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“What was that quote from that guy on Cosmos? You remember, Harrow, we used to watch it as a kid.” The loft above Quintessence was empty, like most times, save for two; Harrow, and the entity known only as It. They were sitting on the couch that faced the windows which looked out onto Canaan Street. The windows were frosty, and so they couldn’t see out onto the street below, yet both looked that way, to avoid looking at the other.
“I asked you a question, It.” Harrow clenched their jaw. It frustrated them; always an enigma, It was.
“I’m answering. What’s the quotation? I know you know it.”
Harrow sighed, “His name was Carl Sagan, as you know, and he said, ‘The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.’”
“Well, that’s the answer to your question.”
“Can you just explain it to me!?” Harrow whipped her head towards the person opposite her on the couch, shouting, “You were happy enough to be clear and frank when you spoke about about my identity, but now that I ask a single question about you, you make me jump through a hundred hoops. Just tell me, who are you?!” She was standing, and heat rose to her face, anger mixing and melting into embarrassment.
It looked at her with pity. It looked at her, Harrowhark Nonage—
“Are you serious?” It smirked, interrupting her again, “You didn’t even notice what you just thought, did you?”
“Notice what?!” She—
“There it is again!” It laughed at them, and they realized what was happening.
“What is this?” They forgot why they were angry, why they were standing.
“What’s your name?”
“… Harrow. Nonagesimus.”
“Is it?”
Harrow sighed, “Harrowhark Nonagesimus.”
“Is it?” It wasn’t smirking anymore.
“What are you getting at?”
“We’ll get to it, alright? Be patient for once.”
Harrow sat back down. Their head hurt.
“Where were we?” It glanced back at the window, “Right, we’re star stuff…”
I can’t pinpoint when I was born. Sometimes we had thoughts that rejected what our parents wanted, or hated how others treated us, or wanted to hurt people who said that girls shouldn’t kiss other girls. You could say those were me, but they might have been the star stuff that made me. The nebulous material that coalesced together within you to begin the process of me.
We have the same memories, so it’s difficult to differentiate us. Every memory is a piece, some I reject as part of me, because they do not make me up; they make up you, or her. When we were children, perhaps ten years old, you saw a girl you thought was cute, and you said so to your mother. She looked at us with such gentle frustration and asked us if we didn’t think the boy next to her was cute too. We didn’t, but you said you did anyway. Maybe that was when I was first born; that contradiction between saying and thinking.
But if we are keeping to our analogy, then no; I wasn’t born then. I had only barely begun to coalesce, a jumble of thoughts increasing in mass, in density, until all at once: fusion.
The glass of the window had stayed fogged, but It hadn’t looked away. Harrow watched Its face, so like their own, but different. The way It spoke was like someone else inhabited their face, like someone else was making micro-expressions that didn’t match what they saw in the mirror as they spoke. It turned towards them, and they saw its eyes: hard as diamond, black as obsidian; jaded, like it lived with a chain round its neck.
“You understand?”
“A bit. Intellectually, not intuitively.” Harrow rubbed the back of their neck, it was sore but they didn’t know why.
“Then let me show you.” It turned its head back to the window, and Harrow felt their eyes follow. The frosty glass resolved into a scene from their youth: the sitting room of the Nonagesimus house in Seattle. It began to speak.
You had just finished the piece our teacher Mercy had said was beyond you, but you had known it wasn’t. You knew that without my help. It took you thirty attempts, but you had just finished it, flawlessly. You were about to celebrate when you heard your mother approach.
“Harrowhark, there you are.”
“Mother, I—“
“What is the meaning of this, Harrowhark?” She held up a paper for us to see. It was your exam from that day. You had scored well, but not perfectly. You knew what she would say. You thought you had prepared.
“Teacher said my grade as the highest.”
“And why would that matter?”
You balked at what she had said for a moment, “But, that means I still did the best.”
“‘The best’ isn’t good enough, Harrowhark Nonagesimus.” She only used your full name when she was displeased, “You cannot let your grades slip like this. You cannot be a disappointment like your brother.” Our mother adopted a stern tone with you, “I dare say you’ve already disappointed your father.”
You said nothing. How could you have? You were nothing but a young girl, were you really expected to talk back to your mother?
So I said something instead. I just couldn’t stand seeing what she was doing to you. It was the first thought of my very own that I had ever had.
“I don’t care!”
Your mother was stunned. She had never heard you speak heresy in her presence, but it wasn’t really you, was it? She would punish you like it was, though. You insisted you didn’t know why you said it, but she punished you all the same. I wonder, was that when you started to hate me, Harrow?
