house of lords

Clef Putnam

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this is part of book of revelation!

Clef pored over their fifth attempt at the fifth page of their newest composition. This bridge was going to be the death of them. This ball was going to be the death of them. The duchess had beaten every ounce of joy her child had for the craft Clef and their brother used to share when they were kids. Every time the wind changed direction, Martha had a new social event to host, a new composition that Clef was forced to write. By the fifth ball this month, their hands were raw, covered in ink and callouses. Clef's mind was full of notes and chords that distorted in their ears as soon as they played what they had written.

A knock on the door crashed into the jumble of notes in Clef's mind. They let out an irritated growl. If their mother had to force this "musical prodigy" charade onto them, the least she could do was let Clef work in peace.

"Come in!" The sing-song voice Clef used was a forced charade in itself.

The symbol of their mother's constant surveillance pushed the door open. A tall, thin butler with the same curly white hair as Duchess Martha, holding an opened letter. "Your mail, Clef." The butler's flat facial expression couldn't hide the puzzled tone in his voice.

Clef's nostrils flared. They weren't new to this, but it was no less aggravating now than it had been the first time Clef had received their own mail pre-opened. "I have told you to stop reading my mail, Danforth."

"And your mother has ordered me to continue." Danforth pretended to look remorseful, but they both knew it was just part of the same old song and dance. "It's for your safety, Clef; you know your mother worries deeply about you after that business with -"

"You have also been told in the past to not bring up that 'business,' and you know it." Clef forced themself to breathe. They weren't going to win this fight. This guy didn't work for them, he worked for their mother. "Just give me the letter and go. I've got work to do."

Danforth wordlessly handed the letter to Clef and walked out. The door closed with a gentle click.

There was no name or return address on the letter, but Clef knew this handwriting well - and the simple code it was written in. It'd be no match for a Spy, but it was good enough to fool the servants. A smile bloomed on Clef's face as Thomas's somewhat shaky handwriting greeted them.

Ebv, Zibc.

F hklt vlr pxt jb vbpqboaxv. F alk'q txkq vlr ql dbq qeb tolkd fabx, pl qeb ibxpq F zxk al fp lccbo xk bumixkxqflk. F afak'q xph clo pmxzb ybzxrpb F'j jxa xq vlr lo ybzxrpb bfqebo lc vlr afa xkvqefkd tolkd. F moljfpb.

X cbt axvp xcqbo F dlq pfzh, Baafb tbkq lk x ebfpq, xka... pljbqefkd yxa exmmbkba ql efj. F zlriak'q al xkvqefkd xylrq fq. F txp ebimibpp ql txqze qefp ptbbq, exmmv hfa - x hfa F txp prmmlpba ql molqbzq xka qxhb zxob lc - ybzljb x zljmibqb pebii lc efjpbic.

F qlia jvpbic qexq tb tbob hbbmfkd ql lropbisbp clo Baafb'p pxhb, yrq qeb qorqe fp... F grpq cbiq ifhb x cxfirob. Fq abpqolvba jb. F zlria yxobiv illh qeb hfa fk qeb bvbp, ibq xilkb xkvlkb bipb. Tebk tb jbq bvbp vbpqboaxv, xii qexq drfiq grpq zxjb xq jb xii xq lkzb xka F oxk xtxv ifhb x zltxoa. Fq txp tolkd lc jb. F pelria exsb qlia vlr qebk. F pelria exsb qlia vlr bsbovqefkd ilkd xdl. Qeb tloap tlk'q yofkd yxzh pfu jlkqep lc afpqxkzb. Qebv tlk'q obmxfo lro cofbkapefm. Qebv pqfii kbba ql yb pxfa.

F'j ploov. Qoriv.

F tfpe F zlria qbii vlr bsbovqefkd, lo -

Several coded words were blotted out. Clef could still read them if they squinted hard enough, but it was probably better that they remained unread.

Yrq F zxk'q. Klq ebob. Klq klt. Klq tefib tb'ob pqfii ybfkd txqzeba.

F alk'q hklt fc F'ii bsbo yb obxav. F pelria yb. F txkq ql yb. Tfqe xkv elmb, F tfii yb pllk.

The sudden appearance of plain text made Clef chuckle. The bottom of the letter was penned far more neatly than the rest, and to Clef's eyes it was just as beautiful a sight.

Hi Clef! I hope things are going okay for you...

I can see you've been busy lately - tell us if anything interesting happens at the ball! I know you don't like those rich old guys Martha hangs out with, but hey. Maybe causing some chaos would be fun, take the edge off. And we even got some presents for you and the girls, but... that'll be later.

I miss you guys so much.
Maybe someday it'll be safe, and...

There was more, but the rest of it was scratched over and illegible.

Clef stared at that letter for longer than they'd have liked to admit.

