Canto 1 - At the Top of the World

Atop of Babel, a very unexpected outcome.

1 - the arrival

It was strange riding up the escalator into the feeble sunlight that ebbed around the open doors of the station. It felt to Demi that she had been out from under the sun for weeks, years even. Seeing natural light again felt queer, and she blinked as her eyes adjusted, moving with the crowd as they disembarked from the escalator before scattering in a dozen directions, each intent on their own business. Demi paused as she was yet unsure where to go and what to do with herself. She expected that she and Robert Grave would be collected, perhaps by her father himself. She had steeled herself for a meeting with him, and even now she held onto the strap of her bag a little too tightly, her knuckles pale.

But until that moment came, they were adrift.

She looked up at the high ceiling above, turning slowly as she took in the vaulted rotunda. There were no skylights. Even at Grand Central Station in the Uppercity there were tons of steel and stone and concrete overhead. The sunlight only ever touched the exterior of Grand Central, and swilled a little, just inside the doors. Even then it came in at a steep angle, as if they were sunk into the grandest canyon of them all.

That was the City: Metropoly. Every surface street was a deep canyon, crisscrossed above by elevated roads and walkways, and thrown into shadow by the colossal buildings that scraped the skies above. This was a city of monoliths and megastructures, where light was often artificial, except when it wasn't, and then it was uncanny.

There were no skylights in the station, because the station floor was a place the sky never touched, but there were paintings.

There were gargantuan paintings high above them, panel after panel, each intricate and figurative, as if the station had been painted with the ambition of rivaling the Sistine Chapel.

It was a strange choice for a mass transit hub.

Everyone’s so intent on getting where they're going, rushing from place to place. Does anybody even look up at this ceiling? she wondered. The sprawling paintings were the sort of thing that demanded dedicated study, but such study would require the use of a crane, surely. If not that, then a large framework of spidery scaffolding at the very least. Demi had a sense that there were many details that remained vague and unseen from her vantage point on the ground. There was a story being told above her, but she couldn't make sense of what it was.

She stood for some seconds looking at the ceiling, puzzled. It felt almost as if the ceiling were looking down on her, as she gazed up at it. She could not have said why she had this feeling. She just sensed that there were many eyes upon her, that she was being watched by someones or somethings outside the realm of common experience.

Around her, the crowd flowed like water, the station busier than a hive. She was a mote of stillness in a sea of frantic activity. She looked down at the ground.

The marble under her feet was so polished that it reflected light like a mirror. She turned to make a remark about it to Robert Grave, and that’s when she saw that they’d been spotted.

Perhaps that was the reason that she’d felt the weight of eyes on her.

There was a slim, middle aged man approaching them, very fastidiously dressed, neat and trim, with a bowler hat on his head, a hat that looked somehow slightly out of scale with his narrow body. A very large and formidable person followed behind him, an earpiece in his ear and dark sunglasses covering his eyes: a bodyguard.

“Lady Serraffield,” the smaller man said with a bow, taking off his large hat. “My name is Clarence Darby, and I’m your father’s chief equerry. I’ll be your guide until you’re sworn in as a squire this evening.” He didn't introduce the man behind him, as if this man didn't have a name, or otherwise didn't merit an introduction.

“Hello, Mr. Darby,” Demi said with a nod of her own. She gestured politely to Robert Grave. “This is Mr. Grave,” she said. “He’s the butler and head of household at Forest Home, and has been my reliable guardian and chaperone for more years than I’d care to count.” She leaned sideways to get a clear view of the bodyguard and smiled. “It's nice to meet you too, sir.”

The bodyguard was silent for a moment, before he said one word. “Call.”

Demi wasn't entirely sure what he meant to communicate. She felt as if she’d been challenged in poker, but that didn't make any sense at all. Therefore, she decided to gamble herself and throw a rope out into the dark.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Call,” she repeated, and he made an almost imperceptible move with his body.

He had given her his name then.

She thought.

She still wasn't absolutely sure.

Clarence Darby looked at her as if he had no idea why she was talking to the security detail. Then he turned his attention back to her companion.

“Mr. Grave,” said Mr. Darby with a brief bow. “Thank you for escorting the young Lady Serraffield all of the way to the City. I give you my utmost assurances that she’ll be looked after properly.”

Demi started and glanced briefly at her butler. It sounded very much like he was being dismissed, sent home directly. Demi had known that she would say her farewells to Robert Grave before the day was over, but she hadn't expected them to come so soon, when her mind was still a whirlwind because of the confusion of her arrival.

Robert Grave’s expression had not changed.

“I have no doubts that she will be well taken care of,” Mr. Grave said seriously. “I am looking forward to seeing her settled in.”

He did not seem keen on being sent home, and Demi felt like she might melt in relief. Everything was strange and new and overwhelming. She had counted on having Robert Grave with her the first day, through the swearing in and the acquisition of her new accommodations. His very presence was comforting because he was so dependable and unchanging. He had looked and acted the same way for as long as she could remember, from the time she had been a very small girl, even through the funeral and all that had happened afterward. He was unshakable.

