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If opportunity doesn't knock, build a door.
Odalia shuts the door behind her, firm and fast, leaning her back against the cool stone. The screaming downstairs is immediately quieted, leaving Odalia almost alone with her bubbling pride. A moment later, she stands, smooths her hair, and smirks. This day is the culmination of her well-laid plans, working under that marshmallow of a demon, Malphas, for months, now, dusting shelves and reading to fire-breathing brats on the weekends. A noisy explosion of something large and ceramic comes from downstairs, so Odalia fiddles with the crystal ball on her shelf until everything is drowned out.
Nothing will ruin this for her.
She sits at her desk, schoolbag open in her lap. Odalia rifles though it to pull out the page she’s meticulously copied from Magical Games and Their Mythical Gains. The page is filled with simple instructions. Even children’s games have magic to them, if the correct rules are followed.
It could be said that these games are frowned upon, true, but they aren’t outlawed, and they’re well within the bounds of intermediate oracle magic. The master librarian hardly needs more than a gentle push to show her the book. Getting her hands on it for an hour or so, alone, did take a bit more… persuading, but not much. Odalia has no plans to leave with library with such a book, no, certainly not; she merely wants a chance to flip through it, a collection of marvelous oracle spells woven into the senselessly intricate rules of children’s games, of all things. With Odalia’s best smile, and yes, her lovely way with words, thank you, she extracts what she needs from the thick tome.
The rules to a magical game of R.A.S.H. are written carefully in her sloping script. Odalia grazes her fingertips along the runes she will need to paint on the page she uses, eyes glinting at the sight of her future.
Of course, some things are obvious. She already knows she will live in an ancestral manor, and not a rookery. She will join the Oracle Coven. She will have three children, though there is some flexibility on that, as all of her card readings point towards two pregnancies, but three children.
There’s only one truly unanswered question: Who will she marry?
Odalia spends a week preparing the list of candidates, settling on a hand-picked group of four when she finally has the rules to the game in hand. Though she has the utmost trust in her own intuition, it feels a bit like putting all of her potion bottles in one cabinet when Odalia narrows it down to two witches in the Abomination track, and two in Potions. The options are limited, truly, as few in her class are anywhere near her standards.
Well, two of her four are a bit - rough around the edges. A little elbow gunk and a lot of training goes a long way. Beisdes, Odalia never backs down from a challenge.
She dips her paintbrush in water and lets it drip against the rim of the cup for a long moment. Tapping the brush for good measure, Odalia paints damp sigils across a page in her notebook, and grins in satisfaction when the paper glows with a faint purple aura. Her hand shakes when she puts down the brush to reach for her pencil.
The door slams, then locks itself, behind Odalia and she raises one manicured hand, flinging open all the stall doors, her eyes flashing as she takes in the empty restroom. Good. Most students are watching the older Clawthorne fight Grometheus, as she should be - would be, if it weren’t for that inattentive, independent, imbecilic Alador Blight.
Why, even his name makes her blood boil! Odalia rips the corsage from her dress, throwing it under her heel and grinding it into the stone floor. Weeks of careful planning, of sweet smiles and stupid courtesies, all for nothing, thanks to one idiot boy. She snarls at the thought of him. How could such a creature possibly be the other half of her future?
“Why in the world would I want to dance with you?”
The memory of his cold, indifferent, gold eyes, that matter-of-fact tone, and the way he immediately loses interest in her when an Illusioned butterfly dances close to them - a screech claws at her throat.
Odalia catches sight of herself in the mirror, more ruffled than she has been in years, pacing frantically in a public restroom, her hair escaping from the carefully arranged bun, chest and shoulders heaving in her rage, dress torn. She stops, stares. Her reflection is unrecognizable as the image of Odalia Phaedrus that she has constructed over the years. Gone is the ruthless academic, the sweet socialite, always with an eye on the future. Instead, she has lost sight of the promise of the future, of herself, for the moment. The mirror twists her lips into a sardonic smile. A laugh crawls its way up her throat, talons puncturing her esophagus and lungs until she cannot breathe, doubled over, cackling like a wild witch.
She can’t remember the last time she felt so out of control. After less than a month, Alador Blight has driven her half-mad. If only she could tell him that they will have it all! The most stunning children, the most successful business, the most envious marriage, every young witch’s dream for their legacy. Surely, then, he would understand her regular attempts at small talk, why she insists on being his lab partner and bumps into him in the hallways every other day. Instead, the blockhead fights their fate, returning her kind smiles with suspicious grimaces.
Odalia gives her reflection a grimace. Her hair is the first thing that needs to be in order. The torn fabric of her dress can be mostly hidden with and excused by the corsage, but her hair is a mess she doesn’t want to explain. It takes her several minutes, and the arrangement isn’t quite the same, though she thinks the affect it achieves is similar enough. With a sigh, Odalia pins the corsage back to her dress with the flower from her hair attached to it in place of the flowers she smeared into the floor, adjusting the neckline of her dress until the tear is unrecognizable.
It is as good as she can do, and it is enough. Odalia exits the bathroom with her head high, magic evaporating as she breaks the lock on the door, heart pounding.
Down the hall, a flash of obnoxious orchid makes Odalia turn her head. The fleeing back of Alador Blight makes her scoff aloud. He freezes for just a moment, and then disappears around the corner. She stares after him, eyebrows furrowed. What an infuriating man.
