Nazca Whitehall
Clockwork Autumn“Hmm.” A dispassionate murmur arose from a certain silver-haired girl as crimson-colored eyes flitted over a friendly, familial telegram from her adoptive father. It was written in the plaintext language of her homeland, and despite its innocuous appearance, had a multiple-layer cipher hidden within. Without a further use for the paper, she fed the scrap to the small clockwork hawk resting on her shoulder. With a majestic cry, it spread its convincingly feathered wings and swooped out through the cabin’s open window to shadow the Queen Titania, the telegram long gone.
Sitting back at her writing desk, the girl silently penned her response.
-
A peregrine circled in the skies above Bermuda, its keen eye lazily searching for its prey. It was a strange sighting, as the species was not native to this region, but to the natives and students of the island, there were always far stranger things afoot to take notice of a single example of an invasive species.
Below, Nazca Whitehall took in the environment of the island around her. Its architecture was truly impressive, its stonework and terracotta masonry constructed on a grand scale, and indeed, a beauty to rival even the majesty of the buildings of London. Beneath the beautiful façade and shifting cultural aesthetics, laid a masterwork of city planning, its organized, tight construction belying its origins and quick rise as a city of the post-war era. Nazca could appreciate it all, but preferred the more organic way that London and the cities of her childhood had developed and incorporated the formulae and learning of the recent years. More importantly, however, was the access to the resources and opportunities that such a modern city could bring, despite its artificial nature.
For such a planned society, she had expected some unusual and rigid rules, and indeed, that was seen in the decision to separate students from adults. Nazca had no opinion on the majestic nature of the dormitories; having lived in the palaces of the Tlaxcala, from the spartan encampments of a defeated army on retreat, the slums in hiding, and then back to grandeur again in the manors of England, as long as there was bed and a roof, it was sufficient. Good food, on the other hand…
Most unusual, however, was the dormitory curfew. For how much freedom and leeway the academy offered the students, a curfew felt out of character, and the explanations and justification offered to back it was stranger still. Thankfully, she was in a unique position to investigate it, even if there was a distinct risk of property damage to herself if the rumors of deep fog were true. That, however, would be something to worry about at a later time. With help, she’d already identified her person of interest.
There was a ball to attend, food to eat, and a job to perform.
-
The private opera boxes were a nice touch. It allowed Nazca to eat to her heart’s content –with an eclectic variety of dishes from the world’s cultures and cuisines—in peace, so that she could savor each and every flavor without interruption, all while getting the chance to observe the organized chaos down below. Just as her selection of foods were eclectic, so were the varied students mingling on the floor below her. It was an entire generation’s worth of the world’s most gifted and talented, and there were enough faces that she could put names to in the crowd that it almost seemed to be a gala of celebrities. A gala of very dangerous celebrities, if looked at from a different angle.
One of the male students, darker-skinned like herself, caught her eye.
Nazca decided her own allowance for private enjoyment was over. It was time to head back down below to properly greet the students she would likely be working with –or against—for the next few years. Along the way, she picked up a nice sweet little beverage –some sort of fruity concoction made of pineapple blend and some other tropical fruit that she couldn’t quite put a name to. It was a good dessert.
By the time she was back on the floor, her target was in conversation with two other students. One was the tsarist Russian prodigy, and the other was… a polymath from Iceland? Nazca didn’t particularly care much about Iceland, especially not when the cursed scion from the Mughal Empire warranted attention. So, she approached them.
There was a blank look on her face. Of all languages, they were speaking in Chinese. Of all the main languages in the world, it was the only one she barely knew. Then, her eyes fell upon the Turkish Delights in the Mughal man’s hand, and she decided to forcefully enter herself in the conversation. Subtlety be damned, she was going in.
“Excuse me,” she interjected directly, in perfectly accented Latin, before bluntly pointing at the Turkish Delights.
“I was looking to try some of those, but the kitchen ran out. May I have one?”---
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