PEARL BONE
𝔓rologue

I'm nothing but nausea, nothing but reverie,
nothing                    but          longing.
I'm something     very far removed,
and    I      keep             going.
[ 𝕱ERNANDO 𝕻ESSOA ]

             𝕿he petals hung in position on the lake, sustained by incantations fortnightly replenished by the apprentices of House Ishioka. Carnations, camellia, hydrangea—Wisteria Gardens was never lacking in flowers.

These formed a pair of white plum-blossom creatures, their lithe bodies winding and heads bowed in crossing, a sigil of two wands in duel, or a melding of two lovers. Their spines and wings were edged with pale water irises, periwinkle forget-me-nots, their scales tipped with cornflower petals.

The sea serpent, the dragon, the winged snake.

They entwined then untangled in a perpetual sequence, even with Lenita kicking and making ripples from the mahogany bridge.

"The charm is perpetuum" she remembered her father instructed. "An English spell. It reactivates the motions, like winding up a music box. It runs magic through the sigils, which are carved onto that pillar."

The pillar was a jade one slightly higher than Lenita's knee, which was half-sunken into the grass, one of the many which could be found on the property. On it was etched a clock-like face of text, the writing glossed with crimson inks. It originated from a form of traditional Japanese warding, which her father altered and weaved with the Western magicks; in return the dragons were bitterly wary of strangers near the rosebeds. This technique was something he did often, resulting in a mélange of mechanical objects with protective effects, such as lace doilies that flew to the dinner table as swans but would screech at the sight of danger; crystal phoenixes for the cat to chase or to blind an attacker with talons; and candle holders which would shape the melting wax into little blossoms and shielded curses if arranged parallel to another. The manor was a constant puzzle-box for a child like her, brimming with curiosities and spells lingering in the corners, the air tasting of citrus and ginger.

"The charms in our house are all connected to the foundations of our house—I have a spell written there." Her father had tapped his knuckles on the wooden floorboards when he said this. "Therefore, you can run magic through all the enchanted items simply by activating the main warding."

Her father was an architect of magic, as he called himself, although Lenita thought the title Tamer-of-the-Ancients suited him more. He worked as a professor in Mahoutokoro School of Magic, where he researched the history of magic systems, from the hands of godlike figures to the wand of a common witch. No one uses ancient magicks anymore. No one except her father.

"You see, Lenita, ancient magic lasts longer. It stains so deeply that you can find echoes centuries after. Modern magic does not last so long, but it is more specific. With ancient magic you can make a doll hover and swing from one side to another, but not make it dance. With modern magic, you could make the doll do ballet. This is why we bind them together."

"Why doesn't anyone else do that?"

"The ancient powers demand strength. It takes great spirit to create great power. It demands from you as well. It is not easy. But I want to make it easier. I want more people to be able to experience this dying art."

For her seventh birthday, he had given her a clothbound book of myths, a moonstone hairpin, and a silver knife. It was this knife which she was holding as she sat in the shrubbery, carving clumsy letters into an ornamented wooden chest.

HIDE
FROM
THIEVING
EYES.

Lenita squinted at her work, the lines thin as spider legs and crooked, unlike the billowy script of her father, where each character flowed like ribbons of water. She wasn't certain how to turn the words into proper warding, she would have to ask her father for that. He had promised her that by her tenth birthday, at the end of the winter season, he would teach her how to do it.

Picking up her robe's hems, freckled with pond-water and soil, she skipped back with her bare feet wading through the knee-high sprigs of dusty grass. She knocked her heel thrice on the stone, activating a scouring charm for the dirt, before hopping atop the platform above. She made her way through the outer corridors, across the bridging path which would take her to the west block, where the library, music room and guest rooms were.

The library was the largest room in the house, with a section separated off with painted paper dividers to be used as her father's study. It was guarded by the red owls which fluttered their pigment wings, their brooding looks keen and wise. This was her favourite place in the entire world.

Dim lanterns floated around, lighting the room in warm amber pools. Various posters were attached to the walls, whether it be art from across the continents or charts of magical creatures. A good portion of the walls were pinned with notes written in her father's hand, the writings coloured depending on the topic. The family cat, Tea-Leaf, slept on a pile of newspapers which stood, ever growing, atop a foot-rest.

And there was her father, his gentle smile, reclining in the velour armchair, with a parchment text hovering beside him, his leather-bound journal in his lap, and a quill in his hand. He only ever used one—a swirling, lovely thing, from an albino phoenix, complete with a pearl nib. Unknowingly, he would chew on the end of the feather, the action more excited as some brilliance struck him and his face would set alight. His smile was something secret only an inventor knew, a smile that indicated he was always the most intelligent one in a room, the most ungodly, the most terrible but the most beautiful. He had kind eyes and a terrible, wondrous smile.

