To Your New Era

The hat stand by the door was Evalyn's choice, practically an afterthought compared to the rest of the furniture. Coming back from their first outing as a married couple, she instinctively reached for what they'd neglected in the mess that was their early days. By the next day, a set of curving arms of polished oak silently stood by the entrance. He'd hung his jacket on it, and from then on it was their humble bellhop, an indicator of who was home, and a gift from a more pompous Evalyn that no longer existed.

The broad, jagged outlines of his wife's many silhouettes would hang there, and eventually Iris's would too. School would demand another place on the carousel of fabric until one day he was fighting for a spot to hang up his own jacket.

But Elliot didn't blame them for being inconsiderate. Noticing small things was his forte.

"Right," he sighed, the thick folder in his hand at the forefront of his mind, waiting in cue right behind it his exam results. Passed, particularly where others had failed, owing to his experience-based instinct. He hadn't quite decided if it felt good or not, robbing others of a job, but Marie insisted it was right place, right time. Having a witch for a wife meant he had informational clearance few others had.

As usual, he rearranged the mess of a coat hanger, retired his overgarments and ventured further inside. It was still, but for such a time of night that was expected. Evalyn would be asleep, her breath reeking of alcohol, and Iris would be…

It was always slightly different. Even he couldn't shake the assumption she'd have no hobbies. Blank stare, sparse words; she didn't act the type, to say the least. He approached her room and knocked on her door.

"Hm?"

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah."

He turned the handle and pushed it open. Today it was study. Crestana must have said something to her.

"Hey."

"Hi."

"How was school?"

"We had an excursion."

"That was today?"

"Mhm."

Her pencil kept scratching. He waited patiently against the doorframe, knowing she wanted to do anything but study, but couldn't stop halfway through something either.

Books were a mainstay in her room: one by her bedside, several on her desk. He never asked for details, only that when he asked if she wanted a bookshelf she said no, because none of the books were hers. It was a shame, seeing as the furniture she'd asked for would fit right into one of the Great Library's million corners. The place had an infectious grasp on one's psyche, and nobody in the family was more smitten with the place than she was.

A dark-green armchair and an elbow-high reading desk commandeered one corner of the room, while her writing desk—a hand-me-down from the library—took the other end. Even three years on, Alis's old letters still stood close by. Roughly thirty-five, give or take.

The scratching finally stopped, and Iris turned to face him, bleary-eyed. He chuckled, walked over and jostled her hair.

"Get some sleep soon."

"Soon," she mumbled.

"How was the excursion?"

Iris swivelled in her chair as she talked, following him trudge to her bed to take a seat. "The catacombs had changing signs, so we tried to guess what they'd lead us to."

"And what did you learn with our twenty thousand Ixa?"

"The only word that worked was 'brothel'. What does that mean?"

Evalyn would beat him to a pulp if that was the way she learnt about the birds and the bees. What could he do? She frequented the library of infinite knowledge; it was bound to happen at some point.

"I don't know, darling," he lied. "But I'm glad you had fun."

His hand landed on the binder again, and Iris's eyes locked onto it. He glanced at her, then at the binder, then finally made up his mind.

"Colte called Marie the other night."

"He did?" Her face turned pissy, clouding with disappointment.

"He can't make too many calls, remember? Clearly, Marie's more important than you."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Fight her over it. Anyway…this…"

He picked up the binder and passed it to her. She took it tentatively, fingers reaching to open it to the first page, but he raised his hand. Iris froze, eyes wide and brow confused, fingers still teasing the binder's cover.

"Remember when you told Colte you didn't want to know more about your past?"

"Is this it?"

Elliot pursed his lips and nodded, and in that moment he watched the binder grow weightier in her hands, her swimming eyes writing out every emotion towards it onto the blank face, knowing it would never fit.

"I don't want it," she muttered, resigned but not yet resolute. "It's not who I am."

Perhaps he was a fool for expecting any different, but that wasn't a new feeling either. Part of him, an Elliot as valid as any other, considered accepting her request then and there, hoping her own curiosity would draw her back. But he had to concede that there was a father in him too.

"I know it isn't, and it doesn't have to be if you don't want it to. Thing is though; we all have parts of us that aren't our own. There are parts of you that are me, and parts that are mum, and parts of her that are her dad, so on, so forth."

He leaned forward, tapping the cover of the binder. "Sometimes these parts of us have problems. You know that better than anyone. They'll never go away completely, and that's why it's so important to understand them."

Elliot ended it with a smile—something sweet to go down with the medicine. It seemed to work, or at least she wasn't returning it yet.

"I wonder if that's what's happening to Mum."

"Not exactly, darling. How did she seem when she came home?"

"She was already here by the time I got back, sleeping like she was dead. I thought she was coming back with you."

"She was but… she needed to go home."

Elliot took Iris's hands and leaned in closer. She did the same, and they whispered as though she could hear.

