**Quick note... for some reason, Prose is cutting off the pieces I'm pasting directly from my manuscript, making it difficult to paste full chapters. I'm not sure what the word count is, but I'll try to fit in at least 1,000 per chapter part... Even if there are 2,000-3,000 words per chapter in the manuscript. I appreciate your patience, and message me if you'd prefer the raw manuscript on documents!**

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“Perfect holes? Really?” Alastair sat across from her, chin resting in his hands and elbows propped on the table. “What could’ve done that?”

“That’s what I’m researching,” Constance pulled a pen from her leather flap and uncapped it with her teeth, underlining something in the book she had before her. It was thick, with a brown cover and aged pages with a tan hue. “What thing could create perfect holes?”

“Maybe it’s a person, and they’re just using some sort of tool?” He tilted his head.

“Ah, but why would it scratch at the walls, then? And why bother making such particular circles? No, not even a human hand could hold a tool that steady–” Constance continued to scribble away, flipping through the pages of her creature-encyclopedia. “Here!” She placed a finger on a particular name in the book. “Pamin.”

“Pamin? Have you faced one before?” He leaned over the table to get a better look.

“No, not in the slightest,” she ran her finger along the page, reading the words aloud. “A certain type of pixie that eats away a house’s foundation, similar to termites. Finds entertainment in torturing those that live within it.” She heaved a sigh. “Signature sign, perfect holes in the walls for their convenient transportation. They’re neat freaks, so if the holes aren’t perfect, they’ll go berserk.” She closed the book. “This’ll be fun.”

“Was that meant to be sarcastic?” Alastair narrowed his eyes and leaned back.

“A mixture. Faeries are easy enough to deal with; it’s the aftermath that bothers me.” She opened her briefcase, placed it on the table, and tucked the book inside. “Some clients don’t like their house being destroyed from the inside out.”

“There’s no other way to deal with them?” He patted his hands on the seat. “They’ll just destroy it no matter what?”

“By the time they find out I’m going to banish em’, and there’s usually more than one– They flip out and try to take as much with them as possible. I haven’t found a better way so far.” She stood, clicking the suitcase shut again and sighing. “Anything interesting in the afternoon paper?” She tapped her fingers on the table and raised her hand to rub her throbbing forehead.

“Not that I saw. Maybe you should check it out yourself. You’ve always had an eye for the unnatural.” He shifted over in his seat and pulled himself into a standing position. “What’ll it be for lunch today, other than a few aspirins?”

“Gods, so many choices– Probably the same I always get.” She was surprised he even asked at this point. It may be required, but he had been breaking the café etiquette since her first constant week coming in– Sitting beside her, bringing over food without asking– She could never tell with him. “How’d you know about the headache?”

“Hunch,” he grinned, brushing his hand along his shoulder as he walked back to the kitchen.

Her work wasn’t challenging. For her, that was. Her entire life, she had felt torn from the norm– Hunting those that did the same wasn’t much of a difference. She sought out the peculiar and ensured it wouldn’t bother those that knew less of it than she did. The pay was enough to cover her rent and a meal or two at the café twice a day, though admittedly, Alastair helped her out more than he should’ve.

She was standing on the cobblestone steps of a rickety old cottage owned by Ms. Campbell. A sweet old woman scared out of her wits because she believed something harmful was in her walls. At least, that’s what Constance had picked up from the letter she had been sent. She had done a great deal of walking to get there, as the bus only took her as far as the edge of the forest, and from there, she needed to take a rather windy path to the secluded home.

She raised her hand and promptly knocked at the door, still wiping croissant crumbs from her forest-green skirt that swung smoothly around her ankles.

Before she could finish knocking, the door was pulled open from the opposite side. Her hair was messy, and her eyes were crazily distant.

“Oh good, you’re here. This thing has been bothering me all day and night!” Ms. Campbell scuttled aside, motioning for Constance to enter. She bowed her head and smiled before stepping through the doorway.

