#but spanish louies seem to think it might be him
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what’s the rumored festival????? 👀
this one … they announce the line up tomorrow I think, but they’re teasing with this 👆🏽 (kill my mind)
#anon#could be something else too#but spanish louies seem to think it might be him#🤞🏽🤞🏽🤞🏽#saw people taking about it on twt#festival louis >>>#arenal sound festival
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You will not believe the nerve of this fan ..
This fan and her sister were staying at the same hotel Louis was staying at in Santiago, Chile from 23 - 25 May 2024, hoping to see him there.
She made 3 tiktok videos to explain that one of Louis' security guards harassed and intimidated her.
She said her sister had never been to the hotel before and so they went exploring within the hotel on Thursday 23 May 2024.
They were walking around the common areas and apparently got the floor 1 (Louis' floor) by accident (she mentions that the hotel’s elevator card is supposed to only let you go to your floor but somehow they managed to go to this floor). So they walked for a bit and when they were going back they found two guys coming down from the elevator (it seems like they didn’t know they were Louis’ bodyguards at the moment but I think they knew).
The guys were alerted and started questioning them about why they were there and said they will report it to the hotel. The fans said there was no need, that they were leaving anyways and apparently one of the bodyguards (one that speaks Spanish) insisted on going with them to make sure they were back in their room. The fan doing the videos thought it was too dangerous so she refused (she said she felt harassed) and she will report it to the police if they didn’t let them go. She helped her sister get into an elevator alone and then she left for the lobby with the bodyguard following her. Once in the lobby he spoke with someone from the hotel and I guess he left because then she went to her room.
The fans later asked to talk with some people from the hotel to report the bad attitude and they were expecting a better response. The hotel said it was a situation between guests, that they would make a report just to have it written somewhere but that they didn’t recommend going to the police because it might get the fans in trouble for going to a floor they were not allowed in.
Oh, and she apparently met another fan who mentioned that this same guard has had other “aggressive” encounters with fans so she wants others to stay safe.
Thank you @timetohealit for the English translations.
Part 1 x
Part 2 x
Part 3 x
Another person in Santiago chimed in about what happened at the hotel on Friday 24 May 2024 x:
*subway = hotel's underground parking
#yikes#exploring = stalking#she is calling out his security but she is the one in the wrong and they are just doing their jobs#no wonder Louis had restrictions about meeting fans#I cant believe they arent embarrassed about it and post on tiktok about it#anything for attention I guess#someone on the staff must have helped the fan with info and access to Louis floor and likely they will be found out#fan stories#FITFWT Santiago#the op has turned off their comments on their tiktok vids now#Chile#Louis Tomlinson#mandarin hotel#mine
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The Vampire Lestat & Sir Percy Blakeney: Most Genius & Manly of Himbos
I want to discuss the "babygirl" discourse around Lestat's yaasification, and notions that he's the "woman/wife/mother" in Loustat's household.
YES, Sam Reid has been serving nothing but Charisma Uniqueness Nerve and Talent, but I think his play on gender norms has confused people into thinking he's playing into Lestat's femininity, when actually, I think Sam's playing up Lestat's masculinity instead.
But it's a VERY particular type of masculinity, that clashes with modern norms and tastes and perceptions/assumptions.
And it only recently struck me that the vampire Lestat AND Sir Percy Blakeney (AKA the Scarlet Pimpernel) have A LOT in common: They're both foppish prissy buffoons who are tougher than they look and seem a LOT dumber than they actually are--and it's INTENTIONAL.
Because Lestat and Sir Percy Blakeney lived during the French Revolution. The Rococo hellscape of extravagant hedonistic opulence, that caused the fall of the monarchy & rise of the nouveau riche & middle classes. They came at the Revolution from opposite sides--Lestat de Lioncourt as a penniless marquis' son forced to hunt for his own food or starve, and Sir Percy Blakeney as an English elite sympathizer & spy for the French monarchy. That environment heavily colored both of their outlooks on life and interactions with others.
youtube
Aesthetics were everything--don't get Lestat started on the Savage Garden!--and a man's whole reputation and life could be ruined by his public image alone. Outdated clothes at court!? Scandalous!
Society's fashions & tastes change. The wigs, high heels, lace, makeup, limp wrists, prancing walks, small waists, shapely calves--all the Old World beauty standards now associated with women actually used to be applied to men. Manly men!
As overdone and effeminate as they might seem to modern audiences, in the 1700s, that kind of man was considered HOT--the very pinnacle of fashion, taste and breeding.
Ladies wanted to be with them, and men wanted to BE them--the nouveau riche, social climbers, middle class, etc--this was the model.
How society's double standards affect the class/race/gender dynamics between Loustat are absolutely feral. Despite how silly Lestat looked in his clothes, this fish out of water with his weird foreign talk and obnoxious behavior, Lestat EASILY "emasculated" Louis, the established & respected tough local pimp (and we would see over & over how effortlessly he could one-up Louis, especially in Ep5 when he came out of that fight without a scratch).
EFF his snatched waist, sassy hands, and long hair--this MAN was on DEMON TIME. Sam said that AMC put Lestat in a whole Matador-inspired villain outfit. Now, I don't know anything about Spanish bullslaying, but one cursory search on Jstor had all kinds of interesting things to say:
Douglass, Carrie B. “‘toro Muerto, Vaca Es’: An Interpretation of the Spanish Bullfight.” American Ethnologist 11, no. 2 (1984): 242–58. http://www.jstor.org/stable/643849.
And Louis definitely saw red and was charging at him like a bull--and Lestat nearly killed him for it.
So y'all tell me who the MAN is in this relationship. 👀 Lestat didn't become his MOTHER, he became HIS FATHER. (Louis is the one who's similar to Gabrielle!)
Lestat's money & class is telling, too. But what's ironic is that although Lestat appears Old Money to everyone (as his inheritance from Magnus was VERY old, and bottomless), he's actually nouveau riche--LOUIS was the silver spoon Old Money elite, with the DPDL estate (inherited from his white ancestors' French colonial slavery & plantations in NOLA). But Lestat was called the Wolf Killer, cuz he hunted wolves & saved his broke family from starving (and his village from wolf attacks).
Lestat was SO cocky after his hunt, prancing around town in his wolf furs like little Lord Fauntleroy, PRINCE LESTAT, like the kind of aristocrat he wished he was, the kind his birthright would've afforded him, if only his broke AF FATHER could've afforded it (and Prince Lestat eventually renovated his father's Chateau for the vampire court). His beautiful braggadocio/machismo was what attracted the vampire Magnus to Lestat, and made him a worthy candidate for immortality. Likewise, Lestat's brazen & BALLSY antics were what attracted Akasha to Lestat in QotD, too.
"Lestat, if all the world were destroyed, I would not destroy you," [Akasha] said. "Your limitations are as radiant as your virtues for reasons I don't understand myself. But more truly perhaps, I love you because you are so perfectly what is wrong with all things male. Aggressive, full of hate and recklessness, and endlessly eloquent excuses for violence-you are the essence of masculinity; and there is a gorgeous quality to such purity. But only because it can now be controlled."
"By you."
"Yes, my darling. This is what I was born for. This is why I am here. And it does not matter if no one ratifies my purpose. I shall make it so. Right now the world burns with masculine fire; it is a conflagration. But when that is corrected, your fire shall burn ever more brightly-as a torch burns."
For Akasha (and Anne Rice lbr), Lestat represented the epitome--the essence--of (toxic) MASCULINITY. The same vain, supercilious, foppish dandy obsessed with his hair and nails and purple sunglasses, always going on and on about James Dean & Marlon Brando, etc etc--is still a MAN.
He's the silliest creature ever, and he REVELS in it, because he knows good and dang well that he's the most dangerous one in the room. Whatever he wanted, he took, and fought for, controlled & dominated, come hell or high water.
Sure, he burns brightly, with effervescent light; but he's also the thing that goes bump in the night, lurking in the shadows, hiding his TRUE nature, his real face.
And we see that darkness, that ugly mean streak, as soon as Lestat and Percy feel they've been betrayed & feel their most vulnerable.
On a DIME, this man can go from being a silly, vapid clown, to a cold and calculated evil genius, playing 4D chess with the best of them. And the best trick is that because Lestat & Percy are both the protagonists/heroes of their stories, we'll clap and cheer and hope that they triumph, all while making a thousand excuses for their red flags--the matador wins again!
But what are Lestat & Percy REALLY fighting for & protecting? The rights of vampires to be effing serial killers? The rights of the parasitic monarchy/rich to leech off the poor? Don't let the pretty smiles & fun personalities fool you--they're inherently KILLERS--apex predators, hunters, and aggressively male--gay or straight, butch or femme, he wants to emasculate, dominate, penetrate, and humiliate.
The Scarlet Pimpernel is still an assassin, and Lestat is still a vampire. The patriarchal layers run deep, but their supposed "girliness" is just on the surface; it's due to the time period they both grew up in, and the aesthetic ideals of the elite during the 1700s--a time when manly men were A LOT more effeminate than what we'd expect today. But underneath that cultured veneer, they're still dangerous animals. The whole point of gothic literature Anne Rice's book emulated is that it confronts that duality head on, to consider the underlying nature of MAN's beast within. That's what makes Lestat so interesting--because you know there's sooo much more going on.
#the vampire lestat#the scarlet pimpernel#gender inequality#loustat#fashion history#operation matador#iwtv tvc metas
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The Count de Saint Germain as Paracelsus (or His Corrupted Foil), and King Basilio
There's a theory floating around that I've mentioned before, and that I did not come up with but can't remember who did, about The Shapeless One being (literally or figuratively) a corrupted Paracelsus. Well, his outfit always reminded me of something, and I just realized it's a magician's outfit complete with a wand (that has stars at the end).
Again, the direct reference is the weird eccentric alchemist, musician, magician, obscurantist and probable conman the Count de Saint Germain, but the possibility of a secondary reference is interesting. At the very least, it might be playing as a foil to the creator of Babel.
The idea of him as a magician is also kind of cool when you take into account the Marquis Machina's speech to Ruthven after the Gevaudan Arc. She/he/they also recalls magic, and possibly shows how alike they are.
I also mentioned this over two years ago when I first watched the anime, but the fact that The Shapeless One wears a broken watch indicates (to me) that he's a creature out of time itself. Could simply be that he's the oldest vampire in history, except maybe for the Faustina or Luna themselves, or that he's something more than just vampire. Like Paracelsus himself.
(or a corrupted analogue to him.)
Is there a third (?!) reference to King Basilio in Life is a Dream?
And finally, almost forgot this, but I've always said that his speech about "dreams are only dreams, inevitably there will come a time when you have to wake up and face reality" from chapter 55 sounds suspiciously like Pedro Calderón de la Barca's well known "Life is a Dream" play with its famous verse:
What is life? 'Tis but a madness.
What is life? A thing that seems,
A mirage that falsely gleams,
Phantom joy, delusive rest,
Since is life a dream at best,
And even dreams themselves are dreams
I don't really want to get into the full possibilities of that reference, particularly with the idea of free will vs predestination that also smoulders in the back of Vanitas no Carte's storyline. I think that deserves it's own essay (and a personal reread of the play).
But lets talk about it superficially. The play's summary goes like this: The protagonist Segismundo's father King Basilio is obsessed with science and astrology. The stars predict his son will be a tyrant, so he locks him in a tower and runs a kind of natural experiment to see if he will turn the tyrant that the stars predict when he's set free. Or if he can exercise free will and become a good king. If he's a tyrant, he locks him back up and convinces him the whole thing was a dream. There's also crossdressing. It's a fun read.
Anyways, it reminds me of The Shapeless One's experiments on Louis. He locked him up in a castle at a mythical region of France, Averoigne, to see if he would become a curse-bearer, as was his (supposedly) destiny due to being born as a twin. Or if he had the free will to break free. Obviously Louis, unlike Segismundo, lost and died. (Or maybe he's locked somewhere else, I know there's some Louis de Sade is Alive Truthers out there!). I could talk about his machinations on Mikhail and Noé as well, but this is long enough.
Astolfo also appears as a character in the play, but Calderón de la Barca lifts him from the same source material Mochijun does in La Chanson de Roland. Not sure if dear Pedro gets it directly from that epic poem or one of its derivative works though, and I'm not curious enough on that to research it.
So I can't draw a direct reference, but it would be strange that someone as well-read on classic European lit like Mochijun wouldn't know of Pedro Calderón de la Barca, probably the most famous Spanish Golden Age writer, and his version of Astolfo.
#i wonder if the whole dreams are only dreams speech is as familiar to english-speakers as spanish-speakers#spanish is a fun language sometimes because a lot of turns of phrases are linked to old Spanish Golden Age works#some of it from Lope de Vega or Calderón de la Barca. Thats what my scholarly friend says anyways#the case study of vanitas#vanitas no carte#the shapeless one#the count de saint germain#vnc#vnc meta#vnc references
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"Various Storms and Saints" Part II
Armand x Daniel Molloy
NSFW
Warnings: Role play, power play, sex toys, consensual dub/non-con. Look, Armand is one kinky bastard.
Dedicated to @faerywhimsy because when one of the greatest writers of the fandom tells you they would like to read more of a certain story, you sit your ass down until midnight and GET IT DONE.
MY MASTERLIST
Daniel Molloy was too old for this shit. A short few decades ago, when he had been an intrepid reporter with too much courage and too little sense, he had never thought twice about grabbing a hammer and helping the Mauerspechte to tear down the wall, standing in front of the tanks in Iraq or sleeping inside the ruins of a dilapidated building while the bombs fell from the sky in Sarajevo. Hell, only twenty years before he had used his own body to shield a woman and her child from an angry mob in Gujarat, and it had been one of the best decisions he had ever made in his life. But now, with the big seventies biting his heels and a terminal disease prognosis, he was forced to admit maybe, just maybe, his Indiana Jones days were over. He was pretty sure he had dislocated his shoulder slamming it against the -not particularly sturdy- door, and he could feel his foot throbbing from where he had kicked the lock down. At least he had succeeded in that, even if the only reason were his trusty old Docs he had owned since the eighties and refused to throw away. He tried not to think about how pathetic it was the fact that those boots were his longest-standing relationship.
“Doctor Du Lac? Doctor Du Lac, stay with me!” Lightly slapping the cheeks of the young man lying on the grey couch, Daniel tried to keep him awake until the paramedics arrived. He had no idea what he had been given or how much of it, had no idea if he was about to overdose or if the loss of consciousness was the intended effect of whatever it was on his system. By the way the man’s wrists were tied together and his state of undress, he could infer it was, but there was no way to be sure. All he was sure of was Dr. Louis De Pointe Du Lac had gone, was still going, through something traumatic, and it was both a mercy and a cruel trick from fate that he had programmed their date for that exact day and time, that Daniel had for once arrived somewhere a little early, just in time to stop the attack from becoming something even worse, but too late to stop it from happening altogether.
“Mo- Molloy?”
That was good, recognition was good. It meant his brain was working, somewhat.
“What happened here? Do you remember anything?”
A mumble was all the reply Du Lac was capable of. Daniel had to lean until his face was mere inches away from his to be able to make out the words.
“L’estat…” Du Lac was repeating, like a litany, “l’estat, l’estat…”
Daniel cursed internally,
“I’m sorry, I can’t- I don’t speak French” He was fluid in Spanish and Italian, could manage Gujarati, Bosnian, Serbian, and even knew a few words in Ukrainian and Arabic, but French had always eluded him. Now, someone needed his help, was trying desperately to tell him something and Daniel didn’t have a clue what it might be. Taking out his phone, he quickly opened the app and recorded Du Lac’s slurred words. Maybe he would be able to figure them out later. “I’m sorry, son”
Daniel apologized again, but Du Lac didn’t seem to resent him, on the contrary, he was holding onto Daniel’s hand with as much strength as he could, his face filling with panic when the older man went to move away to let the paramedics in, only settling down once Daniel was in his line of vision again.
“Mister Molloy? I’m Tammy, you called 911, didn’t you?” An alarmingly young officer approached him as two METs loaded Du Lac onto a gurney.
“Yeah, I did” Daniel replied, feeling suddenly very tired. The adrenaline kick was finally fading.
“I have to ask, did you move him? Touched anything? Did you put him on the couch?”
Daniel shook his head,
“No, that’s where he was when I managed to break in, I took the throw blanket from the back of the couch to cover him, but other than that I didn’t touch anything, didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene”
The officer smiled approvingly, Daniel tried very hard not to feel condescended.
“Thank you, that will be very useful if the victim decides to report”
“Wait, if he decides to report?”
The officer seemed unphased,
“Well, the department might investigate anyway or transfer the case to our SVU if we find there is enough evidence to suspect a crime, but that will have to wait until we can talk to Mister De Pointe Du Lac”
“Enough evidence to suspect a crime? Exactly what do you think this is, some BDSM shit? some role-playing gone wrong?” Daniel could almost feel his blood pressure rising, “I heard the struggle, I had to break the god damned door! The guy was naked and tied up with zip ties for fucks sake!” he had been a queer man in the seventies, he knew what kink looked like, and this wasn’t it.
“Believe me, sir, I know how frustrating it can be, but it’s the procedure and there is nothing I can do to change it,” Her face softened, her tone turning concerned. Daniel didn’t know which one he despised more. “Now, you need to calm down. Are you feeling alright? Would you like me to tell one of the paramedics to check you out?”
Daniel shook his head again, biting his tongue so as not to bark at her that he was old, not decrepit. Fucking useless cops.
“Is there anyone you want me to call, maybe a family member? To come pick you up?”
With narrowed eyes, Daniel informed the officer that he was perfectly capable of making his own way home, thank you very much. As it was, if anybody back home found out what he had been up to, he would have enough hell to pay without an alarming call from the police.
Luckily for him, when Daniel arrived, he found the apartment empty, all the lights out, and a dirty coffee cup still on the counter, letting him know no one had been home since morning. Thank god for the small mercies, Daniel thought as he settled in his office, hoping to grade some papers for his university job, the one that actually paid the bills. Well, his bills anyway. However, he didn’t manage to read more than a handful of essays before the bell interrupted him.
“Aayat is that you? You lost your keys again-" Daniel stopped short in the middle of his sentence as he opened his front door, uncomprehending.
There, standing in the middle of the hallway, looking at him with huge Bambi eyes, was not his daughter as he had expected, but him.
