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[Lord of the Mysteries] Turn, Turn, My Wheel 1/? (4360 words)
Title: Turn, turn, my wheel
Fandom: Lord of Mysteries
Character/Pairing(s): Benson and Melissa Moretti, more to come
Rating: PG
Warning: set after the end of the story
Summary: Melissa Moretti's journey becoming a Beyonder, and the truths that she finds along the way.
Being a Beyonder did not hit Melissa Moretti all at once. Despite the foul tasting potion and the expectant eyes of her professor, all she felt was something akin to a squeeze in her brain; a slight headache urging her to rest for a while. There was nothing supernatural or preternatural about it. No voices, no murmurings; none of the relevant warnings she prepared herself for.
“And your memory?” Chancellor Portland Moment asked with some excitement.
Melissa Moretti had a good memory all her life. While she was no hyperthymesiac, she rated herself above average in recall once she entered Backlund University of Technology and Industry. Before that… well, before that her grades had been good, but it was only in hindsight that she could understand the exhaustion that her family’s previous poverty weighed her with. With a maid to look after the chores, good food in her stomach, sufficient rest, and no worry about what would happen to her family in the upcoming week, her concentration (and thus her grades) had undergone a drastic uptick.
From a previously middling student in Tingen Technical School, Melissa shot up the ranks in Backlund University to secure highly competitive internships and the goodwill of her professors.
“I don’t know,” Melissa stated honestly, and her Chancellor Moment nodded sagely before telling her to head home and get a good rest, confident in her condition now that she showed no abnormalities after ingesting the Savant potion.
A perfect memory. That was what this potion promised her— the ability to recall all tools and lessons with ease, her promotion a result of her hard-working attitude and affinity for machines.
And all it required was her consideration for the Church of Steam and Machinery.
Perhaps a few years ago she would have refused, but… it had been several years since Melissa felt particularly pious and grateful to the Goddess. When the war started, she found herself doubting the mercy of Gods and looking toward her fellow man for support. To the volunteers who cleaned the streets of rubble after airship attacks, to the doctors and nurses who practically lived in hospitals thanks to patient overflow, and even to the limited amount of upper class who shared rations and goods with the common folk, continuously donating to save as many people as possible from starvation and eviction.
A few years ago, the thought of daring to choose between two gods felt blasphemous. One would inherited their religion from their family, unless they were so opposed to the words of the church that they married into another family which supported another god. But now… now there were whispers of leniency; that some gods might condone dual-worship.
Melissa wasn’t entirely sure if that’s what would be required of her between the Evernight Church and the Church of Steam and Machinery yet, only that advancing the sequences of this supernatural underbelly meant aligning herself with the Church of Steam and Machinery.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to advance.
She wasn’t sure about allowing another god into her heart, either.
On the way home, Melissa mentally reviewed everything she had been taught on cogitation and how to control her spirituality. It hadn’t quite settled in on her yet that she was now this mystical being called a Beyonder.
“Melissa,” Benson called to her the next morning after breakfast, his suit rumpled as he ran fingers through his hair in agitation. “Do you remember where I placed my keys, I can’t seem to find—”
“You left them in your coat pocket last night,” Melissa informed him, never looking up from her buttered toast. “In the small, inner pocket to not lose them on your date with Lucy. The coat is downstairs, but not in the closet, because you left it on the couch and forgot it after you covered it with the throw by accident.”
Benson had been in a good mood, and settled down to read a favourite novel of Lucy’s on the couch. Melissa had settled next to him, and the two of them shared a throw in the mild weather.
Her brother paused, and then huffed audibly.
“My sister,” he said fondly. “What would I do without you?”
“Forget your keys and be late for work,” Melissa informed him matter-of-factly, and finally looked up to see his smile. She smiled back. “Have a good day, Benson. Stay safe.”
He leaned over to tap her nose with the side of his finger like a child, and said, “Have a good day, Melissa. Stay safe.”
That afternoon, she met up with Elizabeth, who transferred to Backlund University immediately after the war, although not to the School of Technology and Industry. Elizabeth had invited Melissa and several other newfound friends to taste the efforts of her cooking class, having scored quite high the previous semester. There were many ladies there Melissa had never met before, but it was easy to pick up their names.
“I’ve been meaning to catch up with you!” Elizabeth exclaimed as she gestured to Melissa over in the dormitory kitchen. The young woman had a simmering pot on the stove and several vegetables on the cutting board. She washed her hands and the knife she was using as she beamed at Melissa. “It has been too long. You barely even wrote to us!”
Melissa smiled in agreement, although she couldn’t muster up the polite words to explain how even writing to friends in Tingen brought up bitter memories.
“It has,” she agreed instead, and then turned the conversation over to the topic at hand. “This smells absolutely divine, Elizabeth.”
“Doesn’t it?” Elizabeth gushed as she followed the conversation and spoke of what she was making. She dried her hand on the kitchen towel and said, “mother insisted that I take a class or two on what she considers more feminine matters. Father said I shouldn’t bother, as he expected my future household to keep a maid for this work, so to him feminine matters include mathematics to run household finances, and literary prowess to write protests to local government matters. But after… well, after last year, I figured it would be good to learn how to manage a house by myself. We had a whole segment on Intisian cuisine! Fascinating, really.”