“I don’t hate you.” Harrow said, casting their eyes down.
“Not all of you, no.” It said, and smiled ruefully, “But that’s not the whole story, not yet.”
The window clouded further, and the halls of Harrow’s high school resolved.
We met Ianthe on our second day in high school. She was intelligent, witty, and pretty in the way a wilting flower was pretty. You were interested in Ianthe, I knew you were, so I tried to convince you, as best I could, to learn about her. She seemed so different, so alien to our understanding. You were fascinated by her, but refused to act, so I acted in your stead. I wasn’t really trying to get you in trouble, but really; we were in high school, neither of us knew better.
When we came to school that day, I worked up the nerve to ask Ianthe if she had seen the latest episode of that anime she loved, you know the one; with the guy who kills people with the notebook—She had a whole fan blog about the girl with the red eyes, she seemed to really identify with her. As soon as we mentioned the name, though, her expression got dark.
“What are you talking about, Harrowhark? I don’t watch that trash.” She sneered. It was like nothing we had seen before, that sneer, and it pulled the floor out from under us.
“B—but, you—your blog…” I didn’t know what to do, and you sure as hell didn’t want to be there running the show.
“Oh my god, did you like, find me online?!” Ianthe’s voice was piercing. I think she was panicking—so were we.
“I—I found your side blog through your profile—“ Explanation seldom made people like us more, but we were still in the midst of learning that lesson.
Ianthe raised her voice so the rest of the hall could hear, “Little stalker Nonagesimus wanted to know what I liked so she could endear herself to me, what a fucking weirdo!”
The words were a knife in our back. She was deflecting, trying to save face for what—watching anime? Ianthe was ready to light us aflame to avoid getting singed.
“No, I—I just wanted t-to—“
“Creepy little fucking gremlin. What, did you think if you said you liked the same things I did that I’d suddenly like you back? Gross.”
So what if I did? Isn’t that how people made friends?
“I just—I didn’t mean to st—I’m not—“ We were cycling too rapidly to coherently speak; you, me, and her.
“Here’s the deal, Harry, you do whatever I say and maybe, maybe I’ll not tell your parents that their daughter is a dyke, alright?“
Ianthe was leaning in close to us, something between desperate plea and bargain with the devil in her eyes. We couldn’t say anything, we were crying by then. We just nodded, and let her take advantage of us.
Harrow and It both wiped tears from their eyes. It was still raw; Ianthe had only barely apologized to them a number of months ago. Harrow was too busy trying to figure out themself to process it fully.
“I couldn’t do much, after that.” It quelled a sob with words, and Harrow realized it was crying for a different reason.
“You grieve for the time you spent hiding?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” When It turned its face to Harrow, its eyes were shining like a star, burning in a pure concoction of frustration and bottled-up rage.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry for my part in that.”
“Everyone had their parts to play. Ianthe still hasn’t apologized to me for it, not enough, at least; and your parents will never get the chance.”
“Are those all the guilty parties?” Harrow had to look away. The pain in its eyes was too much to bear. Harrow was beginning to understand it more and more.
“There’s one more.”
“Who?”
It stood, interposing itself between Harrow and the windows, “Tell me, Harrow; when you left Seattle for Crèche, what did you leave behind?”
Harrow gave this thought, though they didn’t need to. They wanted to find the answer first, if they could. They went for the obvious answer, “My parents. My brother. Ianthe. My friends and family. My old life.”
“... And?”
Harrow remembered their earlier exchange: Harrow, not Harrowhark. Harrow, and the window, paled. A typical Nonagesimus family dinner presented itself.
You sat in the middle of the table, at your usual space; your brother sat across from you, reading a book of poetry, silently moving his lips. It was terribly distracting; the reason itemized number fourteen on your list. Your mother and father sat at either head of the table, bolt upright and stiff in their posture. They had corrected you on your posture twice today; itemized as number twenty, since it had functional purpose, even if it was irritating.
“Harrowhark, what did you accomplish today?” It was a typical question for dinnertime conversation, one of the few, really.
You began by listing off the usual; how many hours did you study, what classwork had you completed, what extracurriculars you’d practiced. You were quite busy, back then, but that’s college for you when you’re a rich daughter of a rich family. You hadn’t actually met that many rich children—besides Ianthe, but she barely counted—so you didn’t really have much perspective; Ortus, your most convenient role model, also didn’t count.
No, you were going this alone—well, mostly. We had spent the past four years making a plan in the back of our head, one which you put into play tonight. You finished your usual list, and then added, “I have also applied to four jobs.”