Dressed casually in dark jeans, a vintage Loyola University sweatshirt, and black sneakers with red soles that betrayed their price tag, stood Armand Ahmedov, looking for all the world like the ordinary, everyday TA Daniel knew he wasn't.
There was nothing ordinary about that boy, not his lustrous black curls, nor his perfect golden brown skin, and definitely not his Caravaggio angel face. Armand was too pretty and too brilliant to be anything but trouble.
“Good evening, Professor Molloy” He greeted, overly formal, making Daniel frown.
“Armand, I’m not in the mood for-”
“Please, professor” The boy insisted, undeterred by Daniel’s sour face, “This will only take a minute”
Somehow, Daniel doubted that. He let him in anyway.
It was a somewhat awkward walk through the apartment and back into his office, though Daniel had no reason to be nervous. At least not yet. Decorum mandated that he sat at his desk, so he did exactly that. But Armand came to a stop before it, eyes still fixed on Daniel. Sighing, the old men motioned at the chair in front of him, then and only then Armand took his seat.
“So, mister Ahmedov, I assume this isn’t a social visit…”
Armand had the decency to look embarrassed,
“It isn’t, and I apologize, both for the late hour and for inconveniencing you in your home.” Yeah, right, Daniel thought. Yet he couldn’t deny that watching the normally stoic young man, proud to the point of arrogance, fidget anxiously with the sleeves of his too-big sweatshirt was kind of endearing.
“As I’m sure you noticed, I haven't turned in the last homework you assigned us yet…”
“No extensions” Daniel shot back automatically, “That’s the rule. A deadline is a deadline”
Armand blushed. He honest to god blushed.
“A- actually, between my other assignments and my job at the paper, I don’t think I’ll be able to do it at all”
Daniel scoffed,
“So what are you doing here? Do you expect me to just give you the credits for free?”
Armand gulped, lowering his eyes, suddenly unable to meet Daniel’s.
“Not… not for free, professor” He stammered, “I… I could make it up to you”
“I… what?”
The young brunet took a deep breath, seemingly gathering his courage before raising from his chair and rounding the desk. Instinctively, Daniel turned his chair toward him.
“I can make it up for you, professor” Armand repeated more firmly, letting his fingertips caress the dark mahogany of the desk. Daniel couldn’t help but zero on the movement. “Anything you want me to, I’ll do it”
“Armand…”
“I’ve noticed the way you look at me, professor” Armand interrupted his attempt at protesting, “The way your eyes linger on me, the way they trace my movements in the classroom. I like it. I like your attention on me”
Now that Daniel did not doubt. If it was something Armand seemed to thrive on, was attention.
But Daniel wasn’t that kind of man. He had never fantasized about sleeping with a student, in fact, he felt a deep disdain for those in the faculty who did get involved with a student. Even when all parts involved were adults, he could never get over the ick factor of it all.
“Listen, Armand-” He tried again, but the boy stepped forwards, boldly taking hold of Daniel’s knees and separating them to make room as he fell to his knees, and the little voice of conscience in Daniel’s head fell silent.
“I can make it good for you, professor” Armand’s voice coaxed, softly making its way to Daniel’s ears, muffled by his own blood racing inside his veins, not exactly in the direction of his head, “Let me make it good for you…”
Daniel shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. It was wrong and it was twisted, it was the lowest, the most despicable way of taking advantage of someone.
And he wanted it.
Looking down at the big doe eyes of the boy kneeling between his legs, Daniel realized he wanted it.
"Please, Professor Molloy" Armand pleaded, perfect little mouth puckered into a pout. The little shit, "I want you to do it. I want you to use me"
There was a beat, then two, as Daniel tried to get hold of the meager strands of his feeble self-control. And then he lounged.
Bending almost in half, Daniel crashed his mouth against Armand’s hot and moist one, plunging his tongue into it at once in a hungry, messy kiss. Armand offered no resistance, letting the older man ravage his mouth to his heart's content, only breaking the kiss when the need for oxygen forced him to. Emboldened by Daniel’s response, Armand went for the button of his slacks, but Daniel got hold of his wrists, stopping him.
“Professor, what’s wrong?”
Fuck, he sounded so young, so vulnerable. It made Daniel want to wreck him.
“You thought it would be so easy, didn’t you? That you’d walk into my house, begging all pretty, then suck my cock and I would give you an A, just like that?”
Armand frowned in confusion,
“I- I thought…”
“Get up”
“But-”
“Now!” Daniel commanded with as much authority as he could muster with a raging hard-on tenting his pants. The young TA scrambled to obey. Daniel noticed with satisfaction that he was sporting a bulge in his pants of his own.
“On the desk” He leaned back, making room for Armand to sit in front of him, “Legs open”
Daniel would be lying if he said it didn’t send a little thrill through him, to see the beautiful boy do as he was told, even going as far as placing his palms flat on the desk at either side of him, submissively, waiting to see what Daniel would do next.
He decided that what he wanted to do next was indulge.
“Take your sweatshirt off” Before the words were done leaving Daniel’s mouth, the boy’s maroon sweater and t-shirt were on the floor. Apparently, Armand was a very good boy. Who would have thought?
Of course, that was Daniel’s last coherent thought for a couple of minutes, the amount of bronze skin exposed enough to cause eighty-six billion neurons to go out of commission.
“Fuck, you truly are pretty”
Armand’s whole demeanor changed, softening somehow. Relaxing. And Daniel was rewarded with a deep, tender kiss. A sensuous affair of tongues sliding against each other, neither dominating nor dominated, kissing for the sake of kissing, for the sake of sucking the boy’s plush lower lip into his mouth and feeling his silky soft curls between his fingers, of coaxing those delicious sighs and little whines out of his throat. It whetted Daniel's appetite till he was ready to devour.
With an oh-so-gentle shove to Armand’s shoulder, Daniel laid him back on his cluttered desk like a feast, knocking over pens and papers and even his goddamned laptop. Nothing mattered to him more than the boy with the sun-kissed skin currently under him, moaning sweetly as Daniel bit bruises down his neck. It was a herculean effort to part from Armand long enough to tear those criminally tight jeans from his body, getting briefly tangled in his red soles before brute strength alone forced them to hit the floor with a thud, one after the other. The kid had committed to the role, Daniel had to give him that: The lack of underwear was somewhat expected, but to see him like that, to see Armand’s skin smooth, clean shaved everywhere, well… there was something so lewd, something so dirty about it, whatever was left of Daniel’s feeble self-control snapped. He gave Armand no warning, no chance of bracing himself before taking his entire length into his mouth, swallowing him whole, relishing in the wordless scream he let out.
Armand’s cock was long, all of him was, and so thick that, even if he relaxed his throat and breathed through his nose, Daniel had no chance of getting any air into his lungs unless he retreated a little. Armand didn’t seem to mind though, clutching at the edges of the desk so hard his knuckles were white, looking at Daniel through big, wet dark eyes.
“Pro- professor…”
Daniel smoothed a soothing, possessive touch down the boy’s sides, his ribs, his bony hipbones, before pinning them down to the wood, and starting to bob his head up and down, letting the mushroom head of Armand’s dick hit the back of his throat, swallowing around it on every other stroke. Those were efficient movements, designed to get the boy off as quickly and hard as possible. Professional movements perfected in dirty bathroom bars and dark alleyways during the seventies; Armand, experienced, proud, and worldly as he was, didn’t stand a chance. It took no time at all for his eyes to shut and hips to spasm, trying in vain to buck blindly into the mouth that never faltered, never went faster, but simply knew exactly just how to extract the pleasure out of him in the most economical way. The boy came with a shout, nearly causing Daniel to choke, little strings of milk white dripping down Armand’s cock even as Daniel chased them with his tongue. No one could say Daniel Molloy didn’t clean up his messes.
Once he was done, he didn’t waste any time in niceties, flipping up the dazed young man and manhandling him until he was bent over the desk, his chest against the cool wood and ass up in the air. Armand was much too tall for his feet to dangle over the floor, but he was too surprised and disoriented to find purchase on it anyway. It wasn’t until Daniel took his wrists and secured them to the small of his back with one of his pale, wrinkled hands that the boy started to struggle. Daniel released him, jumping back as if he had been electrocuted.
“Babe? Shit, are you ok?” When Armand didn’t reply at once, Daniel stepped around, ignoring his ancient, stiff knees as he lowered himself directly into Armand’s line of view.
To his surprise, his lover’s face, far from distressed, was smiling pleasantly, almost peacefully. However, it wasn’t entirely reassuring, Daniel himself was well acquainted with that hazy limbo, where the body felt floaty and the world blurry, and nothing that happened to him felt a hundred percent real. He knew how important it was the other person was completely conscientious not to cross any limit or betray your trust, even unintentionally, in such a vulnerable state.
“Babe, come back to me,” He demanded, snapping his fingers in Armand’s face, “tell me your color. I need you to tell me what is your color…”
That seemed to do the trick, his boy’s eyes slowly focusing on him,
“Green, Daniel. My color is green” He replied in an almost bored, mildly annoyed tone. Yup, his Armand was back alright, “consensual non-consent is something we agreed upon before, remember? My color is still very green”
“Right. Sorry, just checking”
Armand rose to his elbows.
“I appreciate your attentiveness,” he reassured his husband, “now shut up, and fuck me”
“Aye, aye, boss”
Just like that, Daniel slid back into character. Flattening his palm between Armand’s shoulders, he shoved him onto the desk again, letting his hand trail down all the way to his ass, where he grabbed handfuls of both cheeks on each of his hands, parting them to get a look at Armand’s tight little hole.
And he was pretty sure he almost had a heart attack.
There, resting between Armand's muscular buttocks, designed to be completely unnoticed under the clothes, rested an elongated stripe of silver metal, with a clear shiny stone right where Armand’s entrance would be. If Daniel had to take a guess, he'd bet the stone was real. Leave it to Armand to come to him wearing a diamond-encrusted buttplug.
“Jesus fucking Christ” Daniel muttered, feeling light-headed, to horny too even stand straight, “You’re going to be the death of me”
“Don’t say that, beloved” Armand protested, breaking character, “I would never do anything to hurt you”
“Hmmm… is that so?” Hooking his pointer and middle fingers on the little handle of Armand’s toy, Daniel pretended to consider his words, “And what would you do for me? What would you do for your dear professor?”
A long, pitiful sob left Armand’s lips as Daniel started to slide the toy in and out, slowly, fucking him with it. But he arched like a cat, offering his hole up, encouraging the professor to keep going.
“Anything” He finally moaned, “anything”
“Will you let me fuck this pretty little ass raw?”
Armand seemed to hesitate before replying, a little shakily,
“Yes, Professor Molloy”
“Very well then” Daniel played with the plug just a few more seconds before taking it all the way off and tossing it away somewhere into the shadows of the office. Then, he made a show of taking off his belt and unzipping his pants as unhurried and loudly as possible, savoring the anticipation, the growing tension in the boy's locked muscles.
"Lube?"
"Jeans' pocket"
Daniel slicked himself up and then squirted a generous amount of the viscous liquid straight onto Armand’s crack, watching the boy flinch a little at the coolness of it. Holding onto the boy’s hipbone, he lined his cock with his fluttering hole and pushed inside.
It was tight. Real fucking tight. Deliberately so, Daniel was sure of it. Armand was very well acquainted with his exact girth, there was no way he had chosen the wrong-sized plug by accident. Taking a steading breath, gritting his teeth, he undulated his hip, burying himself just a little deeper, but Armand’s body jerked forwards, instinctively scrambling away from the burning of the intrusion.
“Oh, no you won’t” Daniel breathed out, draping himself over the younger man’s back, letting the weight of his body trap Armand against the smooth, cold wood of the desk, “Isn’t this what you wanted, baby? You did this on purpose. You want it to hurt, you want to feel my big fat prick tear you apart…” The sweet, chaste kiss he planted on Armand’s shoulder somehow felt more perverse than anything they had been doing, “Don’t worry, baby. Daddy knows just how to give it to you”
Holding onto the boy’s shoulder for leverage, Daniel pushed in again, slow but inescapable, reclaiming the meager inches Armand had managed to gain back, muffling the boy’s cries with his lube-wet hand. Giving himself completely over to his dirty old man character, Daniel soothed mockingly into Armand’s ear,
"Relax, baby. It'll get better the more I fuck you"
He continued the corkscrew movements of his hips, even as Armand trashed beneath him, trying in vain to find the edge of the desk with his hands, wether to hold onto for leverage to dislodge Daniel off his back or simply to ground himself, Daniel didn’t know nor took the chance to find out. Soon as he was finally flush to the boy’s perky little ass, he withdrew, only to slam back in. There was nothing Armand could really do to fight him anyway, pinned as he was between his lover and the expensive mahogany he was staining with his sweat and his spit, falling from his parted lips as he was speared over and over by Daniel’s cock.
"Fuck… feels so good… could fuck this tight little ass for hours…" He was laying it in in earnest now, rocking the boy back and forth with the violence of his thrusts, knocking whatever stationery was left on his workspace over. Armand’s sobs had changed their pitch, his lover no longer able to hide the pleasure he was feeling at Daniel’s assault.
"Yes, just like that, scream my name… you sound as pretty as any whore…"
The moan that escaped Armand’s mouth at the name-calling was obscene. Daniel loved it.
"You like that, don't you?.. You like being my little whore, want daddy to use you till you're sore…" He reached under Armand then, hand wrapping around his still semi-soft cock, making him jump. Daniel chuckled darkly, "To sensitive, baby? Is it too much?"
Armand buckled his hips but there was no escape for him, if he moved forward he jerked himself on Daniel’s hand, if he moved back, he only impaled himself further on his cock. Daniel never relented, never slowed his rhythm even as the boy started to shake, but he did offered a way out,
"You know what to say if you want it to stop…" He panted against Armand’s curls, "just say the word and it's over… What is-fuck… What is your color?"
"Green!" Armand yelled, grinding back to meet Daniel thrust for thrust, "greengreengreen… so green! Harder… Master, fuck me harder, please!"
Daniel cursed. Armand had never used that word before. It was obvious something had unlocked inside his husband, he was quivering and mewling under him, hand searching back for something. Daniel grabbed it, interlocking their fingers as he started milking Armand’s cock, fucking him as hard and fast as he was able to. Armand went limp under him, melting into the desk, moaning with abandon, clenching around Daniel’s cock in time with the movements of his hand on his own dick.
"You want it harder baby?.. " Daniel was barely coherent himself, too caught up in the feeling of Armand’s velvety heat around every inch of his cock, the perfect friction sending shock after shock of white hot pleasure through his old, frayed nerves. It was pure animal instinct, the way he shoved one of Armand’s knees up on the desk, changing the angle so he could shove himself deeper, tearing a new wave of cries out of his boy. His hand went still, simply cupping Armand’s dick, protecting it from getting smashed against the wood, but it didn’t matter, the back and forth movement of his thrusts providing enough stimulation as the bulbous head of his cock hit Armand’s prostate over and over again.
"That's it… come for me… come with me taking you like this… Fuck, Armand!.. So perfect, taking my cock so deep… Wanna fill you up… wanna come so deep I'll be spilling out of you for days…"
The dirty talk seemed to finally drive Armand over the edge, his muscles locking up, whole body tensing up, squeezing Daniel’s cock so tight it physically hurt. It was too much for the old man, who couldn't help but burst at the pressure, coming so hard, his vision went black for a few seconds. He collapsed on his lover’s back, gasping for air as Armand seemed to do the same.
"That was…"
"Yeah"
"I'm…" Daniel trailed off, making Armand chuckle. The older man closed his eyes, thinking he could die happy like that, with Armand’s laugh vibrating through his chest.
"I know, beloved. I know."
On shaking arms, Daniel lifted himself away from his husband’s body, but didn't make it very far, collapsing on the chair closest to him. Armand let out a little displeased noise at the loss of his lover’s warmth and weight. He rose immediately, on what Daniel was proud to notice, also very unsteady legs, just so he could go climb on his lap.
Daniel’s arms wrapped around him instantly, a reflex at that point, nothing felt as natural to him as having Armand in his arms anymore.
Burying his nose on the dark curls, he inquired,
"Are you ok, babe?"
The brunet on his lap laughed softly.
"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that? Need I remind you that this was my idea?"
"And how long exactly did you have this idea?" Daniel hummed thoughtfully, "Is this what you thought about in class? Me railing you on that desk?"
"In front of the entire class," Armand confirmed, unashamed, "but you didn't even look at me twice"
"That's bullshit and you know it," Daniel protested. Armand had made sure he noticed him, antagonizing him at every turn, challenging his every teaching, "But you're right, I would never had allow myself to think about one of my students like that"
Even after Armand stopped being one of his students, Daniel didn’t dare to think of him like that, to even dream he could have this with him. He had been attracted, of course, he had eyes and Armand was fucking gorgeous. But even after an entire summer of coffee sharing and debating about everything from the possibility of life after death to war, from the physiology of morality, to alien life and the fucking Fibonacci sequence, it had taken Armand crowding him against a wall in a deserted museum after hours, blindsiding him with a kiss that stole all of his breath away, for him to understand that the beautiful young man was trying to date him.
Of course, Daniel had been completely his after that.
"You made me wait so long, my beloved…" Armand complained, whiny and sulky. Daniel didn’t even try to resist the impulse to bite that pout off his lips.
"Hmmm but I made it worth your while after that, didn’t I?" He countered after they broke apart, nuzzling at the bronze skin of his husband’s neck. Armand retaliated by trading his long fingers through Daniel’s soft silver curls, nails scratching pleasantly at the sensitive skin of his scalp.
"That you did, lover mine. That you did…" After a couple of minutes went by without Daniel replying, he looked down. "Daniel, are you falling asleep?"
"No, of course not" The older man lied, opening his eyes for good measure. Armand did not buy it.
"You know, we have a perfectly good bed, one with a bespoke mattress that won't leave your back feeling sore in the morning…"
"Don't wanna move just yet" Daniel half explained, half decided, tightening his grip around Armand to stop him from moving either, "comfy now"
His husband sighed in fond exasperation,
"Fine. But only five more minutes."
