Shard’s Claw 1

The late summer sun coated Thurston Hall like a gilding on rotted wood. The manicured trees, cast iron fence, and impressive square building softened into romanticized impressions of reality under its transfiguring influence, while inside only the offices of the ruling Council had access to the natural lighting of windows. The central chambers languished in a dim limbo occupied by less important workers, servants, and objects that simply needed a place to exist without impeding on everyone’s convenience. There, gas lamps cast their tremulous illumination over the wan faces of young people working long hours, each hoping to someday reach a sunlit office of their own. Few of them ever did.

Omaron Townsend didn’t have such aspirations. That afternoon, her mind lingered on darker matters: a room where the lamps had not been turned on for a month.

The door to the abandoned office crept open, and her slender frame slipped through the crack before she snapped it shut. One breath, two. The room remained quiet and dark save for the sputtering glow of her candle. No one had seen her enter‒ most likely, anyways.

She breathed out a sigh that sent the candle’s light dancing. It flashed over her long face, and nervous grey eyes flicked to the desk set against the wall, its film of dust only interrupted in places where she had touched it on her previous searches. Her attention left it to rove the room. Was there a misplaced book, a chair that had been moved since yesterday, anything that might show where someone had disturbed this place? No, everything remained the same. Omaron’s brow furrowed as she stepped closer. Still no sign that anyone else had thought to examine the office after Verity’s disappearance.

The corner of her mouth twitched. Verity… the image of her friend’s deep brown eyes and amused smile flashed through her mind, and the familiar pang of loss hit her dully in the gut. She sighed again‒ candle held safely out of range‒ and closed her eyes. She couldn’t afford to dwell on feelings right now, or she’d get frustrated with her search before it even began.

To work then. Opening the topmost drawer of the desk revealed the same personal papers stacked neatly on top of one another as the day before. She flipped through them with furrowed brow. Maybe this time she would catch a hint that Verity had planned to leave, or perhaps that she had suspicions of someone moving against her. Omaron’s hope fluttered feebly in her stomach like a bird pinned under a rock.

Blotting paper with test pen strokes… unused stationery emblazoned with “From the Office of the High Council”... the unfinished letter tucked discreetly at the bottom of the stack. Omaron paused as she came to this page, then pulled it out.

Dearest Ronnie,

I cannot overstate how pleased I am with the progress you’ve made in your career. It seems only a fortnight ago that you confessed to feeling like “a stork that somehow found its way into an office” when at the Hall, and look at where you are now: sitting at the High Table with the Council, taking their official records. We ought to celebrate more formally, if you have‒

Her thin fingers traced the last line of text as frustration squeezed her chest. If you have what? Why didn’t she finish?

She laid the papers back how she’d found them, jaw tight. I asked all these questions yesterday. It’s pointless, I know I’m not going to find anything new. No one snuck in last night to remove evidence of foul play, and I didn’t miss some crucial hidden detail that will tell me where she’s gone. I’m being an idiot.

Her jaw unclenched enough for her to sigh, and Omaron moved almost without thinking to the bookshelf.

One hand grasped the spine of a ledger of collected taxes from 462‒ seven years ago. Omaron flipped through the pages with a frown, patience battling with her need for method until she finally shook it for loose pages. No misplaced notes tucked inside. None in the ledger for 461 either, or any of the others leading back to 390. She moved to the cabinet beside the bookshelf, then to a trunk she was fairly certain Verity had never used. After half an hour she stepped back, bitterly wiping a mixture of sweat and dust from her forehead. Nothing. 

The crushing weight of disappointment seemed unearned. Omaron knew she was wasting her time, so why did she feel so compelled to keep doing this?

The real question is why didn’t you search the office the instant you knew she’d gone?

At the intrusive thought her fingers wound into the blonde hair near her scalp, tightening convulsively. I should have checked here as soon as she vanished. If someone did something to Verity, I would have been able to find some trace of it. Why do I have to be such a‒

“Have you seen Omaron?”

Her head popped up, the spiral of self-disgust broken. Miss Rothchilde? Fire, was it already time for the meeting? Omaron quickly brushed the dust from her front and, as casually as possible, strolled out of the room.

Chairwoman Elaine Rothchilde’s sharp eyes found Omaron almost as soon as the other entered the hall. Her broad shoulders swiveled, and the black skirts about her bulk swished impressively through the air. The immaculate bun on her head sent Omaron’s hand to her own mussed hair, the simple queue at the base of her neck now loose and uneven.

“Miss Rothchilde!” Omaron said in a voice of false-surprise, trying to ignore the asymmetrical pull of her hair tie. “I’m sorry, I was organizing some old‒”

The other cut her off with a raised hand. “When we’re in private it’s Elaine, and you just came out of her office. I know what you were doing.”

Omaron winced, shoulders slumping. “Ah… yes. I suppose it was a rather feeble attempt at a lie.”

“Yours generally are, but being honest isn’t a bad thing.” Elaine sighed, thick brows pulling together in frustration. “You’re a bit of a mess. Greene’s bound to comment again.”

“Oh yes, the High Chairman of Snide Remarks.” Omaron’s nose wrinkled, though her eyes flicked down the hall to make sure no one but Elaine would hear. “Flame forbid my blouse has a crease in it when he’s on watch. It’s not like he’s got anything better to do, like fix the roads or ensure that the land owners in Harvestcrown are paying their workers fairly.”

“Oh, be quiet and come here.” Elaine took an imperious step forward to beat the dust off the other’s sleeves. “You’re worse than my niece, and she’s a decade your junior.”