Thomas's shaky handwriting was bittersweet. It was nice to hear from him again, but... that day at the market still stung, apology or not. Clef and Thomas had locked eyes multiple times. Each time, Thomas ran like he had seen a ghost. Storm clouds swirled in Clef's heart, a bitter thing that cut through the equal parts relief and excitement Clef felt in receiving a sign of life from Thomas and Eddie. A part of them still burned with frustration verging on genuine anger.

Despite the ample chances Thomas had to speak with Clef last time the two of them crossed paths, the eldest member of the band had seen it fit to run like a scared deer every time he locked eyes with Clef... Was Thomas afraid that Clef would see the state Eddie was in? It hadn't been very well-hidden if that was Thomas's goal...

The duchess's child folded Thomas's letter and let out a soft sigh. Sooner or later, they would have to tear their eyes away and get back to work. That score wasn't going to write itself. With a weary sigh, their quill danced along the fifth page of their newest composition, half-hearted hums escaping their lips in tandem with the quill's scratch along the page. This bridge was going to be the death of them.

Every note on Clef's bowstrings felt wrong. It felt like it wasn't theirs - like the piece they had spent a week slaving away to create didn't belong to them. The thought that it didn't - that it truly belonged to their mother, because they belonged to their mother, seeped into the edges of Clef's mind.

They couldn't worry about it now. After too long, Clef glided the bow along their violin again. That was more like it. Slowly, the notes fell into place, Clef's eyes fluttered open every now and again to glance at the notation before them, keeping their attention focused equally on the notes that played and the hope that they could perfect the piece despite the looming dread at the back of their mind.

For all of their efforts to push away the nagging fear of being a marionette made to fulfill their mother's whims, the thought still ate at them. For a moment, Clef thought not of the piece or the ball, but of their own home. Invisible puppet strings pulled the duchess's child back and forth over a decade. Sometimes Clef wondered why their mother, for all of the venom in her words when she'd banished them to this little house they loved so much, would give them all of this. Giving them their own staff - albeit one that ultimately ceded to her whims - and a plot of land big enough to contain a house that looked massive next to the tiny shacks of their poor neighborhood.

Even more confusing was her insistence that Clef return to her manor in recent years. Was it the cost of maintenance that fueled her change of tune? The loss of complete control due to their distance? Surely, Mother didn't think Clef would believe she actually missed them.

She was certainly trying to play that angle, for all it was worth. Clef saw her letters over the past month - rambling, paranoid screeds about the sudden absence of police presence in the area, convinced beyond all evidence to the contrary that Clef was inches away from a violent death. It was all a ploy, a tactic to spark paranoia and lure Clef fully under their mother's thumb. They weren't falling for it.

The past nine years were the best time of Clef's life. They had been adamant they were happiest here, on their own. Among those they truly called their people, but their mother didn't need to know that part. Away from the turbulence of high society. At arm's length from the controlling reach of their mother. It was easier to create in this quiet little oasis.

As the notes took shape and the piece became fully realized for the first time, the tug of invisible puppet strings seemed to yank at their hands - sometimes hard enough to miss a note or two. There were missteps in the composition; ones they'd have to correct before Martha took notice. It had felt like years had passed before the final note was etched onto the paper.

An opulent carriage greeted the duchess at the exit of the manor that was her birthright. One of Martha's many servants - the name had slipped her mind - helped the old woman into her seat. The scent of polished leather and perfume was once a soothing presence. Today, it did little to stem the tempest in her chest. The duchess had put it off for too long - since Clef's birthday, ten whole months ago. The very thought made Martha nearly weep with shame. She was going to do it. She was going to make it right. She was going to visit Clef.

Thinking about her sweet baby made Martha smile, made her seethe, made her want to sob into the cushions of her seat. For such a gifted angel blessed with a life of wealth and adoration... they always seemed to fall short of their true potential. Clef took more and more interest in ungentlemanly pursuits, preferring the visage of a hooligan than their proper status as heir of Martha's estate. Making a fool of themself, slacking off, everything that infuriated Martha. Danforth had even mentioned them sneaking out of the house the previous week. It was a cry for attention and help that screamed in Martha's ears.

Surely, Clef couldn't think Martha didn't love them. Quite the opposite was true; she adored them, deeply. They simply needed to spend some time together. Fostering good memories while Martha still had the chance. Clef's mental state was dismal; the duchess could see the signs of apathy and fatigue and pain from Danforth's reports alone. To not be by Clef's side as their mother would only bring more turmoil into their life.

It nearly made her sick with worry. What would become of Clef, once Martha departed to reunite with her husband and son? The notion clawed at her mind day in and day out. The realization that they weren't ready to inherit the estate by any means; the fact it was, in many ways, the fault of the duchess herself. Martha had to fix her mistakes while she still could. She had to push her angel to be their very best, to grow and evolve beyond the stagnant life they led. Yet, what if Clef broke under the stress of it all? What if they...?