“I have a few questions before we begin our examination, Ms. Campbell,” Constance spoke smoothly, with ease she had learned from many cases since the day she first ran from home. She had stayed in her hometown, which made it far easier to work, seeing as she was familiar with many of the people here– Her family had moved soon after the incident, allowing her to emerge from hiding and begin starting her own life.

Solving mysteries was a hobby she had while striving for a place in her family. Now, she could turn a corner and be presented with one– One she could solve within a day and get paid for. It was heavenly. Exhausting, seeing as she was the one the entire town turned to whenever something slightly piqued their curiosity, similar to how Ms. Campbell likely just had a tiny critter in her walls.

“Of course. I’ve made tea; please, sit and have some.” Her house was maximalist, to put it lightly. The walls were crammed with mirrors and paintings galore, without so much an inch left untouched. The floors were cluttered with boxes and furniture placed uncomfortably close together and looked as if they might fall apart with so much as a blow.

Constance gingerly sat by the coffee table, accepting the ornate teacup her client offered.

“What kind of tea?” She questioned, raising it to her lips.

“Hibiscus and lemon balm, supposedly good for the soul,” she poured herself a large glass and gulped down the contents within seconds.

She let the sweet mixture slide across her tongue for a moment and fought to keep a straight face as she placed it delicately back on the glass table. “Thank you very much,” she smiled in thanks. “Let’s talk about this creature; why don’t we?”

“Oh, oh right,” she placed her empty teacup down. “You can call me Amelia first,” she smiled and cleared her throat. “Secondly– My apologies if my description isn’t quite up to par. I haven’t slept very much because of all the scratching.”

“No worries at all, go on,” Constance crossed her legs and intertwined her fingers over her knee, listening intently.

“Well, it started just about a week ago. Nothing seemed to trigger it– It just happened. I thought it was some sort of critter and waited it out… But the longer I waited, the worse it got,” Ms. Campbell’s voice was hushed as if she believed the creature would hear her if she were to talk too loud. “Eventually, I woke up in the middle of the night to see boxes toppled over or lamps on the ground– And holes in the walls!”

“Holes in the walls?” Constance tilted her head. “How large?”

Amelia stood, wobbling over to the wall and removing a rather large picture frame to reveal a decently sized hole in the wall. Two feet by two feet, she estimated– But the size wasn’t the most shocking feature. It was its perfection. The hole had been strategically carved as if with some kind of tool. It was a perfect circle.

“Hm,” Constance stood, walking over and quickly ducking her head through the hole.

“Oh! Constance, are you sure–” Amelia began.

“Very,” Constance hummed, pursing her lips and squinting before pulling her head back out of the wall.

After a moment of dusting herself off, the two sat back down once more.

“What do you think it is?” Ms. Campbell bit her lip.

“Well, in all honestly, Amelia,” Constance inhaled. “I haven’t a clue. I’ve never seen anything like this,” she shook her head and exhaled. “Best I can tell you to do for now is stay with a family member and wait until I figure out what this is.”

“A family member,” the old woman glanced at the thick phonebook resting atop a pile of boxes. “I suppose I could do that….”

“Perfect!” Constance stood, grasping her briefcase and clicking it open. “For now, wear this as protection,” she sifted through the many necklaces she held stacked in her case and removed one in particular, with a sigil carved into light gray stone. She closed the briefcase once more and handed it over to the woman.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” she gathered the necklace into her hands and quickly tossed it over her head. “I cannot thank you enough,” she slipped a hand into her pocket and removed the keys to her home. “Take these for when you come back later. I should be all set up by then.”

“I haven’t even started,” Constance smiled brightly and held her briefcase with two hands. “I’ll come back later today after a bit of research and take it on.”

She tapped her nails on the crooked wooden table, eyes fixed on the world bustling outside. The sun pooled over the tinted glass, creating a spotlight for the plate set down by a waiter. One with a familiarly happy face that she turned to greet as he approached.

A face she had known for three years, now– One that had been a catalyst in her decision to leave the house she once called home. That was the right decision, seeing as her family had scurried as far away from town as possible after finding out about her

peculiarity.

