The Falkenstein Affair | Words with Colour

The

Falkenstein

Affair

Mind still on the scroll, Ela watched Theodosia Kartal intently.

Weakness in arms, poor grip, poor balance indicating leg weakness or proprioceptive difficulty. Unsure which. Pale, very pale - paler than before. Should be in bed. Certainly not in a corset. How she is managing to hold up those clothes...adrenaline? Can only be adrenaline - watch for a drop within the hour, be sure she has water not wine with dinner, green vegetables, a good source of protein - she needs to be -

As the others spoke of...root vegetables, Ela shook her head slightly as if to clear it. The Lady Kartal was not her patient - or her lover. Ela would do well to remember that. Tightening her grip on the scroll, Ela spoke to appear engaged, her eyes meeting first Nehir's, then Kate's. Studying each woman in turn, her mind instinctively turned in on itself. Both women were perceptive - more so than usual. That she could tell immediately. Was either worthy of trust?

Instinctively suspicious of anyone who spoke with the same convictions she had, Ela absently wondered how far the similarities went. Nehir wanted Istanbul to progress, wanted to facilitate the sharing of knowledge - to what end? To what extent? How far was she willing to go? Her reason for seeing and trading for the scroll was a good response. But why, Ela wondered as her fingers gently traced the length of the scroll, was such an artifact placed in such a location? Surely it deserved to be more gazed upon, not less - unless the information therein was more critical and dangerous than suggested.

A test? Such similarities did not occur by coincidence... A text in a newly opened library on a floor ignored by scholars, held by the matriarch of an influential family seeking others to aid her in a quest to restore Istanbul to its former glory.

Zehra, a mystery worthy of your time.

And that, of course, was exactly why Theodosia was present. Romance, fantasy, adventure. All things it didn't seem the girl could have.

Not for long.

Not without help.

Ela cursed under her breath and wrenched her mind away, watching instead the creature who proclaimed her humanity. Cassandra stood looking between the speakers, and it was then that Ela noticed the young woman's fingers dextrously manipulating the ribbon.

Between the "human" and Zeynep, the young lady was attended by some striking figures. Strange figures. When Zeynep did speak, it was to proclaim their love for flowers, and yet a sword was belted to their hip and they seemed (indeed she had heard) that Zeynep was more than capable of using it to great effect.

And Kate. Of the company she was keeping this evening, she knew the least about the English Flower. She'd spent a great deal of their acquaintance mentioning those things she didn't like rather than those she did. The Flower made Ela decidedly uncomfortable, though she couldn't place why.

You spend too much time with machines and the dead, dearest.

The candle was burning low, the shadows long, long on the walls. They sat close, very close. Almost touching.

The dead can't lie and I have yet to teach my automata to deceive. Besides, they're right here, reminding me of my goals. Others are a distraction.

And what of your needs?

I need my goals fulfilled. The sarcasm was somewhat wary, the topic of conversation expected.

An empty chuckle. You promised.

And I'm keeping that promise.

In name only. You speak only to those who can further your goals, and only of those goals, forgetting those who might fulfil your needs when those goals are achieved.

Silence as deep hazel eyes contemplated the candle burning down. This was not how she wanted to end this meeting. The other continued, aware but uncaring of the awkwardness.

Ihsan is away, Ela. You need friends, and sometimes you need to put the work down.

Deep brown eyes stared almost sadly into Ela's hazel ones, which flashed green in the candlelight as it whisped and sputtered. Finally, she sighed.

I'll try my best.

The candle burned out, plunging the room into darkness, leaving Ela alone.

***

Art by @NalaWu

If you wish people to stay, you do not bind them.

'If you wish people to stay,' Ela almost replied, 'sometimes you must. And perhaps they even want it.'

Not that she could be sure - not that she would ask. Of those with whom she could speak most candidly, that was not a question she wished to ask. Selfish? Yes, but she was willing to be selfish about this.

For the sake of good conversation.

A return to the past.