No. This wouldn't - couldn't - turn into what happened with Clef's brother. Martha would not allow it to. She couldn't bear to leave this world with even more regrets.

The rattling wheels of the carriage faded in the back of the duchess's mind. She watched the side of town that pretended to be wealthy shrink behind her from the window, snapping almost instantly to the realm of the common folk. This place was an entirely different world to Martha. Degenerate. Disgusting. Crawling with witches and thieves and all sorts of wretched creatures unworthy to be deemed as people. One could throw a single coin onto the street and gaze at the sight of the wretched little things climbing all over one another to get it, as if they were weevils seeking to eat the last grain of rice on Earth. This place was beneath Martha and her family in every possible way.

This place was where Martha had dumped her last remaining child in a fit of rage. What in Heaven's name was she thinking, to banish them to this desolate place because of a stolen object? To throw away her child's life over something so meaningless? Martha would hit the woman she was nine years ago if she could.

Worst of all, Clef had been cut so deeply that they didn't want to come home. For all of Martha's best attempts to convince them to return to the life of luxury they'd been missing out on, for all of her attempts to lend a hand as their mother, they claimed to be happy to live amongst the filth. Martha could have forced their hand, used her power as both their mother and the duchess to simply demand Clef to return to her manor, but the thought of compelling them to return home like that... The duchess shivered, pushing away the terrible memories that loomed at the edges of her mind.

Still, Martha had a duty as a mother. The threat of witchcraft cast a shadow over all of Salem, and nowhere was that shadow darker than where the degeneracy of the poors seeped into the earth. The regrettable folk of the world allowed these monsters to fester here. Witchcraft had been a blight on this place for as long as Martha could remember. Yet, this last half-decade proved to be the worst of it, the smothering miasma of magic rising to a fever pitch within the past five years. The witches were poised to destroy Salem from within, taking root and defiling every office and title they could get their useless, grubby hands on.

Martha had seen the lawlessness of this side of town get all the worse in only 30 days. For decades, the police had worked so hard. They had climbed the uphill battle to clean up the filth that left this part of Salem rotten to the core. They had flushed out more witches than the duchess thought could possibly live in such a small space. And when, with Martha's help behind the scenes, they were so close to making real progress... the police had practically vanished from the place.

This part of town was teeming with insects, and the near-complete lack of presence by Salem's finest made Martha's blood boil with the incompetence of it all. Had the officers given up? Were they ever trying at all? Did they not care that a Putnam lived among these folk? Martha's fists balled against her leg as she glared daggers out the carriage window. If the police no longer cared, Martha would simply have to do all the hard work herself. The duchess refused to entertain the thought of Clef ending up like their father, choking in a pool of blood at the hands of the witches that festered here. Any sacrifice was worth it, as long as her baby survived.

"Duchess! We've arrived." The voice of the carriage driver gently pulled Martha from her thoughts. The duchess's face softened at the sight of the little hut that her last remaining child called home. The only place in this wretched part of Salem worth even a passing glance.

"Thank you. I'll be right out," the duchess called back plainly, making her way out of the carriage and looking upwards to catch the gaze of Clef's primary butler. The two smiled and nodded at each other. Danforth disappeared for a brief moment before darting back into view, quickly making his way through the house.

Martha walked towards the house, humming to herself as she smiled at the perfectly-kept landscape around the house. At least there was some sort of oasis in the pits of Hell the duchess found herself in. Danforth opened the front door after a moment. Clef's primary butler leaned into the carriage and whispered into Martha's ear. The duchess shivered, then clenched her fists. Danforth noticed. He gently took Martha's hand, leading the duchess up the steps and onto the front porch of her child's house.

Clef appeared in the entryway not long after, lifeless hazel eyes betraying the warm smile that stretched across their face. "Oh, mother, what a lovely surprise...!" They did their best to sound upbeat, but Martha's ears were finely-tuned to hear the pain that lingered underneath.

Martha knew better than to press so early, though. She'd have to ease them into it. "Hello, my darling! How have you been?"

"I've been just fine, don't worry." Clef laughed softly, looking at Martha's outfit. "Ah, I see you're dressed for the theatre house...!"

"Of course I am, dear!" Martha smiled adoringly, "Danforth mentioned that you may need a break, and I know nothing soothes a sour mood like a good play." She held out her hand invitingly, "This will do wonders for you, dear."

Clef's face twitched ever-so-slightly, barely perceptible but enough to concern Martha. "I'm... sure it will, mother." They grabbed Martha's hand with a bit of force, but kept their own mother at arm's length.