Melissa watched, hands tucked carefully to herself, as Elizabeth carefully arranged the vegetables and then slowly started cutting, her eyes on the board in concentration despite holding a conversation.
“I hadn’t expected something like cooking to take so much energy! I thought— how hard could it be? Cut up food, put it together over a fire, make sure it doesn’t burn, and then it’s ready. I hadn’t expected to time each step of the process: every ingredient needs different times over the fire, so the masters know when to start preparing each step for the fastest results.”
Elizabeth truly sounded awed, and she subtly leaned toward Melissa as if divulging a secret. “That’s one of the many differences between someone experienced and inexperienced at cooking. The timing is something that only those with experience truly grasp. What takes a chef fifteen minutes to make would take a beginner over an hour!”
Melissa shifted with an awkward smile. That was true. Despite having learned her way around the kitchen for several years now, she was still at beginner levels. She never considered what steps to mix in order to save time, only that cooking was routine.
“Your cuts are very even,” she complimented, unsure how to contribute to the conversation. She wondered if Elizabeth would welcome a theoretical discussion on the implications of making a machine that might perfectly cut food.
“Oh, that took me weeks to learn! Chalk it up to experience, once again. I had the most horrid grasp on a knife the first few times. Didn’t know which knife was meant for what, or whether to slice at angles or even how much strength to put into cutting different things. Garlic, for one! It still takes me forever to peel and cut garlic.”
Melissa recalled a summer memory.
“Why not just smash the clove with the side of your blade?” She asked, remembering deft movements and rhythmic sounds off the cutting board. She demonstrated with her hands as if holding a knife. She had done this multiple times now. “That makes it easier to peel, and releases flavours more intense than merely chopping it.”
‘—makes it easier to peel, and releases flavours more intense than merely chopping it.’
The warm tone came unbidden to her, and Melissa looked down at her shoes with wide eyes, suppressing a shiver.
What was she saying? She wasn’t a chef. For that matter, neither was—
Curious, Elizabeth halted her cutting and moved to set a single clove of garlic on the unused part of the cutting board, miming Melissa’s earlier movements. She pressed the flat of her blade down on the clove, and then pressed a hand down on the knife until the clove gave way under her strength. Lifting the knife, she then reached with a hand to peel the white skin.
“Brilliant!” Elizabeth gasped out as it separated easily. “Oh, Melissa— see? The difference when it comes to experience! I have so much to learn!”
—
…Alright, so maybe that Savant potion really had hit her all at once.
—
Melissa Moretti remembered the taste of barely seasoned stewed mutton with mushy peas. It didn’t compare to the flavourful meals that she was now accustomed to, but she could also remember the sheer delight and warmth that accompanied that taste— a hunger deep in her belly that finally felt satiated by that steaming stew; a taste that would bring her to tears for how precious and delicious it was if she could only taste it again.
Later on, that very same dish became more flavourful— basting the pan-fried meat repeatedly in butter, an entire sprig of thyme seasoning the pot. She would watch with wide eyes and a grumbling stomach at the edge of the kitchen like the child she was back then, and inch closer when she heard her brother laugh at her attempts to sneak a peek. He should shift his posture so that she could better watch what he was doing, watch as he dried off the meat with a paper towel, and watch as he sliced it into chunks, the aroma misting off the food in visible heat waves. The inside of the meat was still deep pink, yet the outside was seared to perfection.
He would pull out a sheet of roasted vegetables from the oven to prepare it all in stew. Not just peas, but bite-sized cuts of potatoes and carrots and parsnips— an entire head of garlic still in the skin, cooked to softness so that the insides slid out when squeezed, turned to mush. It was all mixed together using the roux of the pot to start a buttery, mouth-watering base of flavours, brought to a boil before the mutton was added back into the mix, and several dried herbs were added to the top before a lid was placed over the cheerfully bubbling stew.
“Why this dish all the time? We can afford to try many new foods now.”
“I just like it.” Melissa would retort, refusing to elaborate. It was a dish that heralded the start of something new. It warmed her to the very soul. She wanted to learn how to make it herself, but she also wanted this to be a little gift she could enjoy, a little secret that her brother had perfected.
He would sigh in response.
“It takes so long. Aren’t you hungry? I could hear your stomach all the way from here. I’ll make some buttered toast for you while we wait.”
“No, let’s save the toast to go with the stew. It’ll taste more delicious if we wait. When does the milk go in?”
“Later,” he informed her with some amusement. “And a little cream and garnish at the end to thicken it up.”
“Why sear the meat? Why bake the vegetables? Won’t it all end up cooked in the stew anyway?”
“It creates a depth in flavour.” He answered easily. “There’s even more flavour if you roast the vegetables over a flame, but that’s mostly lost within a stew. The stronger the end flavours, the less prep you need ahead of time. Desi spices… well, they overpower everything when used correctly— that is to say, used liberally, such that there’s not much you need to add to it. It is already flavourful enough by itself!”
She glanced at the pot on the stove, unsure she liked the kick of spice that burnt her tongue the one time her brother attempted a Desi dish.