Alador drops the pile of Abomination sludge, holding her eyes as the purple stuff splatters sticky remnants on both of their aprons, slaps his gloves on the table, and then stalks straight to the door. Odalia does not flinch. She sits in silent fury, lips painted in the approximation of a smile. He glances this way and that out the small window, before locking the door with a firm hand.
“What are you doing, Odalia?”
“What do you mean?” she asks, face frozen.
He runs a hand through this hair, which Odalia has been longing to fix for over a month, now, further mussing it. Of course, he doesn’t even notice. She closes her eyes for the briefest second, gathering herself. It does not escape him. Hand pointed at her accusingly, Aladaor says, “There! You don’t like me, you have no interest in experimenting with the intelligence of Abominations, and really, you have no reason to be here. So, what are you doing here?”
Alador holds her best innocent gaze, his own eyes fierce, long enough that Odalia gives in. She drops the act. If he’s suspicious enough to confront her, then she has too little to lose. Her sweet expression melts away, revealing her building rage, fingers curling into claws at her side. Without thinking, Odalia takes a step around the table between them. Alador holds his ground, a relieved-sounding sigh escaping his lips, and he holds her gaze, still.
“There’s the Odalia Phaedrus I know!”
“If you knew anything, Blight, it would be news to me!”
He blinks, surprise flickering on and off in his expression. “You think I’m stupid, or something?”
His question rings through the air for a few tense seconds and Odalia rests the back of her hand on her forehead, looking to the sky in search of guidance, or perhaps patience. “You are an exceptionally intelligent young man,” Odalia starts to say. He puffs up right away, and she wonders if he is always so demonstrative with his body language. “Despite, or because of, perhaps, your astounding intelligence, you are denser than iridium. You don’t know a thing about me, Blight, so, don’t you start presuming anything!”
“I know you wouldn’t start paying attention to me out of the blue without some ulterior motive,” he snaps.
She flashes her teeth at him in displeasure. “Oh, astounding, you’re a wonder to the field of witch psychology as well as a prodigious Abomination inventor.”
“Spit it out, Phaedrus. I don’t want your barbs, just an explanation.”
“The genius Alador Blight can’t figure it out himself?” she sneers.
“Something about my family name? Family fortune? Family informants?” Alador shrugs as if all of these things are common as the day is long, to him, and then he shakes his head. “I can’t see any of that. You’re resourceful, Phaedrus.”
Shame burns through her, though she does not let it color her cheeks or shine in her eyes, because he still hasn’t hit the mark, not quite. Odalia cannot deny that she does want a powerful name and the connections, the influence, and everything that comes with it, but she does not want to use Alador to get it. No, she wants to create her own power and influence. She wants that powerful name tied to hers, to Odalia, the one and only, the most cunning witch to walk the Boiling Isles. It is well and good that the Blight family rose to fame helping the Emperor in his conquest, but she has much bigger plans, that do not rely on the goodwill of a maniacal tyrant with a good propaganda publisher.
“Obviously, I’m much more resourceful than you,” Odalia says, gathering her things in a rush, eyes on her hands the whole time, as if she cannot bring herself to look at Alador, “because I would have supplemented roughly fifty percent of your purple Abomination gunk with the pink variety, which you have noted has both a higher malleability and a lower density. From experience, I know that dense, uncompromising students have a much harder time grasping the material they’re given.”
She does not look at him again, as she brushes past him and unlocks the classroom door herself. He does not look at her. As she stalks out the door, Alador rushes back to the table with his work, muttering about the properties of Abomination matter and experimental fusion percentages.
There is a knock at the door that Odalia is not expecting. She freezes, arms up to her elbows submerged in soapy water, and sighs. Her parents will not be home for another couple of days. There are no deliveries scheduled for the weekend. Whoever is at the door came for either a failed sales attempt, or a failed social attempt. No matter - she’ll simply have to turn them away. Odalia brings the cauldron out of the water and inspects it with a careful eye, before facing it upside down to dry; then, she drains the water from the sink. Drying her hands and arms with her apron, Odalia strips the damp thing off and hangs it up back up, glancing around the house as she makes her way to the door.
Her chores are nearly finished, and the mess her parents left the night before is long swept up, though there’s little she can do about the obviously bare spot on the wall where her father’s collection of antique potions bottle was displayed. The stinging in her hands reminds her of the clean up. Once this visitor is gone and the cleaning finished, she means to find a suitable decor replacement in the attic. If only she’d had time before someone showed up out of the blue. Odalia hums to herself in disapproval, but again, there is nothing she can do about it, now.
Another knock at the door reveals that her company is impatient, if nothing else. She stops analyzing the house and quickens her step. Through the eyeholes, she sees Alador Blight. His hands are in his pockets, hair a mess, Abomination goo tracked from his shoes onto the porch. With her most placating smile, Odalia opens the door.
“You must have the wrong house,” she says after a beat, forcing her expression to stay in place.
“May I come in?” asks Alador, as if she hasn’t said a word.
“Did you hear a word I just said?”
Alador huffs, face scrunching up in annoyance, before he changes his disposition entirely, a hand in his hair, eyes blazing into hers with a myriad of emotions that she has never seen him display: guilt, confusion, astonishment, a dozen more. Odalia sucks in a breath, and is glad, because he takes a step forward, pushing them both into the house, putting himself far too close to Odalia. He says, “You were right.”