His table was messier than he would normally let it become, with unruly piles of documents and books, as well as scrunched up papers on the floor. She tiptoed over and perched beside him, always curious about his work. There were a few repeated illustrations, a young woman in loose robes flung beneath the night, each titled or captioned 'Lady of the Moon'—a lovely name to have, Lenita thought. The word crypt tainted one of the drawings, the ink bleeding over the woman's left hand. Half obscured under an envelope was a paper titled '——— Records' in a printed font, on a creamy paper that suggested some sort of official certificate. There was as well a spell that her father was drafting, his spiralling handwriting all over the pages of the open journal.

Syphoning Spell. Can be used to wring from old rivers, flow into new blood—

Her father closed the journal without glancing over. She jumped. "No peeking."

"Father, the box is finished. Can you do the magic now?"

His pen continued to scribble urgently, and he remained focused on it. "Just a moment, Lenita. I can do the magic later. I could even teach you to do the magic."

"How much longer?"

He looked down at her over the top of his wire-frames spectacles, laying a hand atop her shoulder. "Later tonight, my little dragon, I have work to do now."

"Do you promise?"

"Of course. I promise."

After Lenita left the room, she returned to her bedroom to do more carvings and read a few novels her father had bought. It wasn't until late in the evening when she came out again, at the sound of whisperings in the garden. Then, as she was holding her head against the entrance door, it was her mother's usually quiet lilt, sharp from the pitch of her voice and the volume. Her mother was screaming, the petrified call of desperate beasts in the wild, and it made Lenita want to shut her eyes and clasp her hands over her ears.

Thieves, murderers, hunters, assassins.

She rushed outside, trying not to notice the shake in her legs, opening her wooden chest and taking out the shield charm her father had made her. It was a little square of fabric, with the painting of a pair of antlers done in red dye.

There was a blinding light over the lake, and her mother cradling herself on the side of the bank. Lenita held the charm between her thumbs and pointer fingers and blew hard on it.

"Hide." This she said in Japanese.

The scrap of cloth swelled into a woven blanket, and Lenita pressed it over her mother's shoulders.

Protect your mother, her father often told her. She didn't know how to, really.

With a hand shading her vision, she gazed over the water. She couldn't see what the light was, it was so bright. Her hand squeezed her wand tighter.

The wand was supposed to be a secret, another one between her father and her. A delicate thing of aspen, with a kitsune tail fur core and a handle made of glass. Her father had made it himself, tailored to suit her.

She leaned closer, teetering over the lake, squinting through the white haze. There was a face, she couldn't quite make it out—

Her father cried out. The sound echoed across the lake.

She stepped back.

Magic is harsh to the human body. It begins on the inside, growing like a star, ripping through organs like paper, only the noises it makes; something like the rich squelch of her leather rain boots trodding through mud after summer typhoons. Liver, intestines, lungs, heart. The magicks wormed into his limbs, and they tensed as if pulled by strings or sealed by ice. His eyes were still his, and they wept, bleeding milky ichor. His eyes were still kind, even as they looked past her mother and into her own. She didn't know if he could see her pleading. Light poured into him from every crevice, and his body spread further. It was an image Lenita had once seen in a book, a man tied onto a rack, pulled apart by the mediaeval machinery, sentenced to a punishment equal to his crimes. For a moment, Lenita could see every bone within him, every vein pulsing, the beat of his heart, as his skin became a diaphanous membrane stretched over his skeletal frame so thinly it hid nothing. Her father was never frail, no matter how soft he was, but he was now. He looked so brittle hung in the air.

It shouldn't have been possible for the human eye to see so clearly what happened, with the speed at which it happened. In Lenita's mind everything almost stopped, and that single frame of time was burned into her eyes forevermore. The light expanded until it could no more, and whatever was holding her father's flesh and muscle together was released, all at once.

Lenita had once held a clementine between her hands and pushed until it burst, juice and pulp and seeds making a scene on her palms. That is what this looked like.

The blood felt warm on Lenita's face.

𓇬

              𝕿he 24th of September, 1944, was a cold night.

Lenita woke up.

Her eyes were gleaming white.

/

𓆱 my dear girl is not a happy one and boy do i have plans for her. the ishioka blood is really cursed! i was supposed to keep a consistent narrative voice but it isn't really. i've introduced a magic system which hopefully makes sense, i've always had this idea of how magic differs through cultures and how they evolved over time. ( + chapter contains detailed description of gore, bodily mutilation, parental death)