The scent of polished leather and perfume was all the sweeter when Clef was the one helping Martha to her seat. The carriage door closed, the horses whinnied softly, the wheels softly rattled against the streets. The degeneracy of Salem gawked at Martha and her carriage as she sped away, but the duchess gave them nary a glance in return. Her eyes were locked squarely on her precious baby. "Danforth tells me you've finished that composition you've been working on." Martha gave her talented little angel an excited smile. "In the nick of time! I hope you'll show me before the ball..."

"Don't worry, mother - I'll make sure you get a special performance." Clef gave their mother their best smile. "It'd be a crime to not let you hear it; I trust your judgement above my own sometimes."

There was the angel that Martha knew best. "Good...!" She warmly brought her hands together. "Ah, and it'll do you good to have someone to practice with--"

"What do you mean by that...?" Clef's brow furrowed, unintentionally cutting her off.

Martha's eyes narrowed. "Did Danforth not tell you?"

"I asked him if there was anything you'd planned for tomorrow, but Danforth didn't answer my question." Clef shook their head. "If there was something he was meant to tell me, he refused to."

Martha fought the urge to hiss. Of course he wouldn't. Danforth never seemed to get that hiding these things would only make it worse. And now, to present a united front, Martha had to go along with this senseless plan of his. "Ohoho, he wanted to keep it a surprise, then!" Martha giggled, keeping her anger hidden so Clef wouldn't think it was directed at them. "Something wonderful will happen tomorrow, I just know it!" the duchess continued, giving Clef a knowing smile.

A smile that was returned in the most artificial way. "Sounds fun..." they half-mumbled, hardly trying to sound excited. Martha could see the dread swirling around in those hazel eyes. Dread the duchess saw coming from a mile away. When they got back, Martha was going to have a talk with Danforth about this.

For now, the two rode in silence.

Martha stole a glance out the window. The side of town that pretended to be wealthy was coming into view. Now was the time. "Ah, Clef, I wanted to ask you about one more thing..."

"Yes, mother...?" Despite the effort Martha had taken to ease Clef into it, they still sounded nervous. The duchess's stomach dropped.

Martha's expression turned deadly serious, though she made sure to keep it just soft enough to not give Clef the wrong idea. "If there's anything or anyone that's bothering you, I hope you know you can come to me about it any time... If there's ever anything on your mind, you can tell me all of it."

Clef blinked slowly, raising a curious - and confused - eyebrow. "Is everything all right, mother...? What's going on?"

"I know you've been getting threatening letters recently." The duchess clasped her child's hand, her eyes wild with panic and determination as the rest of her face remained soft. "Who is it?"

Martha's precious baby froze in place. "Wh--?" Clef blinked. Half-words and confused noises tumbled from their mouth. "What are you talking about?" Clef finally blurted out after a moment, confusion bleeding into exasperation.

That was not a good sign. Martha took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down for her baby's sake. "This morning, Danforth tells me you got a strange, ominous letter in the mail. No return address, no name, almost entirely in code." Neither of them needed to spell out the witchcraft involved in such a threatening message. "And it wasn't the only one. You've gotten dozens of them in the last month alone."

Clef took ages to respond. A storm brewed behind their hazel eyes. Martha's grip tightened on their hand. "I promise you aren't in trouble for this." Martha knew Clef wouldn't believe it, not after what she had done. The words still needed to be said. "Just tell me who they are. No matter what the witches say, they're weak little creatures. I won't let them hurt you, I swear."

"I'm fine, mother, I promise. If it was witchcraft, don't you think I'd be -?"

The duchess couldn't stop herself from shaking. Her sweet angel was so terrified, they couldn't even tell her what was wrong. "But why would anyone write to you and encode their messages like that...?" Resolve flared in Martha's eyes. There was something behind this, but she knew she wasn't going to get it out of her child. Not yet. "I worry about you, Clef. I'm only looking out for your well-being."

"Mother." Clef gently peeled their hands from her grasp. "I'm fine. Of course I'd come to you with any concern I'd have."

Martha saw that for what it was. A deflection. The answer a child gives when they're too afraid to tell the truth. "We lost your father to these creatures. I can't lose you."

Clef scowled, and Martha pulled back. The duchess had crossed a line, but she had no other choice. "You won't lose me like we lost him... please, mother, is that anything to talk about before the play?"

Martha sighed, avoiding Clef's disgruntled glare that hid layers of terror underneath. No matter. If the poor thing was too scared to speak, Martha would find the witches without them having to say a word.

"Sorry to interrupt, duchess," the carriage driver called from what felt like miles away. "We've arrived."

Martha forced her face into a saccharine smile. "Wonderful, thank you." She hummed, turning towards Clef. "Come along now, dear. This will help us forget our troubles, at least for the moment."

Clef's face was still a disgruntled scowl. "I can't wait," They mumbled, avoiding the look in their own mother's eyes.