“Don’t worry,” the hand on her hair was warm. Gentle. Comforting. “I’ll teach you all about how to make these dishes later.”
But later never came to pass.
—
The headaches continued.
“Perhaps you should take it easy for the next few days,” Chancellor Portland Moment told her. “Acclimate. Had it been but a year ago the Machinery Hivemind would have come to assess your situation, but their presence is leaving Loen now. Why, it was only two weeks ago I saw off an old friend of mine... It has, of course, made it possible for new Beyonders to be chosen without initiation into their force, but…
“This is how it should always have been! We followers of the God of Steam and Machinery are more lenient than the other churches when it comes to Beyonders— we value talent and creativity over policing the populace. Those on the Savant pathway may not need to be part of the Official Beyonders, but we will be registered into the system nevertheless. There is no room for lawlessness on our path of invention. Have you told your brother of your upcoming conversion?”
“I have,” Melissa confirmed. Benson hadn’t even pretended to be surprised. “He understands, but worries about the ramifications now that the Steam Church is moving primarily to Intis.”
Portland Moment gave a thoughtful expression. “...Have you told him you became a Beyonder?”
That was a more complicated question.
“I have not,” Melissa confirmed, and then added hesitantly, “I know there are rules regarding revealing information, but… he’s my only family, and you guaranteed that this would not be dangerous for me.”
“Yes, yes,” The Chancellor agreed jovially. “Of course, I understand the urge to speak freely in front of family. But you must remember, young Melissa, that it is safer for the normal person to stay ignorant. One will not chase a demon if one does not know of its existence.”
That felt contradictory to the Steam Church’s principles, which, like the Church of Knowledge and Wisdom, had to do with the fair spread of knowledge in order to promote a more advanced future.
“Now,” the jovial man dismissed her concerns, pulling out several textbooks with a smile. “Shall we test your Beyonder abilities, then?”
—
It was nearly a full week later when Melissa first ran into Official Beyonders.
With the influence of the Church of Steam and Machinery being reduced to small chapels in mostly private areas, Melissa’s only place of prayer was a room put up by the School of Technology and Industry as their patron god, but as a Savant, she rarely frequented the place that other sleep-deprived students would drunkenly stumble to in hopes of inspiration or miracles for their projects and tests. Instead, she found her steps slowing before St. Samuel Cathedral before guiltily hurrying along.
After so many days, she still wasn’t sure what she believed.
Many of the believers of Steam were contemplating converting toward the Evernight Church, but many in technological industries merely toned down their beliefs in order to breeze through any religious questions they might be asked. After all, despite the loss of the major church, the God of Steam and Machinery was still one of the official seven gods and freedom of religion had always been advocated in larger cities and especially in places with popular post-secondary education. People were not guilty of being Steam believers, but the war managed to trample on everyone. The Steam Church was widely associated with Intis, and Intis was now widely associated with war and hunger pangs and grief and pain.
With the loss of an entire major church, it meant that the Evernight Church and the Church of Storms were vying for what spaces to occupy in the aftermath. Melissa wasn’t sure of the details herself, but she had seen many uniformed officers looking uncomfortable and out of place at street corners, staring at maps with bewilderment.
Logically, it would be Sivellaus Yard that took care of law enforcement, and they could excuse the bewilderment by stating the many new hires after the war to replace officers that may have died in the draft. But Melissa could now tell who the Beyonders were from the ordinary people, especially the official Beyonders, by their postures and confident strides. Those from the Church of Storms were the easiest, as their balance was nigh preternatural even on land. Those from the Evernight Church tended to patrol mostly at night, and they moved like they could see through the darkest corners with ease.
“What’s so interesting out there in the dark?” Benson asked as he brought a mug of tea to her where she sat near the windowsill, peering out into darkened streets and dim gas lamps.
Melissa hummed her thanks as she took the warm mug, the notebook on her lap blank even after nearly an hour of observation.
Being a Savant didn’t feel much different. She couldn’t deduce things immediately, wasn’t stronger than normal, and certainly didn’t walk differently like the official Beyonders. But her thoughts felt faster, and she could remember just about anything she so much as glanced at.
Nearly a week, and she was still sorting through the memories of her life, now accessible to her at any moment. Sometimes her thoughts would drift away to moments with her mother before she was sick— when Melissa was seven and she would hold tightly onto her mother’s hand as they went shopping. Back then, it felt like a terrifying world awaited her if she got lost, and later on Melissa recalled those trips with some perplexity: why take a small child out into the streets where she might be lost or stolen?
Yet thinking about it now as an adult and with her new abilities of recall, she could remember how tightly her mother held onto her hand, and how she would point out the street names, landmarks, and directions. Back then, her mother had taken her out shopping not to help carry things, but to familiarize Melissa with her surroundings in case anything did happen. She had been teaching her how to make it back home.
She recalled when her mother became sick, and how on the colder nights Melissa would sleep with her brothers to retain heat, forbidden from staying too close to their mother in case the illness was contagious. Benson would arrange their mother’s bed close to the stove and splurge for some low-grade coals to burn through the night to keep her warm, often attending to their mother through the night after he ensured that both Melissa and Klein were tucked in and sleeping soundly.