"Aye, aye, boss"
The last thing Daniel saw before closing his eyes, was Armand’s besotted smile. yb
#interview with the vampire#fanfiction#armand x daniel molloy#lestat de lioncourt x louis de pointe du lac#smut#amc iwtv#old man daniel molloy cause old maniel can GET IT
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i need to know if you understood ~ something ~ of what agüero was saying bc it's so funny in spanish 😭
i understood some lose words that might have given me a general idea of what he was saying ??😭
but besides the initial conversation where he asked louis if he’d ever had mate, to which louis said he hadn’t but would give it a chance when he went to argentina, i think kun proceeded to say he would make louis a weaker (suavecito ?) and sweeter mate, because the normal version would sent him straight to the 🚽😭 he seemed a little bit worried for louis’ pre show stomach’s situation if he drank mate 😭
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FANFIC REC: A+ teacher/teacher
Twist a little closer, now ( the one where Harry signs up for a dance class that Louis teaches. Incidentally, the class is for six year olds.) (81k)
Twist a little closer, now(Traducción) (Louis hace clases de danza a niños de cuatro a siete años. Harry pertenece al equipo de fútbol americano.)
when you love someone the entire world can see it. ( The AU in which H&L are teachers in a private school and the kids are a lot harder to fool than the Dean.) (3k)
i wanna get dirty with you ( Harry is a kindergarten teacher. Louis is revolutionizing education--one child at a time. A conference may be an unlikely place to meet someone, but somehow Harry finds Louis and Louis helps Harry find himself.) (16k)
I Walk the Line (Professor Louis Tomlinson is the leading researcher in his field. Harry Styles is Louis’ recently hired grad assistant. Sparks fly between them but something doesn’t add up when it comes to Harry, and Louis is determined to find out what.What happens when everything Louis thought he knew comes crashing down around him? Is he doomed to repeat his past mistakes? Or will he learn to follow his heart and find a way to forge his own path, alongside someone he’s not sure he can trust, but who might just be the best thing to ever happen to him.) (55k)
The Section ( In which Louis is a TA for an Intro to Cinema course, and Harry is an undergrad with a bit of a crush.) (11k)
These Inconvenient Fireworks (Spanish) ( AU donde ninguno se aplica a The X Factor pero todos se encuentran eventualmente. Louis es un jodido dueño de una gata, Harry es un idealista aspirante a fotografía/entrenador de fútbol de medio tiempo, Zayn es un profesor de Literatura con chaqueta de cuero, Liam salva a la gente de edificios incendiándose y Niall es Niall.) (197k)
Take My Breath Away ( There is a prestigious school in the British Royal Navy classified as Premier Delta - or as it is known by its flyers, 1D. These select pilots are an elite set of Naval lieutenants who are trained in the skill of aggressive aerial combat. They are instruments of war, trained in times of peace. They are dogfighters, relentless and fearless in their mission to protect their beloved country. From their lofty vantage, they are always watching, waiting, and ready to lay it all on the line.) (153k)
In Dreams ( AU. When Harry moves to a new city, his new flat come with a number of sweet, anonymous gifts and surprises that brighten his days. Could it be a friendly ghost? Another friendly presence in his new building is his tattooed neighbor, Louis, who seems determined to put a smile back on his face.) (23k)
Don't Want Shelter ( Louis and Harry have known each other all their lives. Friends as children, they danced around each other as teenagers, and have spent the last twenty-five years either screaming at each other or not speaking at all. Except for that one time ten years ago…) (76k)
anything you ask and more ( louis knows that he's in love the second harry begins speaking about the bolsheviks. (or, louis is a history teacher & harry is the fit curator that he desperately wants to mongol invade him, however many times niall tells him he's a psychopath.) (19k)
Until You Remember ( Talented London pianist Louis Tomlinson moves to a small coastal town to escape the elites of his job and the mundanity of his life. Through the music of Debussy he finds a charming, wonderful friend in Harry Styles, the fiancé of the town's mayor. Louis thinks his pining is in vain until he discovers that all may not be as it seems....) (21k)
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🚨 Fri Aug 28🚨
!!!!!!!LIAM’S ENGAGED!!!!!!!!!!!!
Reading both the Sun and the Daily Mail’s version of events is a headache and a massive web of contradictions, but it’s all we have to go off of, because no one else decided to chime in today, including Liam himself!
On August 27, 2020, The Sun reported Liam’s engagement to *mumbles number between 19 and 20 here* year old Maya Henry after two years of dating. This number is brought to you by the same source that says Maya was 20 years old. According to People, the first year was secret! The Sun did publish pap pics from 8/26 with what was reported to be a £3 million engagement ring on her finger. The fandom’s reaction has been mixed at best, though largely, an air of confusion prevails, followed quickly by anger and frustration. And just like that, we have returned to a hostile fandom environment with a LOT of differing opinions which have drawn lines in the sand.
And then, of course, Liam went live. This happened at around 8 pm BST, and he spent 20 minutes talking about his upcoming show because,oh, also, the LP Show is in ONE day! What else did he have to say? Well, he talked a bit about his haunted house, doing more food challenges, premiering new songs on Saturday (!!!), Harry’s nipples (???), the way he pronounces ‘adore’, the Umbrella Academy, COVID life and how he keeps his depression at bay (love u, bud), and he sang a bit of Watermelon Sugar, while promising that Saturday’s show is the culmination of a lot of hard work, and he hopes it goes well. I do, too! The comments on the live, however, only seemed to want one pesky question answered: is he actually engaged?? For what it’s worth, Liam ignored everything related to this topic, and did not once mention his girlfriend/fiancee. Thanks for that, Liam!
We at 1 dee discourse inc. gave it a day, but, despite Liam’s conspicuous evasion of the subject in his live, this very much seems to be the route that Liam - or, rather, his team - are taking, as his rep seems to have confirmed the engagement with The Sun so! Don’t shoot the messenger! However, as we are still in the middle of a worldwide pandemic, they seem to be headed for a lengthy engagement - or at least that’s the hope. My piece of advice to them would be: don’t try to break the social distancing guidelines with a wedding, you crazy kids!
( Intern’s note: Honestly, if you have something mean to say about Maya, please don’t put it in my notes - she’s nineteen years old, and I don’t want to hear it.)
Let’s see...what else happened today? OH YEAH, Louis put out a brand new merch line!!! Okay, guys, my bank account is not going to survive this. Lyric Drop 1, as this collection is called, dropped on the 28th of August (today, as it so happens!).There were also rainbow face mural T-shirts and hoodies, as well as - get this, guys!! - a crop top hoodie! Anyways, the Lyric Drop line seems to mean that each collection will be inspired from different lyrics in Walls. This one is the “You’re Written In My DNA” Collection, which showcases a green and red double helix on top of a...fence? It’s DNA inside a cage? Behind a wall? (I actually really like that last one, so that’s what we’re going with!)
Well, at least it isn’t called the “DNA test” line, but it is pretty funny, considering...everything. This begs the question, though, of what lyric they will adapt next! I personally vote for “come so far from Princess Park” or “singing something poppy on the same four chords” or “it’s a solo song, and it’s only for the brave”. Regardless, I am curious as to how they’re going to design some of these lines, AND I think that “the Princess Park line” sounds like a super cute name for merch!
I think I should not have been surprised by this drop, given that he was seen meeting with a designer about merch a month ago (but not, as we thought, his twin brother, the head of UMG), but. I was still surprised. Soooo...does anyone want to help an Intern out and buy me the DNA tank top or an oversized hoodie of his eyes?? ~This is a joke I’m not actually asking you to buy me merch.~
Because Louis and Harry always have to be #twinning, there was an unusual development about Harry’s merch, as well. HSHQ might pick a legal fight with Forever 21 for, uh, *double checks* putting the phrase “Treat People With Kindness” on a hoodie. Harry did actually trademark that phrase in the UK, the US, and the EU in 2019, so he may have a legal case? Let’s get this square - as Louis would say - Forever 21 sucks. They suck, and they’re almost bankrupt, so this did not seem to be a smart move on their end. If it were me, though, I would urge HSHQ to recognize the fact that similar merch is being sold at a much lower cost, which seems to make it more accessible to fans - who are more than willing to buy it!
Zayn is zayning? I think that’s how you use that word. It has been noted that he has been more visible (for him) on social media, lately, so that might hint at a new project he might have coming out, which absolutely could be the case! In the same vein, Icarus Falls was re-released on all major streaming platforms with two more tracks: Dusk ‘Til Dawn and Still Got Time. This brings the tracklist to a total of 29 tracks and the length of the album to almost 1 hour and 40 minutes!! That’s crazy!!! Even crazier, the album has now surpassed 1.1 billion streams on Spotify! Go Zayn!
Meanwhile, a former Syco (or psycho, as I like to call them) artist confirmed the label’s dissolution while shading the fuck out of them. The Wikipedia was quickly changed to more accurately reflect the situation. It now reads: “...the record label [was] founded by British LOUIS TOMLINSON SUPREMACY…”. Also, if you change your Google settings to Spanish and Google ‘Harry Styles’, you’ll be informed that he’s been married to Louis Tomlinson since 2019. Happy anniversary, boys!
#aug 28 2020#harry#louis#zayn#liam#and E is on her way back#so maybe we can see Clifford again!!#i didn't know i missed the dog content until it was gone#so what kind of day has it been?#song rec of the day#is Moral of the Story#by an artist named Ashe#and she has this version with this one dude name Niall Horan?#idk if uve heard of him before#also also#thank u to my friend#for tuning into liams live for me!
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If it's ask random Louis questions day, is there anything in particular to the way he speaks? he has a very unique cadence that you capture!
askbox OPEN: ACCEPTING ANONS
an anon after my own heart! if I had to chance a guess as to who sent this, I think I know. But, to answer your question! As a matter of fact, there is. The way that I write Louis' dialogue is based first and foremost on the pattern of Louis' speech in Interview With the Vampire. He doesn't speak very often in the other books, and when he does, it doesn't sound much like himself. The most sustained example we have of how he speaks is from IWTV. Anne Rice had (at times) a real talent for developing individual character voices. Louis' patter, so to speak, is framed in a particular way. Rice styles him as someone who speaks English with relative confidence, but not in the way a native speaker would. For example:
"Living in New Orleans had become too difficult for him, considering his needs and the necessity to care for his father, and he wanted Pointe du Lac."
There is nothing exactly wrong with this sentence, but it is strangely constructed. Louis' use of 'necessity' here is also slightly unusual. It isn't incorrect, per se, but it is an interesting choice. The way he frames the idea is also slightly disjointed, 'the necessity to care for his father', is almost clumsy. What he essentially means is, 'considering his needs, and that he had to take care of his father', but what he says it, 'the necessity to care for' which conveys the same essential idea, but not in a way that flows naturally. He does this often throughout the book. He also tends to speak in a way that defies the usual conventions of grammar, and is even grammatically incorrect at times. He uses the phrase " x and me" in places where it would be more correct to say "x and I" or "myself and x", and all of this is because he is not a native English-speaker.
We know that Louis was born in Paris, and so he probably learned Parisian French as a child, though no doubt with a few regional influences. Its important to keep in mind that Parisian French only became France's national language at the coming of the French Revolution. France was very linguistically diverse, and his bourgeois parents probably grew up speaking regional languages as well like Gascon, Catalan, or Occitan. Then, of course, Louis was brought over to New Orleans where he would have been influenced by Haitian patois as well as Spanish. New Orleans was a French and Spanish colony for Louis' youth. He would have learned English, eventually, but it would have been primarily for reading purposes at first. So his English doesn't move with the same rhythm that a native-speaker uses.
I also use his IWTV sort of, sprawling, long-form way of constructing and conveying ideas. He also has this rhetorical, borderline socratic way of interrogating his own thoughts and ideas. Here is an example of both:
"And oh, how much I wanted to confide to him the breadth of what I didn't understand; how, searching all these years, I'd been astonished to discover those vampires above had made of immortality a club of fads and cheap conformity. And yet through this sadness, this confusion, came the clear realization: Why should it be otherwise? What had I expected? What right had I to be so bitterly disappointed in."
You can see in the above quote, he is teasing out the same concept over a series of sprawling sentences, with this sort of rhetorical self-reflexive style of questioning thrown in. I try to think about this when Louis is speaking, especially if he's talking about anything at length.
Those are the main 'guiding principles' I consider when I'm writing Louis' dialogue. I consider, firstly, how he might construct his sentences given he's a native French-speaker, what words he might use that would seem unusual or disjointed, and in a lot of ways this compliments the second consideration, which is simply that he can be long-winded.
#long post#✟. ASK ᴛᴀɢ.#thank you so much!!!!!#Hope this answers your question and makes some sense <333 I'm a little tired#don't reblog! <3#📖 𝐼𝑁𝑇𝐸𝑅𝑉𝐼𝐸𝑊 𝑅𝐸𝐷𝑈𝑋
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I Saw Uncle Under the Mistletoe
During the holiday celebration, José and Panchito arrive to the McDuck manor as a surprise to Donald. During their visit, the kids come across their uncle being more than a little friendly with the other two birds. Now the holidays have become a little more stressful when the triplets believe the person that's cared for them their entire lives is going to leave them behind.
Fandom: Ducktales (2017), The Three Caballeros.
Rating: General Audience
Relationships/Pairings: José Carioca/Donald Duck/Panchito Pistoles
Other Tags: Secrete Relationship, Misunderstandings, Angest with a Happy Ending, Christmas Themed, Use of Google Translate, Long One Shot.
It was a small request for the holiday season. But there was a hope that this year would be somewhat quiet for the McDuck/Duck family. Sure, there was still the annual ‘Set up the traps to keep Santa away’ day. It was more of the thought of not having to deal with evil plans or ne'er-do-wells that would rain terror down on them. No on breaking down their door. No one trying to steal from the McDuck fortune. No one being kidnapped and held for ransom.
So, it was a bit worrisome when a large box, wrapped in shiny red wrapping paper with a white bow resting on top suddenly appeared in the foyer. The only person who seemed unconcerned with this was Scrooge. Which, at the moment, no one could really tell if that was a good or a bad thing. It wasn’t going to be a surprise created by some enemy, which was the original worry. But there was a curious thought as to what could be inside and what Scrooge could possibly be planning.
“Are we...going to approach it?” Louie asked, trying to sound casual as he eyed his great-uncle.
“It might be best if we look for a tag.” Scrooge helpfully suggested.
Dewey instantly sprang into action. With a call of “I’m on it!” he was scrambling around the wrapped box. The necessary discovery made at the very top. “It says it’s for Uncle Donald! Oh, and that he needs to open it immediately.”
Said duck was confused by this. Going over in his head what he could have possibly bought recently to need this kind of fanfare. Or even what else someone could have bought for him. Apparently Dewey wasn’t going to wait for his uncle’s confusion to take up further time. The duckling pulled Donald forward, the older unable to do more than to unwrap the large present.
There was a collective outcry of surprise when the present bursted open. Two familiar birds jumping out and tackling Donald onto the polished floor.
“José? Panchito?” Donald voiced in absolute shock.
“¡Hola amigo!” The red rooster beamed pulling the baffled duck into a tight hug.
“What- but how?”
José could only chuckle, placing a hand on Donald’s shoulder, “Blame your uncle. He arranged all of this.”
“Merely an early Christmas present,” Scrooge quickly intervened, “I know how much you’ve missed them. So, they’re my- ah, your guests until the new year. As long as they stay in line.”
Neither José or Panchito were worried about the soul crushing glare the multi-millionaire duck was given them. The green parrot even letting out another chuckle as he greeted Scrooge properly. “It is wonderful to see you again Senhor Scrooge.”
“You really paid to fly two people to Duckberg? Two people from two different parts of the world.” Louie casually commented to Scrooge as both watched Donald be pulled up from the floor and pulled into a proper group hug.
“Don’t be daft. I had Launchpad pick them up.” Scrooge scoffed, ruffling the top of the duckling’s head.
The triplets were not quite sure what they thought of the flashy birds. After all, the last time they were in their lives, they were liars and were talking about taking Donald away. So the ducklings were cautious around José and Panchito. Even with each bird making their personality known and clearly trying to no longer be strangers in the younger’s lives.
José was the calmest of the two, that was for sure. More than not, you could find him sleeping the day away in different parts of the mansion. Mainly in areas that had the sun beating down. Huey was a little shocked to find the green parrot bundled up one afternoon and resting poolside. José only seemed ‘awake’ in the evening and into the night. Pulling whomever was near into a quick dance, which Dewey happily participated in, until dinner was ready. Then he would happily regale stories of his travels and the numerous people he’d met along the way. Webby taking full advantage of this and asking as many questions as she could.
Panchito was...loud. And overly energetic. He was up before anyone else and was the last to settle down for the evening. He seemed to sing wherever he went, no matter what activity he was doing. It would be accompanied with some random song that just popped into his head. It was rare to see him sitting still, which didn’t happen until dinner was ready to eat and he seemed to finally relax. The triplets also learned that the rooster was one for physical affection. Louie swears his back had broken and was then put back together after two different morning hugs he’d received from Panchito.
Both birds seemed okay, but the triplets were still reserved about the entire situation. Even if Webby was chattering about how great they were. But, despite their reserve, it was clear their uncle was thrilled to have his friends there. Constantly smiling, constantly laughing, tossing stories around as easily as the other two.
Seeing this caused Huey to worry. Which he voiced one evening before dinner to the small group.
“Do you think Uncle Donald regrets taking us in?”
“What?” Dewey sat up quickly. Almost banging his head on the bunk bed above him. His eyes narrowed on Huey, who winced. “Why in the world would you say that?”
“Because he’s so happy right now.”
“We’ve seen him happy before.” Louie casually argued back.
“But not like this. He’s been happy for us. I’ve never seen him happy for himself.”
“Okay, so, why are you blaming us for this?”
“Because when he took us in, he pushed everyone away. Even close friends. So maybe...if he hadn’t taken us…”
“He would be happier?” The duckling dressed in green voiced weakly. Now looking as worried as Huey.
Dewey let out a snort, however, and waved his hand. “Okay, before we panic too much over this, why don’t we just ask Uncle Donald. Easy solution.”
“He’s just going to lie,” Huey argued, “He’s going to do everything he can to keep us happy.”
“Well it’s a better idea than just moping around about it. If you’re both so worried, I’ll go ask.”
“I’ll come!’ Webby bounced up, “I’ve been meaning to test my ‘lie detecting’ skills.”
“Perfect. Sit tight you two. We’ll be back with information.” Dewey took Webby’s wrist and they raced from the room.
They already knew that they should start with the kitchen first. Panchito and Mrs. Beakley had agreed to trade off on evening cooking duty while the rooster was visiting. Panchito saying he wanted to share his family favorites with his growing family. Mrs. Beakley happily passed those nights over, enjoying her evenings off as an early gift to herself.