“I’m always right,” Odalia snaps, without thinking, and then she sees Alador Blight laugh for the first time in her life. His golden eyes light up, like a sky filled with lightning. Odalia notices that he has wonderful teeth, and some of the severity falls away from his face when he smiles.
“You shouldn’t barge into someone’s home, you know, it makes you seem like a manner-less clod, and not a respectful witch.”
He laughs again, louder this time. It should be annoying, because her critique is both a reprimand and advice, both of which he should be taking seriously, instead of laughing at her, but Odalia is too distracted. Has he always been so handsome? Is it only when he laughs, that this dashing witch comes to the surface?
Alador takes her hand, clasps it between both of his, pulls Odalia close to him. She takes a sharp breath, unsure of being in close proximity to this gunk-stained, golden-stared witch. But he is powerful, enough that Odalia can feel his magic thrumming in her bones just by standing next to him, and he is handsome, in an unusual way, though he looks like he could use a good night’s rest and a few good meals. More than that, Alador is magnetic. It could be the pull of a promising future, obviously, except it’s only there when he pins her down with those lightning eyes, and magnifies when he wraps his rough fingers around her own. “I’m sorry, for brushing you off. You aren’t quite what I expected.”
Odalia grins, small and sharp, as her anxiety melts away and her free hand comes up to caress Alador’s cheek for a short second. “I appreciate your apology. Why don’t you sit down, and tell me about your results? I can make us coffee.”
His answering smile is lazy and lopsided. The thinness of his frame when he removes his coat and boots to sit at the table, properly, has Odalia pursing her lips. She reaches in the cupboard for her best box of fairy-dusted donuts, too. Let it be said that a great witch never gets anywhere without sacrifice.
The demon door-knocker acknowledges her with a sniff, and opens the door to reveal a demon butler, as well, towering over Odalia, with dripping fangs and half-skeletal wings. She opens her mouth in a wide smile, venom dripping faster from her sharp teeth and evaporating before it can reach the stone floors. The butler steps backwards to invite a quietly overwhelmed Odalia inside. With a chipper voice and too large smile, she says, “Welcome, Miss Phaedrus!”
“Thank you,” Odalia answers, sending her a polite smile and then taking in all that she can about Blight Manor, as discreetly as possible.
Everything is gilded and golden, carved from expensive woods, woven with shining threads and detailed beyond belief. It is also all covered in dust, sitting in dim lighting, and chilled by a subtle draft in the house. The Blight Manor radiates fading extravagance. She fights down the longing to trail her fingers over the walls and fixtures, which will one day form a home for her family.
The demon leads her through a cluttered foyer, down a long, portrait-lined hall that feels more like a museum than a home. Two large, elaborately gilded, purple doors cap off the hallway. Odalia stands back, straightening her spine and smoothing her skirt, as the butler opens the doors.
The largest dining room Odalia has ever seen greets her, as well as the small Blight family, crowded around one end of a humongous table. She nearly has to squint to see them, and thinks that she should have worn more comfortable shoes, with this much walking. Of course, she is here to impress, and dressed for the occasion. This outfit is a product of all of her stashed snails, as close to cutting-edge witch fashion as she gets on her budget, enough to satisfy two affluent, finicky witches, at least.
Her hair is up in a plain but neat arrangement. Her dress is flattering, though nothing that gives anyone cause to call her immodest, and quietly ties her to her selected track with a single, jeweled button in the shape of an Oracle eye at her collar. Her nails are manicured, shoes shining, and lips painted to perfection.
Odalia has prepared meticulously for tonight. She will get everything right. The Blights are going to adore her even more than their son, when she is finished. With her sweetest smile, she glides through the doors, toward the three Blights gathered around the end of a banquet table.
“Hello, Alador, dear. Mr. And Mrs. Blight! What a pleasure! My name is Odalia Phaedrus, and I must be the first to say how honored I am, to be dining with not one, but two Coven Heads, tonight. It is rare to share the time of any witch so influential.”
The door swings open to reveal a glowering Alador at the same moment poor, clueless Darius puts his arm between Odalia and her path to the exit, where her boyfriend now stands sentinel. She schools her expression into cool disdain, staring up at Darius, and fights the urge to start laughing in his face. He turns his head lazily, only stiffening with actual distress when he recognizes Alador behind him.
“I’m not going to earn my first tardy on your behalf, Karamino. If you’d like to explain to Principal Bump why you’re harassing, as well as distracting, the Top Student in our year, well, I’m sure he would love to hear your excuses.”
Darius’s face screws up in sudden fury, the arm in front of her tensing as he makes a fist, Abomination matter surging around his hand and crashing into the wall.
Alador is between them in the blink of an eye, the ever-present purple gunk on his outfit swirling together at his will, morphing into a solid shield attached to his forearm, protecting both himself and Odalia from whatever else the volatile, talented Darius Karamino wants to throw at them. His quick, purely defensive move catches Darius off guard. He takes an uncertain step backwards, fisted hands at his side as the Amobination matter loses form and begins to aimlessly crawl along his arms. Alador and his shield do not waver.
“I don’t have the time for insignificant arguments,” Darius says with a huff, spinning on a heeled boot and swishing through the door in a blur of black and purple.
