Page 95 of The Commons

“Shut up!” She looks at him with a confused gaze.

Swin smiles.

“Anyways, so they have crazy initiation protocols, and they spend over a million dollars a month on membership fees,” Levon continues speaking to me.

“Not to mention the intimate love affair and intersection between these Aristocrats and The Commons is pretty scandalous!” Swin adds.

“Yeah, and the rules of The Commons allow them to meet at this time undetected by any student,” Pesh completes.

“So are they behind The Seventh Zone?” I ask.

We all look to Pesh, silent.

“They are,” Pesh says.

“What!? They are?” Swin turns to Pesh in shock.

Wow, this explains why most of our teachers are also governmental officials, I think. Before I can ask any more questions, we turn to the computer screen to see that the meeting has begun. And to my surprise, Beatrice is a server in these ungodly affairs.

“Oh, there she goes,” Swin says. “Beatrice. The preparer of all perfectly pedantic proceedings, perfectly positioned pencils, and posh pointing pens. Her visage, one of a pretentious peripheral, for the prerogative of Patron De Londe’s priorities.”

“What the fu…” Levon turns to him, weirded out. “What is wrong with you?”

“Sorry! I heard that once in The Seventh Zone.” Swin smiles to himself, sinking into his chair. “I always wanted to say it.” He chuckles silently.

“Weirdo.” Levon turns away.

Swin rolls his eyes, focusing on the screen.

Patron De Londe watches Beatrice execute her duties with attention to intricate detail and formality. His shoulders are spread out, and his piercing red eyes scrutinize her presence. Yet still, he seems relaxed in her presence. She starts to fill up every one of the sixteen cups with water. The silence is disturbed by the water’s cohered submission. Like a criminal about to be thrown into a pit, his eyes monitor each inch of the water’s flow as she pedantically pours it into the glass cups. She executes this with a powerful placidity of prowess that even practice cannot create; but entire sacrifice, worship and devotion would be a more rational decoding of such prowess. She continues to the next table, placing identical files next to each chair.

Swin studies her, muttering, “I would wonder what she did to gain such a position. I bet she was born of high class⁠—”

“Money is not enough to be part of such an institution,” Levon responds.

“It’s not,” Pesh agrees.

Pesh reluctantly tells us that Beatrice had met Patron De Londe thirteen years ago in an elite governmental banquet hosted by her father. And after the banquet ended, instead of entering the carrier home with her familial counterparts, she instead locked eyes with Londe. And after he took away every inch of her autonomy, he proceeded to violently indulge into the depths of her.

“I heard!” Swin takes over, turning in his chair, suddenly speaking so formally, “That this was the point at which Londe swallowed her addictive venom.”

“Wait, what?” Levon looks at him, utterly confused.

“If I may continue, your majesty!” Swin teases. “Apparently, she had desired him since she first heard of him twenty years ago. So every yearly banquet, he would passionately possess her, with her complete indulging permission, but she could not show her full indulgence for fear of him ending his proceedings. For they were together, but only for the period of his possession—at his prerogative—and thereafter, it was strictly noted that nothing happened, for he could never stoop so low to be with someone so “simple” like her,” he completes, clearly pleased with himself for reciting that.

“Let me guess. You also heard someone say that?” Levon looks at him.

“I did. I think that’s what I said, didn’t I?” Swin smiles, chuckling, finding this way too funny.

Levon rolls her eyes. “I thought you didn’t know about them?”

“It’s just a rumor. Patrons whisper a lot about her in The Seventh Zone,” Swin remarks. “Sorry, Pesh, you may continue.”

Pesh neither confirms or denies Swin’s statements, but he does tell us that Beatrice is an evil mastermind whose soul had been bought by Londe. He employed her to foresee all his proceedings, while holding her on a slim rope where her performance was directly proportional to their passionate proceedings.

Such is the nature of the tension that fills the room. But the tension only exists for Beatrice. For nobody knows this, because Londe always gives the appearance of dislike toward Beatrice. Like clever clones, more Aristocrats enter the room.

Patron De Londe is at the head of the table, his fingers tapping the side of his chair, seemingly impatient. His eyes move from Beatrice to the black agarwood table in front of him.