Though you see the advantages, you decline.
Not because she’s not beautiful. She’s a gorgeous redhead, not as voluptuous as Pandora but still showing curves. She’s also younger, with sharp features etched in a smooth, oval face. And not because of her obscurity, as it paints you as less of a target.
It’s the plan. You could draw their attention by aiming for mayor Chen, but that would take some time. By then, who knows what would happen to Nick. Or your family, for that matter. So you stick to it. It won’t be a glorious return, as to them, you never left. But at least it would keep them safe, and it could represent getting away from all this.
Thus, you deflect the prostitute’s question with a distracting claim. “Seems it’s the same thing as in Tyneside.”
“Well, it’s a big city. It’s rotten to the core.”
“I’m surprised my small town has degenerated into such a state.” You give her a couple words of advice, trying to empower her. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“You’re saying this to cheer me up, right?”
“You have access to one of the councilmen. You work together with your fellow workers. Gather up some dirt on them – on everyone. Offer them the ability to snoop on their rivals. Make yourselves invaluable to them. Few people realize prostitutes are the largest intelligence network, sweetheart – men can’t resist talking about their secrets to a hot woman they’re fucking.”
That makes her laugh. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I like you. Maybe I see something of myself in you. This isn’t the greatest life, my dear. It depends on you whether you want to make sone justice or join their filth.”
“Uh...” The woman scratches her neck, uneasy at your response. “Thanks.”
“What’s your name?”
“Alice,” she tells you after a while. “But everyone calls me Sonja. Like the movie.”
Like the book, you clarify. You’re surprised about the comparison – she's not as Amazonian as the eponymous Red Sonja, but whoever gave her that nickname saw the strength you’re witnessing now.
“And how do you prefer to be called?”
“Depends on whether I’m working or not.”
“Well, since you’re currently off...” You extend your hand courteously, showering her with respect. “A pleasure to meet you, Alice. I wish the best for you.”
“Thank you, ma’am. May I ask your name?”
“Dora,” you say as you shake her hand briefly. “Dora Phelps. Though in my heyday, I called myself ‘Pandora’.”
“Oh, like the box.”
“Yes, yes, exactly.” (You know it’s actually a jar, but why engage in further discussion?) “I must leave. And while I’d say ‘better luck next time’, I’d rather say ‘seize the day’.”
“Yeah,” she says, her confidence boosted. “Thank you, Mrs. Phelps.”
As you walk away, your curiosity demands you to look back. You’re thankful for it, for seeing how Alice went from humored to shocked was both heartwarming and amusing. You can only imagine what must be going in her mind. Did I really talk to the Pandora Phelps?
--
“Dory!” It doesn’t take her mind to realize that was the fakest greeting you could ever hear. The hug was light, and the kiss felt like Judas Iscariot kissing you. “Always a pleasure having you around.”
But then again, Isadora Farthington, your sister, resents that you’re unbound to a man to enjoy your fortune. (And that's your first impression of her.) She’s got nothing to envy, as she lives in one of the largest mansions on Stately Hill, the richest part of town.
“I always try to find time to spend with you,” you lie, “but you know. Business can be harsh.”
You’re taking a major risk by coming here. You know some of the personal information from Dora, but very little about personal details. You’re here because this was the reason Pandora came to visit – her sister, and nothing else – and as long as you can handle her, you can move to the next part of your plan.
It’s an hour after noon, which means your replacement must be at his house. Sunday service is over, and your parents always take it easy on Sundays (Saturdays are always for house work), so all you usually worried about was homework. Any excuse will make him step out – a call from Jessica, from Jimmy, from Trish...
All you need is a call, and you’ll be able to infiltrate back. The backpack is gone, replaced with an imitation leather haversack that you hid inside Pandora’s suitcase. You dropped it in the trash, far away from where you were going, and took a bit of lighter fluid to burn it for good measure.
All you need to do is to weather her side of the family – which, to your fortune, is well known in town. Isadora is the wife of Alfred Farthington, another of the councilmen and owner of the town’s antiques shop, as well as some holdings in Tyneside. They have two children – Dora's nephews – of which you know mostly of one. “How’s Junior?”
“Oh, he’s doing well.”