Whatever it was that Nehir desired of her, Ela would give. She tired of the pace at which her work progressed - she tired of the clawing suspicion of the Viziers, huddling in their cloaks of importance, made powerful by keeping others weak. If the knowledge she had now had been more accessible only two years sooner...

There was little doubt in Ela's mind that their host was trained in the magickal arts. The only question was the degree to which she was trained, and which order she might belong to. Her perspective on knowledge thinned the list somewhat, but then Ela herself clearly saw things differently to others in her orders, so who could tell? That said, if Nehir truly was so trained, it made her intention that much more powerful.

And more dangerous.

Nehir knew more than Ela was comfortable with her knowing. Father Korsakov visiting...a strange coincidence. Whatever he saw in that scroll was of enough import that he returned. Whatever it was, he could understand. Whatever it was bore importance to her, and he clearly had not shared that knowledge.

And this was the point. Even within the orders, with all working to the same goals, they hid things from each other as if to speak the words together might make them lesser. Ela did not fear naive hands on her work. Talent could be honed and many hands made light work. She did not fear leylines drained of their power, inaccessible from the number trying to use them. She feared never achieving her goals because the final piece of a puzzle lay in a dusty storage room, warded to prevent it being removed. She feared someone else holding the key to her success just out of reach in spite. In hiding, aeons passed before advancements were made, people aged...time passed.

Things change and nothing changes.

Who would be the first, though? And what would be the consequences of such an action? One did not run from angered sorcerors - one could not run from angered sorcerors.

Nowhere was far enough.

Not in space, nor in time.

Ela's thoughts came to rest briefly on her mentor, at once everywhere and nowhere in Europe. What would he say? Did he know Nehir - what she was attempting? It seemed the sort of thing he would find interesting.

One of her latest designs sat rolled to be sent to him with the mail the next day...perhaps she would add a note. It had been a while since he had been in Constantinople. What did he know of the Oikolygos and Ferravanti family lines? He would certainly know of Georgina Bradbury, if she was important enough to be here at this table... oh, and she must remember to pass time with Marco Ramirez. Learn what he might know of locomotive technology -just out of curiosity. See, Zehra. Not work...pure interest.

As she made the mental note, she glanced across the table and raised a brow slightly. Europe...Berlin ...perhaps he also knew of a Kate Clark from a textiles family in London.

Research is crucial, after all.

***

It was the first summer, and she was alternately hot, then cold, so Ela kept both chilled water and a thick blanket to cover them both as she shook, despite being bathed in her own sweat. This was, however, the best sanctuary they could find from the piercing Istanbul heat, and Zehra refused to do the sensible thing and use the cot for herself, so the two of them were huddled together such that Zehra could sleep upon Ela's breast when she fell into fever dreams.

As Zehra slept beneath the stage of the coffee house above, Ela read whatever medical texts she could get her hands on. It wasn't just the fever - Zehra was pale, thinning despite the food Ela managed to force into her, her breathing harsh. Just 21 years of age, almost one year an orphan, the family home was too busy too busy. Anne and Baba hadn't been pleased by the lover they had inadvertently introduced her to - an inventor, an engineer deserved someone who would stretch her mind academically. Zehra was a dancer of all things.

She was more than that, though. To Ela she was an artist, a creative mind, a visionary. The extent of her knowledge surpassed the academic and travelled into lived experience. They had travelled for the first time that Spring to get away from anne passing - baba was still too soon much less anne...there was no reason to stay in Istanbul. Italy, Rome. Switzerland, Spain, London, Versailles, Berlin.

So many memories, now.

Even if she wanted to, how could Ela escape that orbit?

A hot, hot hand grazed a thigh and brought Ela back to the room beneath the stage. She looked at the placid smile and her eyes softened.

"You weren't reading."

"No."

"Where were you?"

A sigh.

"Somewhere. Anywhere. I never know right now, sevgili."

The hand slips higher. It makes no sense to wear clothes when you're hidden beneath a city and trying to keep cool. Beneath people dancing for a living while one of theirs slowly wasted away. Sure, she would be fine by summer's end, but...