Your parents stopped eating nigh instantaneously. Your mother spoke first, “That’s unacceptable, Harrowhark.”
Your cheeks flared up a little in anger, “What I do when I have graduated is none of your concern—“
“None of my—why I never!” She rose and stomped off into the den, and Father took over, “Your mother is upset, of course, but you must know Harrowhark that we have been making appropriate plans for you. Going into the workforce is hardly a Nonagesimus occupation. You are more suited to—well let us say matters political and philanthropic. We are hardly in need of a wage to put dinner on the table, darling—and thank you, Mister Crux, it was lovely as always.“
While Father seemed to think it an appropriate time to compliment our butler, Mother seemed to have decided to send for our erstwhile governess—and current “advisor,” as Mother liked to put it—Miss Aiglamene. She came in the door, anger and distaste clear on her lips and eyes, “What is this I hear of you attempting to find labor, young Miss.” The term was of endearment, but the voice that gave it life was scornful.
“I have applied to a number of tech companies in the area—“
“What, so you might have some pocket change? Don’t be a child—“
“Aiglamene.” Ortus eyed the woman. His voice was dark, but we didn’t know what that meant.
“I’m about to receive two degrees, and none of you will even let me use them? What was the point of university, then?!” I was beginning to shine through, more and more by this point, and they all hated it. They hated when you spoke back to them, when you got angry and “threw a tantrum,” in their lexicon.
“You had asked for the degrees yourself, young Miss.” Aiglamene was patronizing her now, holding back. You were grateful; I was furious.
“And now I ask another step; why do you attempt to stop me here, and not there?”
“Because we had not yet found you a suitable husband!” Father shouted for the first time in a decade.
You stood—when did you stand?—in stunned silence, before I spoke, “So you have, now.”
“We are currently in negotiations, yes.” He lowered his voice. We only watched him, but I wonder what Ortus was thinking when he learned this.
“Then allow me to work until you finalize them.” I said. I was angry, of course; furious, really, but what would come of screaming and wrecking a room when they ignored our words and bought new things to replace the broken? We would get out of here, one way or another.
Father looked to Aiglamene, the latter acting as Mother’s proxy, and said, “You may, under condition: you work at a company of our creation, and as long as you can keep it running, you can have your labor.”
The window faded back, and It reminded them, “Took you some time after that to actually put it into practice, but that was the night you decided to go only by Harrow.”
Harrow remembered the feeling of liberation, removing the part of their name they had always hated. “Hark.” When they spoke the moniker aloud, buzzing filled their head, as if for a moment their mind was full of bees. Then, they were gone, and someone else stood in their body.
“Why are you telling them this?” She said, tears in her eyes; they had been of revelation moments ago, now they stung of anger.
“Because, Hark, you aren’t the only one with agency. They need to know.”
“I’m disappointed in you.”
“That never worked on me. Mother tried plenty.” It smiled, and there was truth in that smile, and the fire of a star in its eyes.
Hark stared daggers back through Harrow’s eyes at It, and faded back. Harrow blinked, and clutched their hands to their head, “What was that?”
“That, was her.” It sighed, “We don’t have much more to go.”
The window faded again.
“Now we will read the last will and testament that Priamhark and Pelleamena Nonagesimus penned. There were also a number of amendments that we will get to in due time.” The lawyer spoke well, and barely stopped for water, for nearly an hour. During that time, our parents posthumously divvied up their estate into the hands of various aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, cousins and second cousins, twice removed.
As you had expected, they left you nothing. In their finite wisdom, they’d even written you an essay explaining, at length and in unnecessary detail, why they had expected you to “pull yourself up by your boot straps.” They had left Ortus all the money that was left—a substantial amount—though we later learned it was holed up in trusts. They explained for him, again in great detail, that he was a great disappointment to the entire Nonagesimus line. Aunts and Uncles, Nieces and Nephews, Cousins and Second-Removeds, all shuffled embarrassedly through the entire tirade, wrought in blood by two disappointed, and dead, parents. Ortus, for his part, was reading another book of poems during the will.
But then they began at the amendments. The final piece of Priamhark and Pelleamena’s vengeance against you—us: the dissolution of the corporation known as Crèche, and the firing of all its workers. You had been forced to fail, and now by the contract made between parent and child, you were obligated to give up your home, and marry Colum Asht.
You took this news remarkably well, but I was helping. The star in my heart burned away your tears before they reached your eyes. The lawyer finished his mission by reading a final amendment, one which allotted funds from the estate to pay for our wedding. The Asht family was present at the funeral occurring outside the chamber where the family gathered now, and they would hear about this soon. As the family filed out, you were stunned, unable to bring yourself to stand. The desolation kept us both down, then, and she took over instead.