“Still causing trouble?” You have no qualms dropping that sharp barb. Alfred Farthington Jr. is notorious on Edgefield for the Phillips case, where he did a hit-and-run to one Dionne Phillips, a young woman who died days later, and from which he was acquitted – allegedly, because of family connections.
“You know he’s quieter now, ever since Alfred took him into his Tyneside businesses.”
“Right, right...”
“Strange that you didn’t ask about Antie.”
“I figured if I mentioned Junior, you’d tell me about her as well.”
“Yes, but you always ask me about her first.”
“My mind’s a bit in the air – remember I said I had to visit a doctor? He found me well, by the way, but I still feel a bit unwell.”
“You should stop the drinking, Dory. You know what they say about dementia.”
“Must be the fumes.” (You’re unsure if Dora drinks, but the fumes of distilled spirits are just as intoxicating.) “I didn’t forget about Alfred’s gift, though.” You take a gift box from Dora’s suitcase, which you previously checked. “A bottle of our latest ten-year reserve Irish-style whiskey.”
“Right, right...” Isadora takes it, but she’s not very enthusiastic about it.
“And what about Antie? Weren’t you going to speak to me about her?”
--
You’re surprised you could maneuver her for so long, but you need an escape route. And fast. You’re very sure Isadora must have called an ambulance, and judging by what little you shared, probably to commit you to an asylum.
You’re surprised how she didn’t suspect you were fishing for information, though. Turns out, wearing the faces of loved (or in this case, hated) ones is all you need to make them speak. Like about Antie – Anthenora Farthington, a pretentious name for a girl roughly your age. (And by that, you mean eighteen, not fifty.) She’s a student at a prestigious private academy, already on her way to Tynemouth.
Isadora spent a good hour speaking about her, giving you time to explore the living room. She is proud of her children’s achievements, arguably as a way to show off how her lifestyle is more rewarding than yours. Their pictures are on the coffee table, letting you observe them – and you do as you drone off from the bragging.
Alfred Farthington Jr. isn't too bad looking. If it weren’t because of that crooked smile and nose that makes him look like the Penguin in Batman Returns, he’d be a handsome man. Alfred Farthington Sr. isn't that bad looking either – other than the balding, and the crooked teeth – and you can see where the resemblance comes from, but Alfred Jr. is more athletic, bearing some muscle on his thin frame.
Antie Farthington, on the other hand... The best way to define her is “plain”. Long dark auburn hair, small eyes and a button nose she inherited from her father, on a round face like her mother. She’s small, not as curvy as the average woman from Edgefield (or Tyneside, for that matter), and has a mousy look to her – skittish and shy.
That last bit is proven as she sees you. She arrived just now, as you wait for Isadora’s final judgment on you, probably to visit her mother. You stand up, faking the proudest smile. “Antie!”
“Aunt Dora!” she exclaims in shock, with a refined accent hinting of her British ancestry from her father’s side. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to give a surprise visit to your mother.” You hug her, tighter than Isadora hugged you, trying to transmit some genuine warmth. “She told me you’ve been admitted to Rukelnikov’s College of Fine Arts – congratulations!”
“Yes,” she admits shyly. “On bel canto.” (Isadora did mention Anthenora was a magnificent singer, after all.)
“Save me a ticket when you sing in Europe, then. I’d love to hear you.”
“Thank you! I will.” She moves around, looking. “Where’s Mother?”
“Making a call,” you tell her. “I told her I had to visit the doctor because of a lapse in memory--”
“Aunt Dory!”
“It’s alright, sweetie. And I apologize if I sound weird to you.”
“Don’t worry! You still remember me, no? That's all I care about. Say – will you stay for a while? I can barely see you, what with my classes and all. I barely have time to visit you at your house!”
You’re about to tell her something about business preventing you from doing so – you need to move on with your plan – but something catches your attention.
If you stay, Isadora will most likely confine you. Whether out of concern or out of jealousy, your mobility will be limited if you don’t move away. Anthenora could provide that distraction you need to move away, letting you proceed.
But what if you could use Isadora instead? Same resources, greater mobility, and a scapegoat in case they’re pursuing you.
And all you need to do is leap into Anthenora first.
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