The shield melts away the moment the door is closed, and Alador whirls around to check on her. She gives him a cool smile, allows his fretful double-check of her well-being, and insists he start walking her to class. He does, with only a blink and slight frown, waiting for an explanation. Odalia slips them into the crowd of the main hallway, forcing Alador into a efficient, yet calm-looking pace.
She isn’t going to earn a tardy over this, by the Titan.
Odalia and Alador walk to class arm in arm, his stained school bag slung over one shoulder and her books carried in his free hand. They earn the usual amount of envious or inquisitive stares, especially when she spends half their time walking on her tip toes, whispering in Alador’s ear, one eye on the path before her and a secretive smile on her face. The rumor mill will say salacious things about dirty talk or details of someone’s demise, whispered right in the main hall of Hexside, which is laughably wrong, but Odalia would rather them speak of false things like that, than have the truth.
She cast her lot a while ago, during the magical game of R.A.S.H. that pointed her toward Alador, rather than Darius, or another powerful witch. Alador is where her loyalties lie. It is Darius’s mistake to think he can sway her, bragging about the experimental Abomination morphing techniques he’s been developing. He is even arrogant enough to think she will start blabbing about Alador’s experiments, once he asks with a sultry enough look.
Alador would be vibrating in fury by the time they reach her class, except that Odalia is careful to spin the story with the perfect amount of disdainful amusement that he tries to follow her example of laughing it off, and nearly succeeds. By the time she kisses his cheek and takes her seat, he is caught between murmuring to himself as he scribbles furiously in a purple-stained notebook, and looking at Odalia every ten seconds, with admiration and pride radiating from his small smile.
“Alador!” she snaps, trying to wiggle away from the carved edges of the elaborate wooden door cutting into her back. Instead, she squirms in just the right way, apparently, because a panting Alador only shoves her closer to the door, so that the braided border will surely be imprinted along her shoulder blade. Once again, he isn’t listening to a word that comes out of her mouth.
His mouth is on her neck, which would be very pleasant if he had picked a better place for such activities, or if he showed a modicum of patience. His hands roam from her breasts to her hips to her thighs, her knees and elbows, her face, anywhere Alador can reach, in an order that makes no sense to Odalia. His body is flush against hers, only allowing space enough for his hands to move.
She sighs. Alador grabs her breast in a bold move, for someone who has only dared brushes and short caresses before tonight. It’s an even bolder more for someone pushing her into a sharp-edged door.
Odalia runs a hand through his hair, from the base of his neck up, which earns her a quiet, throaty moan against her collar. Her fingers thread through his hair until she has a decent grip. With a determined tug, she brings his gaze up to meet hers, for the first time since Alador pulled them into what looks like a rarely used music room in Blight Manor. His eyes, transformed from fields of lightning into golden rings, lock onto her despite the heavy daze Alador seems to be in.
“Odalia,” he says in a rumble very unlike his usual speaking voice, “you’re the brightest witch I’ve ever met.”
Her breath catches in her throat. It’s those eyes of his, liquid lightning, shining down at her, striking her straight in the heart. It is more than that. It is the way Alador means every word he says. He does not waste his time on lies; he has no mind for making them up and no patience for keeping them up. In fact, Alador only speaks when he finds it necessary for something to be communicated - and he rarely hands out compliments.
Lies come too easily to Odalia. She speaks them like she inhales the air, remembers them like she remembers how to read a witch’s palm. Alador is infinitely better than her, when it comes to honesty.
His hands tug her this way and that, until he’s leading her by the hand again, a short trip from the music room, around a bend, and down another hall.
They end up standing before the doors leading to his room. That makes twelve different paths he’s shown her through the manor that brings them here, though none of the paths she’s seen have involved the secret doors and corridors Odalia has spied hidden along the walls. Alador stands, dwarfed by the beast-sized entrance to his bedroom, nervously supporting himself against the dark wooden doors. He holds her hand between them. His fingers are tense, though his grip is loose. Odalia is also amused to feel that his palms are clammy, and for once, a beaker is not to blame.
“The party won’t end for hours. You might be missed, after the way you captured everyone’s attention like a master Illusionist.”
“The rounds I made around the ball room after my speech weren’t for nothing, darling,” she says, tone carefully contentious. “Everyone who is anyone received a few minutes of my attention.”
Alador tightens his fingers around hers, gives her a look that has her heart stuttering in the weakest way, tilting his head and leaning forward. His breath is hot against her lips. Odalia wonders if he tastes of apple blood the same way he smells of it, hopes that no one saw them sneak a few glasses after the celebrating her first successful public speaking endeavor. “And me?” he wonders against her mouth, curved around Odalia like a current. “Am I anyone?”
She smirks, a thrill going through her at both the genuine curiosity in Alador’s questions and the power she has while he waits for an answer. He is honest and humble, this witch of hers, and unexpectedly insecure. Odalia knows how to handle the attention-starved aspect of Alador; it is his modesty that trips her up, puts her on uneven ground. The modesty is what makes courting Alador Blight a challenge that Odalia rises to eagerly, now.