"Mum's been going through things. She's a strong woman, but some things get to her. Sometimes it feels like she's the type to bash her head against the wall until she breaks through, but I believe in her."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because she's done it before," he said, shrugging. "It's how she got her deal with the Queen to work fewer contracts for less pay. She was sick of it, bashed her head against the wall, got into an argument with Colte, but she got there in the end."

He rustled her hair again, standing up.

"And even when she wasn't strong enough, I was there. Now you are too. But just because she's going through something doesn't mean you keep your lips tight about how you're feeling, all right?"

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He made sure that last message was stern. Iris meekly nodded.

"Good. Have you eaten?"

"A little."

"I'll wake Mum up and make something."

"Thanks, Dad."

"They're here, ma'am."

"Bring them in, please."

Marie straightened her posture and aligned the paperwork on her desk for one last time. She caught herself in the act, knowing her guest wouldn't reciprocate the gesture. Irrespective of their professionalism, a New Modernist's pettiness triumphed when it concerned the 'Queen's guard'. She enjoyed some reverence as its leader, but not much in the way of fondness.

The door swung open, and she felt her heart sink a little.

"Tackson," she said, standing from her chair.

"Lieutenant-General," the lanky Spirit said, their ageing voice box translating their speech no better than a garbling radio.

Flanking him on either side stood two attendants, one holding their luggage, the other their documents. Young, with hand-sculpted masks. Not yet designer craftsmanship, but classy enough to sit alongside jewellery rather than clothing. Tackson's tastes, no doubt.

"Let's get this over with quickly," they grumbled, glancing around the room. A crabby spindle of an arm reached out for the back of a chair across from her. It unnerved her, the way his tailored suit still hung off his frame like pyjamas. All the mass in their body had somehow coalesced in their brain, the resulting figure closer to centuries-old artistic renditions of her Majesty's foot-soldiers than his modern peers.

More in-tune with his roots. Rumour said that extended to his magic, too.

They waved their right hand as they sunk into their chair, and the corresponding attendant came forward, presenting one paper folder of many. They opened it, fingers leisurely flipping through the pages.

"We've looked into the Aether line the anonymous tip-off listed. Of its thirteen terminations, six were within a kilometre radius of each other, and the other seven in a similar cluster."

Tackson slid the document across the desk to her, open to a diagram of southern Geverde. The first cluster lay well within Excala Central's limits, the other to its north in a minor city—the infuriating detail that made it a federal case. Each node converged at one point, before a single line sprouted from it, dashing off into the countryside.

"Communication only runs one way: from the city out. Makes it ripe for speculation, but that doesn't really mean anything on its own. I'm inclined to think that it reduces the chances of having anything to do with Excala, but hey, what do I know?"

They flipped over the page and gestured towards a list of names.

"List of people who own all the addresses. All different names."

"Do you know who sold it to them? Their real estate agents?"

Tackson shook their head. "Investigation just started, and we've got bigger fish to fry. Anyway, here." He pointed to two addresses. "These are the two repeaters every communication runs through. It's easier to trace than if there were one line between every location, but conversely, a dozen new, unregistered Aether lines running into Excala are more noticeable than one. That, or maybe it was a budget issue."

In summary, a hazy common denominator. Door-knocking was the next logical step.

"There aren't many days left until the convention. What are the odds that this relates to it?"

Tackson leaned back in their chair, offering a tired groan. "I like safe more than sorry, and the director does as well. If this were just an unregistered line, we'd hand it over to another department, but somebody's trying to cover their tracks."

In layman's terms, nothing conclusive.

"We'll be having teams investigate the dwellings themselves starting tomorrow. For now, that's our report."

They tapped the folder on the desk and stood.

"We'll keep you updated as a courtesy, in case you feel left out. Let us know if you feel like lending us a Deity unit. We'd make better use of it."

They nodded and trotted towards the door, their entourage bowing their heads in Tackson's stead before following. Their escort closed the door behind them, leaving only the open file to stare at her.

"Interesting," she sighed, picking up the phone receiver, suspended over the open switch hook by an eraser. An old trick that somehow still worked after several decades of developing espionage tactics.

"Did you get that?"

"Loud and clear," Evalyn answered. "If they're investigating the line, we'll look into the message, see if our source has more information."

"If you've got a plan."

"I do." Evalyn assured her. "But the meeting. What's your take? The feds seem enthusiastic enough."

Marie flipped through the file, eyes washing over it one page at a time. Short, but she couldn't fault a brand-new investigation.

"I want to know the real estate agents for all these addresses. Seems like the first place to look for a key besides the owner. It really shouldn't be a hard thing to look into, either."

"Let's see what they come up with. Wouldn't mind having a look myself once they're done. Just in case."

"Me neither. Call me if you need anything."

"All goes well, and it'll be a call for the cheque."

"That's the spirit."

Evalyn hung the phone on its switch bracket. The sun had just crept above their windowsills. It was mid-morning, and a shame to miss out on such a nice one. Iris was already by the door, paying little mind to the weather nor the injustice of missing out on it. She wore sharp eyes and hair tied low against her neck—practical, minimal, with no concern for her looks inherent in any other teenager.

"It's a simple job, Iris. I can handle it."