This was Panchito’s evening, so there was a chance that Donald was with him. And in fact, he was. Both ducklings paused to peek around the corner. Peering into the kitchen from the hallway doorway.
Panchito was moving around the kitchen at ease. The stove on full force as he worked on the large meal. Donald was sitting on the nearby countertop, his legs slowly swaying as he watched on. They were talking quietly. Dewey eventually realized they were speaking Spanish.
“I didn’t know Uncle Donald could speak Spanish… Weird. Oh well, let’s go talk to him.” The duckling in blue was quickly pulled back into place by Webby. Dewey released a choked quack as it happened.
“Hey-”
“Shush.”
“But-”
“Shush! I’m listening.”
“You know Spanish?”
“Yes, now hush.”
Dewey huffed but kept quiet and watched. He wasn’t sure what Webby was waiting for. They just seemed to be chatting about random things. Like what he and his brothers did when Donald would cook on the boathouse. Except it was just old friends catching up, so nothing that should keep Webby’s interest like this. He was about to complain once more when Panchito turned to face his solo audience. Boldly stating something that caused Donald to turn red and Webby to gasp softly.
“What happened?” Dewey asked. All he got in response was a pat on his face and another “Shush!”.
His argument died on his throat when Donald, still flushed, pushed at the rooster’s lower back with a foot. Panchito, in turn, grabbed the extended ankle. Easily pulling at it to bring Donald right to the edge of the counter and stepping between the duck’s legs with a raised brow. Hands resting on Donald’s hips and bending forward. Donald, on his part, took it all with ease. A smirk on his own bill as he draped his arms over the rooster’s shoulders. There was a small mutter of something. Nothing that either duckling was able to catch but could tell it wasn’t malicious. It was almost (Dewey panicked slightly) loving. But, whatever was said, was enough to fluster Donald once more before he pulled Panchito into a kiss.
Dewey’s mouth dropped in absolute shock. Webby had to clamp her bill shut to keep the squeal of absolute joy from escaping. But she did let out a small noise as she was forcefully pulled away. Dewey leading the way back to the bedroom. Eyes wide and frantic.
“Whoa, what happened?”
Dewey jumped at Huey’s voice, not realizing they had arrived back. His mouth opened and loaded a few times. But nothing came out. He was still in too much shock to properly explain what happened.
“Dude, just spit it out.” Louis huffed.
“Your uncle and Panchito are secret lovers!” Webby answered, ending with a small scream of glee.
“What!” Huey exclaimed, Louie dropping out of his bed and onto the floor in shock.
“They’re...in the kitchen,” Dewey voiced weakly, “and they just…”
He created ‘mouths’ with his hands to press them together. Huey and Louie both let out small noises of distress.
“You can’t be serious.” The duckling clad in red voiced weakly.
“I just saw it happen! It’s burned into my retinas and my memory. I wouldn’t make this up.”
“Wait, wait,” Louis recovered, “Was this just a recent development?”
“I mean, based on everyone’s reactions, I would say no one else knew.”
“No! I mean, did they just start ‘dating’ or have they always been in a relationship? And if they have been together all this time, why would Uncle Donald hide something like this from us?”
“We could just ask him?” Webby offered.
Dewey shook his head. “I’m not going to back down until the food is ready and I can focus on that.”
“Plus, if this is a secret relationship, calling it out could be damaging. We know Uncle Scrooge isn’t...too wild about them. He might not like Uncle Donald dating. We’ll need to talk to Uncle Donald alone some time.”
“Which won’t be happening anytime soon,” Louie huffed, “He’s always with those two until he goes to bed.”
Webby shuffled her foot nervously before she quietly added. “Unless Panchito shares the bed.”
The outburst of disgust was almost defining.
___________________
As the days passed, the four were still unable to figure out how they were going to approach Donald. It was getting closer to Christmas and there were still a multitude of tasks to accomplish. Baking, shopping, wrapping, decorating, setting traps; the kids were too exhausted at the end of the day to worry about anything else. That doesn’t mean the issue ever really left their mind.
It was in the middle of a decorating day when the next surprise was dropped.
Huey and Louie were traveling through the one of the last few undecorated hallways. The duckling in red going down a list of the remaining decorations. Discussing, more to himself as Louie was barely paying attention, about what should go where and why. Eventually reaching the dead end, Louie leaned against the wall as he continued to slowly nurse a can of Pep. Lazily watching as Huey wrote down a few more notes.
“So, that’s the tentative plan,” Huey concluded as he closed the guidebook with a snap, “What do you think?”
“Yep, sounds good.”
“...Were you even paying attention.”
“Oh sure.”
Huey glared at Louie, who only smiled innocently back. “Well, no matter. We can start setting up when Uncle Donald and José get here.”
“They are taking their sweet time.” Louie grumbled.
“Do you think something happened?”
“Don’t stress, we would have heard something.” As if on cue, there was a loud ‘thump!’. Which was followed by a loud and familiar quack that was undoubtedly their uncle. “There they are.”
“Let’s go see if they need help.” Huey ignored the small noise of complaint that Louie gave as he rushed by.
He was about to turn the corner to confront the new arrivals. But faltered hearing an accented voice softly say, “You need to be careful meu amor.”
That caught his attention.
Huey instantly pressed himself against the well. Pulling Louie close and covering his bill before he could let out a noise of surprise. His glare didn’t deter Huey, who merely replied with a shake of his head and a pointed look to the corner.
After an understanding to remain quiet, they peered around cautiously. They found Donald leaning against the wall, holding his no doubt injured foot to check it over for any damage. José was running his thumb over the slowly reddening area. The boxes of decorations laying nearby.
“I really wish Scrooge would move that Grandfather Clock,” Donald grumbled, “It’s too close to the corner.”
“Or you could remember that it is there and not hit it.” José offered with a smile.
“Hush. You’re not the one with the throbbing foot.”
“Oh, pobrezinho. Would a kiss make it better?”
Donald merely rolled his eyes, but didn’t resist as he was pulled close. Both duckling’s mouths dropped as the adults shared a kiss. One that went on longer than either Huey or Louie were comfortable with.
“Wait, wait,” Donald laughed softly as José moved to nip at his neck, “The kids are nearby.”
“Is your foot feeling better?”
“If I say yes, will you let me go?”
José sighed dramatically. “If I must.”
“You must. Let’s get the boxes delivered before the kids start to worry.”
Huey began to panic. Knowing he and Louie couldn’t just abandon the hallway without a good reason and they couldn’t flee fast enough. But he really didn’t want to face his uncle after that. He also really wanted to talk to Dewey and Webby about what happened because this was getting crazy!
Huey turned to whisper frantically to Louie, with a plea for help.
Only to be sucker punched in the gut by the youngest triplet.
It wasn’t a hard enough hit for Huey to blackout. But he doubled over in pain, having difficult breathing as Louie gave him support on his weak knees. The duckling in red let out a weak groan of pain just as Donald and José entered the hallway.
Rightly so, Donald panicked. “Huey? What happened?”
“Oh gee Uncle Donald, I think Huey has a little stomach ache. I think all this Christmas excitement is a bit overwhelming. I was going to take him back to our room to rest.” Louie laid it on thick, making sure to wrap one of Huey’s arms around his shoulders.
José frowned, placing his box down quickly. “Do you want some help? I can carry him.”
“No, no, you two carry on with the merriment. I can get Huey to bed easily. Don’t you worry.” Louie didn’t drop the act until they were a few hallways away. He leaned his brother against the wall, the older triplet glaring at him. Huey holding his stomach in some way of comfort.
“You...couldn’t...have warned me?”
“I panicked. Now hurry up and catch your breath so we can report back to the others.”
___________________
“So, wait, is Uncle Donald dating both?” Dewey asked weakly.
“Apparently? It’s the only explanation I can think of for why José was so...lovey dovey.” Louie choked out with Huey letting out an agreement groan from his bed. Dewey was not showing the same discomfort. In fact, he looked more frantically worried than anything.
“Is he...cheating-”
“Whoa, whoa, let’s take a step back,” Webby instantly took control over the situation. The triplets now held the same level of concern from the single word Dewey almost uttered. “Now, I’m one to always offer ‘the sneak way’ to find information. But that’s normally used against the enemy. This is your uncle. Why don’t we just go talk to him?”
Huey and Dewey looked nervous about the possible confrontation. Louie, however, stood up, appearing angry and agitated.
“You know, I want to talk to those two. We know next to nothing about them. Maybe they’re playing some game with Uncle Donald.”
Webby frowned. “Do you really think that...low of them?”
“I don’t know what to think of them because I don’t know them! But we know Uncle Donald and he wouldn’t pull this kind of stunt. Those two however…” Louie didn’t finish that sentence. Instead, he stuffs his hands into his hoodie pocket and stomped his way towards the door.
The other three had no choice but to quickly follow after. They made their way down to the backyard pool. Knowing the green parrot, he was out by the poolside soaking up some sunlight. Even with snow laying on the ground, the cold didn’t really seem to bother José.
Louie was first out the back door and marched his way over to where the parrot was currently resting. Only to falter when the boathouse opened and Panchito stepped out. The rooster shivering from the cold, even with a heavy coat on. Louie was quickly pulled into the bushes by Webby. Huey and Dewey already hiding back there.
“How can you just lay out in the cold? ¡Está helando!” Panchito exclaimed.
José barely cracked open an eye to regard the shivering bird. “I have been to colder areas. This is actually rather mild.”
“Pavonearse.”
“Is Donald still tinkering away at the heater?”
“Si. I had to get out of the way or else I would have become an unfortunate victim.”
“No heater and you are standing in such freezing temperatures? Venha aqui, let me warm you up.” José opened his arms and they were quickly filled with a shivering rooster. The parrot merely laughed, gently preening the red feathers he could reach. “If you are so cold, why don’t you just go into the mansion?”
“Because being in there alone is so unwelcoming.”
“...Scrooge invited us.”
“I know.”
“But years of animosity does not just go away.”
“...Si.” Panchito let out a small noise as he was moved to sit up. But he didn’t complain when José kissed him softly.
“It will be fine… We will be fine. And soon we will not have to worry about leaving Donald ever again.” José laughed as Panchito’s mood instantly rose.
“Do you think the papers will arrive on time?”
“Oh, I doubt it. But we will just think of it as a late present.”
Both fell quiet when the boathouse door opened once more, Donald walking out. Wearing an old, plain white shirt that was stained from numerous years of use. Spots of oil could be seen clumping his feathers.
“It’s fixed,” Donald announced, “It’ll be a bit until the entire boat is warm again. But it’s going to be better than out here.”
Panchito let out a cheer and raced up the ramp, pulling the duck into a quick kiss. “You know where to find me!”
And down into the boat the rooster went.
José quietly strolled up the same ramp, clearly in no hurry to leave the sun. “Have I ever told you I am quite enamored with the working man?”
“Every time I fix something.” Donald rolled his eyes, but his feathers ruffled in embarrassment.
“Then you know it is true.”
“Would you just get in here. I need to shower before my feathers are stained black.”
“Would you like to save on water?”
“Just get in!”
José was not offended by the sudden outburst as Donald’s feathers puffed out further. The parrot claimed his own kiss before he entered the boat, pullin the flustered duck in as well.
As soon as the area was clear, Louie quickly stood. Heading back into the mansion. Not looking back to see if the rest were following. Huey was up next, not bothered when Dewey quickly reached out and grabbed his hand. Both pressing close as they followed the younger triplet. Webby brought up the rear. Realizing something was weighing heavily over them, but not fully sure for what reason.
“So...we know no one’s cheating on anyone.” She offered weakly, giving a small smile. Which slipped away when she didn’t receive a reply. “Guys?”
“He’s still lying to us.” Louie muttered darkly. He’d taken residents on the window seat, hood up and curled in on himself.
“Why didn’t Uncle Donald tell us?” Dewey asked weakly. He and Huey had claimed the lowest bunk, clinging to each other.
“Maybe to not hurt us,” Huey offered, “Maybe he had to break it off when he took us in. He couldn’t raise three kids and maintain a long distance relationship.”
“So it’s our fault.” Louie snapped.
“Hang on guys. You’re still just jumping to wild conclusions,” Webby interjected, “He loves you guys. He wanted to take you in.”
“Do we know that? Every story we’ve heard, it was a sudden reaction. He just took us. Maybe it was his way to improperly grieve.” Huey argued back.
“Maybe he just took us in so he could be close to mom in some way.” added Dewey.
“You don’t know that. Come on, we’re going back down there to talk to Donald. Let’s go do that.” Webby waved her hand, a gesture for the trio to follow.
“Are they going to take Uncle Donald away?” Dewey asked.
Huey swallowed weakly. “That’s what it sounds like.”
“What a perfect Christmas present,” Louie huffed, “Gets to run off with his lovers while he leaves the troublesome nephews. How romantic.”
Dewey let out a small whimper, hiding himself away in his older brother. That seemed to snap Louie out of the fog he was in and he rushed over to the bed. Quickly clamoring up and joining in the small huddle. Webby could only watch. Frozen in spot as her mind raced with how she was supposed to help.
___________________
Donald was close to having an episode. Because something was wrong with his boys and he had no idea what it was. He’d been so focused on José and Panchito he hadn’t really given time to his own kids. Now it was a spiraling descent of feeling guilty for his actions, but knowing he had a right to be with his own boyfriends.
“I know that look.”
Donald looked up from the well worn table as José and Panchito slid in on either side of him. “What do you mean?”
“It may have been a few years. But that is a look of forlorn. One you have when you have started berating yourself.” José continued.
“What’s wrong mi amor?” Panchito asked, cutting right to the chase.
Donald huffed, ruffling his feathers. “The kids have been acting...strange, and I can’t figure out why. Now I’m worried I haven’t been paying attention to a problem that shouldn’t be one. And the boys won’t talk to me. They just hover nearby and run when I get too close.”
“José and I could talk to them?”
The green parrot frowned. “Except they have been avoiding us as well. I am afraid we are not going to be much help.”
“What about la niña pequeña, Webby? We could ask her?” The rooster offered.
“I have barely seen her as of late as well.”
“Uh...Scrooge and Beakley?”
“Trust me, if they knew, they would have already ‘talked’ to me about it.” Donald grumbled.
José pulled the duck closer, smiling softly as he eagerly shuffled closer. “It is Christmas, we are all a little stressed. Let us just get past all of this craziness. Then we will sit down with the kids and talk.”
Donald really hated that was their best plan. But he also knew there was very little else they could do.
Christmas day arrived with rather subdued fanfare. The kids were clearly excited to finally open the pile of presents that were under the large pine tree. But Donald was also aware of the numerous, nervous glaces thrown his way. Some rather hard ones given out when José or Panchito was nearby. It was worrisome to think the kids were angry with his lovers. Granted, secret lovers, but the point still remained.
...Did they find out and silently didn’t approve? If this was true, why wouldn’t they just talk to him? He could explain, he could talk to them and hopefully ease their worries.
Donald jumped back to reality feeling a hand placed on his shoulder. He looked up to find Panchito giving him a worried look. He attempted to smile back, but it was clear it wasn’t comforting.
The pile of presents slowly depleted throughout the morning. Donald’s nerves soothed slightly hearing the triplet’s calls of glee with each new gift they unwrapped. Even seeming content with what José and Panchito had given them.
He raised a brow when Scrooge walked over to the couch he, José, and Panchito were sitting on. The older duck cleared his throat, gaining the attention of the other two before holding out an envelope for each.
“Happy Christmas.”
Donald watched as the two birds took an envelope, opening it cautiously. Panchito was the first to fully open his, pulling out a piece of paper and reading it over quickly. He let out such a yell of absolute joy that Donald was worried it would shatter the nearby windows. The rooster leapt up and pulled Scrooge into a tight hug just as José read over his own paper. The parrot’s beak dropped in surprise, wide eyes traveling to Donald as he passed the paper over.
Curious, Donald accepted it. As his eyes traveled down, his own excitement grew, a wide smile breaking out. “...You’re both…”
“We are officially legal!” Panchito cheered, finally releasing Scrooge. Who subtly rubbed his lower back when the rooster turned away. “We are now citizens!”
“We were not expecting these papers so soon.” José mumbled weakly.
Scrooge gave a small chuckle, giving a knowing smirk when all eyes were back on him. “You can get things moving fairly quickly when you have enough money.”
He winced as Panchito pulled him into another quick, but still bone crushing hug. “There is not enough thanks in the world!”
Donald could only laugh as he and José were pulled off the couch by the rooster. “We can stay, we can finally be close to each other. We can buy a home and-”
The joyous moment was quickly cut short when a loud ‘thud’ interrupted the event. Louie had stood, the present given to him by the two colorful birds had been tossed to the side. Donald would have berated the duckling, if he wasn’t stunned by the look on the triplet’s face.
Anger.
Absolute anger.
Before anyone could speak, Louie left the room, hood flipped up and hand shoved into his pocket. Shoulders up to make himself small as he stormed away.
Shockingly, José followed.
Confused and hoping for some answers, Donald turned to the remaining two. Only for Dewey to rush out next. With hands pressed to his beak and (Donal’s heart jolted) tears threatening to spill out. Panchito followed the duckling close behind. That left Huey with Donald. The duckling, the smallest Donald had ever seen him. No one commented as Donald picked Huey up and carried him out of the room.
___________________
Louie was fast when he wanted to be. José was thankful that the duckling was heavy footed. Because there was no other way he would have found the duckling in this maze of a building. Louie had taken up residents by a large window, far away from everyone else. Hood still up and knees pulled close, glaring at the outside estate. José approached cautiously, clearing his throat to announce his arrival. The duckling didn’t move.
“May I join you?”
There was still no reply. José didn’t mind, taking a seat and turning so he could view the outside world as well. “I will admit, I never thought I would be one for snow. I grew up in such warm climates. I believed when I experienced sheer cold, I would hate it. But, when I gave it a chance, I found it to be wondrous. True I do have to bundle up in order to enjoy it. It is still such a thrill to see though.”
“I’m not accepting you.” Louie replied shortly.
“But you have not even gotten to know me. It is unfair for you to jump so quickly to such a conclusion.”
“Well, you never got to know me. You spent all your time with Uncle Donald.”
José let out a slow sigh and nods. “That is true. And I hope you will understand why. I have not seen your uncle in such a long time. At least in a way that I have had so much time to spend with him. Not just a day or a few hours. It has been wonderful...and I may have gotten a little carried away at keeping your uncle’s attention.”
“Because you’re dating.” Louie stated, staring the parrot down.