Odalia surges forward and kisses Alador, hands tangled between them, lips moving demandingly against his, until they are pressed together against the seam of the double doors. When she pulls back, dropping from her toes to the soles of her feet, finger tracing along her bottom lip to fix the purple stain smeared under her mouth, Alador has his eyes screwed shut. She reaches behind him, using both her hands to turn the silver handles and push the heavy doors open. It is Odalia, hands on Alador’s shoulders, who leads them into the empty room, closes the door behind them with a nonchalant wave of her hand, an easy flex of her magic. Odalia savors their solitude, with no curious newscasters or annoying socialites to see them, runs her hands up the column of his neck until she cradles Alador’s face between her palms. He trembles under her hands. That does not stop him from reaching for her, arms snaking around her waist, solid and stronger than she would have thought. His eyes open, shining brighter than ever.
She almost wishes that he hadn’t opened his eyes, because it is much easier for her to be honest without a viewing audience, but she knows this is something he longs to hear. He spends too much time mulling over the depth of her feelings. Odalia cannot leave him in the dark, there cannot be any doubt between them, if she wants them to flourish as a couple, no matter how strange it feels to speak words with naked sincerity. “You are far more than everyone else, Alador Blight. No other witch commands my attentions for an entire night.”
Alador chokes on his next breath, sputtering in her face, rather than answering her in kind, but two fumbling hands and a few heady minutes later, she is in his lap, directing him on the finer points of undressing Odalia Phaedrus, as his hands shake in anxious eagerness.
“I’m not sure that a duel is the best way to settle this,” Alador says, blocking the door by leaning on it, towering over Odalia, who glowers up at him. “You may just attract unwanted attention.”
“No publicity is bad publicity,” Odalia quips. “If I didn’t know any better, it would sound like you’re afraid I’m going to lose.”
Alador rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, pleading with the sky for several moments before he glances back down at her. “Both of us know that Moscha isn’t going to beat you in a duel. Only the Clawthorne brats come close to your dueling prowess.”
“And those idiots are too busy chasing each other to cause problems for me. Therefore, with no chance of interference, and my superior skill over my opponent, there’s no reason for you to worry, dear.” Odalia puts her hand on his chest, stroking her thumb over the skin exposed by his haphazardly buttoned shirt. With a sigh, Alador places a hand over hers, holding her palm over his heart.
“Let’s go home, Odalia, and next week, you’ll show up every witch attending Hexside simply by showing up to Grom. I have no doubt that I’ll be escorting the most beautiful girl in the building.”
“You most certainly will,” Odalia says, a proud purr in her voice, “because I will be on your arm, and Moscha Gluggs-Blushborn won’t be anywhere near you.”
“That’s right. So, why don’t we forget about this duel thing-”
“Alador, she asked you to Grom in front of half our class-”
“-and she was rejected in front of them, too!”
“Still, the audacity of this witch, thinking that she can whisk you away from me with a few handfuls of fairy confetti and some inane song!”
Odalia feels herself heating up all over again, face hot and blood boiling at the thought of Moscha Gluggs-Blushborn pressing up against Alador and crooning to him, in that stupid voice of hers, about a scalding hot cauldron full of love. She would like to throw Moscha into a scalding hot cauldron full of Basilisk venom. The Hexside student body has been aware of Odalia and Alador’s relationship for over a year, now, without a single incident between them that caused rumors of a split. Odalia ensures the whispers about her relationship are far neater than anything about her, personally.
She puts more work into her relationship than nearly anything else, actually, and recieves wonderful results. Alador has taken her direction very well. He is a more than promising Abomination student, with a heavy interest in inventing, as well as several powerful people in his future Coven looking after him. His family continues to wield immense influence on the Isles, with his father the head of the Healing Coven and his mother, the Beast Keepers Coven. The Blights have taken Odalia in, until she is family in all but name, spending many of her nights in a tasteful guest room in the immediate family’s wing of the home. Well, her things stay in a tasteful guest room. More often than not, Odalia ends up in Alador’s room, snuggling beneath his blankets until whatever time he deigns to wash up and join her.
Moscha, with her eternally muddy boots and wells of determination, has no idea the work it takes to maintain a relationship with a witch like Alador Blight. Odalia is not stupid enough to think she couldn’t figure it out, given the chance. So, Moscha Gluggs-Blushborn will not get a chance.
Odalia has worked too hard. Alador has come too far.
“And you think that’s what it takes to sway me? Some fairy confetti and an inane song?”
Alador releases her hand and steps away from the door. He fixes her with a stern frown, arms folded over his chest. She marvels at how well he looks in the abominable color of the Abomination track.
“I can’t stop you from picking this fight, if that’s what you really wanna do,” he says, and she twitches to correct him, but the cold look in his golden eyes advises her otherwise. “I can tell you it’s pointless, and will only paint you as insecure, or vindictive, and make people think our connection is weak, when I’m not there to publicly support your actions.”
She recognizes that this is his fledgling attempt at speaking her language, at negotiating her behavior and their appearance, and Odalia is impressed. Though he understands it well enough, Alador has no natural instinct for cunning. Perhaps he’s come further than she knows.
However, this is still Alador she’s dealing with, and his well-thought words are also a challenge. Is their relationship so fragile that she needs this demonstration? Are her wishes so important that she will not consider his? Odalia knows that this and more races through Adalor’s mind as he waits for her answer. No matter how frequently she gives him the truth, he is smart enough to know there is always more. A plan is always spinning behind his back; he has to silently give his trust that she is not working against him. Alador wants proof of her willingness to bend, to show her neck, to trust him, for a change.
