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Marcia knew before she walked into the Keep that something was terribly wrong. At the top of the Hub’s stone staircase, an unfamiliar scent of floral perfume hung in the air. Marcia sniffed.
She never wore perfume.
Something deep in Marcia’s stomach tightened but she did her best to ignore it. It was probably nothing, probably a strange coincidence.
And as she entered the living room she relaxed somewhat. All seemed quiet in the Keep. The glowing remains of a fire lay in the grate and she wandered towards it. But as Marcia got closer, she realized that the book she’d most definitely left open on her chair had been moved. It had been set atop a wobbling stack on the floor beside the chair.
Huh. She distinctly remembered that particular stack of books had been sitting on the table when she’d left that morning. And the little side table between the two armchairs looked oddly barren. Hadn’t there been a letter from him on the table too? Had she misplaced that?
No, she hadn’t. There it was, sticking partway out of her book. Her hands shaking a little, Marcia opened the book and pulled out the letter. It was strangely crumpled, as though it had been hastily shoved out of sight. The ink had been smudged somewhat too, partially obscuring the signature at the bottom.
But Marcia knew what it said well enough. She’d opened the letter only this morning.
Yours truly and yours only,
Milo Banda
The thing in her stomach grew. It felt something very nearly like dread.
A shiver ran through her and Marcia realized she still felt chilled from her journey that afternoon through the Ways, which had taken her all the way out to the Eastern Snow plains.
Marcia took a steadying breath. It was probably just a strange coincidence. A really strange one. Must be. Had to be. Right?
She decided that a cup of tea would probably do her some good. It would warm her up, and hopefully then she could think of an explanation.
Marcia, still lost in her thoughts, walked into the kitchen and went through the motions of preparing to make tea as if she were on autopilot. She took a cup and a teabag from the cupboard and set them down on the counter in front of her.
As Marcia lifted the kettle, she heard a tinny, clinking sound and looked down. The engagement ring on her finger scraped against the metal handle. The ring was beautiful, an emerald set into an intricate silver band and it shone brightly even in the dim kitchen light. It caught her eye and for a moment Marcia forgot about the letter, her books, and even the strange floral scent she’d smelled outside, remembering the day Milo had given the ring to her.
It had been a cold fall day, the kind where the air tastes a little like snow but crumpled brown leaves still cling stubbornly to their branches and rustle in the breeze. He and Marcia had been standing by the river looking out across the Castle in the settling twilight. They had watched as candles and lights began to wink and flicker in thousands of tiny windows across the Moat.
She had sighed and put her head against his shoulder and Milo had put an arm around her.
“I love you, Marcia,” he’d said. “I know that I will always love you.” He’d taken the ring from his pocket then. “Will you marry me?”
Marcia remembered feeling surprised but happy, nonetheless. After all, they’d been going out for years. Being with him felt comfortable and it felt easy. Didn’t she love him? She supposed she did, but she’d never said it out loud.
“Yes,” Marcia had said in reply. “Yes, I think I’d like that very much, Milo.”
But Marcia shook herself out of the memory. Kettle in hand, she walked to the sink.
And then, in the sink, Marcia saw something that she knew could have no other explanation but the one she had feared more than anything else in the world. It took her right back to a devastating moment in the evening heat of late June when she was only sixteen and still in the second year of her apprenticeship to Alther. What she saw now before her took Marcia back to a sight she’d seen that day, one that was burned like a brand into her memory.
Two wine glasses, one of them stained pink with lipstick on its rim, lay forlorn and forgotten in the sink.
Marcia did not wear pink lipstick. And she couldn’t recall the last time she’d drank wine.
The empty kettle fell from her hands onto the flagstones with a great clatter. Marcia did not pick it up.
Shaking now, Marcia turned on her heel and stalked from the kitchen.
There was only one bedroom in the Keep and it was Marcia’s. As far as she was previously aware, Milo had never even been upstairs before. They had agreed months ago that Milo was only going to move in after they were married.
