those waiting behind the door

As Demi rose from her seat, her audience with the headmistress concluded, Monday appeared at her side with a neatly folded bundle in her arms.

It was a cloak.

Cloaks were one of the privileges of the student council. Demi had seen them in numerous school photos in the room below, but had never imagined that she would wear one herself, let alone on her first day of school.

At some point during Demi’s heated conversation with the headmistress, Monday had slipped away and donned her own cloak, so she now also looked like a proper authority figure.

It felt a bit like a coronation as Monday spun the cape theatrically and settled it over Demi’s shoulders. Once it was on, Monday helped her adjust it and pin it back, so that both of her arms were free and unrestricted.

It was a beautiful cloak, and Demi could not help but recognize that hers was different from Monday’s, and in fact different from the other cloaks she had seen in the photographs. The outside of the cloaks were a deep emerald green, but the lining of cloaks was different from cloak to cloak.

Butterflies, Demi thought to herself. Butterflies and moths.

Her own cloak was cut in the shape of a Luna moth, including the trailing tail. The lining matched the calm sea green coloration of the moth, eye spots and all.

Monday’s cloak was cut differently, and had a lining in magenta and gold. She was the rosy maple moth, the smallest of the silk moths, gorgeous and radiant in their color.

Each member of the student council had their own associated moth or butterfly, Demi would learn, and these assignments were decided based on divinations done in a traditional ceremony. Because of the circumstances of Demi’s upbringing in the country, she had not been present at her own ceremony.

And yet, it fit.

Literally and figuratively.

The cloak fit very well, and beyond that, it fit her sensibilities, as if it had been made expressly for her.

(It had been, naturally.)

She felt comfortable in it.

Somehow, the weight of being student council president seemed somehow less just from having donned her cloak of office.

The headmistress had overseen the ceremonial presentation of the cloak, and when she saw that Demi had smiled in spite of herself the moment that the cloak had been swept over her shoulders, she had apparently been satisfied.

With the presentation finished, and Demi having formally accepted her new position as president, the headmistress released them.

Demi was relieved to finally be done with the fight over her status at the school.

Like the director, the headmistress had an intense personality.

She followed Monday down the stairs.

Based on the headmistress’s unequivocal orders, Demi thought that she would surely be pressed into immediate service as student council president, but once they were outside of the hexagonal office, Monday made it clear that she apparently had other plans.

“Before we do anything else, we’re going to introduce you to your home class — our class — Moon Class,” Monday explained, her bosom swelling with pride as she stood a little straighter.

That her bosom could swell beyond its already gravity generating mass was impressive, and Demi could not help but admire it. This phenomenon seemed to be the sort of thing one ought to salute, as if it were a flag. At the very least it deserved polite applause. The council of Demi were currently engaged in either saluting or applauding the majesty of Monday’s bosom. One of them had even begun by clapping and then saluted.

Demi somehow managed to keep from doing either, but it went down to the wire.

Demi believed quite strongly that a person ought to admire all that was admirable in the world — freely, and with gusto — but she was also aware that the Lady Serraffield who was required as the new student council president was probably not a person who applauded breasts, no matter how remarkable they were.

Monday continued on, oblivious to the tableau unfolding inside Demi’s mind, “After you’ve visited with Moon Class, I’ll take you to the Forest Castle so you can meet the other members of the student council.”

This proclamation brought Demi back to her senses and she paused, thinking of how to reply.

“I wouldn’t want to disturb their lessons. The students, I mean,” Demi began hesitantly.

That much was true. She did want to meet the other girls in her class, if only for the brief paradise of normalcy in what had otherwise been an excessively abnormal day.

But she didn’t want to interrupt class and make a spectacle of her arrival.

It was more than an hour past the morning bell. Surely classes were now in session, even taking into account the crowd at the gates that she had heard, but not witnessed.

But Monday was apparently entirely unworried.

“Today is going to be absolute pandemonium regardless of your actions,” she observed idly. “You couldn’t really do much to influence this storm of chaos even if you wanted to, Mitya,” she said sympathetically, with a gentle pat on the back. “So best not to worry about it, all right?” Monday then shrugged her shoulders fluidly. “All of the girls of the upper school want veeeery much to catch a glimpse of you. I’m sure that’s why so many were let out of class early.” She tilted her head to the side and her mouth curved into a mysterious smile. “But I’m sure that the girls of Moon Class have made their way back to their classroom by this point, because they’ll know that being in class will give them their best chance of seeing you: Up. Close. And. Personal.” She giggled her strange giggle as a way of punctuation. “And of course, it is possible that the faculty will have worked their own magic to rein in the enthusiasm of everyone else. In that case, most of the students will have already returned to their own classrooms, even if they don’t believe they can count on the good fortune of meeting you there. If not, well, maybe then it will be punishment time,” she trilled with another very ominous smile. “This is a school, after all. Good little girls should be in their classes,” Monday opined. Then she raised a single finger and closed one of her eyes. “But better safe than sorry, ufufufu. I’ll reconnoiter the hallway a bit first just to be on the safe side, so that we don’t run headlong into a mob of your most ardent fans.”