Odalia wants to throw the door open, stomp her way to the grudgby yard, and challenge Moscha to the deciding duel of who is the better witch, because that’s what the problem really is, between them, a rivalry with little to do with Alador himself. Except Alador is involved, now, thanks to Moscha’s ridiculous behavior. She must respect his wishes, or suffer the consequences of choosing a petty rivalry over her boyfriend.
Odalia puts her wants away. She stores her anger for another day, another way to get back at that filthy Gluggs-Blushborn. She turns to Alador with an expression as severe as his own.
“Anyone who sees anything weak in our relationship is under the influence of a powerful Illusionist.”
Surprise sparks in Alador’s face, followed closely by the bloom of a blush. His arms fall to his side when Odalia closes the space between them. He is always so open, as easy to read as instructions on a chalkboard. Odalia smirks. She traces his mouth with a thumb, erasing his frown with a single touch.
“I can be vindictive; it is true. But to say I’m insecure would be an egregious mistake. I am more secure in my choices than anything, and you, my dear, are most monumental decision I’ve ever made.”
Alador smiles, as open and honest as the rest of his body language. The sight makes Odalia’s heart flutter. He presses a kiss to her thumb, pulling her close. Tucked beneath his chin, Odalia breathes in the familiar scent of Abomination matter and Alador’s strangely gritty soap, listens to the quick beat of his heart, all the while enjoying the feeling of their magic thrumming together, almost a heartbeat of its own.
“I love you, too, darling,” Alador says, laughter rumbling through him, and Odalia is happy to hide her own pink cheeks against his chest.
Odalia meets Alador at the door, greeting him with a pleased smile when he offers her his arm. His hair is haphazard as always, clothes blessedly uncreased, though there’s the ever present crust of purple on his boots. She bites her tongue when she notices the goggles hanging around his neck. While lab safety is of the utmost importance, so are public appearances, and she bends often enough to his eccentricity. The deal she makes with herself is that if they are in his hair, she will reprimand him. This technicality does not please her.
He smiles at her when he catches her eye, tired yet reflexive, and Odalia relaxes, marginally. His eccentricity is helped along by his charm, effortless as it may be.
Alador escorts her to the table she has reserved, orders the two of them an iced poisonberry tea, a shot of adrenaline, and a water. He slumps in his seat, eyes half-lidded, until the drinks arrive. The adrenaline is gone in one swallow, and Alador spends a few moments letting it sink in before looking at her with some semblance of awareness. Odalia frowns at the deep shadows under his eyes.
“You should have asked for a large coffee, or maybe a few more shots of adrenaline,” she drawls, subtly checking him over and finding him to appear far too sleepless, pale, and drawn.
“I haven’t been to bed,” he says with an easy shrug.
She scowls, snagging his hand from where it rests on the table. Alador blinks at their entwined fingers, then at Odalia herself. Holding his gaze, Odalia says, “You’ve been overworking yourself, again, Alador. Must I stay at the manor for you to willingly retire at a decent time?”
“I don’t think you dragging me from my lab by the ear counts as willing retirement.”
His thumb twitches over her skin in an effort to erase the frown she gives him. It half works, softening her features even if she doesn’t smile at him, yet.
With a sigh, Alador explains, “If I can work out the last few issues with this device, it will be ready to patent; I’ll officially be an inventor.” His gaze drifts down to their hands, and his expression softens into something unexpected for the setting, though their table is fairly secluded. “With a patent, we’ll be one step closer to Blight Industries, that dream of yours, too.”
Odalia jolts in her seat, face flushing at the way Alador smirks, knowing and satisfactory, when he feels it. She clears her throat. “I was wondering if you had thought it over, since our discussion-”
“Odalia.”
She freezes, berating herself for being too obvious, for the way she clearly wants this too much. Alador can read her better than anyone. Of course, he won’t believe paltry acting and unsubtle downplaying, which is all she can muster after being caught off guard. It is a good sign that he is approaching the topic on his own, she tries to tell herself. Even if the outcome of the discussion isn’t to her liking, it means that Alador is far more decisive than she thought him to be, bringing it up so soon.
Granted, Odalia sees very little chance that the discussion won’t go to her liking. She knows Alador. She knows his potential, perhaps even more than he does, and how far they can go, together.
He untangles his hand and puts it in his lap. Odalia wraps her rapidly cooling fingers around her drink, heart beginning to sink. Alador does not look at her unkindly, though, only with intense concentration. “I have one condition. I will not compromise on it; your agreement will make or break this business endeavor, and possibly our relationship.”
It is her turn to blink at him, and Odalia sits, quietly floored that he has given her such an ultimatum. Alador has never, not once, spoken of leaving her, even during the few disagreements they have had in the past. Her heart feels like it is breaking, not sinking. She wonders how things have gone so wrong. How could she have been so blind? Such a threat to her relationship should have been detected far earlier, and perhaps it is her failure to see whatever issues between them that Alador sees which has lead to his ideas of breaking up with her.
The server interrupts her thoughts. Odalia clenches her fists in her lap, hidden within the expansive table cloth, and chides herself for spiraling into such a mess so easily. It must be the shock of his assertiveness. Whatever the condition, it is important to Alador, who has only ever treated her with adoration, devotion, and occasionally impatience in the four years they have been together. She must trust that he will not demand something outrageous.
Odalia puts her trust in Alador regularly; this should not be any different.