At this time there was no time.

"Let me distract you."

A slight gasp, a sigh - a hand so warm it almost burns.

She wants to say no. No, Zehra, I'm doing this for you - I want you well, I want to be with you always. I want you by my side to the end of days, watching the world end.

But she doesn't want that. The dancer, lithe, sweating - God - is her fever breaking or rising? She wants to be here, now, and how can I give her anything but here and now?

Lips meet, a hand cups around a throat, holds gently, lovingly. Kisses pressed around the face, neck, ears as the hand is released. A gasp - reminder of life.

She would need to sleep soon. Ela knew. The exhaustion of a fever overcame the most aroused dancer eventually. But for those moments that first summer, Ela did not fear death, for it seemed close and yet so so far away.

Despite everything, despite anne dying that year, despite still feeling the need to hide her lover from the house for God's sake...despite that, she cherishes that first summer.

It lasted the longest and felt the fullest.

And she remembers it all. Every detail. Her thigh sometimes burns with that heat, as if to remind her it was not a dream.

***

She was always - in this world and the next - Zehra. And that was the best - and worst - part.

Sweet as honeyed baklava, crisp as the layers of flaked pastry and just as delicate. Her lips an ode to a lost soul, her words remembrance of it.

Live.

One of thousands of thoughts made stronger by the remembrance.

Live.

How?

Another of those thoughts. One that frightened Ela.

How?

How to live when a part of you only wanted to exprience one thing - something that would only be gained through the hard work she did instead of living?

How?

When her hopes and dreams were so wrapped up in the figure that sat casually nearby, perusing the workshop, unaware of its purpose?

How?

When her entire career was built around a need she didn't know she could ever fulfil?

Career...existence.

How to live when every moment brought her closer to a finished product?

Live.

After three years, Ela wasn't sure she remembered how.

After Zehra, did she still live? Was it possible to live after Zehra, even now watching her, the dancer's form curled upon a stool, face a mask of concern.

Live.

Thousands of thoughts, but one stabbed at Ela's core as she made a softly calligraphed note on graph paper

What if she could, and forgot? What if she forgot the wonder that Zehra was - is - was...what if she forgot the feel of Zehra's hand on hers, the warmth of that smile - the first of the day that belonged to she, Ela - Ela alone?

What if there was more delicate baklava - dressed in the scent of rosewater rather than tulips? What if life were as intoxicating as cherryblossom wine? Would this time be lost? Would it become a memory? Memories are so inaccurate. Indistinct. Ill-defined.

Like love.

Which was the better love?

Do as she wished? Or give her the opportunity to do as she wished?

What do I want?

The thought was neither here nor there.

One of thousands of questions, thoughts, feelings hammering away at her chest as she slammed down a mallet. Fork? No, place the fork gently - just so.

Looking around the table, she saw Georgiana eyeing Kate, an amused tug at the corner of Nehir's mouth, heard the glug of Marcos pouring another glass of wine.

So much of the life she led was kept to herself, was secrets. The things she knew would be of great interest to Bastiano Ferravante...some of it.

She glanced at the empty seat beside her, which was occasionally filled by Cassandra.

The whole affair was confusing - some were behaving as expected, but others...others were so much more than she could have anticipated. They shined simply for being who they were.

And that was terrifying. Ela knew who she was, but there was no real way of guaranteeing that who she was when she last lived was who she was now.

And what if who she was now seeped into who she was then and ruined the memories of who she was then?

Live.

Thousands of thoughts. Thousands of questions and one statement kept repeating, very, very quietly.

I want to fit in here.

***

As Ela sipped the thick chocolate, her eyes perused the room, with its heavy armchairs and thick, overstuffed lounge. Their round table. So much had happened in such a short time that even for someone well used to emergencies, the moment to gather herself was welcome.

She'd had to fight back hard the desire to spit in the face of the sneering, pompous vizier. For all Zehra's assurance of her ability to fit in, Ela didn't think that particular instinct would get her what she wanted.

