone who dares cross the Prince of the city, and an especially pointed message for all strega. She’ll be burned alive.”

A little later, in her room, Minerva sat writing by candlelight another letter in the chain of correspondence between her and the Count, when a knock came at her door. “Who is it?”

“It’s Violet.” The muffled reply drew a sigh, but nevertheless, she opened the door. She slipped inside, and Minerva latched the door behind her. “We didn’t really make a decision, other than it’s either Vodacce or Castille.” Minerva nodded silently. “I just wanted to tell you that I understand you’ve got your reasons for not wanting to go back. And I think you should, and I think we should put an end to whatever it is that forces you to live in fear, but I want you to know that when you’re ready, we’re willing to listen to whatever it is.” She turned to leave.

“If I were to tell you-” Minerva’s voice was soft, and sad. “-Could you promise to keep it secret?”

“I’m very good at secrets.” She turned back to face her companion, and was struck by how openly sad she looked. Minerva was sitting on the chaise where she had been writing, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes dark.

“Rannveig and Brom know, but… I don’t trust this to get out to too many people. The less people know, the safer they are if anyone comes looking for me. I left Vodacce to keep my husband and I both alive. There was a plot, well, still is a plot, that involved us without us knowing. I still don’t know who is pulling the strings, and who stands to gain from it, but I saw clearly a future wherein we would both die. In my vision, he was driven to kill me, and in his grief when he realised what he had done, took his own life. When I left Vodacce, I was not nearly as strong in my craft as I am now. I had no hope of fighting, and winning. So the next best thing I could do was remove a vital part of their plan. Vodacce schemes are all delicately interlinked, each piece of the plan set up just so. Even a pawn can be just as crucial as a queen. And when that pawn is removed, while the plan as a whole may continue, the parts surrounding that pawn fall apart. It was my hope, and continues to be, that by removing myself from the Great Game, I might protect my husband and myself. I risked my life to escape, but I did it with the calculated hope that we might both survive.” She paused, removing a kerchief from her sleeve, and pressed it brusquely to her cheeks. Violet realised with a start that she was crying. Yet, the Fate Witch’s face remained stoic and formidable despite its sadness, and she did not weep openly. “I have no desire for the rest of the party to understand my motivations, only that they accept that I am, on this particular subject, utterly and immovably against returning to my home.”

Violet nodded, unsure of what to say. “I promise, I’ll keep your secret.” Minerva nodded, almost absently. “Try to get some sleep?”

“And you. Rest well.” Minerva’s smile never seemed to reach her eyes.

[minervacarducci]

Learning The Cards

Since their betrothal, Minerva noted an increased frequency in Porzia’s visits. She and her mother spent days in each other’s company, often secreting themselves away. It came to light some time later that they had been discussing Minerva’s future.

“Piccola, sit with us,” Solange motioned to their table. She sat, straight backed and watchful as ever. Porzia was watching her with some interest. She schooled her expression, cool and detached. “We have been discussing your education. Porzia can teach you many things if you apply yourself. Things for which I have less of a talent.” Minerva looked impassively at her future mother-in-law. She was surprised when Porzia smirked a little.

“You have en excellent skill for concealment, child. It will serve you well.”

“…Thank-you Signora Carducci.”

“Have you read the cards before?”

“I have very little understanding of them. I know what they are. I cannot interpret them.” She saw no use for withholding anything from her.

Porzia nodded, as if in approval. “Good. You know your weaknesses. Hubris serves no one. Your mother has skills in weaving and manipulation that I cannot match. But reading the cards; this, I can teach you with confidence. Knowledge is power, and our knowledge is the most powerful.” Minerva found she was leaning forward, keenly listening. She had some talent for weaving, but the cards held an allure, a dread desire to know.

Porzia began dealing the cards in front of her. “There are four suits. They match the four threads. Swords; conflict. Staves; authority. Cups; passion. Coins; well, that’s obvious. The Arcana are often the most important ones, though you must never disregard or disrespect the minor suit. The minor players are often the most important.”

Minerva watched with rapt attention as she studied the cards. Porzia’s deck was very fine, befitting of a woman of her position. She found herself holding her breath, as if compelled by the inherent power of the things before her. The artwork was delicate, and finely detailed. The cards were edged in gilt. Each one was so vibrant and lovingly crafted, it felt as though she were watching the images come to life. She fancied that, if she turned her head just so, and held her breath, and let her eyes unfocus just slightly, that there was a faint web pulling the cards to each other. They led to nowhere but other cards, or so she thought.

