Modern Day, Port City of Laos

☆

To every girl born into wealth, nothing beat a pair of finely crafted leather shoes. The same could be said of twelve-year-old Abbernathy Tells, who went by Abby, and whose favorite pair of shoes were her square-toed ivory slippers, imported from the capital city of Triad.

The shoes were fashionable yet comfortable and Abby found them appropriate for short and long journeys alike. But the reason why she loved them the best, and not any of her other shoes, of which, due to luck and her father's fortune, she had a vast collection, was because, when used properly, the slippers gave off the greatest sound after connecting with some miserable boy's crotch.

Dozens of arguments ended, before her opponents could get a word in edgewise, because Abby wielded her shoes like a soldier wielding their sword. And similar to soldiers who learned to hone their skills on the battlefield, Abby had learned how to kick a crotch with deadly precision. She had made the practice into an artform, one she was determined to master.  

Perhaps it was cruel, or a consequence of playground bullying gone on for too long, but Abby insisted it a job need doing. She only kicked the most deserving, horrible boys from her class, after all.

Boys like Gregan McEffery, who'd cast her latest Wizard Kellog book off the end of the pier, feeding its wisdom to the fishes below; the aptly named Toad Twins, Wentworth and Wriley Smoot, who'd snuck rock slugs into her favorite coat's pockets last winter, sliming them all up and ruining the fur lining; And the worst of the worst, Vicrum Alistere Hudginns. 

It was because of him, that persistent, awful crumb on Abby's shoulder, that she found herself banished to her bedroom without supper, staring at the places of Mirea that'd been painted across her ceiling. The lush greens of the hills of Royal Back, the red plains of Mingare, and the glowing blues of Dewlin Falls all provided the only color in her otherwise boring, white room.

She released a sigh and turned over, a bundle of fur purring contentedly beside her.

"Why must he be like that?"

She lifted a finger toward the ceiling, pretending she was there, in the thick of the blood plains, facing off against one of its fabled monsters. The black cat's ears flinched.

"Dad knows I had good reason," she continued lamenting, dropping her arm back at her side, the movement causing the cat to stir. Shooting her an almost irritated glance, he stood on all fours, yawned and then preceded to greet her the way he had since he was a kitten, and she a young child of six: pressing a wet nose against her cheek.

You always claim to have good reason, the cat purred, his understanding of human speech, and Abby's complaining, not lost on his ears, unlike most his kind. In fact, aside from his brother, he had never encountered another feline proficient in the two-legs' language.

Not that he tried, though. Lucy found other cats exhausting, thoughts of hunting and little else filling their heads while he appreciated the finer things in life - roasted meats, sweetened creams, head pats and napping. Ribbons that accentuated his already exceptional features.

A shame his beloved Abby couldn't understand him back.

He continued to greet her, his nose tickling her cheek. She giggled and the annoyance of being locked away in her room, temporarily fled from her mind. But it came crashing back like the tidal waves that smashed against the rocks at the Fragillian coast, when the scratching returned.

Heaving a sigh, she flopped on her stomach, the sleeves of her high-collared lace dress biting into her wrists. It seemed the dress, much like any for the young, prominent ladies of Mirea, was tailor-made for the cruel and singular purpose of scratching its wearers mad.

"Crum called me you-know-what." She gritted her teeth, determined not to think about the dress -- thinking about it only made it worse -- and set out rubbing the cat's ears instead.

He squirmed in delight under her touch, purring loudly in response: Thank you, love. Now if you'd be ever so kind, I have a terrible itch under my chin and to the left.

"I had no other choice," she mumbled, wondering when, or if, at this point, her punishment would end.

"You kicked poor Vicrum in his manhood."

Her father leaned against her doorway, tall and slender, tan and disheveled. Dark brown hair fell in soft curls over his face, two silver dragon earrings hanging from his ears. A crumpled blue suit jacket and stained white shirt hid the series of inkings he had trailing up his forearms and across his chest and back. Judging by his green eyes and how they nervously bounced around Abby's room, he was uncomfortable wearing such formal attire, although, admittedly it wasn't all that formal.

A sailor at heart, a businessman for coin, Abby thought as she watched him fiddle with his tie knot.

"He deserved it," Abby said, throwing her arms across her chest in protest.

Her dad walked past her vanity, eyeing it with particular disdain as he ran his hand across the clutter, the caked-on perfumes, and the powdered minerals that stained the lacquered top. His fingers turned an unsightly shade of green when they reached a puddle of the Wisaard Kellügg's -- the Wizard Kellog's number one knockoff brand -- Vanīsh the Blemīsh Skin Smoothing Tonic, glowing blue like anything that had been enhanced by magick. She sighed, certain beyond any shadow of a doubt, she'd be lectured about the messy state of her room later.

"He was simply calling you by name." After plopping down beside her, he smoothed out the wrinkles in her blankets. "You can't keep kicking everyone who addresses you properly in the groin." He wiped his stained fingertips along his trousers, while struggling to maintain the strict expression and demeanor of a parent chiding their child. He was never particularly good at staying mad, especially at Abby. So when his expression softened, and his carefree nature poked through, it came as no surprise. Eyes sparkling, he added lightly, "I can't imagine the exhaust you'd run doing that every single time."

While he chuckled, Abby didn't. "He wasn't addressing me properly," she groused. "He was making fun of me." Her gaze dropped to her ivory slippers. "They always do."

