From The Kelly Quintet.
Book 1: Outfauxed
Book 2: Hunt of the Black Kites (2025)
Dear Anisha,
I didn’t intend to go to Aisle 7. Gloria’s appearance gave me the creeps, I’ll be honest. But a day passed, then a second, and I was sick of RinthCon! I found a pub for food, but all the offerings were dripping in grease.
But the situation at Ballroom 7 haunted me. Yes, it was disappointing, but I was intrigued as to why someone would dress up as Sergei. It doesn’t make sense. So finally, I wandered back into the Artist’s Alley, which was a bazaar of booths where sellers spread their merchandise on tables: books, painted figurines, jewelry, paintings, sketches, and devices and other bits of machinery that I did not even notice. I counted my way down to aisle seven, and presently happened upon Gloria, standing behind a table covered in ink-drawn sketches.
Today she wore a gauzy black skirt that fell halfway down her thigh and black fishnet stockings, and the overall effect was simply scandalous.
“I hoped you’d come,” she said. Her fervent tone reassured me. She invited me behind the table and offered a low stool.
“Listen,” she said. “I’ve been hearing things around the con, and it helped make sense of what you were telling me. About Sergei Kelly being your brother. I believe you.”
“You’re not trying to tell me that the–uh–jerkwad was actually my brother, are you? Because I told you that Sergei is very polite.”
“No. Apparently Phineas Com is consistently rotten to his fanbase. I should have never tried to get his signature. No, it seems like characters out of books or–” she added in a generous tone, “–from the past, are showing up around the con. Like you. Did you find yourself suddenly teleported from your home or anything?”
“The last thing I knew, I was chasing a butterfly through Kensington Gardens.” I was listening intently now.
She grinned. “Knew it! Well, in this world, people are fans of your family.”
“Fans?”
“As in, you’re a bit famous, your oldest siblings especially. The dressing up thing is a kind of homage. But there’s something else I have to tell you. But first, look.”
She leaned under the tablecloth and pulled out the same pamphlet from the first day. A bold signature in thick black ink ran across the photograph, right across Sergei’s crossed arms. Sergei Patrice Kelly. I leaned forward. It was too eerie. Across his face was his signature–scrawling, charming, bold.
“That’s his handwriting,” I said without hesitating.
“I knew it!” Gloria clapped her hands together and squealed. “Yesterday, I was sitting here, and Phineas Com walked by. That is, I thought that’s who it was. But this person was a little taller, and his hair was longer, and he looked me squarely in the eye and smiled. So I asked again if he’d sign my program and–he did.”
A little breath of relief escaped my mouth. “Did he say anything?”
“No, he just smiled at me and walked on. I meant to say something, but he disappeared into the crowd. I still thought he might be Phineas, you know.”
I stared at his signature, and I knew. I just knew it, Anisha. He’s all right. He’s out there, doing what he’s always done: smiling, and disappearing. That’s his real signature.
As to how I got myself home again–well, that is a whole other letter in itself. In summary, the Brown Hairstreak will be flapping around RinthCon for the rest of its life, and Mrs. Bradley has me locked up in my bedroom for the next month. Please come home soon and free me!
I love you dearly,
Muriel Kelly
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