Melissa tore her eyes from the darkness outside and looked to Benson now: premature lines developing at the corner of his eyes and his receding hairline despite not yet being thirty years old, coupled with a gentle smile and neat clothes he could now afford.
“Nothing,” she told him, fingers tightening around the cup of tea. She leaned on him as he sat next to her at the windowsill, and then hesitated a moment (it was cheesy, it was embarrassing, but) before telling him, “I just love you.”
It wasn’t something Melissa said often enough. The Moretti family didn’t need words of affirmation, but… more than the father she barely recalled even with the Savant potion, more than the mother who took care of her to her pre-teens, there would have been no Melissa Moretti without Benson Moretti.
She and Klein would have just—
Melissa clung to Benson’s arm. Within a few years, she would graduate from University as well and then Benson and Lucy might be married and start their own family. She had no doubt in her heart that she would be welcomed, but Benson deserve— he deserved—
Her heart twisted at the thought of being away from her last remaining family. She wished she had told her mother she loved her more, wished she had told Klein that.
She could hear the smile in Benson’s voice. “I love you, too. Is our Melissa feeling nostalgic tonight?”
She meant to respond, but was interrupted by a shaking underneath the two of them, feeling Benson’s arm go tense underneath her as he quickly put down the tea and pulled Melissa away from the window, covering her form.
Air raid? Melissa’s mind went blank for a moment, and then compared the shaking ground to the times she had experienced an air raid on Backlund during the war.
No. The shaking was too— even.
Earthquake?
That shouldn’t be! The Loen Kingdom didn’t rest on an fault lines, and—
Benson’s arms around her tightened as the shaking intensified, and several glassware fell from their perches and shattered on the ground. Melissa could hear screaming in the distance from families caught unawares in their home on their street, and she gritted her teeth to not join them.
The chaos only lasted several seconds, but it was already longer than any previous quakes Melissa had experienced. By the time the ground stopped shaking, Melissa was dizzy with anxiety and fear, her grip on Benson’s sleeve enough to turn her knuckles white.
The gas lamps flickered several times, as if there was a clog in the pipes somewhere, but then the light smoothed out again, and Benson loosened his grip on her, asking, “Are you alright?”
Melissa blinked away her panic, and assessed her situation.
“...Yes,” she answered unsurely. She looked up at him, and then pulled away to survey the mess of their house, several items having been knocked over. Luckily, the damage was superficial. They’d just have to clear a few shattered glass pieces, but nothing major. While she mourned some of the items that she shopped with Benson for, a few solis of glassware was nothing compared to their safety.
Similarly, she glanced over Benson as well, glad to see that he was fine. Nothing had hit them, and nothing had sunk under their feet.
Benson stood immediately after ensuring her health, and said, “I’ll go turn off the gas.”
One by one on the street, the lights were shutting off. Melissa nodded in agreement as her brother’s urgent footsteps faded to the next room, and she hurried to switch the knobs off all the lights in the parlour as well. Fire would be a worry in an event like this, where a quake might loosen a pipeline to leak coal gas. It had been reported several times in the newspapers during the war, and efforts to rebuild meant houses were now more carefully inspected for weak joints in piping, but with Backlund’s luck surviving the bombings, the majority of houses— their street included— needed no reconstruction and thus still kept the weak gas pipelines from the pre-war era.
It was dreadfully dark in the house after the lights all went off, and Melissa hurried drew all the curtains as well to at least allow the red moonlight to shine down, although it was now that her Savant potion gave her an advantage in the dark, as she distinctly remembered where everything the house was— including the areas with shattered glass that she had just seen.
“Benson,” she called out, “don’t come in here yet. I’ll sweep up the glass.”
“Don’t mind the glass,” his voice called out from out of the room. “I’ve got the master valve. Get your things, we’ll go see what’s going on.”
Both of them, nay, nearly the entire populace of Backlund, still had their most important belongings packed in small cases to carry in events of quick evacuations. Their nerves were still hardwired to the war, despite it now being a thing of the past.
Going outside was dangerous, but it was just as dangerous to stay holed up in a house that might explode with a single spark, or in a neighbourhood that might catch fire from a small mistake.
They would have to check with their neighbours first— perhaps starting with Mrs. Stanley who lived alone next door, and then to the Robertsons with their five children on the opposite side, and—
Melissa was just coming down the stairs with not only her bag, but Benson’s as well, when she heard a knock on the front door.
“I’ll get it,” she intoned, although she could hear Benson’s footsteps heading toward the front door as well. “That might be Ms. Clara checking up on us, or maybe it’s Mr. McKalen from up the street—”
Mr. McKalen was an elderly widow living with his daughter-in-law and grandchildren after the death of his only son, and was a busybody who too often offered unwanted suggestions about his neighbours’s lives, but despite that was also the first to offer help and condolences when anything happened.
She hurried to the door, eager to beat Benson in some imagined competition in her head, and set down the bags to smooth down her dress before plastering on a smile and preparing herself to politely decline Mr. McKalen’s offers of help—
Yet it wasn’t old Mr. McKalen on the other side of the door, but a small group of sharp-eyed men and women in dark formal clothing and outstanding postures, wearing red gloves on their hands.
Melissa froze.