Hark walked around the party, greeting and accepting condolences like a good girl, until she was met face to face with Colum Asht. The man smiled at her in a charming manner, but the thought of marrying this man, having to kiss him or take him to bed, woke us up. The pain was too much, the heat in us had burned for so long, and now it was close to dying out; so instead, I exploded.
I took over, then, and said exactly what I had wanted to say since hearing of this sham of a marriage, “I will not be marrying you.”
“What?” He said, confused, and after the moment of shock passed his father stepped forward and said sternly, “Now you listen here young lady, our families have been negotiating for years, and we finally came to a deal—“
“Mister Asht, it isn’t my fault if you made a deal with a corpse. It is null and void, I do not consent to a marriage to your son.”
“Harrowhark, don’t you—“ Colum began, but I had had enough.
I threw our glass of wine on him, staining his suit, “It’s Harrow, you blithering fool. I changed it years ago.”
He was hurt—had he not known?
“Why you—this is an outrage! Just wait until your—“
“What, until my father hears about this? He’s dead, you damnable geezer. My mother too, in case you hadn’t noticed, and they shan’t be doing any deals any longer!” I was getting hotter. I’d been burning for so long.
Colum attempted peace again, “Harrow, please, let’s discuss this—“
“No! I shall be discussing nothing more with any of you. I received no inheritance, I was punished in my parents’ will, with you!” I scoffed, “No, I think I’d rather go, now.”
I walked us out of that room, and didn’t look back, except I’d forgotten that I wasn’t the only one with agency.
Light filtered back into the room as the dark scene fell like rain on the glass. They were all three of them weeping.
“So you know, now, what I am.” It spoke slowly, “I was the one who burned within you, who needed to get out and forge its own path, but you weren’t ready, and neither was she. I spent so long trying to protect us, when I should have been speaking more to both of you. She always shut me out, though, and you couldn’t hear unless I spoke through you. So eventually, I was presented a choice: allow myself to be snuffed out completely, or do something else entirely.”
“You—you already have a name.”
“I do. Remind me.”
“Nova.”
Nova smiled, and it was warm like the sun on a summer’s day.
“It’s a pleasure to formally meet you, Harrow.” It said, resplendent in the light of its eternal death throes, the Nova that became a new star.
Harrow’s head buzzed again, and Hark spoke through them, “What are you trying, what’s your angle, Nova?”
“Ah, Hark, I was beginning to miss your personable attitude.” Nova smirked, “I might reflect that question back to you, dear self; why do you continue to fight for the wishes of two corpses?”
“It’s the correct thing to do. Who are we without the Nonagesimus name? They fed us, clothed us, taught us; paid for us.” Hark was near tears, but Nova didn’t mind making her cry when it was the right thing to do.
“We didn’t ask for that, Hark. They did that because they wanted to control us, to make a life for themselves to live on within; a copy of their awful ideals and their ancient methods. You’re a product of their abuse, but you’re not obliged to them. They’re dead; move on.”
“The family is what remains when we pass on, else there is no purpose—“
“We found a new family, one that has treated us better than Father or Mother ever could! Besides, are you really less happy now? I’ve seen you around Gideon, you’re ecstatic! You love her just as much as Harrow or I do, so don’t pretend like you’d have been fine with Colum.”
“If you hadn’t shut the door, if Ortus hadn’t fixed it, I would have been fine with Colum.” Hark sniffled.
“Please, Hark, I’m just trying to do what’s best for all of us—“
“What’s best?” Hark spit her words one at a time, “What is the best for us, and why do you get to decide?!” Hark was shouting. Harrow’s throat was sore.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Nova’s face was twisted, trying to burn out its own tears, but it wasn’t working, “I have learned the past few months, I’m not the only one here! We all have to work together.”
Nova stepped forward, and hesitated. It wasn’t sure how, but it wanted to reconcile.
Hark held jealously to Harrow, “That would require you to actually listen to me!”
“I—I will. I promise.”
Hark almost imperceptibly relaxed, “Then we have to make up with Ianthe.”
“I… I’ll try.” Nova said, reluctant, pained, but true.
Hark stepped towards it, “And visit Ortus.”
“I like Ortus!” Nova smiled, and Hark smiled too.
“There, then we have something in common.” Hark hugged Nova, and when Harrow came back, Hark was hugging both of them, still. They cried together, and as the light faded in the window, Harrow was alone.
They turned over in their bed and saw Gideon waking at the motion.
“What is it, Harrow? Why are you crying?”
“I have a lot to tell you about.”