“One buttered croissant,” the waiter placed the plate before her, alongside a steaming coffee cup, “--and one coffee.”

“Black?” She asked, quirking a brow and raising the coffee to her lips.

“As requested, though, you know you can try something new occasionally, don’t you?” He sidestepped to sit across from her in the booth, pushing aside the briefcase she had placed on his seat.

Alastair. Mr. Zepheros’ son– A boy who found it particularly amusing to tease her for her taste in coffee almost every time she ordered it. She had counted twenty-six times since the first day they met, including his recent attempt at humor. He was sickeningly sweet nonetheless, and she found it impossible to hold it against him.

His golden hair tumbled over his forehead in a messy array of bangs, and his honey-colored eyes darted around, unable to settle. His jawline was slightly soft, in a feminine nature, but his nose was sharp.

“If I wanted a change, I’d find it,” she blew on the coffee before sipping it carefully, enjoying the bitter taste coating her tongue. After a moment of closing her eyes to enjoy the beverage truly, she opened them to find a worried look on the angelic-looking boy’s face. Her hands placed the drink on the table once more. “Has the paper arrived yet?”

“As it is every morning,” he stood from his seat and pushed the plate holding the croissant closer to Constance. “Eat. I’ll grab the paper for you.”

“Hm,” she looked down at the croissant and quickly pulled it apart to shove a bite into her mouth.

Mr. Zepheros knew of the mishap with her family. He knew more about her than she knew about herself, and every day she returned to the bakery, always at the same time, to retrieve the same order. It provided the tiniest bit of consistency in her whirlwind of craziness.

“What’ll it be this time, detective?” Alastair beamed, placing the paper on the table before her and retaking his seat. “Werewolf? Vampire, maybe?”

“You know full well I’ve never faced anything like that,” she gulped down her bite of croissant and pulled the paper toward her, examining the typed words that littered the page. “Worst I’ve faced is the fae.”

“Aren’t you not supposed to say that aloud?” Alastair’s voice lowered, along with his posture.

“Faced em’ once. Wouldn’t hurt to go again,” Constance bit into her croissant again and scanned the page. Her finger trailed over the newspaper’s print, landing on a title in the lower left corner of the first page. “Ever heard of this?”

Prestigious, or Egregious; Fowther Academy

The townsfolk are buzzing with curiosity toward the supposedly outstanding educational services of Fowther Academy– And the very little information on its history. Many folk claim they’ve never met a soul who attended Fowther, while others claim they believe it to have been inhabited by the spirits of previous students. What a dark theory!

“Ever heard of Fowther?” Constance questioned, placing her half-eaten croissant back onto her plate and spinning the newspaper to face him while her hands raised her coffee cup to her lips again.

“Not so sure I have,” she slid the paper toward him, observing his vacant look. Constance adored Alastair’s company most times, as she could speak endlessly, and it’d go through one ear and out of the other. “What’re you thinking?”

“Wad of nothing, that’s what I’m thinking. People get so worked up over nothing,” she sipped the coffee and shook her head. “Another stuck-up school for the one percent.”

“Huh,” Alastair scratched his head. “I guess so.”

Constance raised her wrist, gaze flicking to her watch. At the sight of the time, she scarfed down the last of her croissant and cursed with her mouth full.

“No need to rush; I’m sure whatever you’re late for can wait–” Alastair leaned back, surprised at her swift movements.

She gulped down the last of her coffee and exhaled. “Unfortunately, it cannot– I have a client to meet in five.”

“Another client?” Alastair groaned, lowering his hand to fiddle with the cross necklace over his chest. “You’re working yourself to the bone; you know that?”

“It’s the best I’ve got. You know that.” She stood, hands rummaging through her pockets in search of payment.

“I got it,” he stood, touching her shoulder. “Just do me a favor and get some sleep tonight. Your eyebags are as dark as your coffee.”