“Miss Moretti?” The lady in front with red hair asked, sensing that Melissa would be the most receptive to her. She smiled, features pale in the red moonlight.
“We’re here to escort you and your brother.”
Being a Beyonder did not hit Melissa Moretti all at once. Despite the foul tasting potion and the expectant eyes of her professor, all she felt was something akin to a squeeze in her brain; a slight headache urging her to rest for a while. There was nothing supernatural or preternatural about it. No voices, no murmurings; none of the relevant warnings she prepared herself for.
“And your memory?” Chancellor Portland Moment asked with some excitement.
Melissa Moretti had a good memory all her life. While she was no hyperthymesiac, she rated herself above average in recall once she entered Backlund University of Technology and Industry. Before that… well, before that her grades had been good, but it was only in hindsight that she could understand the exhaustion that her family’s previous poverty weighed her with. With a maid to look after the chores, good food in her stomach, sufficient rest, and no worry about what would happen to her family in the upcoming week, her concentration (and thus her grades) had undergone a drastic uptick.
From a previously middling student in Tingen Technical School, Melissa shot up the ranks in Backlund University to secure highly competitive internships and the goodwill of her professors.
“I don’t know,” Melissa stated honestly, and her Chancellor Moment nodded sagely before telling her to head home and get a good rest, confident in her condition now that she showed no abnormalities after ingesting the Savant potion.
A perfect memory. That was what this potion promised her— the ability to recall all tools and lessons with ease, her promotion a result of her hard-working attitude and affinity for machines.
And all it required was her consideration for the Church of Steam and Machinery.
Perhaps a few years ago she would have refused, but… it had been several years since Melissa felt particularly pious and grateful to the Goddess. When the war started, she found herself doubting the mercy of Gods and looking toward her fellow man for support. To the volunteers who cleaned the streets of rubble after airship attacks, to the doctors and nurses who practically lived in hospitals thanks to patient overflow, and even to the limited amount of upper class who shared rations and goods with the common folk, continuously donating to save as many people as possible from starvation and eviction.
A few years ago, the thought of daring to choose between two gods felt blasphemous. One would inherited their religion from their family, unless they were so opposed to the words of the church that they married into another family which supported another god. But now… now there were whispers of leniency; that some gods might condone dual-worship.
Melissa wasn’t entirely sure if that’s what would be required of her between the Evernight Church and the Church of Steam and Machinery yet, only that advancing the sequences of this supernatural underbelly meant aligning herself with the Church of Steam and Machinery.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to advance.
She wasn’t sure about allowing another god into her heart, either.
On the way home, Melissa mentally reviewed everything she had been taught on cogitation and how to control her spirituality. It hadn’t quite settled in on her yet that she was now this mystical being called a Beyonder.
“Melissa,” Benson called to her the next morning after breakfast, his suit rumpled as he ran fingers through his hair in agitation. “Do you remember where I placed my keys, I can’t seem to find—”
“You left them in your coat pocket last night,” Melissa informed him, never looking up from her buttered toast. “In the small, inner pocket to not lose them on your date with Lucy. The coat is downstairs, but not in the closet, because you left it on the couch and forgot it after you covered it with the throw by accident.”
Benson had been in a good mood, and settled down to read a favourite novel of Lucy’s on the couch. Melissa had settled next to him, and the two of them shared a throw in the mild weather.
Her brother paused, and then huffed audibly.
“My sister,” he said fondly. “What would I do without you?”
“Forget your keys and be late for work,” Melissa informed him matter-of-factly, and finally looked up to see his smile. She smiled back. “Have a good day, Benson. Stay safe.”
He leaned over to tap her nose with the side of his finger like a child, and said, “Have a good day, Melissa. Stay safe.”
That afternoon, she met up with Elizabeth, who transferred to Backlund University immediately after the war, although not to the School of Technology and Industry. Elizabeth had invited Melissa and several other newfound friends to taste the efforts of her cooking class, having scored quite high the previous semester. There were many ladies there Melissa had never met before, but it was easy to pick up their names.
“I’ve been meaning to catch up with you!” Elizabeth exclaimed as she gestured to Melissa over in the dormitory kitchen. The young woman had a simmering pot on the stove and several vegetables on the cutting board. She washed her hands and the knife she was using as she beamed at Melissa. “It has been too long. You barely even wrote to us!”
Melissa smiled in agreement, although she couldn’t muster up the polite words to explain how even writing to friends in Tingen brought up bitter memories.
“It has,” she agreed instead, and then turned the conversation over to the topic at hand. “This smells absolutely divine, Elizabeth.”
“Doesn’t it?” Elizabeth gushed as she followed the conversation and spoke of what she was making. She dried her hand on the kitchen towel and said, “mother insisted that I take a class or two on what she considers more feminine matters. Father said I shouldn’t bother, as he expected my future household to keep a maid for this work, so to him feminine matters include mathematics to run household finances, and literary prowess to write protests to local government matters. But after… well, after last year, I figured it would be good to learn how to manage a house by myself. We had a whole segment on Intisian cuisine! Fascinating, really.”
Melissa watched, hands tucked carefully to herself, as Elizabeth carefully arranged the vegetables and then slowly started cutting, her eyes on the board in concentration despite holding a conversation.