And he was unquestionably loyal. That was a rarity in this City, or so she had always been told. It wasn't that she distrusted Clarence Darby, necessarily. But she knew whose interests Robert Grave considered paramount. He would always act in her personal interest, barring a direct command from the master of the family, Demi’s father, the current Lord Serraffield.

“She will be well settled in,” Mr. Darby insisted. “So you needn't trouble yourself with her further, sir. I will see that she’s taken well in hand.”

“Looking after the heir has never been something I consider a trouble, Mr. Darby,” Mr. Grave said crisply. “I am at my lady’s disposal until she has tired of my company.”

“I thank you again for your tireless service to the Serraffield family,” Mr. Darby said with the faintest touch of aggravation in his voice, “But his lordship specified that I was to look after the young lady today. I am sure you have other duties to busy you back at the country seat.”

“I have any number of duties,” Mr. Grave said with a formal bow. “But my duty to the young lady trumps all else. I will stay at her side until she releases me.”

Clarence Darby glanced at his watch in irritation. “Sir,” he said, “I’m sorry, but we have a very busy schedule today. Please say your goodbyes to the young lady and be on your way. I have a sealed letter from Lord Serraffield that details his intentions for you. I can assure you, they no longer involve his daughter.”

Mr. Darby thrust the letter forward, and Mr. Grave took it with an almost imperceptible frown. He slowly opened the letter and read it. His eyes flicked back to Mr. Darby, and then to Demi.

“I’m sorry my lady,” he said, and beneath his no-nonsense tone she could hear his genuine sincerity. “It seems I have been ordered back to Forest Home on the next train.”

Demi smiled weakly. She ought to have expected as much. Having Robert Grave with her would have given her some traction to resist that which she did not like. He would have made the day bearable.

Of course, that was not something her father cared particularly about. He expected her obedience. Isolating her made her less likely to act out, less likely to act in any way other than the way he dictated.

At that moment she felt like she would have been glad to be back at the edge of the Deep Wood, straining for a glimpse of a balor’s eye in the deepening twilight.

Those were dangers she knew. Here, there was only uncertainty.

“If my lady wishes it, I will stay, regardless,” Mr. Grave said seriously, breaking into her pensive thoughts.

To defy her father’s direct command was to forfeit his position with her family. He had served them from the time he was a boy. His father had served the Serraffields before him, and his father’s father before that. He was willing to put all that in jeopardy just to be a balm for her on one afternoon. That was what he was like. He considered his duty to her above all other things.

Particularly since that windy afternoon in March, when everything had changed.

But she couldn't let him do it, no matter how much she wanted him to stay by her side. She would have to be strong. His wellbeing was her responsibility as much her wellbeing was his. That was what it meant to be a Serraffield: to be ever aware of one’s responsibilities.

Demi shook her head and patted his arm gently.

“No, no,” she said. “Go back. I’ll be fine. After all, nobody knows how to run things with you out of the house,” she said with a rueful smile.

“Are you certain my lady?” he asked, leaning down to study her face. She forced a smile. She knew it wouldn't convince him, but she had to give him some sign that she would be all right. She was tough. She could manage. Hadn't they all taught her well?

“I’m positive,” she insisted. “Go on. You’ll miss your train.”

Mr. Grave was still obviously reluctant to leave, but seeing the set expression on her face, he apparently made his decision. He bowed, very formally, from the waist.

“I wish you luck, young mistress,” he said.

At that, Demi lost what hold she had on herself and moved forward quickly, wrapping her arms tightly around him as he straightened, and holding on for dear life. He let himself be held tightly, then put his own arms around her, rubbing her back soothingly.

“There, there, little mistress,” he murmured. “You’ll be all right.”

She sniffled and nodded her head against his chest, fighting back tears. She couldn't send him off crying. She swallowed her fear and worry and forced herself to smile again.

“Of course I will,” she agreed, stepping back from him and brushing her hand across her eyes. “Be sure to write me, all right?” she begged. “And tell me all of everything that’s going on at home, about when the peacocks have chicks and about Mrs. Stella’s latest true love, and about what’s blooming in Mr. Howard’s gardens. Don't leave out anything!”

He blinked hard. If Demi didn't know better, she might have thought that Robert Grave was on the verge of tears himself.

But it must have been a trick of the light, because he sounded wonderfully, perfectly, comfortingly like himself when he said, “Of course, my lady. As you wish. And you must write to us about your life in the City, so all of Forest Home can know what its favorite daughter is up to. Remember, young mistress, you’ll always have a home at the edge of the sea of trees.”

Then he had bowed again and excused himself, moving back toward the escalators that would take him to the platforms.

Demi watched him until his silver head was completely out of sight.

