Chapter 2: 2. Flight

The intranet had a link to a news piece; some tech charity working with disenfranchised youth. I mean, I supposed it was good, though the graffiti covered ballroom where the fundraiser was held seemed a bit over the top. Lots of men in tuxes and women in gowns; not all of them were white, of course, not all. But the reason I’d clicked through was: Veronika was there with Sabine. They looked good together; the billionaire wearing a tuxedo, subdued but well fitted, the witch wearing a forest green dress, layered and wonderful. I followed a couple more links; gossip sites on whether Sabine was dating the ‘mysterious witch’, and whether she’d broken up with her actor boyfriend. 

“If you’re finished with lunch, we can do that code review,” said Tom.

Well, Tom, I thought, I am actually only a quarter of the way into this fucking sandwich which you can see I’m eating, so, no, I am not finished with lunch.

“Sure,” I said.

⁂

I was just packing up when the PA appeared. I was tired; the afternoon had been spent in code walkthroughs, and Jira wrestling.

The PA was beautiful enough to make that tiredness vanish, replaced by shame. How could I call myself a woman, when the platonic avatar of womanness was standing before me? She was tall and slim, hands manicured, pencil skirt, sharp blouse.

She sniffed. I was wearing the same hoodie as yesterday; it was clean though.

“You are wanted upstairs,” she said, giving the impression of being bored without actually sounding bored.

“Oh, yes, right,” I said, hurriedly checking I hadn’t missed a message or an email. “Er, fourth floor? Fifth?”

The ghost of a sigh. “All the way up,” she said. “Sabine wants to see you.”

“Sabine?” I said. Sabine?

“You have heard of her?” the PA asked, turning and stalking towards the elevator. “Come.”

I followed. On the long rise through the body of the corporation, I tried to think of what the CEO could want with me. I was worried; she didn’t fire people in person, did she? I was sure I was far beneath her notice. Hell, I was far beneath my line manager’s notice.

On the top floor, I followed elegant clicking heels first into an office—nice but not extravagant—and then into another room. An office too, I suppose, but more like a living room in a stately home. Art and bookcases covered the walls, expensive carpets on the floor. The lighting was quite subdued, although some remaining sunlight was filtering through glass doors. Sabine perched on a huge mahogany desk. Behind her was an oil painting; people fighting against a vaguely Roman backdrop.

“Philippa Pierce, ma’am,” announced the PA.

“Thank you, Cal,” replied Sabine. “You can go now.”

Sabine looked at me in silence, for a while, and then spoke.

“Some people—close, drunk, almost-friends—have asked why I have a personal assistant who is prettier than me,” said Sabine.

She was attractive, but not in the same way as her PA. A very soft butch perhaps. Or perhaps the attraction simply came from having a ridiculous amount of money. I didn’t think I was shallow, but I could smell money, and it was like a pheromone. 

I realised that she was pausing, waiting for me to answer, or perhaps to deny the comparison. “Um,” I said. Good one, Pip, very impressive. 

“It’s like eyespots on a butterfly,” she said, waving to a frame filled with pinned butterflies. “It takes people’s attention. Most of the people through that door are straight men; they are either attracted or intimidated or both. Same for lesbians. Gay men are usually fascinated by her. Or hate her. By the time they meet me, I seem normal, approachable, safe in comparison.”

She leaned back on the desk, and grabbed a packet of cigarettes.

“Do you smoke, Philippa?”

I shook my head. I stopped for HRT, many years ago.

“Ugh,” Sabine said, walking to the doors out onto the balcony. “I shouldn’t either.”

It was chilly out here, but the view over the city was incredible. At ground level it would be dark now, but up here it got the last few rays of sun. Billionaires do not share the same days as the rest of us.

Sabine took out a cigarette—it looked stylish—and fished out a slimline lighter from the packet. She leant over the balcony, and took a long drag.

“Probably going to have to switch to vapes,” she said, blowing a long column of smoke into the air. “We’re going big in healthcare soon, and for some stupid reason the press think it’s a gotcha to snap a healthcare CEO smoking.”

Again, I had no idea what to say, or, indeed why I was here. 

“I hear you met Veronika,” she said, gazing out over the city.

“Huh? Oh yeah, in the elevator,” I said. I don’t think I said anything wrong? Hell, I don’t think I said anything.

“I’ve been out with her a couple of times,” said Sabine. “Not out out, but we’ve attended a few fundraisers together. We’re negotiating; she works for AOMP, and they have something I want. You know AOMP?”

“Er, the witch’s organisation?”

“The American Order of Magical Practitioners, yes,” she said. “Negotiations are going well.” She smiled brightly, and took another drag. “Have you ever thought about jumping,” she said. “When you’re in a high place like this? The imp of the perverse.”

“Um, I suppose,” I said. I really wasn’t following.