The wedding date was not far off; they’d set it for a week after Midsummer’s Day. The math did itself almost without her consent as Marcia climbed the stone stairs. They were supposed to be married in four weeks and a day.
She stopped in her tracks at the top of the stairs. Her light was on, under the door.
Marcia felt sick to her stomach. This went so far beyond wrong.
Her hands curled into tight fists, and she closed her eyes, doing her very best to ignore the sounds coming from behind the door. Her door.
Marcia couldn’t bear it anymore.
“Milo Banda, you come out here right now. I need to speak with you.” Her tone was icy and venomous and Marcia was glad for it. Good. She’d much rather be angry and bitter than tearful anyway. Maybe then it would hurt less.
It was a long thirty seconds that she waited before the door opened and Milo walked out. Marcia could hardly stand to look at him, so painful was his betrayal. But she forced herself to fix him now with a cold glare.
Honestly, the sight of Milo standing there was pathetic, and it made Marcia’s skin crawl with revulsion. It made her feel disgusting, like more than her trust had been violated. Half-dressed and his face a red mess with shame, he refused to meet her eyes.
“Marcie—” he started.
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “You don’t get to call me that. Not ever again.”
“Look, Marcia, I’m sorry, alright? It—she, I mean the whole thing—it was a mistake, you know? I still love you; I do, you know?”
Milo stepped closer to her, and Marcia took an instinctive step backward. She could smell the alcohol on his breath; she could smell that perfume on him. He smelled like lies. She tasted bile in her throat.
“I don’t believe you. How could you? You know, I really thought you’d grown up, that you’d changed,” Marcia said, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She looked down at her beautiful silver ring with its deep green emerald and felt even worse, if that were possible.
“But you haven’t,” she said. She pulled the ring off her finger, dropped it carelessly to the ground. The sound it made as it hit the stone floor was small and empty and Marcia thought it rather fitting.
“Marcia—"
“No. You do not get to speak. I’m done listening to you. You cannot justify this to me, and I refuse to stand here and let you try. Apparently, you haven’t changed. Not in twenty-five years. You’re the exact same person who ran to Cyrus just as soon as my back was turned when we were sixteen. So no, Milo, I don’t, in fact, believe that you still love me. You don’t love me enough to be faithful, clearly.”
Milo opened his mouth as if to say something more but thought better of it. He bowed his head and his shoulders slumped.
“I’m not finished,” she said icily. “Look at me, Milo.”
With great reluctance he did so, shrinking beneath her gaze.
“How dare you do this to me? What’s worse, how dare you do this to me in my own house? In my own damn bed?”
Marcia felt herself teetering precariously on that dangerous precipice between fury and tears.
She chose anger. Drawing herself up as tall and proud as she could manage at that moment, she spoke. “We’re done, Milo. Forever. Get the hell out of my house. Right now.”
She glowered at him. “I’ll come back in twenty minutes, which, by the way, please know you do not deserve, and I better not find you here when I return. Goodbye, Milo.”
And then she turned and left, the sound of her heels echoing on the stone staircase that led to the rooms below. Once Marcia knew she was out of his sight, her façade crumbled and she put a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.
The twenty minutes was a bluff; Marcia just knew she needed to leave, leave until she could stand to walk back up those steps without crying. She also knew the last thing she wanted to see was Milo and some woman coming down from her room.
As if in a daze, Marcia fled down the second flight of stairs that led from the Keep into the Hub itself. She was about to go through the Way that led to the Wizard Tower when she ground to a halt. Even though she was no longer the ExtraOrdinary Wizard, Marcia knew she was one of the more recognizable figures in the Castle, even more so in the Wizard Tower. And Wizards were such gossips; the thought of what people might say if she strode through the Great Hall in tears made her feel awful. Transport it was then, Marcia thought with a heavy sigh. She began the spell.