Omaron’s face reddened slightly. “I know. Twenty-eight, daughter of the Townsends, and still working as a secretary. I must seem--”

“Nonsense. You know that’s not what I meant.”

Omaron flinched involuntarily at Elaine’s final firm pat against her trouser leg, but she resisted the urge to step back. “Well. Either way, you’re rather lax about names for someone doing everything in her power to help me seem professional.”

“I’m not the one constantly fretting that I’m going to lose my job.” Elaine stepped back, looking the other down critically. “You worked very hard for the right to take minutes for the Council. I don’t understand how you can be on the verge of tears over it one moment and cursing at the High Table the next. Retie your hair, you’ve pulled it out again.”

Omaron hastily took out her ribbon. “It only happened once. I mean… well. Verity was an enormous help with getting promoted. You know I… I do try. I can’t help it that I’m just‒ damn, I can’t get this straight.” She let go of her hair so it fell about her shoulders.

“Do you need help?”

“No, I’m fine.” Omaron didn’t mean to sound curt, and she hoped Elaine didn't take it to mean anything. The other woman snorted dismissively.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, but if you want my advice?”

Omaron paused in her attempts to capture every strand of hair in her hands. “Yes?”

“Sometimes it’s better to leave well enough alone.” Her dark eyes fixed seriously on Omaron’s face. “Verity doesn’t work here anymore, and going by appearances she left of her own volition. There’s no need to work yourself into a state over it.”

Omaron frowned, trying to think of a suitable reply. “I… know that, Miss‒ I mean, Elaine. I don’t think there’s a conspiracy or anything like that.” A quick tug, and the ribbon in her hair tightened neatly into a bow. “I just. I would like to know where she went, and some things… I just need to be sure she’s alright. I owe Verity a great deal.”

Elaine’s mouth tightened, and she clapped Omaron’s bony shoulder. “Just take a step back if you feel it weighing too heavily on your mind. Please.”

“Yes, yes of course.”

Elaine nodded, took several steps down the hall, then called back over her shoulder, “And do make sure to set up for the meeting soon! I’ve heard the emissary arrived early!”

The secretary gave her a lopsided smile despite herself. “I will. Thank you, Elaine.”

The chairwoman bustled down the hall in the direction of the meeting chambers while Omaron’s smile faded behind her back. Elaine meant well even if she didn’t understand. Omaron hardly understood herself. Nagging thoughts of where her friend had gone clung to the inside of her skull like cobwebs in the corners of a high ceiling: sometimes ignored, sometimes hidden, but infinitely resistant to eradication. It didn’t help that none of her co-workers could answer Omaron's questions. Berlioz acted as though he'd forgotten Verity’s existence entirely, eyes blank in his expressionless face whenever the name was brought up.

She shuddered at the thought and slowly walked the length of the passage. The sun cast the hedges planted outside in stark silhouette against the glass. The image of a different window flashed unwanted through her mind: her bedroom at night, the streetlamp flooding her room like a spotlight. A shadow slipping purposefully across the yellow flames. Omaron ground a palm into her temple.

No, I need to stop being so jumpy. It’s fine. I’m in a building full of armed guards.

A shoe scuffed. Omaron’s head jerked up, her mouth dry and her heart thumping. The sunlight filtering across her path showed an empty hall ending in the handsome wood doors to the meeting chambers.

“HALT!”

The doors slammed open, and Omaron yelped as the illusion of peace shattered. A man pelted towards her over the polished floor in a blur of grey fabric, a hand at his belt and six guards rushing forward in his wake. Every identifying feature besides the powerful frame hid beneath a thick cloak that billowed out in the space behind him. The shadow of the hood shielded the face beneath, but she thought she caught a dim orange glow in its depths, like the flame of a candle.

Omaron stared slack jawed for one integral moment before realizing how quickly the distance between them had vanished.

The person slipped around her with one deft movement. She felt heat, fingers closing around her arm, and then something sharp resting against her windpipe.

"I'm leaving, and you're helping me." The words came out harsh and low as the stranger began to pull her slowly back down the hall.

Omaron’s breathing came in shallow gasps, her mind frozen. One step back, then two. The guards skidded several feet at the sight of this new development, swords still out and expressions hard under the brims of their metal helms. What was happening? How was this happening?

"I-I don't. Please stop." She could feel the edge of the knife just catch her skin as she spoke. Her captor’s grip tightened.

“STAY BACK!” She flinched at the bark over her shoulder while distant voices shouted in confusion. Shoes clacked against stone. For an instant Elaine’s voice joined the discord with a shrill fear worse than the blade at her neck. The stranger pulled her again, and Omaron took several steps back in quick succession. She closed her eyes and fought against her panic. One moment, that’s all it took. She needed to be ready to act as soon as he left an opening.

"S-sir." She swallowed. “Sir, please. Please be reasonable. You can’t‒”

"Quiet." The knife pressed in closer, and Omaron felt bile rise in her throat. She also felt the grip of his other hand leave her arm, heard his fingertips scrabbling against the wood of a door.

That was the moment.

With one sudden movement, she latched onto the arm holding the knife with both hands and jerked it downward. A thread of burning pain in her neck told her that she'd been cut, but it didn't feel deep. 

"Hurry!" she screamed at the guards. The stranger grabbed for her arm again, but Omaron was already wriggling out of his grip. The light glinted sinisterly off the knife as it swept in front of her face, and she snatched at it just as his boot caught her leg.

The world tipped in dizzying slow motion. She saw her own pallid reflection zoom towards her with the surface of the polished floor. Somewhere nearby Elaine was screaming.

Pain. Confusion. Something holding tight around her waist. A blur of light and shadow, the slam of a door, and Omaron spiraled into oblivion.