She tries to even out her breaths in order to calm down, forcing her hands to unclench, resting her fingers on her knees, flat and controlled.
The waiter leaves, and Odalia sips her tea, musing that she would have ordered apple blood if she had known they were having such a conversation over lunch. Alador waits for her to speak, studying the people at the nearest table, or a passing server, with idle interest while she collects herself.
“And what is this condition?” She twirls the straw in her drink, ice spinning around, as she shoves down her doubts.
Alador gets right to the point. He stares straight at Odalia and speaks with his usual, lazy cadence, though his brows are drawn seriously above his electric eyes. “If you want to found a company called Blight Industries together, then both of us should be Blights, don’t you think? We should be married.”
“Is this your way of proposing?” Odalia hisses.
“This is my way of negotiating,” Alador corrects her, his tone unusually stern. “I know that, first and foremost, you are dedicated to making something of yourself. The Oracle track is the best excuse for you to keep both eyes on your future, and the things you can accomplish. I respect your ambitions, though for a long time, I was confused about my place in them.”
Alador sits up straighter, drawing himself to his full height, as he rarely does, and the effect is obvious, even seated. He uses every bit of the strict training from his upbringing to appear before Odalia as an intelligent, formiddable witch who comes from a long line of them. His magic flows far steadier than usual, and far brighter. It is a sight to behold. She knows the thrum of his magic better than the sound of his voice. He does not have to prove anything to Odalia, and she is surprised that he thinks otherwise.
“Now, I am not. I’ve got a pretty good idea of the future you imagine between us, business-wise. It is my family name that we’ll be building off of, and you will have far more incentive to protect the Blight family name as an actual Blight.”
Odalia appraises Alador silently, sipping her tea and letting him sweat. Does he really think she’s going to believe this hippogriff shit he’s trying to feed her? “Your family name? Alador, you’re the first Blight to go to Hexside rather than St. Epiderm, you chose the Abomination track because your parents forbade it, and in the past year, you’ve refused seven apprenticeship opportunities that the Blight family name sent your way, not to mention the dozen or more you received before you had even graduated.”
“Maybe I’m not doing things the same way as my predecessors, but we have the same goal. The Blight family name will continue to be prominent. If I want to move away from weekly public appearances and shady politics, that’s my business.”
He means it, Odalia is surprised to see. The disdain he treats the Blight reputation with had Odalia convinced he cared very little for their legacy. This hidden ambition is thrilling.
“No,” Odalia says, though it comes out in a breathy rush that she doesn’t recognize as her own, “that’s our business, Alador.”
“Blight Industries,” he says, two little words echoing her hopes, her dreams. She feels far too exposed with the way he’s looking at her, and how close she is to getting everything she’s ever wanted.
She clears her throat, trying to compose herself. Odalia clicks her nails against the table, rhythmic and pointed, the silver polish catching the light. Pinning Alador with her stare, she says, “I assume there’s a family ring to go along with the family name.”
Alador laughs, and Odalia falls in love with her brilliant, frustrating witch all over again.
“If I can’t get the full five dozen screaming daisies, then anything in the nightshade family will do,” Odalia says with a frustrated sigh. “As long as you make sure not to deviate from the color scheme, I will look over whatever you come up with, Atropa.”
She finishes up with the florist, moves on to scrying the sound technician, and ends her day by writing a check for the stage rental. Odalia hands it off to a servant - one of the few actual servants left at the manor, and not one of Alador’s dumb, dripping Abomination minions - to be mailed in the morning. The night has gotten away from her, as they usually do, when she is working, and Odalia sighs again, exhausted.
Alador will be upset that she kept him waiting for so long. Especially considering the deadline she imposed so strictly on him, and his penchant for fairness. There is no argument good enough to win him over when his mind is made up, so Odalia spends the walk from her office to his lab thinking of placating, pride-stroking things to say, instead.
Much to her surprise, the Alador she finds is not smug, but pacing with his hands behind his back, eyes all but striking lightning into the stone floor with their intensity. The apron and goggles he wears in the lab are splattered and smudged. There is even Abomination matter in his hair, which causes her lips to curl in distaste, already annoyed with the effort they’ll have to spend to get it out. His head snaps up as soon as he hears her descent, far later than he should have. She wonders if he is truly so distracted, or if too many explosions in the lab have worsened his hearing. Getting Alador to the healer is worse than disintegrating teeth, though, so she hopes for the former.
“Odalia,” he says, stopping in his tracks. “How are you?”
“Well enough.” His attempts at small talk confuse her, though not as much as the way he immediately dismisses the feeble effort.
“Good, good. I’m sure you’ve had a busy day, so we’ll go over the potential line up quickly, why don’t we?”
She blinks at his back, stares at the apron fluttering around his legs as he nearly jogs to the nearest table, covered in a large, purple sheet with an indiscriminate shape beneath it. Odalia has a few seconds to finish descending the stairs and follow him, catching sight of over a dozen other covered tables. “How thoughtful of you, Alador. I’m sure we could have something brought up from the kitchens for a late dinner, afterward, if you’d like.”
“Of course, darling,” Alador answers, in a tone Odalia knows well - focused, intent on his work, and ignorant of a word she has said. He turns and unveils the first prototype of the night. Propped up on the table is a huge, round shield, made of Abomination matter and stamped in the middle with the Blight Industries logo. Next to it, flat on the table and seemingly innocuous, rests a disc small enough to fit in her palm. Alador introduces the shield with a wave of his hand. The shield senses the movement and starts to react, morphing until it is firm on Alador’s arm and covering over half his body. “The Ambomination Aspis, a shield that protects you better than you can protect yourself. It compacts down to a convenient size, ideally marketed towards professional duelists.”