His words had stuck, though, and rankled.

Regardless of the purpose of their meeting this night, the fact remained that someone, staff or family or supposed ally, had known where the curator would be that evening and had shared not only the location but the guests - or at least some of them.

The vizier - Rain? - whoever - had certainly known at least Cassandra. Even the viziers were subject to sociopolitical frippery, and Cassandra had been invited to the table. That alone warranted respect. And if he knew Cassandra, it made sense for him to know Zeynep - though if he knew of Zeynep he would also know how foolish it was to call them a girl. But then...an entourage of guards...

The number was respectable, but odd, and she couldn't place why.

Beneath the table, her fingers had twitched in preparation.

Combat? No...defence? No, yes, perhaps defence...defend who? Seven guards, who could she defend beyond herself? Who was within her sphere to defend?

Her eyes had flickered momentarily to Theodosia, silent at the end of the table, a little pale. She wouldn't need further defence with Zeynep beside her. Nehir seemed capable of protecting herself, Yelda more so, which seemed strange for a woman her age. Ela calculated the angle and force she would need to pull the tablecloth to distract the guards at each end of the table regardless. Bastiano had the sharp eyes of one prepared, Georgiana's face was stone. Kate's muscles seemed loose, very loose, as one prepared to run or hide. Marco...drank. Her eyes lingered there a moment longer, then flicked to Cassandra, who was watching the situation as intently as Ela herself. Looking back, in her mind's eye, everything felt off.

Something was very wrong.

Dammit Zehra. Thousands of thoughts and I cannot unpick the knot fast enough.

What others called intuition, Ela called rapid calculation. Glancing about the table, her fingers got their wish.

Just to see.

If she'd been caught by a vizier of the sultan using sorcery at his back, she would have been in much worse trouble than Adnan, but

Something was wrong.

"You're most Ela when you look at me."

"That, sevgili, is because you're one of the only people I look at while I use sorcery.."

Looking down at her plate and feigning dispassion, she completed the ritual to sense magick in the air around her. The cutlery shimmered, which made sense. Fae made. It should. But -

"Stop."

The green drained from her eyes, which shifted from hazel green to light brown as she'd stood.

Not-magick had just walked out the door. And she had let it.

Thousands of thoughts. Not fast enough.

Zeynep knew Cassandra wasn't human. And Shadow? Neither what they seemed.

Perhaps the number of guards was justified after all.

Perhaps there were not enough.

Nothing was more dangerous to Ela's mind than knowledge in the hands of the wrong people. But the definition of wrong is very much a matter of opinion.

Thousands upon thousands of thoughts.

As Ela sat with the hot drink pleasantly searing her hands, the thoughts continued unabated:

the mechanisms in her latest project and the odds that something could go wrong in the next test,

potential ritual bases Father Korsakov may have used to arrive with haste,

potential rituals used by Nehir or her staff to locate and summon him,

the expected amount of time and where he could have been before -

how old he must be if he could manipulate time and space even that much -

the uncomfortable comparison of Cassandra's memory loss with her own,

how much time - time - Theodosia would need to recover, and whether Father Korsakov would be speeding that process,

how to deal with Rain, how to prompt memory recovery in a Jinn - a Jinn! -

trying to understand why - why - Marco was still wanting to drink,

wondering how long the others had known about this plan for a university,

what spells were used in the walls and who had placed them,

whether the scroll was safe where she'd hidden it,

did it have a part to play?

why did they not ransack the house for evidence?

what evidence?

did they even have any?

how much did the sultan know about this?

the extent she was willing to go to for this project to succeed,

the impact it might have on her career...

whether it would help or hinder her life goals...

Treason was a strange thing. It required fealty, an authority, an overthrow.

Betrayal.

How did one betray those in whom you could never place your trust?

It was long past the time to be considering treason, in reality. Could one be too self-aware to commit treason?