José blinked in surprise, but did not dispute it. “Yes we...we were.”
“Were? My brothers and I have seen you and the rooster hanging off of Uncle Donald! You are dating.”
“Were. We broke it off a short time after you three were hatched. Your uncle wanted to focus on you and we were unable to stay.”
“And now you can. Now you’re legally able to. Now you can take Uncle Donald away from us.”
“Ai meu deus, Louie. Where did you get that idea?”
“Just now! With Panchito saying ‘we’ and how you all were going to buy a house!”
“I… the ‘we’ was Panchito and I. We would only ask Donald to move in if all four of you would have agreed.”
That caused Louie’s glare to soften. “...Four?”
“We, that being Panchito and I, would love to have all of you live with us. I am sorry to make you and your brothers think we would not welcome you properly into our lives. I suppose a proper start would be necessary.”
José cleared his throat and held out a hand, one that Louie gingerly took. “Hello Louie. I am José Carioca, an old relation to your Uncle Donald. It is wonderful to see you.”
“...Louie Duck. Nephew of Donald Duck...and CEO of Louie Inc.”
The parrot laughed jovially at that. “So young and already a businessman. Tell me Louie, have you been to Bahia?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, if you have time, allow me to regale you a few tales.”
___________________
“Dewey! Dewey, please stop!” Panchito grumbled when the duckling sped up instead. Mentally berating himself knowing that wouldn’t have worked. The rooster picked up his own speed when Dewey darted into the triplet’s bedroom. Just fast enough to stop the door from closing with his foot. He only entered when he heard Dewey settle down on a bed.
Letting out a slow breath, Panchito walked in. He cautiously stepped over the chaotic mess as he approached the beds. Dewey was lying on the second bed, covered by the blue blanket, small sniffs heard from within. Slowly climbing up the bedside ladder, Panchito leaned over and rested his upper body on the bed proper.
“You are a speedy little guy. Kind of shocked I was able to keep up.” Panchito laughed softly. He frowned when Dewey didn’t reply.
“...I know the want to just run away from your troubles. I have a big, big family. Seems like the only way to avoid fights was to run away. Run far and fast. So that is what I did. When I could not just smile any longer, I would run.”
He fell quiet when Dewey shuffled, the lump under the blanket moving closer to the rooster. Panchito smiled gently as the duckling’s face appeared. Eyes red with the feathers around them damp. “Hola.”
“...Hi…”
“Why did you run?”
Dewey didn’t reply. He instead sat up and asked his own question. “Is that what you did when we hatched and Uncle Donald started to raise us? That we were a problem you didn’t want, so you ran?”
“What? No, no niño, no. José and I weren’t able to stay. We were young, had no income, no way to get citizenship. We really, truly wanted to stay… But even your Uncle Donald knew how impossible it would be for us.”
“So you broke up?”
Panchito coughed weakly, suddenly feeling flustered. “I, well, w-why would you say that?”
“We’ve seen you, José, and Uncle Donald together.”
“Ah...suppose we were not that sneaky. But, yes, we did break up. We did not want to...but our options were low or impossible to get.”
Taking a bit of a risk, Panchito reached out to gently dry off the damp feathers. Dewey didn’t protest. He even smiled weakly, shoulders relaxing.
“I fell in love with you three the moment you hatched. And I know José feels the same. You had such big eyes and were covered with fluffy, yellow feathers. Oh, dios mío you boys were so adorable. I am sure my heart burst with happiness.”
“Really?”
“Of course. I wanted to hold you all and never let go. And you clung to me, you would giggle and I would just melt every time.”
Dewey laughed weakly at that. He inched closer until he could wrap his arms around Panchito. The rooster instantly pulled the duckling closer, beaming.
“I am not running away. Not now, not ever.”
___________________
Donald knew when Huey was upset, he needed to let the duckling lead. Don’t question, don’t prod, don’t poke. When Huey wanted to talk, he would talk. So Donald waited, holding the duckling’s hands and gently running his thumbs along the back of them. Huey was staring at the ground. The quiet was broken when a small sniff or hiccup escaped him. Other than that, it was silent between them.
It remained this way for a few minutes until Huey weakly squeezed Donald’s hands. A non-verbal indication that he had calmed and was ready to talk. Even then, it took awhile for Huey to find his voice.
“I’m sorry.”
Donald shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I don’t even know what’s wrong.”
“We know you, José, and Panchito are...together. In a relationship.”
“Okay. Well, I suppose that’s something I should be apologizing for. I was going to tell you three. Should have done that a lot sooner. But you don’t need to apologize for finding out.”
Huey shook his head but didn’t say anything. Donald was at a complete loss.
“Huey...I can’t help you if I don’t know what the issue is.”
“Do you hate us?”
He felt as if he had been punched in the gut. It took a few seconds for Donald to compose himself before he could speak again. “No, why would you think that?”
“You love them, but you never mention them. Never talk about them. You had to give up your life with the people you love because we… Because we were dumped into your lap. You didn’t get a choice and you had to give up so much. Because of us. How could you not hate us?”
“Huey, Huey, I need you to slow your breathing.” Donald quickly took back control, hand slowly rising and falling for Huey to follow. He waited for the duckling to calm again before asking, “Do you want me to take your hands again?”
That was answered with a short nod and Donald complied. “Now I want to make something perfectly clear. I am, in no way in any shape of form, angry at you or your brothers. You weren’t dumped into my lap. I willingly took you in and I don’t regret it at all. I loved raising you three and I love you three now.”
“But...you left them.”
“Because they couldn’t stay here. And I didn’t want them to feel as if they had to put a pause on their lives for me. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if they had spent years trying to return here to live here. We were wild when we were younger, them more so than I. They would never admit it, but it would have driven them crazy if they had to stay here. I wanted them to experience the world they had always talked about. To experience what I had when I was growing with Uncle Scrooge.”
“How come you never talked about them?”
“I’m not sure. If I really think about it, I think I would have broken down. I love them so much...and I didn’t want you three to worry when I began to blubber over people you’d never met.”
“Are we going to move in with them?”
“How about we live through this and then we’ll discuss that. All of us.”
Huey hummed softly and nodded. “Okay.”
“Feeling better?”
“...Yeah. Yeah, I am,” Huey looked up with a small smile, “Thanks Uncle Donald.”
Donald smiled back, he pulled the younger into a tight hug. “I love you and I love your brothers. Never doubt that. Now, how about we go find everyone?”
Huey nodded once more and didn’t argue when he was picked up again. As they neared the crossroads, they unintentionally came across the missing party members. José holding Louie’s hand as the older was leading the way. Dewey was riding on Panchito’s shoulders, wearing the large sombrero that was slowly slipping down to cover his eyes.
They all shared quick glances before Donald laughed softly. “I’ll take it, we’ve all talked and are feeling better?”
All parties nodded, sharing calm smiles. Panchito stepped forward and pulled all into a tight hug. None complained about how crushing it was, the triplets finding it comforting.
#ducktales#the three caballeros#s-creations#one shot#fanfiction#scrooge mcduck#donald duck#huey duck#dewey duck#louie duck#webby vanderquack#jose carioca#panchito pistoles#jose carioca/donald duck/panchio pistoles#jose x panchito x donald#three gay caballeros
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This one got away from me:
Erm.. ..I'm not even sure where to begin with this. Piers gets upset when people call him a racist, but apparently Xenophobia is completely OK? Is he actually suggesting we go back to dictating who royals can marry and who they can't? If Prince George marries a German and she doesn't "quite fit in" shall we add Germans to the list of the banned? (Which would be ironic considering our royals ancestry). If Prince Louis marries someone from Spain and she doesn't quite " fit in" shall we ban the Spanish to?
Has Piers forgotten that the royals marrying the English has ended badly a hell of a lot more than marrying Americans? Has he already forgotten the disastrous marriage of Charles and Diana? Unlikely since she's talked about second only to Megan right now. Has he forgotten the marriage of Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson? Or Princess Anne and Captain Mark Phillips? Or Princess Margaret and Anthony Armstrong Jones? None of those spouses were/are Americans.
He seems to have forgotten that royal princes and princess marrying English men and women (until recently) was a very uncommon thing.
Does he still think that princes and princess' should be betrothed only to other royals? Shall we betroth Prince George to the Infanta Sofia of Spain? We don't give them a choice of course, royals shouldn't get a choice in who they marry after all. As long as they are from good breeding stock, are virgins (Oh and shall we have the royal doctors perfrom an inspection to make sure royal brides are intact?)
Oh so that's not what he's saying? Does he mean that they should marry only English nobility then? Maybe a cousin? Shall Prince George be betrothed to Isla Phillips? Would that make Piers happy?
Oh he's saying that. He's not Xenophobic? Then I can only conclude he has a certain hatred for women who are b.....actresses'! That must be it! Actresses should be banned from marrying into the royal family! According to Piers ALL the times this has happened it's never ended well. 🤔
Well, Wallis Simpson probably did us all a favour anyway, having Edward VIII as king wouldn't have been the best since he quite liked Hitler.
I also like how those that slam Megan for being an actress (the so called royal experts) seem to believe that actress' don't belong in the royal family. But some how these "experts" either forget or don't know of the existence of one Sophie Winkleman. Oh, you've never heard of Sophie? Well Sophie Winkleman is married to Lord Frederick Windsor, the son of the Queens first cousin Prince Michael of Kent. So Sophie is entitled to be known as Lady Frederick Windsor. Due to the 1772 Royal Marriages Act The Queen had to give her permission for the two to be married. Also, interesting fact, Sophie and Frederick live in LA!! Sophie is an actress, who married a member of the House of Windsor, continues to be an actress and lives in LA. You might recognise her from playing older Susan in the first Narnia film, she's been in Poirot, 2 and half men, peep show, I could go on. But here's the best part, Sophie was a main character in the short lived series The Palace that was on ITV. Here Sophie plays Princess Eleanor, the scheming elder sister of the new King. The plot is about a play boy Prince of Wales who's father dies suddenly and he has to be king. Eleanor believes she should be Queen and schemes to try and take his place. They also have a younger brother who is just as bad as the play boy prince. But no one has attacked Sophie for bringing shame upon the royal family she married into by displaying this character.
I don't think Megan and Harry have gone about this in the right way. I would have waited Charles is king. But, I also think they would have been shat on no matter when or how they did this. If they had waited they would be questioned on why they waited so long. They would be accused of wanting to destroy Charles' reign. They would be accused of trying to overshadow William who will be Prince of Wales. Then more dumb fuckery would follow and they would be accused of wanting to be the Prince and Princess of Wales.
The best thing to have done was for Harry to step back earlier, then get married. But, Megan would be destroyed and torn apart no matter what, she would be accused of stealing him, forcing him to give up royal life. Only this way round people wouldn't have the option to ignore all the good thing Megan did or just how happy she makes Harry. Its the age old story of blaming a woman for the actions of a man, it's always the woman, men are incapable of being wrong. She must be a witch! That's the only logical answer. She's a witch and Harry has "evil counsellors".
#british royal family#house of windsor#prince harry#duke of sussex#prince of wales#meghan markle#harry and meghan#duchess of sussex#sophie winkleman#duchess of windsor#edward viii#wallis simpson
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round up // MARCH + APRIL 21
March and April were a whirlwind of vaccines and awards shows! A full year after we starting staying at home, the end of this weird chapter in recent history seems like it might finally be coming to a close, and this pop culture awards season—typically a time full of fun and glamour—captured our moment weirdly well. (Emphasis on the weird.) This month’s recommendations is filled with more Critic Picks than usual, so without further delay, let’s dive right in...
March + April Crowd-Pleasers
Double Feature — 2018 Action Thrillers: Bad Times at the El Royale + Den of Thieves
In Bad Times at the El Royale (Crowd: 9/10, // Critic: 8/10), Jeff Bridges, Cynthia Erivo, Jon Hamm, Chris Hemsworth, and Dakota Johnson are staying at a motel on the California-Nevada state line full of money, murder, and mystery. In Den of Thieves (Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 6.5/10), Gerard Butler takes on some of the best bank robbers in the world. Whether you like your action with a dose of mystery or the thrills of plot twists, these will fit the bill.
Double Feature — ‘80s Comedies: Caddyshack (1980) + Splash (1984)
In the mood for pure silliness? Take your pick between a mermaid and a gopher! Five years before The Little Mermaid, Tom Hanks fell for Daryl Hannah’s blonde hair and scaly tail, and John Candy was his goofy brother in Splash (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7/10). And four years before Ghostbusters, Bill Murray was the goof on a golf course full of funny people like Chevy Chase, Rodney Dangerfield, and Ted Knight in Caddyshack (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 6.5/10).
Double Feature — 1980s Coming-of-Age Films Starring Corey Feldman, Kiefer Sutherland, and Challenging Brother Relationships That Influenced Stranger Things: Stand by Me (1986) + The Lost Boys (1987)
Believe it or not, I had no idea these two ‘80s classics had so much in common when I chose to watch them back-to-back. In Rob Reiner’s adaptation of Stephen King’s Stand by Me (Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 9/10), four kids (Feldman, Jerry O’Connell, River Phoenix, and Wil Wheaton) are following train tracks to find a missing body. In The Lost Boys (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7/10), Corey Haim and Jason Patric move to a small California town and discover it’s full of ‘80s movie star cameos and…vampires? One is a thoughtful coming-of-age story and one is just bonkers, but both are a great time.
Spaceman by Nick Jonas (2021)
My love for the Jonas Brothers is well-documented, so instead of going down the rabbit hole I started digging at 15, I’ll talk about how Nick Jonas’s latest solo album will likely appeal to a wider audience than just the fans of the brothers’ bombastic pop records. It’s full of catchy tunes you’ll play on repeat and an R&B-influenced album experience about the loneliness we’ve experienced in the last year and how we try to make long-term relationships work.
Ted Lasso (2020- )
I love stories about nice people crushing cruelty and cynicism with relentless kindness, and Ted Lasso (Jason Sudeikis) is the warmest, most dedicated leader this side of Leslie Knope. Be sure to catch up on these witty and sweet 10 episodes before season 2 drops later this summer.
Double Feature — Tony Scott Action Flicks: Enemy of the State (1998) + The Taking of Pelham 123 (2009)
Tony Scott’s movies have got explosions and excitement in spades. I love a good man-on-the-run movie, and in Enemy of the State (Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 8/10), Will Smith is running through the streets of D.C. after getting evidence of a politician’s (Jon Voight) part in a murder. I also love a tense story set in a confined space, which is what Denzel Washington is dealing with in The Taking of Pelham 123 (Crowd: 9.5/10 // Critic: 7/10) after a hammy John Travolta takes a New York subway train hostage.
Double Feature — Baseball Movies: The Natural (1984) + Trouble With the Curve (2012)
Sue me—I love baseball movies. Robert Redford plays a fictional all-time great in the early days of the MLB in The Natural (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 9/10), and Clint Eastwood plays a fictional all-time great scout in his late career in Trouble With the Curve (Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 7.5/10). If you love baseball or actors like Amy Adams, Glenn Close, Robert Duvall, and Justin Timberlake, these movies are just right here waiting for you.
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Nate Bargatze: The Greatest Average American (2021)
Sue me—I enjoy Netflix standup comedy specials that are safe enough to watch with your whole family. That’s exactly the crowd I laughed with over Easter weekend, and while the trailer captures Bargatze’s relaxed vibe, it doesn’t capture how funny he really is.
The Mighty Ducks (1992)
I thought somewhere in my childhood I’d seen at least one of The Mighty Ducks movies, but after watching all three, I think my memories must’ve come from previews on the VHS tapes for other Disney movies I watched over and over again. The original still holds up as an grown-ups, which is why even my parents got sucked in to this family movie while just passing through the living room. Bonus for ‘80s movies lovers: Emilio Estevez is basically continuing Andrew Clark’s story from The Breakfast Club as an adult. Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 6.5/10
Double Feature — New, Dumb Action on Streaming: Godzilla vs. Kong + Thunder Force (2021)
If you want something intelligent, go ahead and skip to the next recommendation, but if you’re looking for something stupid fun, these are ready for you on HBO Max and Netflix. Thunder Force (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 6/10) follows Melissa McCarthy and Octavia Spencer as they train to become superheroes who take on superhuman sociopaths wreaking havoc on Chicago, and alongside Jason Bateman, they do it with a lot of laughs. Godzilla vs. Kong (Crowd: 9.5/10 // Critic: 5/10) is, um, exactly what it sounds like, so I’ll skip a plot summary and just say it’s exactly what you want from this kind of movie. #TeamKong
3:10 to Yuma (2007)
All you need to know is Russell Crowe is an outlaw, and Christian Bale is the guy who’s got to get him on the train to prison. I also watched the 1957 version, which is also a solid watch if you love classic Westerns. Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 8/10
Falcon and the Winter Soldier (2021)
Marvel’s newest series isn’t nearly as inventive as WandaVision, and it may not land every beat, but it’s worth a watch for the fun new gadgets, Sebastian Stan’s dry joke delivery, and its exploration into themes of what makes a hero and what governments owe their citizens. It’s a pretty satisfying entry in the MCU canon, but I’d also recommend re-watching Captain America: Winter Soldier and Civil War—the canon is getting expansive, and it’s getting trickier every year to keep up with all the backstory.
March + April Critic Picks
Best of 2020 Picks
As per usual, the months leading up to the Oscars becomes a binge period for potential Oscar nominees. In March and April, I watched many of the films that made my Top 20 of 2020, including Boys State, The Father, Judas and the Black Messiah, Let Them All Talk, Minari, Nomadland, On the Rocks, One Night in Miami…, Promising Young Woman, Soul, and Sound of Metal. You can read how I ranked them on my list for ZekeFilm, plus reviews of The Father, Minari, Promising Young Woman, and Soul.
Bonus: If you loved On the Rocks, don’t miss this feature and beautiful photography starring Sofia Coppola, Kirsten Dunst, Elle Fanning, and Rashida Jones for W Magazine.