Abby thought back to earlier that day, to the thud her shoes had made and the crying face they had coaxed from Crum when she'd kicked him as hard as she could between the legs.

She smiled. "His face turned as red as one of Ms. Seiver's tomatoes."

Her father's face flashed a similar but lighter red, the corners of his lips upturning, as a laugh threatened to escape. But he managed to keep up appearances this time, and instead of laughing, reached into his pocket to grab a cigarette. With a flick of a matchstick, the tip burst into blue flame.

She watched him, inhaling and exhaling and getting more relaxed by the second, while the four syllables of a name most foul wove in and out of her mind.

She tensed and grimaced. Abbernathy.

What a horrible, gods awful name.

"I hate it," she whispered, hands clasped in her lap, shoulders tense.

Guilt made her heart feel like it had sunken into her shoes. Abby should have liked her name, or, at the very least cherished it. It had been the only thing given to her by her mother before she'd been returned to the stars. And yet, she couldn't help but cringe whenever anyone said it.

"I like it."

She turned and faced her dad who blew bluish smoke rings into the air. Through the haze, he smiled warmly. "It's charming."

"You would think that." She snorted. "But it's horrible. It's long, sounds like apothecary but wrong, and the syllables are hard and crunchy like rocks. Stupid, ugly rocks."

Her father chuckled at this, leaning back on her bed, his coat bulging at the seams. Mimi, the Tells' oldest maid, had sewn many buttons and hems during her tenure with the family, mostly because Abby's dad was never mindful of the clothes he wore or of how he wore them. It was a trait Abby shared with her father, one that made poor Mimi's life a living nightmare of threading needles and bloodied fingers.

Embarrassed as her father continued to laugh at her plight, Abby took a hand and gave him a swift punch to the gut. He shook like a Harvest Day ham riding the rickety tracks of the Eastern Coast Tramway.

Collecting himself -- and undoing a few jacket buttons in the process -- he turned toward her. "How hypocritical you are. You don't call Vicrum by his name, always calling him Crum instead and I'm almost certain the poor boy's not made of breadcrumbs."

"He most certainly is," she protested. "He's a crumb. A moldy, useless crumb, one that needs a very good flicking."

"Which you provide, near daily."

Abby's cheeks burned hot. She fiddled with the hem of her dress, plucking at the petals of its applique flowers. "Do you like your name?" she asked, suddenly.

Her father's bushy brown eyebrows knit together over his very surprised eyes. He choked on an inhale of cigarette smoke and began coughing, his face turning one shade shy of purple.

"And what about when people shorten it? Do you like when they call you Pep-"

Lucy, who'd removed himself from the fray in favor of swatting at a gnat hovering over the bedside table, sensed his presence was needed and leapt onto the bed and into Abby's lap. He gazed up at her with pleading, gold eyes.

Love, he meowed. Careful now. You know your father hates his full name said out loud, just like you. But unlike you, he has age that he can wield in terrible ways. He licked a paw. Like taking away the food.

Lucy nipped Abby's thigh, but she was quick to brush him off. Knowing enough of his adorable, young owner, no looks begging for caution or meows of wisdom could save her now. He sighed, settling his head on her leg, resigning her to the hole she had currently dug for herself.

"Well?" she prodded.

Her dad awkwardly exhaled, eyes full of tears from coughing so much, before getting up and turning on his heels. Silently, he sped to the door with the haste of a hill hare.

"Hey!" Abby yelled. "You can't just escape without answering me!"

He stopped and whirled back around, fingers grazing the door handle. "I most certainly can. I'm an adult."

Abby hated when adults did this- touting their adulthood and wielding their age like a sword able to thwart any question they didn't feel like answering.

She stuck her tongue out in annoyance.

"Vicrum's downstairs," he said, before slinking into the hallway. "Do me a favor and apologize. It's hard doing business with his father when you two are constantly at each other's throats." He paused, drumming his fingers on the doorframe. "Maybe you're too young to understand," he continued, "but kicking down there hurts."

Abby snickered. "I wouldn't do it if it didn't hurt. But I'll apologize. You are the adult, after all. Culpepper."

An exasperated sigh came from the darkened hallway. "You play dirty, young Tells," her father quipped. "Just like your mother used too."

Used too.

Abby grew rigid, shadows falling across her face despite the light streaming in from her balcony.

Without a mother, and its all her fault.

Her gaze grew watery, the paintings on her ceiling blurred spots of color as she bit back tears.

Lucy scampered over to her side, raising onto his back legs, so he stood at knee-height, hugging her in the only way he was able. Contrary to what two-legs might have believed about his kind, his act of compassion hadn't been for accolade or attention. Rather, Lucy had, and always would do, what he could for her, because of love.

We'd all be made less if you hadn't been born, love. Besides, who would tie my bows? I haven't any thumbs.

Amused and comforted by Lucy's gesture, Abby smiled a thank you and moved toward her closet. Begrudgingly, she removed her ivory slippers, placing them on the highest shelf in quiet reverence, before plucking up a pair of muddied, lace-up flats and shoving them onto her feet.

"Well, Lucy," she said at the cat as he wove his way in between her legs, "shall we go and say sorry to that miserable Crum?"

If we must, Lucy meowed, we do so for the food.

Together, they went out into the hallway, eager to get the apology over with as quickly as possible.

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