In learning what she had learned, in travel, in study, in her books - in her workshop right that moment could be found evidence, real, justifiable evidence of treason.

Zehra would laugh at this thought - of all of them.

When have you not been treasonous? You seek things - always beyond the boundaries set. You have a treasonous soul.

Indeed. To be treasonous, one required allegiance. With the death of her parents and her isolation, she held allegiance to just two things.

Well, one.

And it was not whatever the viziers wanted.

What did the treasonous soul want? To strengthen and improve what she saw as all the failings of Constantinople. That "Constantinople" was becoming its name spoke of a loss of self already. Istanbul was changing, whether the sultan wanted it or not.

If fighting for change, for growth, for a world she could give to her heart was treason, then it was as sweet and thick and luxurious as the chocolate in her mouth. She swallowed, the flavour dissipating.

It was one thing to rule and provide for the needs of your subjects. It was another to grasp at a dying country to cling to brief, ending, luxury.

Of all of them, perhaps the Sultan was the greatest traitor of all.

***

Ela stared openly at Theodosia, her face somewhere between puzzled and fascinated. Her features were not like Zehra's, her mannerisms markedly different and she had none of the physical strength Zehra had been known for in her healthier days.

And yet.

Father Korsakov, you do not know what you are asking of me.

Or worse: He knew exactly what he was asking and asked anyway.

As if it made a difference. Theodosia Kartal had been in Ela's care from the moment Ela had laid eyes on her that afternoon. How could she not be?

A mysterious illness? Almost miraculous healing...a puzzle.

A pretty puzzle.

She ran her thumb across the seal of the letter she held. Open, it was, but she had carefully refolded it so no one else would see the contents. Physician-patient responsibility was something Ela took incredibly seriously. If she could have her own secrets, why could they not have theirs? Ask the guests she had in the morgue...well, she could ask them. It was rare she needed to, but...

The words had been out of her mouth before she could stop them - a very unElalike thing to happen. But she hadn't been wrong. Theodosia could steal heats - was it even thievery if they were given willingly? Zeynep and Cassandra were clearly taken with her, as was everyone else in the room - she was a delight. Her earnest nature was infectious -

One of the reasons among hundreds it was crucial she live a long and healthy life.

If the viziers were working with unseelie, and

if the sultan knew about it, and

if there was rebellion to be had,

an earnest voice and a pretty face could do a lot to encourage people to look the other way, or soften in their treatment.

For all her naïveté, the Lady Kartal caught on quickly. For all her honourable bearing, the Lady Oikoloygos was connected to more unseemly people than Ela would have expected.

And then there was Cassandra. It could not be a coincidence that a beautiful, glittering fae princess appeared half in the mortal realm, followed by an unseelie pretender.

Where was the real vizier if this one was fae?

The thought crashed in. Where was he?

It was all well and good to have a pretender, but the man he impersonated should not even have been in the country.

Where was he?

And the question remained unanswered...what or who had told them Adnan and the rest were there?

Her mind folded in and over itself.

The scroll...Ela had entirely forgotten the scroll and the wards upstairs. The ones in this room were not placed by Nehir. Were those? Wards to keep things in the room? Keep what in the room? She could not ask before, but she could now that it was clear she would be tied to these people...they knew she used sorcery.

And what were the wards on this room actually doing? They were protected and hidden, and the room was safe...

Made me feel safe.

She'd almost burst into tears when the feeling washed over her. She hadn't felt so safe in...well, in three years.

Has it been so long? Already.

So much work to do in less than one lifetime. Her primary focus, though, as a physician and an engineer, was to work on and with her patient. Patience.

I won't lose this one.

Not beyond hope, Father Korsakov had said. Ela agreed in that estimation, but Theodosia either did not know or did not believe it.

Her mind flicked through several books.

A gift, then.

***

I don't often sleep. Not since...not since I woke up after... And when I do...

when I do, if I do, it is with the aid of drugs that leave me as unmoving and unthinking as my guests.

Do the dead dream? Or do they rest easy, knowing their task is done?