And so, Monday reconnoitered the hallways of the main building while Demi remained safely sequestered inside the Air Castle, looking at photographs and memorabilia.

Quite miraculously, Monday’s wishful thinking was borne out. When the equerry returned to escort her princess to that most fabled of destinations, Moon Class, Demi was relieved to find that they were not accosted by mobs of girls eager to meet their new transfer-student-council-president.

There might have been a few intrepid souls who were still prowling around the halls in search of a glimpse of their incoming princess-president, but if there were, they kept out of sight.

It followed that whoever was still at large would probably keep their distance from Monday, who despite her dubious personality was apparently a respected authority figure — albeit a questionable one. Even if some students remained out and about, loitering around classrooms while classes were at least ostensibly in session was likely not encouraged.

It was possible that some girls were as yet on the lam — Mallory, dictator-for-life of the Bloodhex Dispatch was one such rebel who came to mind — but if they didn’t have a proper excuse for skipping out on class, these young ladies were now apparently in danger of disciplinary action, executed by Monday Volkova herself.

Demi could not help but reflect on the fact that Monday’s interest in enforcing school rules seemed entirely arbitrary, and apparently depended on how she was feeling at any given time.

“Fufufu~ if we find any naughty girls who are playing hooky, I’ll puuuuunish them,” she giggled, and wriggled her fingers in a very ominous way.

To Demi, Monday’s words had the ring of a very credible threat. Monday was a suspicious person who probably had very suspicious ideas about what amounted to fair punishment.

Demi got a chill down her spine just thinking of it, and briefly wiggled as she walked, trying to get rid of it.

That’s my newtype flash warning me of danger, she decided, glancing sidelong at Monday, who still had a serene smile on her face. She was now humming a song whose lyrics Demi could not even begin to imagine.

They probably involved punishment.

Demi had zero desire to end up on the wrong side of the rules relative to Monday and find herself in a punishment scenario.

Demi suspected that the students who did remain at large apparently thought likewise regarding Monday’s unambiguously voiced threats, and had made themselves scarce for this exact reason.

I need to get the sense of this place as soon as I can, Demi reflected. I don’t want to accidentally break a rule and find myself in detention. She glanced at Monday again, who was still cheerfully humming, and wriggling her fingers from time to time in sync with the song.

Or worse, she amended.

Demi was keenly aware of rules. It didn’t matter what the rules were, or what the situation was. If there were rules that governed a particular time or place, then she would suss them out and learn them back to front, upside down and inside out. It was important to have an awareness of rules.

Demi always made it a priority to learn the rules of any new situation she found herself in.

— but not because she was interested in following them.

Demi was deeply conscious of rules so that she could determine which rules she could break with impunity. In the court of justice that was bound to reign in any institution, most particularly in a school, Demi was — essentially — a defense attorney, rather than a prosecutor. She was a rules lawyer par excellence. To be wholly transparent, she was most commonly a defense attorney engaged in her own defense, although she was certainly willing to act on another’s behalf if they had unwittingly bungled into trouble.

Demi knew exactly where the line was, because she kept her toes on it for orientation —

It was one of the wires she walked with such regularity that it had ceased to be concerning to her at all, as if she were the star of a three ring circus, as comfortable turning cartwheels high in the air as she was on the solid ground.

She was not particularly concerned with either rules or laws. She broke them as she saw fit.

She was quite an audacious character.

But.

The fact that Demi was just as likely to break rules as to follow them did not mean that she was without moral bearings. She actually had a very strong personal code of ethics, which had been on unambiguous display during her showdown with the headmistress. It often caused (other people) quite a bit of trouble, but Demi pinned that trouble to her chest like a battle star. She had a way of taking her own faults and polishing them until they sparkled, and she wore them like jewelry.

Along with the sparkling jewels of her faults, Demi was also comfortable displaying an array of her virtues (both real and imagined). For instance, Demi liked to congratulate herself on being a very sensible person, but it was doubtful whether others would have unanimously agreed with this generous self-assessment. What they might have signed off on was this:

Demeter Serraffield was a girl who threw rainbows.