Constance smiled widely and lifted a hand to ruffle his hair. “Thanks, Angel,” she dropped her hand and sidestepped to grab her briefcase off his seat. “I’ll try my best.”

“No trying– Do it!” Alastair howled after her, smiling madly and adjusting the hair she had effortlessly tossed about.

Oh... Gods. Another date. Another man. Another nightmare.

And this one's asking me to talk about my writing.

What a way to make it worse.

"Oh... Mostly commissions," I say, smiling sheepishly and averting my gaze. As long as he stays content with that answer, all will be well.

But of course, he wasn't, because who is? Curiosity is a fearsome warrior.

"What kind of commissions?" He asks, leaning forward to show his enthrallment with my sub-par writing hobby.

"Mostly romance, really; that's quite popular nowadays," I grin, hoping to throw him off my back, to no avail. His eyes gleam with excitement, so I offer him a bit more to chew on. "I work on my novel occasionally, but it's truly not much,"

"I'm a romance reader myself," he leaned back, cutting my words off and crossing his arms, as if content with his actions.

"Is that so?" I question, clearing my throat and brushing my hair out of my face. "Who's your favorite? I know it can be hard to choose--"

"Colleen Hoover, as of now," he tilted his head with a smug smile that read 'I researched this just for you, and now I finally have my moment to use it.'

"Ah," I nodded. "Excuse me a moment."

With that, I stood, gathered my things, tucked my wallet under my arm, and left right in his view.

Fault. She refused to take it, yet knew, wholeheartedly, she was at fault.

Flames licked up the broken bricks of the academy, clinging to wood like a child to its mother on its first day of school. They climbed, and they climbed, bursting from windows and causing screams that sent her to the ground over, and over again.

And as blood poured from the wound in her torso, she knew.

This was what she deserved.

Invisible. Invisibility had pestered Constance since she took her first steps. They weren’t the first within her house– They were, in fact, the fifth.

Though, it wasn’t just her first steps that felt entirely cheap. It was her first A+, her first award, and her first nomination for class president– These perfections that she strived for were all not firsts but fifths.

Constance’s family was nothing but perfection. Not meeting, but exceeding expectations. So, when feeling invisible morphed into turning invisible, she took it and ran. She finally had a first. Unless her siblings had something peculiar about them that they didn’t tell her.

Still, invisibility wasn’t anywhere close to where it stopped.

On her fourteenth birthday, she bought herself a cake; White frosting with swirling black letters atop it, saying ‘Happy Birthday Constance!’ The baker, Mr. Zepheros, she knew very well, as she had visited him since her tenth, always requesting the same thing—a cake with simple letters and raspberry filling between the vanilla slices. The raspberry filling made it worth the money she earned from selling papers and small crafts.

But there was something different about this birthday, something incredibly neglectful. On most birthdays, Constance’d get a small side-hug from her mother and a few ‘Happy Birthdays’ from her older siblings if they were feeling generous– Mostly from Vincent, her older brother, whom she believed deeply pitied her. Her fourteenth birthday, unluckily, just happened to fall on the day of one of Vincent’s violin recitals.

It was his big day (as it had been many times before.) A day that would bring the family much fame and fortune and bring Vincent every drop of attention the family had to offer– So much so they paid little attention to getting him a cake. She stepped silently through the front door and attempted to sneak past them with a bag draped over her arm but quickly stopped.

“What do you have there?” Her mother chimed, prying the bag off her arm and peering inside. She had a smile– A genuine one that Constance rarely saw. She supposed that one of her seven children had finally achieved something worthy of it. The smile brightened further as she spotted the cake resting in the bottom of the bag. “Oh, how thoughtful, Connie!” She returned to the kitchen and rushed inside without glancing at her daughter. “Vincent! We have just what we need to celebrate!”

Constance watched from afar as she popped off the plastic cover, opened a kitchen drawer, and removed a fork, which she used to scrape the letters off the top of the cake skillfully.

She wouldn’t have minded if she had just asked, as she was always for a celebration– But the way her mother didn’t hesitate to do such a thing and didn’t bother to read the letters decorating her special-made cake was what truly got under her skin.