I have not asked you, and I don't think I could.

I can't tell you that I dream of you and every single time it is a nightmare. Every single time you are healthy and whole, and love me, and we live. That is all. We have breakfast, or take a walk in the sunshine, or watch a show, or read in each other's company. In this nightmare I don't lose you. And it is ongoing. It is ongoing, Zehra. Every night I spend dreaming is a day I get to spend with you - you are older in my dreams. Life did not end for you in my dreams.

I used to think this was a blessing. That you were visiting me and I would get to pass my days in quiet contemplation of the way your curls loosened as your hair grew, or the way you slap my hand to stop me taking your piece of chocolate. In those days I would take sleeping draughts to maximise the time I would be in your company, even knowing it was a dream.

But... sevgili...I know which world is reality, and it is not that one.

Waking alone is still hard, but it is easier knowing why I work.

And there is a deeper fear...

Every day in that world we grow older at a slightly faster pace, just a little, of this world. Sleep too much and -

and I will lose you again. And what nightmares follow that, mh?

So I choose when to sleep and when to dream.

Tonight I do not wish to disturb you in the real world.

I will visit in the other.

In the world where I can hold you, and you can hold me.

One whole day.

Perhaps I can show you around the university.

We have not done that.P

***

Clipping the flowers from the garden had been almost reflexive. Ela knew where she was going and who she would see and so had acted accordingly. The tulips, the crocuses...she knew they had meaning, and she deliberately (unconsciously deliberately, if that were something that could happen) chose colours from the wild array she had propagated for Zehra. As she wandered the garden collecting them, she remembered the last time she had given Zehra a red tulip. They'd been right there among the flowers, a picnic at sunset. She'd wanted to see the sky, had complained about the window being constantly covered to keep her cool, so Ela had given in and they had taken supper in the flowerbeds and watched the sun dip beneath the horizon. Ela had picked the tulips and handed them to Zehra as they ate safranli zerde. The saffron laced dessert had been made fresh, with crocuses picked that day. Red for love, purple for success...Zehra had been feeling better and Ela hoped it meant she would recover soon.

It was the third summer and Ela was now a doctor, but she knew more about the symbolism of flowers than she did about what ailed her lover. This was one of the last beautiful nights she remembered before

The evening, though was beautiful, memorable, hopeful, and Ela had reflected on that as she collected and bound the flowers damp in first greaseproof paper to protect their bases, then in a small piece of linen, wrapping them with ribbon.

To be asked, then, if Ela was trying to seduce everyone at the table...

Why had she chosen to bring these flowers? Crocuses, perhaps, but why tulips? She had enjoyed watching them travel the table, had enjoyed seeing a crocus placed carefully, playfully on Kate's décolletage, had smiled at a red tulip taken by Theodosia then handed to Zeynep. She'd almost told Cassandra she could take as many as she wanted, remembering the gown she had seen the previous night through her spell, but by then she had been accused of seducing everyone and she wasn't too sure how it would be perceived.

Or how she meant for it to be perceived.

It wasn't as if Ela hadn't slept with anyone after Zehra. In desperation to try to forget she'd done quite the opposite. But they hadn't lasted and that wasn't seduction so much as...definitely not seduction.

She'd brought the flowers because she'd always brought flowers here, that much was clear.

Carefully enough for a small bunch to be left at the table once the others had taken from them?

Was it seduction to offer gifts to people you were coming to see as friends? Or was it seduction because of the type of gift? Ela hadn't spoken to Zehra and perhaps she had overstepped a boundary as a result, but they had seemed the correct choice as she had chosen them, so she had chosen them. For someone used to understanding the mechanics of propriety, once Bastiano left, the remaining group of people were a mystery. One did not know the mechanics, one did not know when to apply them, one applied them at times and the other pretended to apply them while most certainly not applying them.

Not one of them seemed displeased with the gift, though, and that was perhaps even more confusing. And now Isik was a member of the Secrets of Forbidden Lore. Ela had questions.