"I don't mind. I was getting bored."

She tied both knots and stood, sticking her hands into her jacket pockets like it was as straightforward as a grocery run.

"It's work."

"What about school? You've been studying a lot lately; don't you have tests coming up?"

She shrugged. "I'll pass. Not as easily as I used to. I think the only thing I might miss is the…I don't remember the name, but they make you talk about your future with your homeroom teacher."

"Ah, sorry."

"I don't care. They're not useful to me."

"That's why I'm saying sorry, Iris."

The girl paused, putting two and two together, albeit slower than Evalyn would have liked. Iris was an honest girl, for better or worse. No niceties, no holds barred; like a crooked mirror, she'd reflect with her own biases what she received, but never did that involve distorting it to somebody's liking.

"It's okay," she said. "Thinking about what to do with your life sounds too hard, anyway."

An honest girl. For better or worse.

As usual, nobody manned the Great Library's front desk. Abandoned as it was, not a spot of dust rested on its polished surface, a sign that it wasn't yet in disarray. Evalyn reached for the customer service bell and mashed her palm against it, waiting for something to happen.

"It'll break."

"Yeah. If it's even real."

She kept going until the bell was practically begging her to stop.

"What's your problem? God's sake."

"My problem is that you always refuse to hire a receptionist."

Al crawled from underneath the desk, heaving himself up by his feathers. He lay flat on the table surface, dangerously close to falling asleep, but whatever shred of care for his customers he still had compelled him to at least turn his head her way.

"What?"

"It's a case. I need to ID some handwriting," she said, passing the letter.

"'S a tall ask for mid-mornin'."

"It's almost the afternoon."

Al sighed. "Fine. How goes Iris? Your mother's working me like a slave."

"But you're the librarian, it's your job."

Al wheezed a chuckle. "Never change, Iris. Never change."

Al flapped his wings and reoriented himself with the table, now markedly more awake than before. "I'll find Tony, bring Iris to him."

"Why just me?"

"'Cus big mama wanted to see Evalyn next time she came in."

Evalyn winced and retracted the letter. "Do me a favour?"

"Royal decree's a royal decree. Maybe you should've thought harder about slamming my customer service bell."

"It's a case, Al. That's already a royal decree."

"I'll get it sorted, Mum. It'll be done before you finish."

Iris by now was up shoulder to shoulder with her against the service desk. 'Shoulder to shoulder' now carried a literal meaning, too. She finally fit into Evalyn's old jacket.

She sighed in defeat, undid her pistol holster and handed it to her.

"Fine."

"I'll bring Crestana with me," she said, taking the holster and fitting it under her jacket.

"Did you at least check if the poor girl's free?

"She will be," Iris said with certainty. "She said it's like an...internship? Which is more important than studying."

Al snorted. "I'll get a phone box ready for ya. All sorted then, ma'am?"

Without her input, no less.

"All sorted," she grumbled.

Iris ended her call and hung up the receiver with a chime, her pockets a few coins lighter. She stepped out of the booth and onto the grass. That day it was trimmed down to her ankles, tamer than usual by a good few inches. Otherwise, the glade of nature amidst a forest of carpentry remained unchanged. She would spend her afternoons listening to the river flow in an endless loop if the place weren't so hard to find.

Tony's workshop, forever preserved in a state of disrepair, was no exception. Iris had long since realised it was an aesthetic choice.

"Ya' got any context to narrow down the search?"

Iris shook her head. "No. Marie said that it came with their mail."

"Any address on the envelope?"

She shook her head again. "Not that I know of."

Tony split his attention between her and a watch laid out on his workbench beside him, each of the instrument's delicate parts laid out like an autopsy table. Piece by piece, the watch's innards moved in and out of place; Tony's magic tickling her peripheral senses.

"Postie's can't deliver what's got no address. Chances someone slipped it in the shipment? What about the postie who drives the mail to the Steel Whale?"

"Spec Ops does that."

Tony humphed, dropping his tools and devoting himself to the letter. "If we could think up 'a that there's no chance in hell they didn't already. Fine, but it's a good lead. Royal Post's a public service; makes it easier to rifle through too."

Tony leaned over the letter and studied it, whispering the words out loud under his breath.

"Cursive, crosses his double t's, weird A's. Okay, sure, I'll give it a shot."

A bookshelf fell from the heavens, chains bolted to its sides catching it inches from the ground. It dangled violently, and Tony waited for it to settle.

His tingling magic intensified; light blistered from between his scales until paper folders emerged from the grooves in the wood. They filled the shelf and soon overflowed, new files replacing fallen ones as the pile mounted on the grass.

More speed, more volume, until the shelf was spitting paper like mulch.

"Found it."

The last shreds of paper fell from the shelf, leaving one thin file to flop on its side. Iris climbed over the pile, her footing slipping out from underneath her as she trudged over it like ice. Finally, her fingertips caught the folder, and she snatched it from the shelf.

The paper fluttered underneath her as Iris collapsed onto the heap as though it were snow. She opened the file and began reading.

"This guy?"

"Seems so."