“I hadn’t expected something like cooking to take so much energy! I thought— how hard could it be? Cut up food, put it together over a fire, make sure it doesn’t burn, and then it’s ready. I hadn’t expected to time each step of the process: every ingredient needs different times over the fire, so the masters know when to start preparing each step for the fastest results.”
Elizabeth truly sounded awed, and she subtly leaned toward Melissa as if divulging a secret. “That’s one of the many differences between someone experienced and inexperienced at cooking. The timing is something that only those with experience truly grasp. What takes a chef fifteen minutes to make would take a beginner over an hour!”
Melissa shifted with an awkward smile. That was true. Despite having learned her way around the kitchen for several years now, she was still at beginner levels. She never considered what steps to mix in order to save time, only that cooking was routine.
“Your cuts are very even,” she complimented, unsure how to contribute to the conversation. She wondered if Elizabeth would welcome a theoretical discussion on the implications of making a machine that might perfectly cut food.
“Oh, that took me weeks to learn! Chalk it up to experience, once again. I had the most horrid grasp on a knife the first few times. Didn’t know which knife was meant for what, or whether to slice at angles or even how much strength to put into cutting different things. Garlic, for one! It still takes me forever to peel and cut garlic.”
Melissa recalled a summer memory.
“Why not just smash the clove with the side of your blade?” She asked, remembering deft movements and rhythmic sounds off the cutting board. She demonstrated with her hands as if holding a knife. She had done this multiple times now. “That makes it easier to peel, and releases flavours more intense than merely chopping it.”
‘—makes it easier to peel, and releases flavours more intense than merely chopping it.’
The warm tone came unbidden to her, and Melissa looked down at her shoes with wide eyes, suppressing a shiver.
What was she saying? She wasn’t a chef. For that matter, neither was—
Curious, Elizabeth halted her cutting and moved to set a single clove of garlic on the unused part of the cutting board, miming Melissa’s earlier movements. She pressed the flat of her blade down on the clove, and then pressed a hand down on the knife until the clove gave way under her strength. Lifting the knife, she then reached with a hand to peel the white skin.
“Brilliant!” Elizabeth gasped out as it separated easily. “Oh, Melissa— see? The difference when it comes to experience! I have so much to learn!”
—
…Alright, so maybe that Savant potion really had hit her all at once.
—
Melissa Moretti remembered the taste of barely seasoned stewed mutton with mushy peas. It didn’t compare to the flavourful meals that she was now accustomed to, but she could also remember the sheer delight and warmth that accompanied that taste— a hunger deep in her belly that finally felt satiated by that steaming stew; a taste that would bring her to tears for how precious and delicious it was if she could only taste it again.
Later on, that very same dish became more flavourful— basting the pan-fried meat repeatedly in butter, an entire sprig of thyme seasoning the pot. She would watch with wide eyes and a grumbling stomach at the edge of the kitchen like the child she was back then, and inch closer when she heard her brother laugh at her attempts to sneak a peek. He should shift his posture so that she could better watch what he was doing, watch as he dried off the meat with a paper towel, and watch as he sliced it into chunks, the aroma misting off the food in visible heat waves. The inside of the meat was still deep pink, yet the outside was seared to perfection.
He would pull out a sheet of roasted vegetables from the oven to prepare it all in stew. Not just peas, but bite-sized cuts of potatoes and carrots and parsnips— an entire head of garlic still in the skin, cooked to softness so that the insides slid out when squeezed, turned to mush. It was all mixed together using the roux of the pot to start a buttery, mouth-watering base of flavours, brought to a boil before the mutton was added back into the mix, and several dried herbs were added to the top before a lid was placed over the cheerfully bubbling stew.
“Why this dish all the time? We can afford to try many new foods now.”
“I just like it.” Melissa would retort, refusing to elaborate. It was a dish that heralded the start of something new. It warmed her to the very soul. She wanted to learn how to make it herself, but she also wanted this to be a little gift she could enjoy, a little secret that her brother had perfected.
He would sigh in response.
“It takes so long. Aren’t you hungry? I could hear your stomach all the way from here. I’ll make some buttered toast for you while we wait.”
“No, let’s save the toast to go with the stew. It’ll taste more delicious if we wait. When does the milk go in?”
“Later,” he informed her with some amusement. “And a little cream and garnish at the end to thicken it up.”
“Why sear the meat? Why bake the vegetables? Won’t it all end up cooked in the stew anyway?”
“It creates a depth in flavour.” He answered easily. “There’s even more flavour if you roast the vegetables over a flame, but that’s mostly lost within a stew. The stronger the end flavours, the less prep you need ahead of time. Desi spices… well, they overpower everything when used correctly— that is to say, used liberally, such that there’s not much you need to add to it. It is already flavourful enough by itself!”
She glanced at the pot on the stove, unsure she liked the kick of spice that burnt her tongue the one time her brother attempted a Desi dish.
“Don’t worry,” the hand on her hair was warm. Gentle. Comforting. “I’ll teach you all about how to make these dishes later.”
But later never came to pass.
—
The headaches continued.