Stranger Than Fiction (2006)
What would you do if you started hearing a voice who narrated your every thought and move? If you’re Will Ferrell, you’ll seek out a literary professor (Dustin Hoffman), fall in love (with Maggie Gyllenhaal), and track down the voice (Emma Thompson) who’s making ominous predictions about your future. Stranger Than Fiction is funny thought-provoking, and an unusual but welcome role for Ferrell. Crowd: 9.5/10 // Critic: 9/10
All the Royal Family News
Speaking of stranger than fiction, it’s been a busy few months for the Royal Family. We’ve celebrated 95th birthday of Queen Elizabeth, the 3rd birthday of Prince Louis, and the 10th anniversary of Will and Kate’s marriage. We also lost Prince Philip, and we watched the drama of Harry and Meaghan’s interview with Oprah. No matter what happens to their Crown, I don’t think we’ll ever get over our fascination with the Windsor family. A few pieces worth reading from the last few months:
“In Meghan and Harry’s Interview, Two TV Worlds Collided,” Vulture.com
“The Queen’s Man: Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, Dies,” TIME.com
“Obituary: HRH The Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh,” BBC.com
Goodfellas (1990)
One of my film opinions that makes me feel like a phony is that Martin Scorsese just isn’t my cup of tea. He’s brilliant, but his films tend to be long and dark, two qualities that are never my first choice…and somehow Goodfellas still worked for me? Maybe it was the TV edit graciously toning down the violence or maybe it was that Ray Liotta and Joe Pesci were firing on all cylinders, but for some reason this ‘90s classic didn’t suck the joy out of my evening like Scorsese often does. (Bonus: For a Martin Scorsese/Robert De Niro I don’t really recommend, head to the last section of this Round Up.)
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Fearless (Taylor’s Version) (2021)
Her voice has only matured, so Taylor Swift revisiting her old albums is like upgrading a blast to the past. Plus, the six new tracks make me feel like 15 crushing on that boy in Spanish class again, and her Grammys performance (just before her third Album of the Year win) was magical and folklore-tastic.
Double Feature — ‘60s Action Classics: The Guns of Navarone (1961) + Planet of the Apes (1968)
The Guns of Navarone (Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 8.5/10) follows Gregory Peck and David Niven as they destroy Nazi weapons in the Mediterranean. Planet of the Apes (Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 8.5/10) follows Charlton Heston as he attempts to escape from, well, a planet full of apes. The pacing of ‘60s films doesn’t always hold up, but that’s not the case with this pair. Both are still full of suspense, and you can’t go wrong hanging with casts like these.
Let Him Go (2020)
Kevin Costner and Diane Lane play a farming couple who unexpectedly help raise a boy who lost his biological father—sound familiar? But instead of a superhero origin story, they’re part of a thrilling Western with performances nuanced (Costner and Lane) and showy (Lesley Manville). If I’d watched this before completing my Best of 2020 piece, it likely would’ve been on my list. Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 8.5/10
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The Oscars
I’m a ride-or-die fan of the Academy Awards, but I’ll admit even I found this year’s ceremony odd. Instead of focusing on what wasn’t so hot, I’ll recommend a few moments you don’t want to miss:
Emerald Fennell giving a shout-out to Saved by the Bell
Daniel Kaluuya acknowledging his parents’ sex life during his acceptance speech (??)
Yuh-Jung Yoon flirting with Brad Pitt and acknowledging she’s just “luckier” than her fellow nominees
Glenn Close dancing to…”Da Butt”?
You can also read about the historic wins and nominations from this year’s Oscar class and why the Golden Globes were an even stranger production weeks earlier.
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Trailer-palooza!
Movies are on their way back, y’all! I’m counting down the days until I can get back to a theatre, and even if some of these movies are duds, I’m planning to see all of them on a big screen if possible:
Those Who Wish Me Dead (May 14)
Cruella (May 28)
In the Heights (June 11)
Space Jam 2 (July 16)
Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings (September 3)
West Side Story (December 10)
Also in March + April…
To add to the Oscars love, you can listen to a conversation about what we learn about family, community, and society in some of the year’s biggest nominees on the Uncommon Voices podcast. I join regular hosts Michael and Kenneth in this episode, and I recommend all of their thoughtful discussions on their “What’s Streaming” episodes.
I’ve previously recommended the Do You Like Apples weekly newsletter, so I’m proud to share I contributed twice in March! I wrote about Love and Basketball, directed by Gina Prince-Bythewood, and one of my all-time favorite Julia Roberts rom-coms, Notting Hill. (I also tied to win their Oscars pool, but I suppose that’s less exciting for you than me.)
It was a busy couple of months on SO IT’S A SHOW! New logo, new email list, new Instagram, and a host of new episodes about a flop of a Madonna flick, a Swedish children’s TV show, an urban legend turned into a horror movie, one of the best films about journalism ever, and a Martin Scorsese movie about a real boxer.
Most of what I wrote for ZekeFilm in March and April was mentioned in Best of 2020 recommendations…except for The Nest, a film that couldn’t figure out what genre it wanted to be.
Photo credits: Nick Jonas, Royal Family. All others IMDb.com.
#Round Up#Bad Times at the El Royale#Den of Thieves#Caddyshack#Splash#Stand by Me#The Lost Boys#Spaceman#Nick Jonas#Ted Lasso#Enemy of the State#The Taking of Pelham 123#The Natural#Trouble With the Curve#Nate Bargtze#Nate Bargatze: The Greatest Average American#The Mighty Ducks#Godzilla vs. Kong#Thunder Force#3:10 to Yuma#Falcon and the Winter Soldier#Stranger Than Fiction#The Royal Family#Meaghan Markle#Prince Harry#Goodfellas#Fearless#taylor swift#Fearless (Taylor's Version)#The Guns of Navarone
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Chasing The Flames
Chapter 11 : Out Of Our Grasp
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you have 30 texts ; 16 missed calls ; 3 voice mails.
All these unread texts and unanswered calls were all from the nct dream members. I haven’t seen them for a long time, Mr Kang gave me more projects to work on, and even leading one of them by yourself.
The times when I wasn’t loaded with work, I found other activities distracting myself, learning how to bake, going to the gym, and even giving in to try knitting, but that one failed of course.
Whenever I had the urge to call them back, I shut off my phone, reasoning that this was the best I could do to not tarnish this friendship. It was the only way Jeno and Jaemin wouldn’t hate me for my feelings towards Jeno? Jaemin? Both of them?
I shook my head at what absurd thoughts I had, I can’t like both of them, this is unusual and unnatural? I didn’t know what to make of my feelings towards them, Jaemin made me felt like I was sitting in front of a fireplace with a cup of hot coco on a cold winter night. Jeno is more of a red fiery passion, spontaneous late night car rides to the beach side.
Maybe I was just overthinking things, maybe I had these feelings only because I found them very photogenic. But that didn’t make any sense. Every time log on instagram’s explore page and see their weird expressions on those clips posted by their fan accounts, I would have a smile on my face, before realising what a dumb thing I was doing.
I was falling like a fool.
It was a Friday night, and I was outside the nearest convenience store drinking soju by myself, the warm alcohol flowing down your throat a stark contrast to this chilly night. I was drowning in guilt, I ruined a perfect friendship with 7 very good friends because I had thrown my feelings into the mix.
It’s not like they found out, but I feel like they knew all along, the way I accidentally stared at them for too long, the way my cheeks were heating up even though I wasn’t dong anything athletic. It’s best that I leave them good memories as it is, before I misstep and make everything go down the drain. That’s the least I can do. As I downed another gulp of soju, someone dressed in all black with a mask and a cap sat down your table. I thought it was just another customer, until that person took off his disguise, making me choke on the alcohol.
“Renjun?”
“I was about to go to your house, but you made things easier.”
“Why are you here?”
“To come find you. Why have you been ignoring our texts and calls?”
“I’ve been busy with work”
That wasn’t a lie, entirely.
“Everyone’s worried about you, especially Jaemin, you know how much of a mom he can get. I snuck out of the dorms just to look for you so you better say yes.”
“Yes to what?”
“Jeno’s birthday dinner with the dream members is next Saturday at the dorms, and he’s been distressed about your absence, not entirely focusing on work, getting frustrated when he doesn’t get a dance move right.”
“I...
“I don’t know what you’re going through right now, but tell me when you’re ready okay?”
I nodded in silence, knowing that Renjun would hate me if I told him about my crush towards his two best friends.
“I will.”
“I have to go back now, before Taeyong hyung does the night checks. Night.”
“Night.”
It was the night of the birthday dinner, I made Jeno a cake for his birthday and bought a pair of biking gloves for him. I’m now standing in front of their door, hand held in a fist over the door, but not daring to knock yet. I could feel the way how tensed my limbs were, the way my heart was beating faster than what I wanted it to. I could just leave? Leave the cake and present here after knocking. But what would they think of me? Would they hate me after if I pulled that stunt? My heels were starting to dig into my sole when the door swung open, revealing Chenle’s bright smile.
“Y/N, you’re finally here. We haven’t seen you in such a long time, I can’t believe the company is overworking you. You look so much more tired from when we last saw you. It’s fine, Renjun told us everything.”
“Yah Chenle, Y/N looks fine. Don’t be so rude.”
“Hi, Jisung.”
Chenle opened the door a bit wider for Jisung to come out, his smile wide when he saw the cake in your hands.
“Come in now, don’t catch a cold. Why did you let Y/N stand outside for so long? Just talk inside.”
The two of them started bickering like children during my walk to the kitchen. Just when I was about to place the cake in the fridge, someone sneaked up behind me.
“Long time no see.”
“Oh my god! You scared me, hi, happy birthday Jeno. I baked this cake and your present’s on the table.”
“Why haven’t you been answering our calls?”
He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t angry either. This is bad, I rather he had shouted at me, than hearing the disappointment laced in his voice.
“I was busy with work, lots of comebacks and some modelling shoots at the sister company. I usually shut my phone off and most times I just have time for sleep and...
At this point I’m just rambling what comes to mind eyes avoiding his, noticing the way his hands are littered with veins, he must’ve put in a lot more time in the gym. I noticed his disheveled appearance, the stubs of facial hair, the pajamas even on his birthday.
... I’m sorry.”
I looked up slightly to see him biting his lower lip, brows furrowed in concentration, and Jaemin was behind him. I heard Chenle calling me into the balcony to show me something, so I quickly excused myself, legs feeling like jelly under their scrutinizing gaze.
Even though, Chenle was showing me Louis, Ten’s cat that they borrowed for a day, I can’t help but look back to see Jeno and Jaemin’s their unreadable expressions.
“Why did she act like nothing happened?”
“Technically, nothing happened, but that’s the problem.”
Jaemin was gazing at you with a somewhat painful expression on his face, he doesn’t want to push you, but the fact that you were down right ignoring them really hurt him and Jeno.
“I thought she has feelings for us. I saw the way she looked at me, it was like how you look at me, doesn’t that mean something?”
“She might be scared Jeno. We can’t just force her into accepting the fact that she likes us. Everyone’s confused with their feelings and what they want in their life. You have to understand that polyamorous relationships still aren’t accepted widely by society, maybe she doesn’t even know what does that even mean.”
“What if she doesn’t like us and that we’re just blindly embracing the idea?”
“Don’t be so passive Jeno. Like what you said just now, she does look at us differently. If she tells us she has no feelings for us herself, then we can give up. We never gave up during our trainee days, this is just another hurdle Jeno ah. We’ll make it.”
Jeno scratched the back of his head, sighing at how stupid he was to act and think this way. He remembered the days when he was in denial of his feelings for Jaemin as well, thinking that it was wrong to love a man, but as he looks back at those days and think back the emotions and confusion he felt back then, he realised this must be what you’re dealing with now. He should be guiding you, not being angry at your confused self. He was being selfish, and now he’s going to make it up to you.
“Y/N is just like you back then, but less aggressive. Remember when you got drunk and tried to punch me?”
Jeno groaned in annoyance at the events that led to that memory.
“It was a one time thing, shut up. I didn’t even punch you, even though I was so wasted and angry, I was still sober enough to know that I love you.”
“But you were in denial?”
“I was young and dumb, shut up.”
“I love you too, Jeno ah. We should head back out the living area, before Chenle gets the wrong idea and announces it to the world.”
Through out dinner, Jeno and Jaemin seemed to have calmed down a bit after the first interaction prior an hour ago. Jeno even made small talk with me which surprised me very much while Jaemin seemed to be careful of the words he used to speak to me. I don’t know what’s going through their minds, but I rather be smiling along with them than see those disappointed looks on their faces ever again.
I talked to them about work, the projects that had lined up and the side projects at hand while they listened intently, Jeno’s smile appearing when I mentioned working with Super Junior for the online concert and their recent promotions.When I cut the cake for all of them, Jaemin helped distributing the slices of cake to everyone.
At the last piece, Jaemin wasn’t prepared for your hand to pass him the piece as he had known it was yours, your hand once again passing him the plate, but instead of coming in contact with the ceramic, he felt your soft hands.
I looked up in shock, my heartbeat racing at the slightest of contact.
Jaemin’s lips were agape, worrying that you’ll think he was overstepping tonight after many days of dismissal from you.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you’ll still be passing that plate, that’s your own piece, everyone is eating theirs now.”
“It’s alright, it was my fault, I’m being a blur again.”
Jaemin let out a small laugh at what I had said, his eyes glimmering with a sense of warmth? content? I had no idea what that means, but I’m sacred of what my heart wants it to mean.
Jaemin noticed the way you had looked into his eyes, but a sense of something came over you seconds after, sadness? insecurity? You were a sometimes so easy to read, but some days he felt like he was trying to read spanish.
As the night was still young, Renjun bought out the soju and champagne. The lot of us drank while having a mini karaoke, while Jisung was trying to keep some of his hyungs from doing anything they’ll regret in the morning.
With the alcohol in my system, my nerves started to let loose, feelings less tensed. I don’t know how am I going back home tonight, but for now I didn’t really care, it’s been the most fun I had in days after days of worrying about.
I looked at the time on the clock as I forgot where I placed my phone, it’s nearing 1 a.m. , and yet Renjun is still belting out high notes, although in a tipsy state, a sober Jisung trying to get him to bed. It was a comedic relief, seeing how happy they are makes the stress in your head fade away bit by bit.
Jeno is a happy man he thinks, at least for now, he had a delicious meal cooked by his boyfriend and brothers, a cake you baked yourself just for his birthday, and a bottle of champagne. Is he drunk on happiness or the amount of alcohol he consumed? He doesn’t know, he just knows that you look cute whenever you had a little too much to drink, your eyes crinkling as your smiles are wider in this state, he feels a smile tugging on his lips as he sees your own.
He sees your drunk state looking for the bathroom, he gets up to watch you, just in case your clumsy self stumbles along the way, or Chenle’s basketball was lying around the hallway again. Jeno hid in his room to wait for you, not wanting to seem like creep and accidentally scare you away.
As he heard the door open, the weight in his heart started receding, he was scared you’d trip on something in there, even in the hallway, you were already feeling the walls with your hands. But just as he thought you were going to be fine, you had tried to switch off the bathroom light, but your wet hands slipped, making you lose your balance.
I was sure I was going to be a goner when I felt my head become delusional from the alcohol and the sudden slip up made my mind dizzy, but instead I felt a pair of arms holding onto me. I opened my eyes to see Jeno’s face millimeters away from mine, his body was against mine, our heartbeats racing at a hundred and five, he still hasn’t let me go, his eyes scanning my face, taking in my flustered expression.
Jeno’s face was inching closer to mine, his lips agape, as if he was waiting for ymy lips to meet his. His eyes were shaded with a sense of something mysterious and it was hypnotising, although I had plenty to drink, the slip up made me sober up quite a bit.
“Jeno... I can get up now, thank you.”
Jeno lifted me up from that near falling position, but his arms around me never wavered. His eyes were searching yours, what is he looking for?
“Y/N, I like you.”
#nct smut#nct fluff#nct 127#nct dream#nct#wayv#jeno#lee jeno#jeno smut#jeno fluff#jaemin#na jaemin#jaemin smut#jaemin fluff#nct angst#mark lee#lucas wong#haechan#lee taeyong#huang renjun#hendery#yuta#park jisung#zhong chenle#winwin#kun#ten#nct 00 line#jungwoo#doyoung
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“To bring order to a disordered world was the detective’s job.”
Nanteuil-la-Forêt, Marne, France – June 1848
~Cedric~
The bed looked untouched; it was arranged exactly like Cedric’s when he had arrived. There was nothing on the desk, nothing on the bedside cabinet. Nothing hung on the clothes hooks, and there was no suitcase in sight. There were no move-marks from the nearby armchair on the carpet; no slight body-mark in the pillow.
When Cedric had stepped over the threshold, coldness had washed over him even before he had taken a closer look at the orderliness of the room. The room was significantly colder than the corridors, and the fireplace inside it did not look like it had been used recently although it had been fairly cold lately.
At least, there was really neither an adjourning room nor a divider.
“Duke Kristopher?” said Anaïs, and Cedric flinched when she spoke to him. “Is something wrong?” she asked and walked from the desk to him. Before she reached him, Milton hurried forward and wrapped an arm around her. Surprised, Anaïs blinked at him. “I will handle this,” Milton said, his voice strangely breathless, and gently pushed her back to Gérard and Arnaud. Then, he went to Cedric and closed the door.
“Are you all right, Kristopher?” Milton wanted to know. His voice still sounded a bit shaky, and he dug his fingers into his palm. “Do you want to sit down? Lie down?”
Cedric looked at him in bewilderment. “I’m okay.”
Milton nodded absentmindedly and walked to his bed and knelt in front of it. He reached under it and – to Cedric’s slight relief – pulled out a suitcase. He retrieved a smaller case from it before he put the suitcase back. With a heavy strait, Milton headed to the desk and sat down. Cedric went to join the others, and Arnaud put the birdcage clock on the table.
Milton took a deep breath, then unlocked the case with an odd key to reveal numerous tools. They were perfectly polished and neatly arranged, and Cedric did not recognise most of them. He could only make out some screwdrivers, a hammer, and a little saw, but there were many, many more, and he could only wonder how they could all fit into such a small space. From his jacket pockets, Milton took a pair of white gloves which he put on before he started to inspect the clock. Milton was focused in a way Cedric had never seen before. The nervous energy that constantly flowed through him seemed gone, and he sat there perfectly still and calm while he scrutinised the broken clock. The children must have noticed Milton’s strange calmness too as they silently spectated him work as if they did not dare to interrupt him.
While everyone’s attention was on the birdcage clock, Cedric sneakily stepped back to glimpse into the wardrobe and the drawers of the bedside table which were all empty. When he went back to the others, Milton had already opened the cage and taken out the bird. Now, he turned the cage around to open the casing and look inside. He took a good look at the cogs and wires before he went to work. It was wondrous to see him work so meticulously. With quick, swift movements Milton alternated between various tools which he used on the clock. Although Cedric was undoubtedly interested in this process, he could not help himself but drift away now and then.
