Octavius eyed the ignition system, letting the thought of his possible escape linger for a few moments before he accepted that trying to escape that way would be a ridiculous thing to do.
He was fine.
It was just an event.Twoevents. But they would be over soon, and then he could return to his semi-blissful life of skipping classes, tampering with unfinished classical pieces, and an endless treasure trove of heartbreak.
He took in several deep breaths, not wanting to have a panic attack and have people see and fuss over him.
When the car door finally opened, Octavius slid his sunglasses on, in part because he was still hungover from the night before and also as an attempt to shield his eyes from the world and their judgments.
He stepped out onto the gravel and the pair were immediately ambushedby bright lights and clicking cameras. Fola held him in place, her arms encircling his, making sure he was upright like the puppets they both were—all to keep the puppet master inside happy. Octavius placed one hand in his pocket and felt the cool metal exterior of a half-emptied flask that he used to nurse his sorrows. He anticipated finishing that flask before the day was over.
When the flashes had died down, Fola grabbed hold of Octavius’s puppet strings and forced his limbs up the front steps, all while somehow maintaining her unflappable gracefulness. She gave the cameras her usual mysterious but temperate smile as they passed by. Every picture of her would be perfect. Something Octavius was far from.
And as if to prove just hownot perfecthe was, the universe struck again.
As he removed his hand from his pocket, he heard the loud clang of metal hitting the stone steps below. All eyes (and lenses) fell to the ground before him as his once-hidden flask was now laid on the path for all to see. To make matters worse, the lid from the flask had dislodged, allowing the contents to spill impatiently, dribbling out of the container like blood from an infected wound.
One of the Manor’s security guards coughed loudly and quickly kicked the flask into a nearby rosebush as the other began to usher the cameramen away. Octavius was filled with a mixture of irritation and disappointment. Now he had to somehow brave the day not only hungover but also stone-cold sober.
Great.
Fola did not allow him to wallow in his emotions. Instead she pulled him up the final steps and through the patterned stained-glass entrance, yanking the door open before the security guard could. Octavius was relieved to find the foyer empty. No demon sightings yet.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Fola whispered loudly, dropping her own puppet act as soon as the main doors closed behind them and the cameras could no longer capture her. “Did you do that on purpose? You know he’ll find out, and then what! You’re already on thin ice—”
Octavius jumped dramatically. “There, I hope that breaks the ice and I never trouble anyone again with my existence.”
“You’re such a child,” Fola said, shaking her head. But before Octavius could respond with an equally harmful retort, a voice that did not belong to either of them interrupted.
“It’s good to see you both arrived in one piece.”
Octavius’s head snapped up and he was greeted by the pale face, graying beard, and kind eyes of someone familiar.
“Henry?” Octavius questioned, uncertain for a moment if this old man was the same person that he remembered. His father’s secretary, Henry Xu. Henry, who looked so…oldnow. As though he had aged decades instead of years in the relatively short time Octavius had been away.
Henry smiled brightly and nodded. “Yes, don’t mind my appearance—Fola reminds me often of how ancient I look,” he said as if reading Octavius’s mind.
“With affection, of course,” Fola said, returning Henry’s smile.
“Of course,” Henry replied.
Octavius stared silently at Henry with mild discomfort. He hadn’t seen Henry since the events ofthatnight. The night three years ago where everything had changed. The night that had finally pushed Octavius over the edge and forced him to leave his family home for good at the age of fifteen.
They spoke on the phone on occasion, but Octavius did not know how to speak to Henry face-to-face now, especially not after the way they left things back then.
Octavius could still see the smashed glass, could hear the echo of his own twisted screams, could see the blood on his hands, the blood that wasn’t his—
“You look well, Tavi,” Henry said, disrupting the vicious memory.
Octavius shoved the bad feelings away to the back of his mind like he usually did and straightened up. “If by ‘well,’ you mean ‘like shit,’ then I guess so,” he muttered. Then, realizing how impolite he was being, he quickly added, “Thank you though. It’s nice to see you, Henry. I’ve… missed you.”
Henry beamed at him, like the suggestion that he’d been missed made upfor everything Octavius had done. “Likewise.” Henry checked his watch. “The press conference hasn’t started yet, but your other siblings are already dressed and are upstairs waiting to be briefed by Claire while the journalists set up.”
The press conference, Octavius thought bitterly. It was the reason he was being forced back here after so long.
There wasn’t usually a press conference. Previously, Octavius would show up to the yearly ball at his own pace, avoiding the Manor altogether. But this year was the tenth anniversary of the Prodigy Ball—the event his father had created to welcome and celebrate child geniuses from all over the world—so his father had planned a whole series of special events in celebration. The first of those being the press conference, which Octavius was “notunderanycircumstances allowed to miss”—a direct quote from the strongly worded letter his father had sent to his boarding school a few months ago. Like the ball itself, missing the conference would lead to “dire and long-lasting consequences.”
The consequences were always the same for all of Octavius’s transgressions: his removal from his father’s will.
