From The Kelly Quintet.
Book 1: Outfauxed
Book 2: Hunt of the Black Kites (2025)
My dearest, darlingest sister Anisha,
Your suspicions are raised already. Good. I would prefer you approach my story with a strong measure of cynicism. Heaven knows I am not suspicious enough.
Here tis: I think Sergei is alive, safe, and up to his old tricks. My evidence for this is of the weakest variety, and I mistrust it already. But I want to believe it–our brother, still kicking around this world, painting pictures and drawing portraits.
Here’s how it happened. I had gone with Mrs. Bradley into Kensington Gardens for the afternoon. You had her under strict orders to keep an eye on me, but after our picnic lunch in the shade, she posted up at the base of an Indian Bean tree, crossed her ankles, and was deep asleep in a matter of minutes.
I intended to keep close, I swear. Then it alighted on a nearby seed pod. Thecla Betulae. Brown Hairstreak butterfly. I adore its humble audacity, its brown wings with their smudges of blazing, glorious orange.
The little fellow stilled only for a moment, then was off again, dipping and weaving through the hot summer air. I snatched up my net (I never leave home without it) and followed suit. It was headed for Long Water, by way of the meadows. I ran desperately. A Brown Hairstreak would fit perfectly in my collection. In my haste, I tripped over a hillock of grass, and the fall knocked the air out of my lungs. My vision went black.
I opened my eyes to dimness, a sour smell, and the sleek coolness of tile against my cheek. I was lying in a hallway, which was punctuated every few feet by closed doorways. There, flitting along the low ceilings, was my target. Wherever I had vanished–the sewers of London, a corridor of a prison, or purgatory itself–my brown hairstreak had accompanied me.
“Well then, I won’t let you get away as easy as that!” I hissed.
Scrambling to my feet, I ran off after the butterfly, which fluttered on as though completely unconcerned about being swallowed into shadowy oblivion. It turned left at the next juncture, then right. The two of us were not alone in the drab maze. Figures in strange costume–cloaks, long underwear, military uniforms–caught my eye as I raced along.
Where on earth was I? The question thudded in my head like my footsteps, but I could not afford a second to spare. I slid around another corner, and the walls of the corridor fell away.
A cry died in my throat as the brown hairstreak flapped up, up and away towards the vast ceiling. The room was vast and opulent in an elderly, dilapidated way. Dusty brass chandeliers hung above. Crowds of the same oddly attired people formed messy lines leading to a fleet of tables. Individuals in black sat there, as if accepting tickets for the opera. Above the doors hung a large banner: Artist’s Alley.
There–there it went again. The butterfly. I watched, a sick understanding spreading through my belly, as the butterfly dipped and fluttered on through the doors into the attraction beyond. My eyes narrowed on the people who passed the tables and entered the doors. They all wore narrow sashes around their necks with a shining card. The ticket for entrance.
Anisha, I hesitate to detail this part–they are sordid details, surely, but the story cannot proceed without them. But it was so quick. So simple. I edged past the lines, around the tables, feigning a coughing fit. My hand shot out and snatched one of the sashes. The card read, Rinthcon 2324. Below, in a saucy font: VIP. It hung around my neck heavy as guilt.
At the doors to the Artist’s Alley, an usher handed me a folded pamphlet. At the cover, every thought of the brown hairstreak fell away. The crowds of people entering split around my frozen figure.
It was a vividly colored photograph of our brother Sergei! Arms folded, chin cocked, eyes determined, his curls a riotous tumble. 2324 Order of Alpha Winner: Sergei Kelly! Searing green text announces.
My heart soared. Somehow, my brother and I had both stumbled into the mysterious outer reaches of RinthCon, dream or not.
I ripped the pamphlet open, searching for clues as to where our brother could be in this maze of carnival actors. Page four was dedicated to the Order of Alpha ceremony, happening this very evening. I skimmed the article and landed finally on the location: Ballroom D.
Very well. The Brown Hairstreak butterfly will have to wait. Sergei Kelly, on the other hand, waits for no man.
I will explain the rest in my next letter.
Your dearest darlingest sister,
Muriel Kelly
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