“Perhaps you should take it easy for the next few days,” Chancellor Portland Moment told her. “Acclimate. Had it been but a year ago the Machinery Hivemind would have come to assess your situation, but their presence is leaving Loen now. Why, it was only two weeks ago I saw off an old friend of mine... It has, of course, made it possible for new Beyonders to be chosen without initiation into their force, but…
“This is how it should always have been! We followers of the God of Steam and Machinery are more lenient than the other churches when it comes to Beyonders— we value talent and creativity over policing the populace. Those on the Savant pathway may not need to be part of the Official Beyonders, but we will be registered into the system nevertheless. There is no room for lawlessness on our path of invention. Have you told your brother of your upcoming conversion?”
“I have,” Melissa confirmed. Benson hadn’t even pretended to be surprised. “He understands, but worries about the ramifications now that the Steam Church is moving primarily to Intis.”
Portland Moment gave a thoughtful expression. “...Have you told him you became a Beyonder?”
That was a more complicated question.
“I have not,” Melissa confirmed, and then added hesitantly, “I know there are rules regarding revealing information, but… he’s my only family, and you guaranteed that this would not be dangerous for me.”
“Yes, yes,” The Chancellor agreed jovially. “Of course, I understand the urge to speak freely in front of family. But you must remember, young Melissa, that it is safer for the normal person to stay ignorant. One will not chase a demon if one does not know of its existence.”
That felt contradictory to the Steam Church’s principles, which, like the Church of Knowledge and Wisdom, had to do with the fair spread of knowledge in order to promote a more advanced future.
“Now,” the jovial man dismissed her concerns, pulling out several textbooks with a smile. “Shall we test your Beyonder abilities, then?”
—
It was nearly a full week later when Melissa first ran into Official Beyonders.
With the influence of the Church of Steam and Machinery being reduced to small chapels in mostly private areas, Melissa’s only place of prayer was a room put up by the School of Technology and Industry as their patron god, but as a Savant, she rarely frequented the place that other sleep-deprived students would drunkenly stumble to in hopes of inspiration or miracles for their projects and tests. Instead, she found her steps slowing before St. Samuel Cathedral before guiltily hurrying along.
After so many days, she still wasn’t sure what she believed.
Many of the believers of Steam were contemplating converting toward the Evernight Church, but many in technological industries merely toned down their beliefs in order to breeze through any religious questions they might be asked. After all, despite the loss of the major church, the God of Steam and Machinery was still one of the official seven gods and freedom of religion had always been advocated in larger cities and especially in places with popular post-secondary education. People were not guilty of being Steam believers, but the war managed to trample on everyone. The Steam Church was widely associated with Intis, and Intis was now widely associated with war and hunger pangs and grief and pain.
With the loss of an entire major church, it meant that the Evernight Church and the Church of Storms were vying for what spaces to occupy in the aftermath. Melissa wasn’t sure of the details herself, but she had seen many uniformed officers looking uncomfortable and out of place at street corners, staring at maps with bewilderment.
Logically, it would be Sivellaus Yard that took care of law enforcement, and they could excuse the bewilderment by stating the many new hires after the war to replace officers that may have died in the draft. But Melissa could now tell who the Beyonders were from the ordinary people, especially the official Beyonders, by their postures and confident strides. Those from the Church of Storms were the easiest, as their balance was nigh preternatural even on land. Those from the Evernight Church tended to patrol mostly at night, and they moved like they could see through the darkest corners with ease.
“What’s so interesting out there in the dark?” Benson asked as he brought a mug of tea to her where she sat near the windowsill, peering out into darkened streets and dim gas lamps.
Melissa hummed her thanks as she took the warm mug, the notebook on her lap blank even after nearly an hour of observation.
Being a Savant didn’t feel much different. She couldn’t deduce things immediately, wasn’t stronger than normal, and certainly didn’t walk differently like the official Beyonders. But her thoughts felt faster, and she could remember just about anything she so much as glanced at.
Nearly a week, and she was still sorting through the memories of her life, now accessible to her at any moment. Sometimes her thoughts would drift away to moments with her mother before she was sick— when Melissa was seven and she would hold tightly onto her mother’s hand as they went shopping. Back then, it felt like a terrifying world awaited her if she got lost, and later on Melissa recalled those trips with some perplexity: why take a small child out into the streets where she might be lost or stolen?
Yet thinking about it now as an adult and with her new abilities of recall, she could remember how tightly her mother held onto her hand, and how she would point out the street names, landmarks, and directions. Back then, her mother had taken her out shopping not to help carry things, but to familiarize Melissa with her surroundings in case anything did happen. She had been teaching her how to make it back home.
She recalled when her mother became sick, and how on the colder nights Melissa would sleep with her brothers to retain heat, forbidden from staying too close to their mother in case the illness was contagious. Benson would arrange their mother’s bed close to the stove and splurge for some low-grade coals to burn through the night to keep her warm, often attending to their mother through the night after he ensured that both Melissa and Klein were tucked in and sleeping soundly.
Melissa tore her eyes from the darkness outside and looked to Benson now: premature lines developing at the corner of his eyes and his receding hairline despite not yet being thirty years old, coupled with a gentle smile and neat clothes he could now afford.