Her Transport, luckily, worked as she’d hoped. Marcia found herself on the landing stage just outside the large purple door that had once led to her rooms at the top of the Tower. The door now led to Septimus’ rooms, for not so long ago she had given him the Akhu Amulet and it was now he who was ExtraOrdinary Wizard. Marcia knocked on the door.
The adrenaline had not yet worn off; Marcia was trembling badly. The horrible nature of the situation had not really sunk in, but as Marcia stood waiting outside the purple door, it began to. She could feel the weight of what had happened growing heavier and heavier on her shoulders until it was unbearable.
By the time a yawning Septimus had opened the door and said, “Oh, hey, Marcia. What are you doing here?” the dust had settled.
Marcia felt like a Maund had crushed the very air out of her lungs. She cleared her throat and prayed her voice wouldn’t come out choked when she spoke.
It didn’t, just barely. “Septimus, can I come in?”
“Course, Marcia,” he held the door open for her as she walked through. “But what’s up? Are you feeling alright? You look a little pale.”
Marcia couldn’t bring herself to reply. Not yet. She slipped off her purple snakeskin boots by the door and made a beeline for the sofa in front of the warm, crackling fire. In another moment she had drawn up her knees to her chest, the fabric of her long, multicolored dress pooling around her. Marcia hugged her knees tightly, curling into a little ball.
Now Septimus was worried. He went over to the fire and sat in the chair beside her. “Marcia?” he asked again.
She still did not respond; Marcia just stared blankly into the fire, still trying to fight the tears stinging at the corners of her eyes.
Septimus put a hand on her arm and she flinched, as though startled out of a dream. She met his gaze somewhat uncertainly, as though she were weighing an important decision.
“Septimus,” Marcia said slowly, “Do you remember how we agreed to always be honest with one another?”
He nodded.
And this time when she spoke, Marcia could not keep her voice from wavering. “Well, something…awful happened today and I—I didn’t know where to go. I came here because I really don’t know who else to turn to.” She swallowed hard. “But the thing is, Septimus, I don’t want to burden you with my mess. You shouldn’t have to deal with that or listen to that. It isn’t fair to you.”
She broke eye contact and looked at the floor. Her right hand clutched her left tightly. Without the silver band on her ring finger, there was an uncomfortable lightness to her hand that made her heart hurt something terrible. A tear ran down her cheek and Marcia brushed it away furiously.
Septimus took a deep breath. He wasn’t exactly sure what Marcia might mean by mess, but he knew well enough that she was not one for exaggeration.
“Marcia, look. How many hundreds of times have you been there for me? You’ve always been there for me. You saved my life, Marcia. You taught me so much about Magyk, and so much more about just being a good, decent person. Marcia, you’ve always been there for me. But I’m not a kid anymore, and I want to be a friend you can lean on if you need it, Marcia. When you need it. I mean it. Really. I care about you. Please let me do that, Marcia.”
Marcia found that while Septimus had been talking, more than a few more tears had traced their way down her cheeks. She brushed them away with her hands. “Thank you, Septimus,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “Course, Marcia,” It was then that Septimus noticed her ring was missing.
He drew in a sharp breath. “Did something happen with Milo?” The question was out of his mouth before he’d stopped to consider its bluntness.
But Marcia didn’t seem to mind. She looked down at her bare left hand again. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Septimus, I thought he’d changed as a person. I really did.” She paused for a moment. Then Marcia decided to tell him, notwithstanding of how awkward the whole situation was. “Milo, er…he has not exactly been faithful to me…as it turns out.”
“You mean he cheated on you?”
Marcia nodded miserably, fresh tears sliding down her face. She did not bother to wipe them away this time. She glanced up and met Septimus’ eyes. In her gaze there was a pain he couldn’t recall ever seeing before and Septimus had to remind himself very sternly to keep his anger in check.
But his voice still shook when he spoke again. “That bastard,” he spat. “How dare he? How dare he do that to you?”