The title was different, but the play was the same on the inside. Every time a new playwright tried their hand at this thirty-year-old script, the duchess couldn't wait to get her hands on a ticket. It had become a tradition to watch the story of the first Coven's downfall every few years when a new version hit the stage.

This was the second time Sam wasn't there to see it. The second time it felt as though an empty seat stood between the duchess and her child. The second time no amount of theatre snacks and pre-show entertainment could lift the somber mood above the stage. Martha and Clef sat in silence. The show would make things better, even if just for a moment. It always had.

Their seats were the same as always - in a private gallery near the top of the stage, at a height Clef couldn't describe but Martha always said was perfect for seeing and hearing everything. Other people filed in beneath them - little groundlings that Martha could snicker at from her private, elevated seating while waiting for the curtains to open.

On the center stage stood a young woman - the immortalized image of Martha in her youth. Clef barely heard this woman's speech, focusing instead on the real Martha sitting beside them. The pride that swelled on their mother's face when seeing the young actress portraying her felt almost like reverence. It was strange, seeing how Martha relived her younger days - when the witches were supposedly at their absolute worst - with such glee.

With as many times as Clef had seen the same tale played out on the stage, the most entertaining part of the show was playing spot-the-difference. The opening monologue was much the same as the last time Clef had set foot in the theatre house. The young duchess addressed the people of Salem - the people in the audience. Mid-monologue, a hooded figure dashed across the stage, and the Sheriff ran after them - just as they always had.

Clef couldn't pinpoint what about this scene was different, but whatever it was seemed to annoy Martha somewhat, as she leaned back in her seat and tutted at the sight. Clef looked a little more closely at the struggling criminal in the Sheriff's arms. There was only one noticeable difference Clef could spot. This version's playwright, a young man with fox ears and long gray hair, played the role of vagabond-turned-whistleblower that warned Salem of witches meeting in the outskirts of town.

Hidden to Martha's focused rage, Clef gave their mother a puzzled look. What about this bothered her? It couldn't be arrogance. Shinrin Miyagi was just one of many playwrights who took roles in their own work, and he was playing a minor character who wouldn't appear again. The man's acting was good - not stellar, but -

"Were the witches born or made wicked?" The familiar voice of Dr. Aubrey Thorn mused almost absently from the stage.

Clef's focus snapped back onto the stage. This was unusual. A newly-written scene depicted Martha, June, and Aubrey in the latter's house, with the Cleric dabbing a salve on the Sheriff's arm and, seemingly, chatting to pass the time.

"Born," the Martha on stage piped up, barely letting Aubrey finish their sentence. "They're rotten to the core, every last one of them."

Sheriff June, on the other hand, took a moment to think about it. She didn't answer directly - after a moment of thought, the Sheriff posed a question of her own. "What about you makes you a good person?"

The young Martha scoffed. "Decency. A sense of justice. The understanding of right and wrong. It's what separates the good stock from the bad."

"And if you were not born from 'good stock' - if you were not rich - you would turn to evil?" June's voice was drier than the alcohol she downed between her words.

The Martha on stage looked like she had been slapped. The real Martha, the one sitting at Clef's side as she watched her immortalized effigy act just like her for what must have been the first time, whispered something foul beneath her breath. Clef hid their snickering behind theatre snacks and watched intently for the first time in years.

"Don't twist my words, Sheriff," the Martha on stage glared at June with fury in her eyes that matched the woman she portrayed.

"There is no twisting, duchess, I'm just following your logic." June's eyes narrowed, but she otherwise seemed unbothered by Martha's gaze. "If the witches were born wicked, goodness must be inherited as well. Yet there's cruelty in the noble houses and kindness in the slums." The Sheriff paused, watching the young duchess calm herself as June slowly, deliberately spoke. "So I ask again - what makes a person inherently good or evil?"

"You're dancing around the truth because you're too afraid to say it. It'd make you look bad as a Sheriff to admit what we all already know." The young Martha flashed a grin that was likely meant to be relaxed but ended up looking sinister. "Some people are simply meant for villainy. The beggars, the criminals, the ones who wallow in filth rather than rise above it. They were lost long ago."

June, to her credit, looked disgusted. "I have no mercy for the ones who have already fallen to witchcraft, but the rest..." A splash of liquor onto her wounds made the Sheriff hiss. After a moment, June continued: "Do you not wonder why they fell to temptation? If we pay attention, we can prevent those on the edge - those you so readily dismiss - from reaching the point of no return."

Martha's nostrils flared, her hand slamming against the table as her eyes burned with rage. "You are dangerously naive, June!" the young duchess shrieked. "We stand on the precipice of ruin, and you would waste time questioning why these creatures turned to witchcraft!?" She rose, pacing around the Sheriff and Cleric, arms gesturing wildly with every word. "The answer is simple! They always were and always will be evil! They are monsters wearing the skin of people! It was only a matter of time before they showed their true natures!"