As Porzia began explaining what each card was, and what it meant, she felt overwhelmed. She had never thought she could discern so much information from the cards.

“With a considerable amount of practice, and some raw skill, one can glean some of the most detailed and accurate information, portents, possibilities and secrets from the cards. One can manipulate one’s fate with the cards. You must always treat them with respect,” Porzia added with a snap, and Minerva looked up at her, startled. “Like the tapestries, these are things of great potential. In untalented hands, they are a useless tool. You must learn their craft in the same way you have applied yourself to weaving.”

“Minerva,” her mother added, “I know you will study this closely. If you are able to learn to read the cards well, and you are able to wield both your power with the cards as well as the tapestries…” Solange left the sentence hanging, but Minerva took her meaning all the same. If she mastered these skills, in time, she would become a formidable weapon, both for her family and for her husband.

“We will commission a set for you, designed and made especially for you,” Porzia continued. “It is imperative that you have your own set. The cards will come to know your touch, your power. They will become attuned to you. With time, that will be a great boon to you - it will mean that you can read them accurately when you have little time to prepare them. They will guide you true. You must never allow another to interfere with your cards.”

Minerva nodded mutely. She had great skill with the looms she and her mother worked on, and they held their own potential and their own power. The cards… This was a new journey for her, the next step in her education. And she did not doubt her mother’s words - with these skills behind her, what terrible power might she wield?

[minervacarducci]

Apprehending The Butcher

Minerva travelled mostly in silence. She was acutely aware of the Butcher’s glare fixed on her. It would not be a comfortable trip. For the most part, she found herself itching to hurt him, to scream at him and feed him to wild animals. Hansel’s devoured body was an image she could not shake from her mind. It was a concerted effort for her to remain cool and calm.

Later, in the dead of night, when the Count was taking the watch, he shook her gently awake as she had asked. They were both silent; she had not divulged what she planned to do, and he did not ask. She wrapped her thick cloak around her tightly and came to sit beside the sleeping Butcher. She was light footed and cautious. She did not make a sound.

It took some concentration on her part to focus on the faint bundle of threads emanating from him. Once she had clear sight of them, she reached out with trembling hands, and began sifting through them, careful only to touch what was absolutely necessary, and refusing to touch the thread that connected him to Greta. The sensation was like handling yarn made of spider silk. They had a clingy, unnerving quality that tested her constitution. The threads weren't quite sticky like spider silk, but they certainly lingered. The stronger threads seemed more tangible, and gripped at her fingers more. To that end, it was not difficult for her to find a strong enough Coins thread that she could get a good grip on. She gritted her teeth and began to pull it, first holding it taught and then exerting a little more pressure. She couldn't feel anything happen in particular. The thread simply sat, stretched taught and then... a sickening moment when she felt the thread lengthen a little, and it seemed to extend a minute amount out of his chest. In that split second, she dropped the thread, shaking her hands, her skin crawling. The sticky sensation would not leave her fingers, and she was beginning to panic. Firm hands on her arms lifted her to her feet and guided her away. Everyone else slept on, blissfully unaware.

“Are you alright?” Vladimir whispered.

“I need to wash my hands,” she whispered haltingly.

“There is a stream not far away, but I must keep watch, I can’t leave.”

“I will be fine, I just, I need to wash my hands. I won’t be long.” She held her hands away from her, as if disgusted with what she had been touching. Her eyes looked wild in the firelight.

“Take this then. Be safe.” He handed her a dagger from his hip. She took it and set off into the darkness towards the stream she knew to be close by. With the moon full and high, it was not a difficult walk.

It was nearing an hour later, and Vladimir was growing anxious that she had not returned, when finally he heard her footsteps returning. He went to meet her, and found her holding her hands as if in pain. He guided her back to the fire, frowning concernedly.

“I had to get them clean. I had to get them clean,” she whispered over and over. Now by the light of the fire, he could see she had scrubbed her hands raw. They were ice cold from the water, and she held them gingerly, clearly in pain. He held her hands, trying to coax more warmth into them. She was shaking, wide eyed, distant, as if in shock. It was all he could do to calm her. After a time, the shaking subsided, and her breath was no longer shallow. He handed her the small bottle of the Ussuran liquor that had helped stave off her nightmares, anticipating that without it, she may simply not sleep. Her head had barely hit her satchel, poor substitute for a pillow though it was, before her eyes were closed and sleep claimed her.