She had some strange personal magic, an uncanny ability to light up the world in color and interest, to illustrate it, to embellish it, illuminate it, to draw out the best features of each and every moment, to make them manifest for all to see. She could sing up the sun and dance down the moon, and her enthusiasm was both infectious and intoxicating — beyond that, it was believable, earnest and honest and freely shared. She was a charmer, even of dread beasts, even of the trampled and forgotten. People with tired eyes and damaged hearts, those who had consigned themselves to misery and despair, she could draw them out, capture them, and make them believe, if only for a few moments at a time, that possibility still existed: for themselves, and for others. This was her enchantment, her magic made real and potent and undeniable.

Demi was always charging forward toward the ever-distant horizon, heedless of terror, of pain, stretching her hands out to grasp what remained as yet unseen, phantasmal. This reckless passion grabbed at the hearts of other people when they saw it. She was a flame that burned very brightly, sometimes so brightly that she was painful to look at. She could be both beautiful and heartbreaking, like a tree blooming out of season, helplessly, needlessly raining down petals on the unforgiving hard winter ground.

Her strength was a gentle strength. She had romantic temperament and a very fertile imagination, a kind heart and a boundless curiosity toward all that was interesting. She also had a powerful personal will. All of these traits gathered together into one basket created a very singular individual, a strange and lovable girl who acted as if the world was at her command.

She painted the world to suit herself, and the world — quite shockingly — generally complied.

She was inescapably eccentric, and often found herself out of step with other people because of her unusual ways of thinking about things. But this eccentricity also drew other people to her, a magnetic attraction that was very difficult to ignore.

She drew in people that admired her. She drew in people who wanted to protect what they saw as both beautiful and fragile. She drew in people who wanted to see the future she was chasing after.

She loved living, every note of it, every drop, and that fact was inescapable to anyone who entered her orbit.

She loved living except when she did not, and she did not like that part of herself.

She did not know what to do with it.

So she did not do anything with it.

She pushed away and she did not think about it.

It was easy enough to do.

Demi was effortlessly charismatic, and charmed herself as easily as she charmed other people.

She had personal experience with loss and despair, loneliness and tragedy. In the pain of others, she saw her own pain, her own loneliness. What she wanted most was to be kind to others. She wanted people to be happy. She would bear up under strain and hurt if it meant that she could help others to be happy.

She was probably a little too willing to take on burdens.

There was a part of her that thought —

That thought —

That thought she deserved it.

None of these things, except perhaps for a willingness to indulge in self-sacrifice, none of these things were necessary for the heir Serraffield. The mess of life and color who was Demi, it was all an unneeded complication. What was required was that she go about her duties without incident, moving smoothly and frictionlessly from place to place, role to role. While there was a phantasm of power and control that bloomed alongside notoriety, it could not be counted on. Even in her inexperience, she knew that.

It was dangerous to draw attention. She needed to perform adequately as befitted her station, no more, and no less. She could be intelligent, but only so intelligent. She could be beautiful, but only so beautiful. She could be charming, but only so charming. She could even be defiant, so long as she remained only so defiant.

She needed to keep between the lines.

She knew that.

It was impossible that she not know it.

And yet.

In this world where compliance with the status quo was brutally enforced, Demi remained hardheaded, stubborn, passionate, and compassionate. She was devoted to doing things in her own way, regardless of what the rest of the world had to say about it.

She was defiant in her decision to be herself. That was her resolve, unshakable, foundational.

And that defiance was dangerous: as clear and fragile as glass.

It was the reason she needed to understand rules, to understand laws. It was another part of her resolve.

— because she had a sober understanding of her position, even if this influence was not always obvious to the outside observer. She would not have survived so long as the heir Serraffield if she did not. As the heir to the seat of Serraffield, in most circumstances she was expected to be a perfect role model: a symbol of order, control, tradition, and authority. It was very important to her continued well-being that she embody these ideas, even if she did not particularly wish to.

But her mother had reared her very well, and as a result, Demi was cunning, and full of tricks. A girl in her situation had to be, really.

What it amounted to was this: Demeter Serraffield was very good at giving the impression that she was each and every one of the things she was supposed to be, while at the same time doing what she wanted in the way that she wanted. An uncharitable observer might have opined that she was nothing more than a spoiled and privileged rich girl obsessed with getting her way. Demi wasn’t sure that she had much of a defense against that barb. It was a stinger she taunted herself with whenever she was feeling particularly low.