June froze. It seemed like the Sheriff was suppressing the urge to throw her bottle right at Martha's head - whichever one, it didn't matter. After a deep breath, then another, June finally spoke. "While that answer is simple, it's patently untrue. I've met many bad people in my line of work. The darkness in their souls always came from somewhere."

"Do you believe the sob story of every common scoundrel you put away?" the young Martha's pacing grew more angry, almost frenzied, one hand running along her cheek as the other clenched into a white-knuckled fist at her side. "You've seen the thieves who would slit a purse one day and a throat the next. They only tell you they were led astray so they can feel like it wasn't their fault." Martha jabbed a finger into June's chest, eyes burning with rage. "They're nothing but filth that must be cleansed before it festers into something far worse."

June finally rose from her chair, looming over the young duchess. "I refuse to start down that path, Martha. It would never end, if you had your way." She glared, one arm on her hip as the other pulled Martha's hand off of her chest. "Would we purge the poor alongside the witches? The misfits? The lost? How much blood would be enough to satisfy you?"

"Enough to weed out this sickness before it spreads." A scoff escaped Martha's lips as she waved her hand dismissively. "You speak of preventing those on the edge from becoming witches, yet you refuse to see that the only way to prevent further corruption is to cut it out at the root."

Aubrey adjusted their glasses, giving Martha a patient, soft smile. "What would that look like, duchess?" They asked, gently, their elbow resting on the arm of their chair. Martha whipped around to look at Aubrey, embers of rage still smoldering in her gaze. "If nothing else, you must realize how the people would see a preemptive gallows. Would you have us hang children for what they might become?"

"If that's what it takes to keep the streets of Salem safe." Martha turned, barely facing Aubrey and June. "The world can't be reasoned with, Thorn. It must be ruled."

The Sheriff's face twitched with her own rage. "And you think fear is the only way to rule, is that it!? A people who live in -"

"Enough." Aubrey barked. They quickly moved to stand between the quarreling women, giving the bandage on June's arm one final adjustment. "We have enough battles to fight without turning against one another."

The young Martha put her hands on her hips and gave June a triumphant smirk. "At least one of us has some sense."

Aubrey met June's gaze, for just a second. There was a flicker of silent acknowledgement in Dr. Thorn's eyes, before they turned to the duchess. "I said nothing of agreement, Martha. The only truth that matters is, Salem is in danger. We can debate philosophy once the witches are swinging from the gallows."

Aubrey walked off stage, followed quickly by June. Then, after a long moment of fuming, the young Martha stormed off in a huff.

This version was incredible. Clef leaned at the edge of their seat, eyes fixated with wonder at this bold, fresh portrayal of the events they'd grown so bored of seeing so many times. This argument - a scene Clef had never seen depicted before - was so much closer now to the angry, shrill beast their mother had been all their life.

Clef glanced over - the duchess' eyes were practically aflame with how much she seethed over the scene. They fought back a smirk, keeping their arms neatly in their lap as they watched her fume. Their mother's fury was nothing new to Clef; away from the public, her angelic personality gave way to a demonic anger that bordered on possession. Every little thing had to be perfect, lest she burst into a shrieking inferno of rage. It was part of the reason Clef had been glad to be out of that wretched house; in the comfort of their home, Martha had to play nice - Clef had neighbors. Witnesses.

The scene changed. Bright orange and yellow lights marked the beginning of a fire Clef had seen so many times, yet watched with interest, waiting to see what had changed this time around.

It wasn't much - just like previous incarnations, false flames waved from all the windows of the farmhouse. Just like previous incarnations, a lone survivor - a little girl crawled across the stage, covered in ash and gaping wounds. Just like previous incarnations, the lone survivor of the Hathorne family reached forward, weakly, going limp as she barely clung to consciousness.

The arrival of Aubrey was the only major difference. Clef barely saw it happen - Dr. Thorn rushed on stage just a moment later, scooping the girl in their arms and dashing off just as quickly as they arrived. No complicated stagecraft, no singing from the choir, no elaborate costume depicting Aubrey as an angel descending from the heavens as they so often were into the past. Clef gazed with interest, not at the stage, but at their mother, hissing curses only they could hear in their private gallery above the stage.

It shouldn't have brought Clef as much glee as it did seeing their mother be mocked by the difference in events. Even when her mirror image didn't appear on-stage, the way the story seemed to take on more of the messier aspects of this time in her and her friends' lives made her blood boil. It was equal parts amusing and terrifying - on the one hand, they relished her outrage towards her own flaws as a human; on the other, that rage could very quickly be magnetized towards Clef if they weren't careful.

Another brand new scene interrupted the action. The stage lights brightened to reveal Martha and June in the duchess's all-too-familiar manor, a lavish feast for two on the table between them.