“You underestimate yourself, dear! With the right durability tests, we can easily market this towards low-level law enforcers! The Aspis, you said? You’re a gem, Alador.”
He retracts the shield, smiles at her with pride and exhaustion in his expression, which is exactly what she feels in her bones. Odalia touches his cheek, briefly, before moving towards the next table.
Alador speeds through the introductions to his latest prototypes, many of which she’s heard about or even seen during their earlier developmental stages. She’s quite pleased with how far his new line of tripwires and hidden traps, and even more pleased that she won’t be running into any more of them in the manor. The showcase this year will be exceptional. Odalia feels both smug and settled that pushing Alador towards defensive home contraptions seems to have paid off. It is more than what she dreamed of, when she asked him to switch directions this year. In fact, Odalia promises herself that she won’t even put up much of a fuss when he introduces one of his Abomination butlers or maids or gardeners.
Sure enough, the last table, longer than the others and covered in an array of items, has the distinct shape of a miniature Abomination standing beneath it. Odalia covers her sigh, smiles at her husband, and awaits his introductions.
He stands in front of the table, back to her, hands fisted in the sheet covering it. Though she waits patiently for him to unveil the rest of his inventions, he hesitates. Alador glances over his shoulder, a flash of gold eyes studying her expression, before he snaps off the sheet.
First and foremost is the small Abomination servant, presented in a ridiculous dress and bow tie, which does not surprise her in the least. The little curtsy it gives them does surprise her, and the grand finale of the showcase only proceeds to confound her, from there.
There is a theme to this line of prototypes, too. It isn’t a theme that Odalia ever considered for a range of Abomination products, but her husband is nothing if not innovative. After all, who else would envision an Abomination crib, rocking back and forth on oozing, purple feet? Or a mobile with tiny Abominations in different shapes rotating around an oracle’s orb? Surely, no mind other than Alador’s would combine Abomination matter with swaddlers, strollers, night lights, and pop-up toys.
Odalia is impressed, staring at the most unheard of things in this lab, but mostly, she is taken aback. So many questions spring to mind. Is it safe for children to ingest, or at least, gnaw on, Abomination matter? Has his entire endeavor with these disgusting servants around the house been a secret attempt to perfect an Abomination nanny? Why has Alador gone through all the trouble to create these things? Why did he feel the need to keep it a secret? She has never imagined the marketability of infant or child-themed products for their company, but Blight Industries has made a name with personal and home security.
What does every parent want to protect above all else?
“Children?” she asks, a finger on her chin, numbers running through her mind.
“Yes.”
Alador sounds oddly strangled. His goggles aren’t around his neck, Odalia notes when she glances at him curiously. He is taut as a bow, frozen in front of the product line, half-turned towards her, obviously anxious for her opinion on the display.
She brightens her tone, staying intent on the prototypes, and digs for the most positive feedback possible on an unexpected product line. “Well, I never would have thought of it, but that’s why you’re the inventor, darling. I’m particularly fond of the mobile, and in terms of sales, this-”
Alador takes a step towards her, then another, his face somber, cutting off the hand she raised to gesture towards the products, and her speech. He shakes his head. “Odalia. I don’t care about the sales. I made this line for me. For us, for our children.”
Face twisting in confusion, Odalia says, “Alador, we don’t-”
“No, we don’t. But we could.”
Alador has thrown a hex at her plans, the steady path they are working towards, with the milestone fifth anniversary of Blight Industries coming up, on the heels of Odalia and Alador’s sixth wedding anniversary. Their company is still in the fledgling stages. Actual fledglings would derail them, by leaving Blight Industries without the mind that funds it and the woman that runs it.
Still, the obvious thought Alador has put into this speaks for something. His Abomination servant is an obvious attempt at a nanny, she realizes now, thinking of the numerous times one has brought her a blanket or a glass of milk, the way they hover unnecessarily, with their eerie attempts at a smile stuck on their faces. With a competent nanny - one that Odalia could trust implicitly, even - the task of having children would be much easier to bear. With the dozen other inventions Alador has presented to her, quite a few of the difficulties of child rearing are lightened. He has thought enough about her potential arguments to provide answers.
And there is the game of R.A.S.H., of course. The game that said she would marry Alador Blight and live in the Blight family manor, as an Oracle, and they would have three children.
Odalia looks to Alador, closing the distance between them with a final step. They stand chest to chest, Alador’s electric eyes and the thrum of his magic sending sparks down her spine, while Odalia considers him quietly. She hasn’t seen him so serious in years.
“You would like to have a child,” Odalia says.
“I would like to start a family,” he corrects, hands twitching towards her, shoulders hunching just a bit, a shadow of his usual, slumping self.
His hand is clammy, when she takes it in her own, and she decidedly does not roll her eyes at him, as he would take offense in the state he’s worked himself into. Odalia endures, twining their fingers together, raising their hands until Alador has a clear view of their matching rings. “We became a family the day I bonded myself to you in magical matrimony,” she corrects him, in turn. “If you want a larger family, well, you know I love to talk expansion.”