She cleared her throat and turned away from the celebration, carefully steadying her steps as she made her way to the stairs. She’d allow them to eat her cake if they did it without her in the room– She didn’t wish to watch as each child was served before her until there was nothing left but the crumbs decorating the cardboard bottom of the cake’s container.

She quietly shunned herself for the burning sensation raiding my eyes and throat as she reached the top of the stairs. “We do not cry over something as petty as this.”

She walked to the far end of the upstairs hallway, floors creaking in pity with each step. Her stomach began to twist with anger. The feeling devoured her like a flame, rocketing through her stomach and reaching her chest, sending her to her knees before she could grasp the door.

“I’m so proud of you!” Her mother wailed dramatically downstairs.

Her head was on fire, and her skin was slick with sweat. She was in the limbo of rage and disgust– Her feelings were mixing into a disgusting concoction that she could barely name, and her body reacted with each twist. Each new additive started another symptom, and before she knew it, my hand collided with the doorknob– And the doorknob was no more, engulfed by soft orange flames that licked the faux gold aggressively. Flames that didn’t taint the metal bulb.

A flurry of orange and yellow was attached to her skin, licking up her arm and leading to her chest, which they rapidly overtook. She was burning up, yet her skin remained intact– She felt no pain, only fury– Red-hot rage that danced over her torso and down her legs, engulfing her body in flames.

“Constance?”

Vincent stood at the edge of the stairs, hazel eyes widened. She turned to face her brother, albeit slowed. Until now, she had yet to see Vincent portray any emotion, except for when he played violin with his god-given skill. Still, even when he played, she had never seen such fear. His face had paled further than its usual sun-deprived white, and his hand was twitching, hesitant to reach out for her.

She fled. It was all she could do. She could face her brother in her dazed state, or flee, leaving singed carpet behind her. The flames retracted into themselves, clinging to her body like the rage that ultimately began to subside, fading into embarrassment.

As she ran down the stairs, the flames dissolved. She pressed her back against a wall far from the kitchen and gathered herself, taking a deep breath. She had yet to contain her outbursts of invisibility, but she wished so greatly to be invisible at that moment that the Gods granted her wish. Just as the flames had spread, the invisibility did so, too, creeping up her body and washing over her.

She sidestepped and entered the hallway, watching from a few feet away as the family slowly began to realize Vincent’s disappearance.

Thud.

“Vincent?” Her mother called, brushing past the rest of her children to rush to the stairs, followed closely by the others.

It’d be a lie to tell herself that this was the first time something odd had happened to her. She wanted to be in shock at the experience, but all she could muster was a growl of her stomach as she eyed a spare piece of cake on the kitchen counter.

She snuck into the kitchen, pulled a corner of the cake off with her pointer, middle, and thumb, and stuffed it into her mouth as she scanned the house one final time.

It was unfortunate that it had to end that way, with her exiting the house, cake coating her fingertips as she gulped down a minor portion of her favorite flavor– But it was how it had to be for Fowther to find her stray soul.

She hated the way that it felt. The way that her heart pressed against her ribcage, fighting to claw its way out.

Her blood boiled at the sight of him. He and his egotistical ways, the soft chocolate curls falling along his olive forehead, his gleaming skin.

He was everything anyone could ever want.

She felt disgraced that she fell into that category.

Yet, when his fingertips grazed her skin, running along her heated cheeks and tucking a strand of her raven hair behind her ear, she felt like she could float. Like she could lift off with him, run away, and never have to worry again.

What could she do? Where could she run to hide from this intoxicating feeling?

And the answer to her question finally came to her, as his forehead rested against hers, and he murmured words that went through one ear and out another--

Maybe she didn't need to.

I've been through many relationships. Many loves gone awry, many experiences that caused me to grow as a person. Each had their own unique effect. Each hurt a bit more than the last.

Still, I grow. I learn. I achieve. I still love those around me and yearn to be loved the way my heart does.

I am hopeless, but it is bliss.