"Of course it's the witches, June." Martha jabbed her fork in June's direction. "It's obvious to anyone with half a brain, isn't it? This was not an attack on the Hathornes by any means - it was an attack on our plates, our resources!"

"My duty is to the truth, not... not wild assumptions," June sighed - she seemed to suspect Martha would jump to that conclusion - before taking a bite of her food, letting Martha stare in silence for a moment. "You won't starve through all of this, you can rest easy in that regard." She shrugged. "Just as soon as we can find the culprits, we'll get things back on track..."

"Get things back on track? If this is witchcraft like we know it is, then they'll just keep pulling these stunts. Weakening our society from within it." Martha looked toward the ceiling. "First the farms, then our schools, our churches, our homes... nothing will be safe from their reign of terror, June."

"And every time they attack, that's more clues I can use to hunt them down!"

"So you intend to allow them to kill more innocent people so you can hunt for the 'truth' that's so plainly under your nose?"

"Th-that is not -"

"That is exactly what you just implied." Martha balled her fists as she rose. "June, what if they find themselves suddenly able to kill one of us off? Will you be the one explaining to Montgomery that you let his child die so you could 'gather clues'? Would you be the one telling Robbie that his family had to die so you could find yourself a witch you couldn't see right in front of you?"

June shot to her feet, fork abandoned within the wood of the table. "You watch, Martha - I'm going to show up to both of their houses, a witch's head in each hand! They aren't going to kill any of us, and you know it!" She stormed out of the room before the young Martha could follow.

Shinrin Miyagi was new to the art of the stage play, and Clef could tell by the way he adapted this ancient work. His stagecraft was simple, his pacing was a staccato of starting and stopping and starting again. The music worked, it served its purpose but avoided anything that would shine too bright, draw too much attention from the actors and the story. And yet, Clef couldn't tear their eyes away. It was the dialogue. It was always the dialogue that got their heart racing. Even Martha's victories were fascinating - the heroes of this story, for once, were not paragons Heaven-sent to protect Salem and nothing else. They were morally grey, they were messy, they were... human, for once. Realistic. This playwright knew how to depict all types of people, and project them on stage so perfectly it made Clef feel like a time traveler, catching a glimpse of their mother's younger self for what she truly was.

It was so satisfying, watching the actress portraying June stare directly into the real Martha's eyes for just a second as she walked off stage.

"He's ruined it." Martha - the real Martha - let her rage spill out again, her eyes boring right into Clef's own. Seeing their child's face display such... outrageous nonchalance made her eyes flare with even brighter anger. "Absolutely. Ruined. It. Everything about this version is wrong. How did this even get past...?"

Clef only shook their head as Martha's voice devolved into furious whispers and ramblings, turning her gaze back upon the stage. Her muttering faded after what felt like forever. The temptation was strong, to make their voice actually heard even at the risk of focusing their mother's rage onto their shoulders. "I quite liked it," Clef muttered under their breath, not audible enough just yet for Martha to hear. They could speak up during the next scene, they told themself.

Within the realm of the play, June had finally arrived at the mountains of ash and rubble where the Hathorne farm once stood. She walked the perimeter, looking up and down at the ruins, stopping at the side of the house. Here laid the hand and face of someone lost to the blaze. Their features were unrecognizable with the charred mask they now wore, but June could clearly see brilliant cracks forming around their eyes, streaking down their face like tears and lightning combined.

Their hand bore a symbol June had seen so many times before. Three moons, all touching at the tips, giving the appearance of a flower. The scars all bore the same sickly shade of periwinkle...

And like every time June had seen that symbol, she couldn't stay long to investigate. Aubrey distracted the Sheriff with good news of the little girl's progress, giving time for a witch nearly her age to creep onstage and cast a spell. Just for a moment, before June returned to catch a glimpse of Morgana's face, hear her voice, give chase. Just long enough for the Sheriff to run off in the wrong direction and lose her prey.

The podium from the beginning of the play returned, but this time June stood upon it. Her eyes burned as she addressed the people of Salem - the people in the audience.

"An innocent family died this morning." June's rallying cry began, the same as it always had. "Witches mercilessly slaughtered the people who have helped feed our homes for generations. These creatures have committed an unforgivable act of senseless cruelty. They have launched an attack on the innocent - an attack on us all."

A chorus of cheers burst through both crowds - the one on stage and the one June's actress was truly addressing just beyond.

"I and my force cannot do this alone - as much as it pains me to admit it. With our combined efforts, we will be able to strike down the witches and send them to Hell from whence they came." June turned slowly, trying to look at every face in the crowd. "I call upon all of you to do your part to help us bring these witches to justice -"

"Hold on a minute." A young man with long gray hair peeking out from under his hood stepped forward. Two children followed him to the podium, tightly gripping each of their father's hands. "We don't know where our next meals are coming from, Sheriff."