Not that he could make out much anyway: Cedric saw Milton doing things, but, for the life of him, he did not know what he was doing. While blissfully ignorant spectating was a lovely thing in many cases, it certainly wasn’t when one was halfway to dreamland. Cedric snoozed off for a few minutes at most and when he jolted awake again, Milton had moved on from the inner workings of the clock and was now putting back the bird. With a few more skilled movements, it was done, and Milton closed the cage. He waited a moment, and everyone held their breaths.
Then, Milton turned on the birdcage clock.
And metallic sing-song filled the air.
The bird, now perched on a top again, moved its beak and head and sang its melody which sounded only a little bit off to be true birdsong; and the clockhands had been set in motion too. The children jumped around happily, and Cedric could only stare at the now again intact clock, entranced by its uncanny song and in disbelief about what Milton had accomplished.
“That’s amazing! How can you do that, Baron Milton?” asked Anaïs.
“A lot of practice and…” Milton began, his eyes glowing as they had in the corridor, but then he interrupted himself and the glow vanished. He and Cloudia displayed the same enthusiasm for what they loved; only Cloudia’s was persistent while Milton’s was always cut short. “I was a very bored child,” Milton continued and packed his utensils in his case and locked it. “And you do not have to call me ‘Baron’ or ‘Lord,’ Miss Anaïs.”
Anaïs put her hands on her hips. It was a funny gesture on someone so small and young. “Only if you stop calling me ‘Miss Anaïs.’”
“Of course,” he replied, and she beamed. “Is it simply Milton then or may I call you something else too? Am I allowed to give you a nickname?”
Arnaud blinked at her, seemingly horrified at the request and familiarity, but didn’t say anything.
“I allow you to give me one,” Milton told her, and Anaïs jumped up and down. “Thanks! It has to be something cute…” She weighted her head left and right. “How about ‘Millie’?”
Milton tensed a little bit. “Could… could you please pick another nickname?”
“Why?” asked Anaïs.
“It…” Milton fumbled with his toolbox. “It’s only that my father used to call me that.”
“‘Used to,’” she repeated before it dawned on her and she put her hands over her mouth. “I apologise. I didn’t want to…”
“It is all right,” he assured her. “How could you have known?” Milton stood up and took the case from the desk. Milton returned his toolbox to his suitcase and then looked at Anaïs who still seemed uneasy. “All is fine, Anaïs. I could never be upset with you.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He smiled. “You may pick any other nickname.”
Anaïs returned his smile. “I’ll think of one!”
Milton’s smile widened a little before he turned to the singing clock, and as soon as his gaze fell on it, the shine from before reappeared in his eyes. “I still cannot believe it,” he said dreamily to no one in particular. For a moment, Cedric wondered if he should interrupt Milton to spare him any potential embarrassment that might grow from his absentminded monologue, but he decided against it. After all, Milton usually did a fine job cutting himself off – and Cedric wanted to see if Milton’s enthusiasm could hold firm.
Milton picked up the birdcage clock and turned it in his hands. “Automata,” he said. “A fascinating subject that has kept humankind busy since ancient times. How could they not? Artificially created life – or, at least, life-like entities. Clockwork birds have been reportedly designed since the Hellenistic Period, but then there’s the legend of King Solomon’s throne and its mechanical animals which is, of course, dated much earlier. Even if it may only be a story, it is still a testament to people’s continuous fascination with automata.
“And then we have this lovely piece,” Milton continued and turned to Cedric with the clock in his hands. “Born 1721. Died 1790. Pierre Jaquet-Droz. His ancestors were from the Brandt-dit-Grieurin, Sandoz, and Robert families of clockmakers, and this made him pursue this craft, this art, as well – and we can only be blessed that he did as he is one of the, maybe even the, best creators of automata of all time. His first singing birdcage came out in 1780 and featured a miniature pipe organ; each pipe was for a different note. He and his partner later exchanged the pipe organ with a chamber whose size was altered by the movement of a piston.
“While Jaquet-Droz’s career is astonishing, it was fuelled by tragedy: He lost both his wife and daughter in short succession and, in his sadness, fully dedicated himself to his work.” Milton placed the clock back on his desk but did not let go just now. “Still, although he became internationally famous after he created six magnificent pendulum clocks for the Spanish king and his court and went on to present his crafts to various other kings and queens and even the Chinese emperor, he did not neglect his only living child, his son Henri-Louis. Instead, they worked together, and Jaquet-Droz made him the director of his workshop in London. Jean-Frédéric Leschot, Jaquet-Droz’s partner, was also his adoptive son. It was a family business that flourished despite its tragic history.
“But their success did not last forever. Towards the end of Jaquet-Droz’s life, they lost their partners in China and London. Their business started to show losses, and Jaquet-Droz moved to Biel where he died. A year later, his son Henri-Louis and his daughter-in-law died on a journey. Leschot, now all alone, worked hard to keep the business afloat, but the revolution and Napoleon’s Continental System led to the eventual ruin of Jaquet-Droz & Leschot.”
“Out of your system, hm?” said Cedric and leaned against the desk. The sudden flush of wakefulness was beginning to wane, and he could feel his eyelids getting heavy.
Milton abruptly let go of the clock as if it had stung him and craned his head to Cedric. “I rambled again, didn’t I?”
“You did, but it’s fine. How are you?”
“I am…,” Milton began and tilted his head a bit. “I am feeling better than before. The… the repair was quite…” He fiddled with the hem of his right sleeve. “… refreshing.”
“If it’s such an intricately made clock,” said Cedric, “it is even more impressive that you could fix it.”
Milton let his hands fall to his sides. “There was not much wrong with it. A few sprung-out gears, loose bolts… I suppose the owner does not maintain the clock enough. Fixing it was nothing.”
Cedric yawned. “Still, it was quite amazing. You must have practice in this.”
“As I said, I was a very bored child.”
“I was bored at times too,” Cedric replied with a shrug. “Still, I never went to try my hand on fixing clocks. You were even so focused and calm. I barely recognised you. You must be quite fascinated by clocks.”
Milton looked at him. Even if Cedric had been fully awake, he would not have been able to read them. “It is not the clocks. Not just them. Or just automata. I appreciate their composition, their machinery, but I would say I am fascinated more by the reason why they were invented.”
Cedric wanted to respond something, but then Anaïs walked to them and said, “Milton? If you can repair things, can you build some too? I am asking because, if you are feeling better after fixing the birdcage clock, I think you should continue spending your time doing something like that until the rain stops. Arnaud, Gérard, and I can help too if you want.”
Milton blinked at her and then smiled softly. “This is a good suggestion, Anaïs. How about we create a chain-reaction machine? Then, you can all help me with it. And, I suppose, it will be more fun and interesting for you than the repair of a clock. I have to bring Kristopher to his room first though.”
“Oh, no,” replied Cedric. “I still feel sleepy, but I also feel more secure on my feet than before. I can go to my room on my own. You only need to tell me how to get there.”
“Kristopher, are you sure? You…”
“I am. You are not in the best state yourself, and I think it would be better for you if you stayed in your own room instead of wandering through the château. If you get an attack again, it would be better it happened here instead of anywhere else.”
Milton wanted to fight against his words but restrained himself and only said, “Very well, Kristopher.” He was about to turn around and reach for his notebook when Arnaud came forward.
“If you do not mind, Duke Kristopher,” he said, “I would offer to bring you to your room. I do not feel comfortable letting you go on your own, and I know the château’s layout very well. I also fear that, if you are told the way to your chamber, you may forget your given instructions in your exhaustion and get lost.”
Cedric blinked at the little boy. It was a bit weird to get help from a nine-year-old, but did he really have another choice? It was either Arnaud or Anaïs after all who could guide him through the building. Perhaps even Gérard could, though that would stretch the absurdity too much. “That would be good. Thanks, Arnaud,” Cedric replied, and Arnaud bowed his head in response.
***
~Cloudia~
There is still so much left to do, Cloudia thought while she and Yvette walked through the shadowy village to the inn once again. She hoped that Maxime and Violaine had returned so that she had not taken the effort to go to the pension in this weather twice in vain. She hoped Lisa and Kamden would find something interesting while inspecting the corpses. She hoped that whatever she could learn from the Guilberts or the bodies would be enough to find out who the culprit was.
Still, there was so much left to do. For example, she had to speak to the victims’ friends.
This case. Part of me wanted to end it here and now. Run to the mayor and tell him that he was on his own, then turn the village upside down to find out anything about Townsend, find the Queen’s box, and return home after spending time with my relatives and a brief round of leisurely exploring France.
But this was not to be. I was too deep into this now, and another part of me did not want to abandon the villagers to their murderer. Especially considering that such a development might prove to be difficult to hide from Milton, even if he was leaving for Paris tomorrow. After all, he would return in a few days and might catch sight of the aftermath of the hypothetical chaos that could be unleashed in Nanteuil-la-Forêt.
Also, I did not want to give up now. Giving up was like losing, and I did not like to lose.
Cloudia straightened against the rain for the last few metres of their way, for the rest of their investigation.
A hot bath. A change of clothes. A meal.
The storm was making me impatient, tried to fray my thoughts. I needed to calm down, sit down, make myself comfortable and think everything through at the château. On my own or with Cedric if he could be bothered.
I could do it like this. I would be able to do it like this.
At the pension, Yvette knocked against the door, and they waited for a few moments until the door was thankfully opened by Maxime.
“Yvette, M Gauthier,” he said, his gaze darting between them. “What are you doing outside in this weather? Come in.” Maxime ushered them inside and closed the door.
“We would not have come here again if you had been here before,” Cloudia told him, pulling down her hood. It had been wonderful to have been able to dry herself at the church, but now she was as wet as before again.
Only a few more hours.
Maxime turned to her. “Hm?”
“We have been here before,” Cloudia informed him. “Hours ago. Where were you, M Guilbert, when it’s pouring outside and a murderer is going around? Even if they have only been acting at night so far, we can never know when our killer will change patterns.” Again, she added in her head.
“Maybe we should sit down and talk?” suggested Maxime. He walked ahead to the inn’s community room, and Yvette and Cloudia followed him. There, they were greeted by a woman who smiled awkwardly at them and shifted nervously on the sofa.
“Violaine,” said Maxime. “That’s M Gauthier, one of the men I’ve told you about.”
His wife nodded at his words, and Cloudia smiled at her. “Good afternoon, Mme Guilbert. I am glad that you are here too, and I want to apologise in advance for potentially ruining your furniture.” She spread her arms, water dripping from them as if she was a fountain. “The weather has not been particularly kind lately.”
“Yes, it hasn’t, but don’t worry about the furniture, M Gauthier,” Violaine replied. “Please just sit.”
Cloudia sat down on an armchair. “I shouldn’t worry? I thought you would be very upset. Not only as the wife of this tavern’s owner but also as its housekeeper who meticulously makes sure that all the rooms look immaculate.”
“Well,” Violaine said and touched a lock of her brown hair that had sprung free of her up-do. “The state of the furniture is only a subsidiary matter in our current situation, isn’t it?”
Cloudia smiled. “Yes, of course, it is. Mme Guilbert, I’ve already told your husband about this, but Mlle Guilloux and I were here earlier today alongside two of my colleagues who are currently investigating elsewhere. We knocked and knocked and waited a considerable period, but you were not present. Considering that the village is in a state of emergency with a murderer going around and Mother Nature herself trying to destroy this place with this heavy rain, could you tell me where you and your husband were, Mme Guilbert?”
“Where we were earlier?” Violaine repeated and then clutched and unclutched her hands.
“My apologies, M Gauthier,” Maxime interjected, “but my wife may not be suitable to answer any questions right now. She is easily unnerved and, as you said, a killer is going around.”
“Chamomile tea,” Cloudia said, and Maxime blinked at her, perplexed. “If you have correctly guessed that your wife is anxious right now, M Guilbert,” she explained, “why not bring her a cup of chamomile tea or do something else to ease her nerves? After all, you guided us here, fully knowing that she would be here and the reason I am here – fully knowing that your wife is nervous and uneasy. Why not help her a bit? Chamomile has relaxing properties, and so has peppermint if you have no chamomile tea at hand.” She smiled at him, and, for a fraction of a second, Maxime narrowed his eyes at her before he wordlessly left for the kitchen.
“How kind of him,” Cloudia said hollowly. “I wonder if he knows how to use a kettle.” She looked at Violaine. “At any rate, Mme Guilbert, I do not want to unnecessarily distress you or anyone, so I’ll ask you: Are you comfortable with answering some of my questions? Please be honest.”
Violaine tensed immediately and looked from Cloudia to Yvette and back, glanced briefly to the door through which her husband had left. “I…,” she began, “I think I can answer some questions.”
Cloudia smiled at her and wrapped her arms around herself. She was cold from the rain, so she was not certain if it was true or not, but the room itself seemed unusually cold too. “Thanks. Let us wait a moment until M Guilbert returns with the tea. I also want to address that it is very considerate of you to agree to help. We need as many to help out, need to find out as much as possible to bring this to an end. Cooperation is key, especially when it is about a murderer roaming around. They have been predominately targeting young people too – and if I remember correctly, you have a daughter around the age of the latest victims. What was her name? Marie-Claire? How is she?”
Violaine’s eyes widened. “Marie-Claire? Oh, she… she is doing well.”
“That is good to hear. I assume she is at home? You don’t live at the inn as well, right?”
“Oh, she…” Violaine trailed off and curled her loose lock of hair around her finger.
“They do not live here,” Yvette came to her rescue. “They live down the street in a little house and come every morning to the inn for work. Marie-Claire is someone who prefers to spend her time inside; you have to practically drag her outside.” She chuckled.
“I see,” said Cloudia. “How far is the kitchen from here?”
“It is down the corridor, why?” Yvette replied.
She raised her shoulders a bit. “I wondered when M Guilbert will join us again. While he is still absent, Mme Guilbert, may you tell me where you were earlier today? Were you with your daughter?”
“Yes,” Violaine answered. “Maxime and I were with her all day.”
Cloudia smiled. “I see. Spending time together with your family is good. As you have said that you were with her ‘all day,’ can I assume that you currently have no guests at the inn?”
Hesitatingly, Violaine shook her head. “No, we do not. We… we rarely get any guests at all. The stranger was the first in a while.”
“Must be terrible business,” Cloudia remarked, “having a pension in a place such as Nanteuil-la-Forêt. When it is not pouring, the village is beautiful enough, but it is certainly not in the best of locations.”
“We are working on advertising Nanteuil-la-Forêt,” Yvette said. “My father and M Descombes want to give Nanteuil-la-Forêt more presence and prominence as they want to share our cosy place with others. Soon, the inn will flourish because many will come here.”
“How very nice,” Cloudia replied. She pricked up her ears, but she could still not hear it. How curious. “Then, Vidocq and I should hurry to wrap up this case so that the inn’s flourishing will indeed happen ‘soon,’” she proceeded. “Though I suppose that a place that has once harboured a vicious murderer may become an attraction even without a pretty village around it.” She smiled at Yvette, and Yvette replied with a crooked, uneasy smile.
“Now, Mme Guilbert,” Cloudia began, “did you know any of the victims better? Mme Allemand, Dominique Duhamel, Gustave and Marius Beaubois?”
“I…” Violaine’s grip on her lock tightened. Cloudia almost feared that she would rip it out. “I knew Dominique, Gustave, and Marius. Marie-Claire went to school with them, but they were not very close.”
“I see. And the boys amongst one another? Were they close?”
“No,” said Violaine before she backtracked. “Yes. You must know how boys are at that age: often quarrelling and arguing, but still being close. It is a little hard to tell whether they are friends or not because of that. However, they were friendly.”
“Thank you for the information,” Cloudia said at the same time as Maxime returned with a cup of tea which he handed to his wife with a slightly breathless “Here, my dear.” Cloudia glanced at the floor and then smiled at Maxime. “Welcome back, M Guilbert. You have left us waiting for quite some time.”
***
~Cedric~
A few corridors into their little journey to his room, Cedric realised that Arnaud was not very talkative. He had associated noise with the boy; now, he understood that it was only attached to him in the form of Anaïs who would always talk and laugh. Cedric would not have minded this aspect on any other day, but right now, he needed anything to help him stay awake or he feared he would fall asleep here and now.
“Arnaud,” Cedric began. “What do you think about Anaïs calling Milton a faerie? I know Jacques does not like it, and I’m curious what you think of it. I think of it as childishly charming.”
“That is how Anaïs is,” Arnaud said. “She is very fond of associating people with something – as you have found out at her picnic.”
“Yes, she is,” Cedric replied. “Only she is especially insistent about the whole faerie affair.”
“Anaïs is also very fond of faeries. She loves reading about them and telling everyone about them. As Papa is an expert when it comes to birds, Anaïs loves to talk to him about faeries as they are, like birds, flying entities. They also sometimes explore forests.”
“In search of faeries?”
Arnaud nodded. “Anaïs, at least. Papa ‘helps.’”
“I see,” Cedric said and yawned. With difficulty, he dragged himself to his room with Arnaud’s guidance. At his blessed bedroom door, Cedric said goodbye to Arnaud and then walked straight to his bed.
A quick nap before Cloudia returned. I wanted to reach at least some level of rest until she came back so that we could talk. I also wanted to catch some sleep before dinner or I feared I might miss it like I had missed lunch.
With a tired half-smile on his face, Cedric took off his jacket and threw it on the closest chair, freed his hair from the band, and kicked off his shoes on the way to the bed. He was about to jump into it when he heard someone say, “How unsightly, Not-Kristopher.”
Cedric flinched and every fibre of his body sighed.
Could one not find rest in this damn château?
He rubbed his eyes. “Dammit, Cecelia, what are you doing here?”
Cecelia leaned back on the armchair she had made herself at home on. “Waiting for you, obviously.”
“But couldn’t you have waited a bit longer?”
“Don’t worry, Not-Kristopher. The servants have informed me about your sleepiness. Thus, I have brought you a gift.” She gestured to the little table in front of her which bore a tea service.
Cedric laughed hoarsely. “I’m not drinking anything you offer ever again,” he said, and she rolled her eyes. “A butler brewed the coffee. It’s to help you stay awake.”
He scrutinised the pot. “I don’t believe you. Now, leave.”
“You are being dramatic.”
“So would you be if you had been nearly killed by some unknown substance. Now, go.”
“Not-Kristopher, sit down.”