“Nothing,” she told him, fingers tightening around the cup of tea. She leaned on him as he sat next to her at the windowsill, and then hesitated a moment (it was cheesy, it was embarrassing, but) before telling him, “I just love you.”
It wasn’t something Melissa said often enough. The Moretti family didn’t need words of affirmation, but… more than the father she barely recalled even with the Savant potion, more than the mother who took care of her to her pre-teens, there would have been no Melissa Moretti without Benson Moretti.
She and Klein would have just—
Melissa clung to Benson’s arm. Within a few years, she would graduate from University as well and then Benson and Lucy might be married and start their own family. She had no doubt in her heart that she would be welcomed, but Benson deserve— he deserved—
Her heart twisted at the thought of being away from her last remaining family. She wished she had told her mother she loved her more, wished she had told Klein that.
She could hear the smile in Benson’s voice. “I love you, too. Is our Melissa feeling nostalgic tonight?”
She meant to respond, but was interrupted by a shaking underneath the two of them, feeling Benson’s arm go tense underneath her as he quickly put down the tea and pulled Melissa away from the window, covering her form.
Air raid? Melissa’s mind went blank for a moment, and then compared the shaking ground to the times she had experienced an air raid on Backlund during the war.
No. The shaking was too— even.
Earthquake?
That shouldn’t be! The Loen Kingdom didn’t rest on an fault lines, and—
Benson’s arms around her tightened as the shaking intensified, and several glassware fell from their perches and shattered on the ground. Melissa could hear screaming in the distance from families caught unawares in their home on their street, and she gritted her teeth to not join them.
The chaos only lasted several seconds, but it was already longer than any previous quakes Melissa had experienced. By the time the ground stopped shaking, Melissa was dizzy with anxiety and fear, her grip on Benson’s sleeve enough to turn her knuckles white.
The gas lamps flickered several times, as if there was a clog in the pipes somewhere, but then the light smoothed out again, and Benson loosened his grip on her, asking, “Are you alright?”
Melissa blinked away her panic, and assessed her situation.
“...Yes,” she answered unsurely. She looked up at him, and then pulled away to survey the mess of their house, several items having been knocked over. Luckily, the damage was superficial. They’d just have to clear a few shattered glass pieces, but nothing major. While she mourned some of the items that she shopped with Benson for, a few solis of glassware was nothing compared to their safety.
Similarly, she glanced over Benson as well, glad to see that he was fine. Nothing had hit them, and nothing had sunk under their feet.
Benson stood immediately after ensuring her health, and said, “I’ll go turn off the gas.”
One by one on the street, the lights were shutting off. Melissa nodded in agreement as her brother’s urgent footsteps faded to the next room, and she hurried to switch the knobs off all the lights in the parlour as well. Fire would be a worry in an event like this, where a quake might loosen a pipeline to leak coal gas. It had been reported several times in the newspapers during the war, and efforts to rebuild meant houses were now more carefully inspected for weak joints in piping, but with Backlund’s luck surviving the bombings, the majority of houses— their street included— needed no reconstruction and thus still kept the weak gas pipelines from the pre-war era.
It was dreadfully dark in the house after the lights all went off, and Melissa hurried drew all the curtains as well to at least allow the red moonlight to shine down, although it was now that her Savant potion gave her an advantage in the dark, as she distinctly remembered where everything the house was— including the areas with shattered glass that she had just seen.
“Benson,” she called out, “don’t come in here yet. I’ll sweep up the glass.”
“Don’t mind the glass,” his voice called out from out of the room. “I’ve got the master valve. Get your things, we’ll go see what’s going on.”
Both of them, nay, nearly the entire populace of Backlund, still had their most important belongings packed in small cases to carry in events of quick evacuations. Their nerves were still hardwired to the war, despite it now being a thing of the past.
Going outside was dangerous, but it was just as dangerous to stay holed up in a house that might explode with a single spark, or in a neighbourhood that might catch fire from a small mistake.
They would have to check with their neighbours first— perhaps starting with Mrs. Stanley who lived alone next door, and then to the Robertsons with their five children on the opposite side, and—
Melissa was just coming down the stairs with not only her bag, but Benson’s as well, when she heard a knock on the front door.
“I’ll get it,” she intoned, although she could hear Benson’s footsteps heading toward the front door as well. “That might be Ms. Clara checking up on us, or maybe it’s Mr. McKalen from up the street—”
Mr. McKalen was an elderly widow living with his daughter-in-law and grandchildren after the death of his only son, and was a busybody who too often offered unwanted suggestions about his neighbours’s lives, but despite that was also the first to offer help and condolences when anything happened.
She hurried to the door, eager to beat Benson in some imagined competition in her head, and set down the bags to smooth down her dress before plastering on a smile and preparing herself to politely decline Mr. McKalen’s offers of help—
Yet it wasn’t old Mr. McKalen on the other side of the door, but a small group of sharp-eyed men and women in dark formal clothing and outstanding postures, wearing red gloves on their hands.
Melissa froze.
“Miss Moretti?” The lady in front with red hair asked, sensing that Melissa would be the most receptive to her. She smiled, features pale in the red moonlight.
“We’re here to escort you and your brother.”