Chương 177: Chapter 198: I Believe In You

The trip to Final Form with Kurumi did not take particularly long, and the drive back was pleasant and fruitful. I had all of our new magic items safely stored in the void, my pocket dimension, and I dropped Kurumi off at her guild hall on the way back. She had some work of her own to take care of, getting the early legwork for the process of fencing, I mean, brokering the various relics and salvage that we would be picking up next weekend.

I had the driver bring me around to the main studio for Zyco and his assistant Lia, to get my makeup done for the evening's affairs. We've got the second weekend of Fashion Week, and I need to be at least as finely-done as last weekend. They were ready for me this time. I met at their main studio. Last time there had been a lot of subterfuge and misdirection, because I was still learning to trust these people around my face and throat.

What sold me on them was not so much that they had not tried to kill me, but that Zyco was so clearly eager to work with me again. He was not coy about the fact that he considers me to be the perfect canvas for his finest work, and he's got a very artistic temperament. He is not eager to see me like he's springing a trap, he's eager to see me like he's going to show off his skills. I sat in the padded seat and let them do their part.

My paranoia did keep one hand outside of the smock so that I could keep an eye on my poison-detecting thumb-ring, and as usual my sorcerous senses were making sure nothing sharp was being brought near me. I had a high affinity for steel, like an old friend. It would let me know about knives moving at me. Zyco was immediately taking last-minute measurements before he started work.

They had ignored most of the usual foundations and powders, most of the coverage work that took the majority of their time and product, because i just don't need it. I'm not a heroine. But I do have heroine complexion, as the twin sister of the designated hero. The cast of my face does read a little sinister, but as my brother's sister I have basically flawless skin and proportions. And Zyco was turning this into a new opportunity, bringing out a new rack of products that he bought for this occasion.

During the course of the next hour they went over every inch of my face and neck with brushes, blending and blending and blending, and each step of the process was subtle. I could not see the difference even as I watched myself in the mirror, but at one point I consciously reset my perspective, and looked harder. Flawless skin is one thing. It's still skin. But he was taking the next step, I looked and felt like I was carved from white jade, or pristine marble.

Pliable as a living thing but smooth as glass, almost slick to the touch. Rather than trying to humanize me or soften me or draw out sympathetic reactions, I was being made into something unearthly. Someone with intent to flatter might say 'ethereal', but it wouldn't be inaccurate to use the word 'eerie'. And I had to admit: it looked good on me. Last week the motif was sharpness, getting all the liner and pencils utterly precise and dead-level straight.

Winged eyeliner like a stealth bomber, lip liner with a draftsman's precision. This time we're trying something subtler, using gradients and transition. The previous weekend I had looked sharp and unnaturally precise, this week I looked like a piece of art designed by a skilled hand. While he was working diligently and attentively, Zyco was also checking notes on a tray table and keeping a running conversation about my hair.

We tried lots of different ideas, because now he knew that I can use little bits of magic to manipulate it to an unheard-of degree. I've been in the habit of using my hair for dramatic statements. Usually that meant a dramatic updo, shaped and sculpted and pinned with combs or glossed with resin, or left loose over me like a flowing cape. This time we split the difference in a way very unique to myself. First, I brushed out and separated every strand of hair.

This is an amazing and difficult accomplishment and it took five seconds. Then I formed large bunches in the loosest braids I could, large and fluffy with the strands all separated until they could be seen through at certain angles. Each long braid was secured by a small ruby clip. My hair was separated into a dozen long, swirling clouds that trailed behind me, and I kept them buoyant and wafting like they were trailing through water, hovering in languid coils around my shoulders.

My dress was gauzy and light, with airy streamers and voile fringe, layers of tissue-thin fabrics that wafted around me as I walked and moved, a contrast between my sharp-boned face and the bobbing billows about me. I have already treated it as the new season, with a plethora of scarves and collars, stoles and sashes. I had them tucked and wound around me, giving shape to the dress beneath, pinned in place with bright ruby brooches.

The fabrics were mostly red-to-white ombré gradients, laced and layered over each other almost in a basket-weave of flounce. In my first life I was mostly in T-shirts and jeans, shorts in hot weather and a blazer in the winter. I have had to make a lot of adjustments, knowing that my ability to save this world, and my own life, may depend on my ability to get people's attention. So I've gone full Met Gala. My case is probably more common than I think.

Most people are not given the chance to spend their whole lives doing what made them comfortable in early years. All of us change and grow, and even if we look back nostalgically we will adapt to circumstances. The world turns slowly but it never turns backwards. I took deep breaths, and the vision in the mirror copied me. Gods everything has changed so much. I shook that away and focused. Tonight is important, the last night of Fashion Week, setting the stage for the next six months.

Cementing my place as the acting head of the Development Faction. Establishing myself as the most influential individual in House politics short of the royal family themselves. A wicked, confident smile curled into place. Part of me hopes Nathan has warned Vobel and Czoverenne what it's like having me as a rival. If I sat on a carriage bench I would have to magically iron out every layer of my garments as soon as I got to the venue, so that's all the reason I need to travel by portals.

