Altyssima

Beyond the glass house, the bell chimes for midnight. I unfurl my body, fanning my paws, stretching my legs, dipping my chest until my spine creaks, then leap from my perch atop the potting bench. The chilled dirt floor bites at my toes, the crystalline walls holding barely a trace of the day’s warmth. But the moon is out, illuminating every leaf and petal, gilding every cobweb, and I am on the prowl. For the glass house holds many treasures, and many treasures invite many thieves.

River pixies, mountain nymphs, hobgoblins, even a fire troll once; I’ve come to expect every kind of foot and finger to slip through those silver gates, eager for a piece of the Master’s collection—herbs and roots, seeds and flowers, curated from all over the continent for one purpose and one purpose only: death. But as I round the pots of devil’s tears, heading for the olaurea shrub where I sit night after night, a pair of boots stop me in my tracks, sending a twitch through my whiskers.

The man is taller than most, his head nearly grazing the top of the moonshade trellis, and he’s dressed as if he’s due for an appointment at the bank, his suit and hat brighter than honeycomb. If it weren’t for the hour, or his peculiar, ebony spectacles, I might think he stumbled in by mistake. But he is surely a thief, and a tricky one at that. In all my years, no one has ever ventured so far inside unnoticed.

I start with the usual tricks, scurrying toward the bloodbane and knocking over a small stack of clay pots with a clatter. After all, thieves are as superstitious as they come. But the man doesn’t flinch as he looks down his nose at me. Or rather, at the bloodbane’s crimson, hooded petals beside me. It seems he’s not just taller than most but braver, too. So be it.

“Portia,” I call to the little beast hanging by the shadowlock, spinning a new spiral. “Be a dear and send a few of your spiderlings down our thief’s collar, won’t you?”

But the response is not Portia’s.

“Now, now,” the thief says, shaking his head, his voice as deep as the darkest night and as smooth as the finest leather. “No need to get the arachnids involved.”

My fur gathers at my neck, standing on end. No two-footed creature can hear me, not even the Master. And before? Had he been staring at the bloodbane, or somehow seeing me as well?

The answer comes as his lazy smile swings back in my direction, his eyes unreadable behind the abyss of his lenses. “Surprise.”

I curl my lip on instinct, bearing my fangs as a hiss races up my throat, but logic takes root before any sound escapes. I may not understand how this thief has detected me, can communicate with me, but he is still a thief, and I am still the only thing standing between him and whatever he wishes to steal from the Master. I must simply play a different game.

“What brings you here?” I pur. “Revenge? Jealousy? Poison may seem prudent, but few know how to handle these flowers without killing themselves first. I assure you, a knife would be just as quick and far less dangerous.”

The thief checks his golden pocket watch, as if he is in fact late for an appointment, and steps forward, undeterred. “What is your name?”

“My—” I stumble, my legs wobbling as my head swims with memories that surely cannot belong to me. The sunshine on my fur. The taste of murilegus mint on my tongue. Digging my claws through the fangroot soil as the Master hums. But it can’t be true. I’ve only ever prowled in the moonlight. I’ve only ever lived to protect what lies within the glass house.

The thief’s boot scuffing the dirt pulls me back into my body, and I shake off the lies like water. He’s ten feet past me now, nearly to the potting bench where I sleep.

Where the mirth thorn sits, the Master’s prized possession.

I spring for him, closing the space between us in two long leaps, stopping him with a swipe at his shins, claws out. “This will kill you with even the briefest touch,” I warn, resigning to let him leave with his prize so long as it is not the single bloom beside which I dream, a precious cluster of heart-shaped, iridescent petals. “Take a stalk of midnight tribute. Or corona seed. Elodia of the wood, even. Surely any will suffice.”

He crouches down to meet me and asks again, harsher this time, “What is your name?”

Another flood of falsehoods overwhelms me, Masters humming taking shape in my mind. A four syllable word. A name? But no, I am only my purpose. I have never borne a name.

“Who are you?” I growl, curling my spine, tucking my tail.

The thief dips his chin, then slowly lowers his spectacles, revealing eyes like obsidian, not a hint of white to be found. A necromancer.

I recoil with a hiss, but he only leans closer. “Tell me your name.”

A yowl rips from my throat as I leap for the benchtop, for the mirth thorn, my claws tearing into the cedar. But I knock a trowel in my haste, sending it flying into the pot. I pounce with a cry, but I’m too late. The clay breaks, forming a jagged hole for the dirt to spill onto the bench, trickling to the floor. But I go still at what lies within.

“Say your name,” the necromancer whispers, gentle this time, as I stare at the bones buried in the soil, twisted between the network of roots.

The memories come at his call once more, but now I recognize their truth. The Master crying over my limp body. Her hands working me into the dirt. The mirth thorn blooming from my decaying flesh.

I had a life, long ago, full of sunshine and satisfaction and song. I had a Master who cared for me and wished only for my days to be lazy and my heart to be light.

I had a name.

“I was not sent for the plant,” the necromancer says, brushing my phantom fur. “I was sent for you. Come now. Speak your name and be free.”

“Altyssima,” I say, letting the sound fill me like my first breath on the day I came into this world, and letting it flow out of me like my last on the day I left.

The mirth thorn shivers, the iridescent petals falling from its stem like snow. I curl my body in on itself, tucking my soul into the warmth of my lost memories. Of dreams yet to be had. My eyes close as, beyond the glass house, the bell chimes once more.

Then, at long last, I give in to the night.