Septimus proceeded to call Milo a string of much unkinder names under his breath and Marcia found she did not disagree.
She heaved an exhausted sigh and let go of her knees. Allowing herself to lean back into the sofa. Marcia realized she felt a little bit better after having told him. She sighed again. “It’s a mess, like I told you. I guess I should have known better, but like I said, I really thought he had changed.”
She sounded so far past heartbroken, he thought; he felt his own heart ache for her. Septimus considered what she’d said for a moment, and then something terrible occurred to him.
“Wait, what do you mean by changed?” he asked suspiciously. Septimus couldn’t bear to think that the conclusion his mind had jumped to was true. Surely, it couldn’t be. “Marcia, did this happen, I mean, has this happened before?”
He was absolutely horrified when she gave another slight nod.
“Marcia.”
“I know, I know.” She swallowed hard. “But we were just teenagers back then, you know? And I thought—I guess I figured—that he’d grown up…that he’d know better than to do that again. I suppose that’s what I thought. I know now that I was wrong. Believe me, Septimus; believe me, right now, my younger self is yelling the loudest ‘I told you so’ in my head that I’ve ever heard. I really don’t need to hear it from you too, that’s all.”
“That’s not what I meant, Marcia, I—gosh, Marcia, I’m just really sorry this happened to you.” Septimus ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “You deserve better than him. You deserve better. So much better, okay?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. I really don’t know, Septimus. I feel like I don’t know what to think anymore. How could my judgment of someone’s character be so wrong?”
“It’s not your fault, Marcia,” he said quietly. He didn’t really know what else to say.
Marcia nodded. “I know it’s not. Just—hurts, that’s all.”
“Yeah.”
They sat in silence for a long while then, the only sound in the room the crackling of the fire.
“Can I stay here tonight?” she asked. “I don’t—I’m not sure I can go back to the Keep right now. Because they were…Milo and—they were in my room, Septimus.” Marcia took a deep breath and twisted her hands together. She stared at the floor and tried very hard not to think about the horrible scene on the landing with Milo.
Honestly, Septimus was surprised that Marcia was holding herself together this well. If that had happened to him…well he’d always known she was a strong woman, but he’d never have guessed she was this strong. Septimus let out a slow breath. “Absolutely, Marcia,” he said earnestly. “You know you don’t even have to ask.”
Not for the first time that evening, Marcia felt quite close to tears. “Septimus?”
“Yeah?”
“Can…can we please not talk about this anymore tonight? I don’t think I have the strength to think about it. I’m just so tired and it makes my heart hurt.” She sniffed and looked up at him, tears still in her green eyes.
“Can we just talk about things that don’t matter until we forget and we laugh and we start to believe that everything might be okay again?”
“Marcia,” Septimus said seriously. He reached out again and put a hand on her shoulder. “Everything is going to be okay again. I promise you. It will be.”
And then he folded his hands on his lap and sat up very straight, almost like he was giving her an interview. “Now, Marcia, I have a very important question for you, and I have it on good authority that you do, in fact, know the answer. What is your favorite FrizzFroot flavor?”
Marcia managed a watery smile, feeling the tightness in her chest beginning to ease somewhat. Gratefully, she took the bait.
“Oh, those are so bad for your teeth, Septimus, I can’t believe you drink those things.” But she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “But if you absolutely promise not to tell anyone, strawberry.”
Septimus grinned. “I promise. Hang on a moment.”
A few minutes later he walked out of the kitchen bearing two FrizzFroots. He handed the strawberry one to Marcia. “See, I knew I’d get the answer out of you eventually. Only took eight years.”
She took a sip of her drink and (unsuccessfully) tried to suppress a smile. “Don’t you dare tell anyone,” she said.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
“Don’t ‘whatever’ me, Septimus.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
And the rest of the evening passed that way. It was what she needed, and Marcia was pretty sure she would never be able to thank him enough for it.