I thanked Zyco and Lia for their help and their attention, and assured them that I would retain them the next time my schedule allowed. Also, I asked them to contact my people if he had any new ideas or proposals and wanted to work on some special project. I've paid for the best and gotten the best, I'll make sure I get their best work. Sometimes I like to make a big splashy entrance and let the flash-bang portals announce me. But not tonight, not when my stated intention is to get everyone to support my bid.

And in six months, when a bunch of puffed-up self-interested aristocrats decide to make their power play under the alibi of serving the public trust, I want them to see me as the leader to put at the front of their movement. Because whoever leads the Rapier Revolt next year, if they survive, becomes the leader of the real civil war three years later. And that one is for all the marbles. So rather than blinding everyone around, I open my portal one street over, and glide in down along the pavement.

I can make a dramatic enough entrance inside, I don't need to impress the garden gnomes. And I was gliding because even in good neighborhoods it's possible to snag a heel and twist an ankle on the sidewalks at night. Now obviously there's no rational and credible reason why this just happened to work out the way it did, the timing is possible but just extremely unlikely. Except that I do live in a fictional world that generates drama, after all, and things like this happen more often than not.

But usually I'm able to at least get in the door before things start falling to shit. I ignored the hired cab that rolled up to the front of the venue, even when it stopped somewhat short of the normal drop-off point. I did not ignore when the door slammed open so fast and unexpectedly that it almost clipped my shoulder. I flitted back away from the impact, fists balled up.

"Watch it!" I snapped, my voice carried like a whip.

"Oh dear!" said an accented voice from within the carriage. An accent that I know, and one that is not heard much in Hearstcliff. In fact, only a handful of people from Lecight live anywhere in Hearstwhile. The only one I know personally is the young woman who is being groomed by two governments to serve as an ambassador and arbiter between the two nations. Half a year ago, Curigi had come to Fashion Week with her date. That was the whole reason that Nathan was in the overflow annex instead of the main event.

Two faces peered out at me from the darkened carriage interior, looking shocked, dumbstruck. I hovered over the sidewalk, annoyed to see them. The carriage driver watched us all, just ready to get them unloaded so he could go find another paying fare. Then Nathan's forehead scrunched.

"Natalie?!" he blurted. Nobody else at this party would have had a hard time identifying me in a heartbeat. But Nathan hardly ever sees me dressed up, and almost never for the high-end galas. He has only recently gotten used to seeing the ivory-white version of his sister. And he's never around when I launch one of my more dramatic looks.

I glanced up at his incredulous expression, then over at the receiving line for the gala, and then back at the two staring faces that were hovering in the doorway, waiting for something. For me to react. Or to blow them up. I sighed, and relaxed my shoulders, and lowered my arms, and unclenched my fists.

"Get out here," I said, and I could hear how annoyed and tired I sounded. I waved them out of the carriage and they came stumbling out. Nathan had, like me, already moved to emulate the highly-accessorized style that was slated for the next season. Curigi was wearing something simple and understated that had me deeply envious. She was not in Harigold colors per se, just a light pink and dark pink alternating. Definitely reminiscent of my livery, though.

Nathan was dressed sharply in white shirt, waistcoat, breeches, stockings, boots and coat, but every one of those had some bright crimson trim or accents, and all of his busy accessories were in red. From the ribbon holding his pocket-watch to his bootlaces, rickrack to aiguilettes, every small detail was in a matching shade of red, and the embroidered buttonholes. The most important thing in a good iconic look is consistency, and he had it.

Still every goddamned inch the hero of this story, even after what he and I have pushed each other to. And I'm convinced already that somehow, the hero of the story has shown up to ruin my night again. Heralds outside the venue are facing this way, and a flow of guests have us in their field of vision. I'm not going to kill my brother in front of this many witnesses. But at this point I'm not ruling out much else.

The carriage-driver dipped his horsewhip to tap the horse's flank and it moved along, guided by the gentle touch. From what I've been told, the carriage drivers mostly carried whips out of a sense of tradition, they were long past needing to actually strike a horse to get it to obey. The other reason they had a whip was that sometimes they traveled in rough neighborhoods, and there aren't many ways for a driver to defend themselves against thugs on the ground.

Curigi was already shivering, and I wrapped them both in my warmed aura. Her enviably elegant outfit did not include a shrug or shawl to clutter it up, and they had stopped far too short of the front door to move straight to the warmth. If they had pulled up far enough, they would not have almost hit me.

"Thanks," Nathan said as warm air enfolded them.

"I've gotten used to a colder atmosphere."

"Don't tempt me," I said, my face set in stern lines.

"So, I notice that this is not the overflow annex."

"No," Nathan said, turning his shoulders and making to move for the entrance to the Hall of Arts. With his unspoken lead Curigi and I fell in, three abreast towards the lit entrance. He gave me a wry look.