"The witches are the ones that caused this mess." June repeated calmly, looking at the father with a tinge of sadness mixed into her fury. "They are the reason none of us know where our next meal will come from. Turn your anger towards the Coven who did this, not the people trying to bring them to justice."

"And who will feed us while we fight for you, Sheriff? Will the rich simply let us common folk starve?" The man's anger boiled within his voice. "Do those above us hope to fill our plates with witch carcasses and empty promises?"

"W-Well, that's-- that's for-- that's up to them..." June stammered, the father's face darkening with frustration with each word. "I will do my best to..."

"To what?" The father turned towards the crowd. "To deny these people, the townsfolk you and those with full bellies and fuller purses walk on, the citizens with lives that you leech on to collect your taxes?" The young man glanced towards the kids for a second, before turning his gaze back to the podium. "You know, I'm a father. I've gone hungry so the little ones can eat before." His voice wavered. "But what would you have me do, when there's not enough for them?"

June cleared her throat, struggling to find her words. She was looking more at the children, with their wide pleading eyes only she could see, than the father who spoke for them when they could not speak for themselves. "With your cooperation, sir, it will not reach that point -"

"We all want the witches swinging from an oak branch, Sheriff, but I know a distraction when I see one," the man scoffed. "How do you expect us to help you if you can't even promise we'll survive the ordeal?"

The father turned and walked off the stage, taking his children with him. The audience on-stage exchanged glances.

After a while, a chunk of the audience followed, storming off the stage with whispers and glares towards their Sheriff. Not everyone left. Not even most of them. But it was enough. Enough people left, that June's composure wavered slightly with each sharp glance her way. Enough people remained that the Sheriff was able to pick up where she left off, once only those still willing to listen to her remained.

As June continued her all-too-familiar rallying cry, the reactions of the people of Salem were different. The counteracting speech seemed to make the townsfolk less united, less accepting. They seemed not like the army of Heaven, but instead just like regular people, doing their best to survive the Hell on Earth the first Coven had created.

Clef let out a little laugh. "It's an incredible portrayal of events." Clef leaned forward in their seat, theatre snacks long forgotten, clasping their hands together with a faint glitter in their eyes.

"It's heresy." Martha hissed, fingers digging into her gloved palms. "How can anyone enjoy this drivel? Th-this filth?"

Clef's blood ran cold. "It gives a fresh perspective on wh-what happened!" Clef quickly pivoted, scrambling to come up with a defence without insulting their mother somehow. "You're still the absolute hero of the tale, but your... friends are portrayed as the humans they are."

"I am being treated like a common fool." Martha spat. "Heaven's sake, you'd think the playwright wants me strung from the gallows with the way he portrays all of us. What a joke."

Clef shrunk back in their seat slightly, keeping their gaze focused on the outskirts of the stage. "Mother, this version of the play is going to bring in so many more people. They like seeing their heroes with rougher edges. It makes them feel more real."

"They expect the townsfolk of today to side with these charlatans in our quest to slaughter every witch in this town?" Martha glared, "That ruins the entire point of the play."

"I doubt that. Look how enraptured they are down there." Clef pointed at the little scraps of audience visible from the box that protected the duchess and her child from the common folk. "They adore this version of events. They feel like someone's standing up for them, for once."

"Come now, Clef. They're jealous." Martha waved her hand dismissively. "They're being told what they want to hear, at the cost of muddling what actually happened."

"Has there ever been a version of events that addressed how everybody struggled during that time?" Clef asked, sitting upright and turning to look at their mother. For all of her rage, she would not act out in the theatre - that would keep Clef's wits about them. "You and your friends went through a lot to take down the first Coven, but so did the families of everyone in the theatre. To show everyone's - yours, June's, Aubrey's, every ancestor of every townsperson below us - sacrifices makes what we've been going through now more... more worth banding together so that the witches will stay down this time."

Martha shook, eyes alight with sheer, unbridled fury. A thousand curses danced behind her eyes, curses aimed directly at Clef's soul. Neither of them dared to speak. The duchess made an adjustment, perhaps considering standing up for a moment, before thinking better of it. Martha re-adjusted her position so she sank back down, staring daggers through the curtains. Perhaps she intended to ignite the stage using her eyes alone.

Clef shrank further into their seat, avoiding their mother's gaze as best as they could. They knew they had crossed a line; knew that this would only end in disaster. Martha may have been silent now, but it was only a matter of time before they left the theatre. Once Clef was alone, their mother would finally unleash the rage she was clearly bottling in.

The rest of the play was awfully quiet, in the little box that separated the duchess and her child from the witnesses that made Clef feel so bold.

Clef still watched the play with wonder and amazement, though their gaze shifted to Martha every now and again just to ensure she didn't rise to punish them for their joy. It made the centuries that passed feel slightly less enormous.

---

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