Then she turned her attention back to Clarence Darby and resolved to make the best of things. She would pretend away the lump in her throat.

“So, what now, Mr. Darby?” she asked curiously.

“Please call me Clarence, my lady,” he said with a bow.

“All right then, Clarence,” she said with a smile. “I do hope we’ll get to be friends.”

The idea apparently startled Clarence Darby because he coughed, then cleared his throat.

“Yes, well,” he said with a nervous smile, “That’s kind of you to say.”

Demi pressed her teeth against her lower lip.

“My father isn’t here,” she observed, and Clarence Darby shook his head.

“No,” he said. “He’s engaged with a committee meeting at the moment. You’ll see him at the Pinnacle this afternoon.”

“All right,” she said steadily, tightening her hand on the strap of her shoulder bag. “I suppose we ought to go claim my luggage then.”

The equerry shook his head. “No, you don’t have to concern yourself with your bags, Lady Serraffield. Your luggage will be collected and delivered.” He paused as he looked her over, then said, “We have other appointments.”

There was a driver waiting for them at the front of the massive, gilded station, in a special cordoned off area where policemen stood on watch. As they moved toward the car, they drew the attention of a number of journalists and photographers, who crowded up to the cordon.

“Lady Serraffield, how does it feel to be in the City?” one asked.

“It's rumored that you're going to be sworn in as Lord Lysander’s squire this evening. Can you give me some thoughts on that?” another asked.

“Are you looking forward to enrolling in St. Muirgein’s, your mother’s alma mater?”

“Is there a special someone in your life, or are you still looking for your Prince Charming?”

“What’s your favorite clothing brand? Are there any designers you're partial to?”

“What do you think of the ban on cigarette smoking in public places that was recently passed?”

“Can you comment on the enormous cost per day of your stand of living?”

“What are your ambitions for your first year in the City?”

It was a little overwhelming to be caught in the deluge of questions, even as Clarence Darby urged her along. It wasn't totally unfamiliar, though. Given her social position, she had weathered questions from the press before, although usually in the company of one of her parents, generally her mother. Her eyes scanned the flood of reporters and at last they fell on a familiar face and she smiled in recognition. It was a journalist she knew personally, one who had been a proper guest at Forest Home on occasion, reporting on her mother’s work.

He grinned when he saw that she had recognized him, and made a small wave with one of his hands, but he didn't ask any questions. He was listening.

That restored a little of her pluck and so she smiled, a genuine smile, full of pepper.

“I’m looking forward to everything,” she said with enthusiasm. “And I’m grateful for the opportunity to continue the tradition of serving the public as the next scion of the Serraffield family.” Her smile quirked up at the corner and she shared a conspiratorial secret, “I can't wait to see what the future holds, can you?”

Clarence Darby made a strangled sound when she made her statement to the press, as if he were holding onto his composure with great difficulty. It was a sound of mortification and anger. He hurriedly herded her into the car with the assistance of the bodyguard and then shut her up inside. She waved cheerily to the press out the window, but had the sneaking suspicion that they couldn't see her due to the darkly tinted glass.

Once Mr. Darby and the bodyguard were inside the car with her, the equerry wrung his hands.

“Lady Serraffield, it would be to all of our benefits if you refrained from speaking to the press unless you have been briefed beforehand on what to say,” he said, and Demi could tell that he was trying to be diplomatic even as he lectured her. “The family will release a statement about your arrival and oath-swearing this evening through the press secretary. Your creative responses, no matter how well intentioned, are not required.”

Stand so that your best features are visible. Walk this way. Smile. Laugh when you're expected to laugh. Look beautiful and available, but also demure. Your body is not your own. Your mind is not your own. Your heart is not your own. Say what you are instructed to say. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut.

It was nothing new, really. It was the price of her privileged position. It was how heirs to the Curia were expected to comport themselves, particularly the girls, who were taught to weaponize their femininity. All at once she appreciated how free her life had been at Forest Home. She had been allowed to be herself, to stand how she liked, to say what she thought, to engage and think and decide things on her own.

She no longer had that luxury, and every time she acted out, she would pay for that liberty with her own skin.

She was not newly acquainted with her father, after all.

It was best to play dumb, and couch her rebellious activities as nothing more than being featherbrained. That was likely to work on Clarence Darby, although it was no strategy to use against her father himself.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said with an angelic smile. “Was I not meant to talk to them? I’m very sorry. I’ll try not to do it again.”

This absolutely terrible excuse seemed to satisfy Mr. Darby, as he sighed and said, “Very well. You didn't say anything too damaging, but it is unwise to go off script. Please do try to limit your conversations with those who have not been fully vetted by the family.”

Inwardly, Demi rolled her eyes.

I’m sure to become an excellent politician if I never speak to anyone who might have something critical to say, she thought to herself.

But she kept her blank smile fixed and gave the impression that she was thinking of happy bunnies hopping around in fields of wildflowers.