"Someone told me before that I was leaving opportunities by watching the show from there instead of the main presentation." Of fucking course this is when he listens to me. It's never when I tell him things. It's always the next time that listening to my advice would be inconvenient. Is this my luck? Is this sabotage? Or is this just the experience of having a sibling? I really wanted to facepalm. It was a yearning. I had just spent four hours getting my makeup perfect.

"Nathan," I said, with my voice carefully controlled.

"We talked. Two weeks ago. Don't put a hand in my business. Do not meddle in my affairs. Do not step on my toes. Do not step at my toes. Do not undermine me. Do not vex me." He gave a wry and good-natured chuckle.

"Yes, and after two weeks of the coldest shoulder I've ever seen, I've certainly gotten the message!"

"No you have not," I told him. His breath burst out of him in a vaporous gasp, clouding the air. Curigi tried to scream without breath. Frost formed at the corners of their eyes and mouths.

"Nathan, you have run out every warning I have to give. We are past that point. I will be civil in school if I see you at a distance. But here in the political sphere, which is what this is, you and I cannot share space or cross paths." Nathan caught Curigi before she hit the ground, her skin turning blue. I eased up the cold to something uncomfortably chilly but not life-threatening. The sidewalk here was far too visible, only just outside the drop-off of the gala itself. Not a good place to kill anyone.

The magic system in this game is broken. The various options, like skills and affinities, are what determine which challenges you can bypass, but the Strength stat is used for combat resolution. My Strength of 11 is not much compared to seasoned adventurers, mana warriors, most wizards, or Suthie Vanderbolt. But it is enough to kill a strong man in a single attack. So the limit of how strong I can swing a steel fist, or how hard I can shoot a wooden spear, are dictated by Strength.

And also how cold I can make a room. I've been chilling the homeroom to uncomfortable levels for two weeks now. But only to the point of making things unpleasant. That was me at about five percent. I could easily bring a cold that would kill almost all of them in moments. Right now, Curigi was whimpering and unable to walk because I gave her twenty-percent. Heat, pressure, vacuum, impact, fouled air, I can bring all of them at the same strength level. He was shivering, but not nearly as bad off as his date was.

He crouched over her, glaring at me in anger and disbelief.

"Natalie! Stop- Why would you! -""You wrote out a contract that tried to sell me into slavery to the woman who is still pissed that she was not able to imprison me for life once before," I reminded him, unbothered.

"Remember? You didn't even ask her name. You didn't know the connection. Your reckless actions are going to keep me in danger for months or years." He shook his head.

"That contract could never be enforced like that. You were-""Because I'm going to fight it, because I can fight it," I said, impassively.

"But just because I can probably defeat this does not forgive you for putting it in front of me. And then the very next week you connected me to a dead body and I was arrested on murder charges-""Which you are exonerated for! And you got out immediately!" I could hear my teeth grinding, and I forced myself to relax.

"Nathan, just because none of your foolhardy stunts has actually killed me yet doesn't mean I'm going to keep letting you try. My ability to survive does not forgive that you keep stabbing me in the back." Not to mention the class rankings, and the Greifir dinner, and the trade minister, and Casser fucking Swamman. The pattern is consistent and he is definitely escalating his attacks. I've no intention of seeing this to its logical conclusion.

"Really?" he challenged.

"But you came out stronger! Better positioned!" He whisked off his jacket and draped it around Curigi, chafing at her hands to warm her up. Hooves clopped behind me, more carriages pulling up.

"You couldn't know that!" I snapped.

"You're just playing with my life!" And then his expression shifted fast, a mask falling away. Something calculating slid across his visage, something cynical, clinical and far too analytical. His face and mine are very similar, mine is narrower at the jaw and brow, his nose and chin sit a little further forward.

But I saw an expression on him that I felt like I recognized because I have felt it from the inside, and when I wore that expression I was usually working through an equation where x equals the cost in innocent lives. And then it slid away again, a reflection in moving water, no sign it was ever there.

"I'm going to get her something warm to drink," he said, lifting Curigi up in a bridal carry like a true-blue romance hero, his overlarge coat swaddling her.

"And Natalie?" he said, over his shoulder to me.

"I believe in you." I stood, stunned stone-still, with my mouth hanging open. The fuck does that mean? And I was still gaping, speechless, when he headed for the front door of the Hall of Arts. I watched them, barely blinking, as they presented his invitation without setting the girl down. Why did he have that 'calculus of innocent lives' face before he decided to tell me that he believes in me? What the fuck is that? What decision did he make in his head that comes out to that?

What chain of dominoes is he setting in motion by telling me that he believes in me? There were not many things he could have done that would have fucked with my head more than that. Only gradually did it filter into my brain that I was losing my chance to keep him out of the Hall of Arts.

"Gods dammit," I snarled, and fallen leaves whipped up in my wake as I shot forward to the entrance. Looks like I'm going to be dealing with my brother tonight, in addition to everything else that is bound to challenge me tonight.