But she had no other way to be than the way that she was. She had developed her own way of living, her own way of surviving. She could not be different and she did not want to be.

Demeter Serraffield would be who she was, regardless of the position she occupied: heir to the Curia, squire, school girl, and also, apparently, student council president.

But she was spared any further introspection on the subject because after a leisurely stroll through the halls of the main building, Monday had at last come to a halt before a beautifully lettered plaque that was hanging on the wall.

It read Moon Class.

There was a transom window over the door in front of them, stained glass depicting the moon with a backdrop of seven stars. The window was slightly open, propped up by hinges, and the hushed murmur of voices could be heard from the classroom.

Well.

It would be challenging to classify all of the voices as hushed.

The girls in the classroom were clearly having a very animated discussion.

“It’s really disgraceful that we haven’t even managed to arrange a twenty one gun salute,” came a clear, commanding voice. “We need to observe proper honors for such an exalted person as our new commander-in-chief.”

“Guns are scary — “ came a soft, tremulous voice.

“You’re scared of everything,” retorted a different loud voice. “It would be much more exciting to welcome her with some fireballs, or maybe some flare arrows,” she contradicted.

“Magic isn’t real, dynamite in the brain,” denied the military girl. “Reality is the smooth, beautiful stock of a long barrel rifle.”

“It must be very painful to have a brain so tiny and filled with rocks that it can’t comprehend the magnificence of high sorcery,” said the loud girl comfortingly.

“Don’t fight,” begged the soft voice, still trembling.

“We’re not fighting!” both girls declared at once, and with some force.

After a moment, the loud girl cut in again.

“Besides, Margot, where are you even going to get twenty one guns? You know you’ve been barred from even approaching the members of the shooting team, and you’re not allowed to go to the shooting range without adult supervision.” The loud girl seemed supremely smug when pronouncing these restrictions.

There was a cut off sputter and then an indignant, “I have already verified the locations of twenty one starting pistols in the club rooms of the various sports teams. I would lay hands on them this minute if I could be confident that the soldiers of this regiment were ready to present honors in proper style.”

A soothing, airy voice broke in, “Ahaha, your teacher would appreciate it if you didn’t bring firearms into the classroom again, Miss Bahr.”

“That wasn’t a real weapon, Lieutenant. It was a highly accurate, painstakingly crafted model.”

“But your teacher can’t tell the difference between your highly accurate, painstakingly crafted model and a real gun, can she?” came the fluttery voice of the apparent teacher. “It caused a big problem last time!”

“Since Margot doesn’t have any guns, I’m definitely going to cast some cool spells when she gets here,” insisted the loud voice. “My magic is supremely awesome. I have spent many years wandering the darkest dungeons and the most mysterious forests to hone my craft. She will unquestionably be super impressed. Magic is way better than guns anyhow.”

When the girl with the loud voice began talking, she drowned out whatever else might have been happening behind the closed door.

“Please stop yelling,” rebutted the trembling voice.

“I’m not yelling!” yelled the girl who was unquestionably yelling. “This is just how it sounds whenever I’m chanting arcane words! Can I cast my spells, teacher?” she asked, but then didn’t wait for an answer before deciding, “I’m going to cast my spells.”

“I suppose that’s all right, Miss Parker — “

“I can only be bound by my true name, Symphonet Inferna, the one they call the Scarlet Devastation!”

“All right, Miss Symphonet-Inferna-the-Scarlet-Devastation, you can cast whatever spells you want so long as you can cast them while sitting at your desk.”

“Curses, foul witchbinder, I can’t use the greatest of my spells without their full somatic components!”

“That’s the point,” cut in a dry voice.

“Be silent, all of you,” came another low voice, “My third eye has opened! The rosenqueen has descended! She will be upon us before the bell tolls twelve times!”

“Yeah, what an amazing prophecy,” scoffed another girl. “If she’s not here before lunchtime, I’m sure even she’ll get some kind of detention.”

When they’d heard the first clear voice, Monday had politely held up her hand to stop Demi from advancing. She had simply stood before the door, smiling her mysterious smile, while the conversation rapidly advanced from mildly unusual to downright bizarre.

Demi had been unable to conceal her reactions to the discussion as it developed. The volume of voices lowered at last — Symphonet Inferna was clearly preparing her spells — and Demi leaned close to Monday to whisper.

“Should we really go in there?” she wondered.

It sounded as if she might be facing a firing squad, explosions, and end times prophecies.

All at once, even.

“Fufufu, relax, Mitya,” Monday giggled. “These are your people, after all.”

Then she turned on her heel like a dancer to face the door at her back.