“One of the dangers of being in my position,” said Sabine. “Nobody believes you can fall. Every mistake is actually part of a great strategy. Gotta watch you don’t start believing it. Isn’t there a chance I could fly?”

She flicked her lit cigarette off the balcony, the red point spinning off into the night. “No,” she said, answering her own question.

“Sorry, Philippa, I don’t get to chat much,” she said. “With people who aren’t trying to outmanoeuvre me, I mean.”

She walked back inside, indicating that I should follow, gesturing to the chair. She sat behind her desk.

“I had a lot of questions for Veronika,” Sabine said. “She was happy to answer questions about witchcraft; I mean, a bit cryptically, but that’s expected.” Sabine paused. “But she referred me to Google when I asked about being a transgender.”

My stomach twisted.

“But John—Serhan—mentioned you being in the elevator, and that he thought you are one,” she said. “So I thought I’d ask you.”

“Um, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this conversation,” I said.

Sabine looked at me for a moment, like she was weighing things up. She suddenly stood, and moved over to a sideboard. “Drink?” she said, getting two glasses out.

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“I shouldn’t—”

She poured two fingers into each glass, and passed me one. She perched on the edge of the desk, again, forcing me to look up.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s got to be difficult, medical stuff. But it’s better for me to learn from a person, rather than from the internet.”

“It’s… it’s not my job,” I said.

“True,” said Sabine. “Although most people are fine answering their CEO’s questions.”

She downed her glass.

“Fine,” she said. “Five hundred dollars a question.”

I swallowed. Even just a few questions would be quite a boost to my surgery/ritual fund. And Sabine did seem genuinely interested; nosey, perhaps, but not terfish.

I sipped my drink; it was whiskey, which I don’t normally like, but this was amazing, like smoke and honey.

“Okay,” I said.

She pulled out a notepad.

⁂

“So your hormones are deductible with your insurance, but not, er…” She flipped back a couple of pages of notes. “SRS?”

“Or GRS or GCS, and, no, technically it’s covered. But in practice it seems to get denied.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Transphobia,” I said, shrugging.

“So you’ve still got your penis?”

“For now,” I said. “But that’s not an appropriate—”

“Sorry,” Sabine said. “You’re right. Forgive me.”

She paused for a moment.

“I won’t ask you to show me then,” she said. “Joke, joke.”

I nervously gave an approximation of laughter.

“You know,” she said. “It’s a real shame that there’s so few of you; you’re an underserved market, but the margins wouldn’t be good with that limited population.”

I laughed, awkwardly. 

“What?” she said, suspicious of being laughed at when she hadn’t made a joke. Perhaps she was more bearable like this, a few whiskeys in, jacket discarded.

“You don’t know how rare it is for a trans person to hear ‘I wish they were more of you’,” I said. “Even if it’s only to sell us stuff.”

Sabine considered this, and then laughed too. “Don’t knock being sold stuff. If your group was valuable to corporations, you’d be getting a lot less trouble from the politicians. Money talks.”

“Yeah, I probably should have thought about that when planning out a lifetime of dysphoria and depression,” I said. “How will this affect the poor corporations?”

Sabine chuckled. “You have a sharp tongue, Ms Philippa, when people can get you to talk.”

“Pip,” I said. “People call me Pip.”

“Pip,” she said. “I’ll write you a check now. But if I have more trans questions, can I ask?”

“I suppose,” I said. “If you pay. I don’t particularly want to be the trans oracle.”

“What about normal questions?” she said. “Oh, I don’t mean normal like that. I forget how real people see things, sometimes.”

“Um, I guess,” I said. “Haven’t you got focus groups for that sort of thing?”

“They’re not as fun to talk to, Pip,” Sabine said.

Interlude

This doll was not constructed anew. It has sisters within it. Its knee is from one sister, its heart from another. All its sisters are dead, killed by the witch. Some sliced into pieces, some eaten by fungus, many burned. A thousand sisters destroyed in a hundred ways.

This one does not—can not—blame the witch. But it is lonely, the great house empty as the witch put in its eyes, and performed the incantations. 

The witch, its mistress, brought it fully to life. She admired its form, both physical and magical. This one took no pride in that; it is the witches doing, not its own.

The witch fucked this doll. It was wild, unhinged. A normal doll would be nail-ripped and teeth-torn. The whirling tempest was but nothing before this one. Then it was over, and the witch relaxed; for the first time, this one saw her smile. 

This one reached for her heart.

She had a lot of wards; simple ones from her younger days, complex ones from her later life. All before she realised that she had no interest in living forever.

Flame washed over this one. Decay traced across its surface. Ice. Demonic creatures. Eldritch curses. None found a foothold. 

When the last ward—an endless void—had battered itself to uselessness upon this one, the witch laughed. 

This one took her heart, and squeezed it to nothing.

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