“I will laydown and you can go.”
Cecelia sighed and then poured herself a cup of coffee and took a sip without taking her eyes off Cedric. “See? I’m perfectly fine,” she said when she sat the cup down again. “There is only one pot. You will drink from it too. Its contents are fine. Now, stop being difficult and drink your coffee and sit down.”
Cedric ran a hand over his face, defeated, and then poured himself a cup and sat with it down on his bed. He sank into the soft blanket, and his heart tightened with longing to simply curl himself up in it and drift into dreams. Instead, he glared at Cecelia and took a deep gulp.
And started coughing.
“What isthat?” Cedric said, grimacing at the evil dark tincture in his cup.
“Coffee.”
“I hadcoffee. That’s not coffee. What’s this?”
Cecelia rolled her eyes. “It is coffee, Not-Kristopher. There are different kinds of tea. Did you think there wouldn’t be different kinds of coffee too?”
He scowled at his cup. “It’s vile and bitter. The coffee I had was a little bitter too, but not like this. I thought drinks have to be drinkable.”
“The French like their coffee harsh and bitter,” she said with an elegant shrug. “And you cannot deny it did not wake you up thoroughly.”
Cedric opened his mouth to say something but immediately closed it again. She was right. Even if the coffee itself might not have kicked in yet, its taste had certainly shaken off part of his sleepiness. He put his cup on the little table. “I don’t like anything that tastes bitter.”
“I realised.”
“That includes you.”
Cecelia laughed. “Oh, don’t make me repeat that to Cloudia.”
Cedric glared at her, and she smiled at him. “Now,” she said, “tell me: How was your day with Milton?”
***
~Cloudia~
Cloudia and Yvette said their goodbyes to Maxime and Violaine and headed back out into the rain and to the hospital. It had been an interesting conversation, and Cloudia could not wait to go over and discuss it with Cedric.
And write down everything in a fresh, new notebook. After Maxime’s arrival, I had taken out my notebook and learned that it had not survived the rain although I had safely put it in my pocket.
A new notebook, a night to myself. Normally, my memory was good enough that I did not really need to write everything down, but I liked to have everything structured and laid out in front of me. Also, good memory or not, one could not recall all at once, and writing everything down helped to draw everything out of one’s mind.
Considering the amount of input I had received in the last few days, it might be quite beneficial to write it all down.
And considering that I felt a little frayed – the dread of one of those episodes was always at the back of my mind – writing down everything when I still remembered it all would be for the best.
Yvette informed Cloudia that it was a relatively long way from the guesthouse to the hospital. Hearing of a distance was wildly different from experiencing it though. A “short ten-minute walk” could feel like an eternity when it went up a hill, the path was uneven, or the sky had spontaneously decided to empty its water storage for several weeks in a single day. If it was not a ten-minute walk, but a thirty-five-minute one with similarly awful conditions, one could not help but wonder which deity they had upset to have to suffer like that.
Just the hospital left. It was just the hospital left, I told myself all the way to it.
When Cloudia and Yvette finally arrived at the hospital, a nurse led them to a waiting room after greetings and introductions. There, Vivienne, the nurse, told them to sit down and wait while she would go to get the head doctor. Cloudia thanked her and sat down.
I was athletic. I trained whenever I could, but today’s ordeal was unnecessarily exhausting.
But it was just the corpses left now. At least for today, only the corpses were left. Then, it was time to–
Cloudia sat up straighter when another nurse hurried into the room, an angry man following her and demanding to speak to Laurent Michaux, the head doctor. The nurse began to say “I am sorry, but I cannot help you. I have already said that he has…” when Cloudia stood up and went to take hold of the man’s arm before he could grab the nurse’s.
“I am sorry for interfering,” Cloudia said to the man. He had looked stunned the moment she had taken his hand, but his surprise was slowly eaten away by his anger yet again. The nurse took a few steps back. “However, it seems that this situation is getting out of hand. Monsieur, may I ask you what you are doing? Yelling in a hospital and running after this nurse?”
The man narrowed his eyes at her. “And you are?” he said. He tried to get out of her grip, but Cloudia held on tight. He was considerably taller than her and seemed strongly built, so it was quite a strain to keep her grip on him, but she wouldn’t let go just yet. “Wait. I’ve never seen you before: You are one of those people from Paris, aren’t you?” the man continued and his tone became even angrier.
“Exactly. I am Jean Gauthier, Détective Alexandre Vidocq’s assistant,” Cloudia replied, holding her gaze steady when she looked at him. “And who are you?”
“Fernand!” exclaimed Yvette and walked to them with wide eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Yvette, what are you doing here?” the man asked.
“I am guiding M Gauthier through the village.” She turned to Cloudia. “My apologies. This is Fernand Beaubois, the father of Gustave and Marius. Could you perhaps let go of him?”
“Of course, I can,” Cloudia replied and glared at Fernand. “He has to promise not to do anything though.”
Fernand glared back at her. “Fine,” he growled. “I promise.”
Smiling at him, Cloudia let go. “Much obliged,” she said and then looked at the nurse who was standing frozen a few steps away from her. “Are you all right?”
The nurse nodded.
“Would you like to sit still? You look a little pale.”
“No, it’s fine. I need to be elsewhere now anyway.”
“I see. What is your name?”
The nurse blinked at her. “Uhm, Corrine.”
“Corrine, do you have a few minutes to spare or are you in a hurry? I want to ask you something, but it is fine if you have no time.”
“One question will be all right.”
Cloudia smiled at her. “Thanks, Corrine. Could you please tell me why M Beaubois has been running after you?”
Corrine glanced briefly at Fernand. “M Beaubois wants to speak to M Michaux about his sons. I was strictly instructed to send him and anyone else away as M Michaux does not want anyone to tamper with the bodies. It was decided that nobody could access or retrieve the bodies until the murderer is apprehended. I don’t have the power to undo that decision, and the doctor is busy right now. I have told M Beaubois this, but he does not want to hear and keeps enquiring.”
“‘Tampering’?” Fernand’s face turned red. “I only want to see my sons. I cannot understand why I’m forbidden from seeing them.”
“M Beaubois, as I said, I am sorry, but M Michaux has prohibited it specifically,” said Corinne with a halting voice. “No one is to see the bodies except for the doctor himself and the investigators until the murderer is caught.”
How interesting.
Cloudia smiled. She had been smiling so much all day; she hoped her face would not hurt tomorrow. “Thank you, Corinne. I will handle this from here on. We have impeded you enough.”
It seemed as if Corinne wanted to protest but then decided against it. She just bowed and said her thanks before she left the room. As soon as she was gone, Cloudia turned to Fernand who still looked highly displeased. “M Beaubois, I am sorry. It must be terrible for you not to be able to see your sons now. However, I cannot condone that you are directing your anger towards innocent people. I hope today will be an isolated case,” Cloudia said firmly. “At any rate, I am here because I sent two of my colleagues to the hospital earlier to inspect the bodies. Of course, this will not be the same, but I will promise to tell you about the conditions of your sons’ bodies – and make sure that the investigation will be wrapped up as soon as possible so that you can see them yourself before the funeral.”
Fernand continued to glare at her, and Cloudia fought back the urge to sigh and tell him that, if he neither wanted help nor reassurance, he could leave and stop wasting anyone’s time and pestering people. She was not patient enough for such things. Still, she forced herself to soften her voice and repeated, “I promise to ensure that Détective Vidocq will quickly wrap up the case. Also,” Cloudia sternly looked at him, “I was at your house earlier, M Beaubois, and met your wife and son. I know that you are hurting because of your loss. I promise to take care of the dead; I urge you to take care of the living.”
Fernand held her gaze for a while before his shoulders sacked. There was still fight left in him, but it had mostly cooled now. “You better catch the killer soon,” he said and then turned and left.
“M Gauthier, Yvette?” said Vivienne when she returned a few minutes later. “I will now lead you to the deadhouse – the doctor has said that he will meet you there.”
***
~Cedric~
“How should it have been? It was a normal day. We played some chess. Ate some sandwiches. That’s it,” Cedric said dryly, and Cecelia raised an eyebrow.
“Not-Kristopher, do you need more coffee? Because your mind still seems to be fogged from sleepiness – or are you deliberately answering my question in such an obviously avoidant way?”
“I have told you all we did today,” he replied. “Did you really expect thorough replies when you broke into my room and are now preventing me from sleeping?”
Cecelia chuckled. “You sure are prickly today, Not-Kristopher,” she said and broke into an impish grin. “Of course, I expected thorough replies because you know exactly that they are the only way to ever get me to leave. I also did not break into your room. A break-in is a forced entry, but your door was never locked and I, thankfully, did not have to resort to using force.” Cecelia took a sip of her coffee. “Please indulge me, Not-Kristopher, what did you and our dear Baron Salisbury do today?”
Cedric sighed. “We played chess and ate lunch I prepared because we missed the actual lunch.”
“I wondered where you two were.”
“You had lunch with the others? I thought you preferred to eat alone in your room.”
“And I do, but every once in a while, you should be polite and eat alongside your gracious hosts. Anyway, it must have been a veryengaging game for you to get so caught up.” Cecelia smiled. “Did you have any engaging conversations as well?”
“If you want to know if we talked – of course, we did. And I did learn a few more things about Milton. I just don’t think they will interest you much. It was nothing particularly substantial. However, what I can say after spending time with Milton today is that I doubt that he could be capable of something like arms smuggling. He’s overflowing with anxiety and can barely hold himself together. If he truly were a weapons smuggler, he would have surrendered himself to the authorities a long time ago.”
“Still, there is the rumour,” Cecelia replied.
“Yes. While I think that Milton is not involved in any smuggling himself, I do believe someone is using his company under his nose to engage in illicit activity.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Who do you believe to be the actual weapons smuggler, Not-Kristopher?”
“Wentworth,” Cedric said, and while he felt confident when he said it aloud, his confidence vanished when Cecelia started to laugh.
“Enough of the joking. Tell me, who do you believe to be the actual weapons smuggler if not Milton?”
“It… it was not a joke,” he replied, now feeling quite silly and foolish. No, I don’t have to be, he thought right afterwards. It makes sense that Wentworth is the culprit. I cannot allow Cecelia to talk me out of it; I only have to explain my logic to her.
“Wentworth? Don’t be absurd. It’s not him.”
“Are you saying this because you did not consider this possibility yourself? You only gave me notes on Milton; you only focus on Milton. Everyone does. Who would ever focus on the butler? That’s how Wentworth could do it – even if it was at the expense of Milton who is supposed to be his beloved protégé. You made no effort to look into Wentworth or consider him as a legitimate suspect, Cecelia, and now you–”
Cecelia glared at Cedric, effectively cutting him off. “Making false claims on my persona? On my abilities? Of course, I researched Abraham Wentworth, Not-Kristopher, who do you believe me to be? Only because I did not tell you about my findings regarding this part of my research does not mean I did not do it.”
“You did?” said Cedric, slightly taken aback. “Then why didn’t you inform me about this?”
“I did not inform you as I did not think it would be necessary, Not-Kristopher. We are, after all, focusing on Baron Salisbury, not on his butler. That’s what I’ve told you. I wanted you to focus on what is of importance. If I wanted you to keep an eye on Wentworth too, I would have given you two files, one for each.”
“But if you looked into Wentworth, you surely must have found anything that could explain everything – that incriminates him because I am sure his background is as sparsely documented as Milton’s and–”
“And why do you think that, Not-Kristopher?” Cecelia interrupted him.
“Because he has always been at Milton’s side, and Milton’s life is like ‘Swiss cheese’ as you said.”
“Of course, there’s a large gap between when Wentworth moved with Milton’s family to Milton’s mysterious birthplace until they went to London. Rather unfortunately for your speculative daydreams, the rest of Wentworth’s life is as well-documented as anyone else’s.”
Cedric blinked at her, and Cecelia sighed. “What do you want, you pathetic fool? Proof? A summary?” she said, and he slowly nodded.
“God, I cannot believe Cloudia has still not thrown you into a ditch,” she proceeded and poured herself a new cup of coffee.
“Abraham Wentworth was born in Cadgwith, Cornwall to Asher Wentworth, a fisher, and his wife Leah. They were not bathing in money, but they had enough to feed their family of six. Wentworth was the second oldest amongst four children; he had an older and a younger brother and a younger sister. His family was quite liked where they lived and their business provided food to the nearby gentry. This eventually allowed Wentworth to be schooled to be a butler in the household of Lord Helmer Carrington for whom he worked until he was hired by Milton’s grandmother in 1811.
“I hope you remember that Milton’s mother Kordelia was adopted after she had lost her entire family in a shipwreck of which she was the sole survivor? Her adopted mother was a certain Idella Scarborough who was quite the character.
“She had been adopted too, was a rich heiress, and quite the traveller and an acquaintance to many – amongst others, to Lord Carrington. When she took in Milton’s mother, Miss Scarborough – who was never married and, as I heard, very much refused to be wed – looked around for servants to hire. She did not have any herself as she thought they were only a hindrance in her nomadic lifestyle, but she changed her mind after becoming a mother as she certainly needed a bit of assistance to take care of her new daughter while scouring through Great Britain. At times, Miss Scarborough would even leave Kordelia and her little household in a rented house in Britain while she ventured to the continent. You can only wonder why she adopted Milton’s mother in the first place. After all, Miss Scarborough evidently had never planned to settle down and having a traumatised child and a few new servants did not quite agree to her chosen lifestyle… Surely, she needed an heir, but the timing seems to have been inconvenient… Anyway, enough of this; I am diverting.
“Miss Scarborough talked to Lord Carrington about searching for staff, and he warmly referred Wentworth to her. Wentworth was hired to take care of Kordelia Bloomfield – apparently, she took her adoptive mother’s surname for a while, but did not use it when she moved to London. Miss Scarborough also employed a maid and companion for Kordelia.
“The little household around Miss Scarborough – she, Kordelia, Wentworth, the maid, and a family friend – travelled through the kingdom until 1819. The longest they stayed at a place together was a month. When Miss Scarborough decided to cross the Channel, the others would stay at the same place for a considerably longer time. After eight years of constant travelling, Kordelia got tired of it and asked her mother if it was possible for her and the others to settle down somewhere while her mother would indulge in her travels on her own. Miss Scarborough accepted Kordelia’s request, and Kordelia went to live at her mysterious choice of settlement. There are reports that her mother visited her as often as she could – Kordelia was only fifteen at that time after all – but there is nothing on where Miss Scarborough went, where Kordelia chose to live. And this absolutely ridiculous circumstance leaves us with a gap of eighteen years.”
“A very large, very suspicious gap,” chimed in Cedric.
“Definitely, but not exactly something that would incriminate Wentworth now, eleven years after he re-emerged into common society with his household. There are no documents on Wentworth having been spotted anywhere else in those missing eighteen years, so I would presume he had simply been staying there, taking care of Kordelia Bloomfield’s household day in, day out. Still, this is obviously an eyebrow-raising topic and needs to be examined further. Unlike Milton, however, that’s the only gap in Wentworth’s timeline. After the death of his mistress, of Milton’s mother, in 1838 Wentworth was regularly seen running errands alone or accompanying Leland,” Cecelia said, counting the differences between Milton’s and Wentworth’s stories on her hand. “Milton was only seen twice in the same year. In 1841, Milton travelled overseas and did not take Wentworth or anyone else with him – he went alone. Again, Wentworth’s schedule is perfectly documented in contrast…”
“Wait – Milton went away alone?” Cedric cut her off, earning a glare from Cecelia. “He alwaystakes Wentworth with him, why not then?”
“That’s the mystery, Not-Kristopher, for God’s sake,” she snapped. “And how often do I have to tell you that you should not interrupt me!” She took a deep breath to calm herself down before she continued, “After Neal Salisbury’s death, Milton went missing from the public eye again; Wentworth was still seen in the city. When Milton engaged more in society, his butler was at his side, loyal and true as a shadow. When Milton was in Cardiff around the time of his uncle’s death, Wentworth was with him. He accompanied him to his travels afterwards – to Germany, to France, to Sweden… all the way to China and Korea and back. He was with him when Leland died. He was with him when he got involved with Cloudia. He was with him when he travelled again. He is with him now. Whenever Milton is in public or away, Wentworth is by his side; and when Milton is unseen, Wentworth is observed running errands for his young master. Wentworth’s file is airtight except for the eighteen-year gap. The rest of Milton’s gaps aren’t Wentworth’s too. He did not use them to his benefit to hide his criminal schemes if you believed that, Not-Kristopher.”
“But that does not mean he isn’t doing any criminal scheming; it only means that he didn’t hide it with that,” Cedric pointed out, and Cecelia rolled her eyes and took another sip of her coffee.
“You’re hopeless, Not-Kristopher, and I wish I brought something stronger to drink to get through this,” she said. “If you are so adamant about Abraham Wentworth being the true arms dealer, why don’t you explain his motives to me? After all, this business would harm the Salisbury Company – and it almost did. The Salisbury Company, the pride and joy of Milton’s family; his dear protégé’s company. Why should he purposefully try to exploit and hurt it? What is he gaining from it?”
“Maybe he doesn’t care for the Salisbury Company and Milton? Maybe he intends to ruin Milton and run off to have a better life elsewhere with all the money he accumulated on the side with his smuggling business?”
“You’re wrong: Wentworth does care for Lord Milton.”
“No, you are wrong. Milton flinched when Wentworth spoke to him in Dover. Wentworth left him alone when Milton was not feeling well. Does this sound like he cares to you? And since when are you a sentimental person?”
Cecelia put down her cup. “I am not sure if you know that, Not-Kristopher, but Milton needs his butler to function. In the time he was involved with Cloudia, she and I came to understand that Wentworth is his safety net. He is independent in any other manner, but emotionally he isn’t. This isn’t surprising considering that Wentworth is the only constant he has ever had. Everyone else either died over the years – his parents, his sister, his uncle, his cousin – or left; his mother’s lady companion and the family friend left his household in 1841.”
“This only proves how much Milton needs him. How much he loves Wentworth, not the other way around.”
“Cloudia grew fairly close to Lord Milton in the months they spent together,” said Cecelia, ignoring his interjection, and Cedric flinched a bit. He hoped that Cecelia hadn’t seen it, but she tilted her head and smiled. “She hasn’t told you yet, has she? I suppose she will soon, so be patient. And don’t contemplate to ask me. I have neither the time nor desire to inform you about those months. Also, Cloudia would be very mad at me if I did tell you, and I am already walking on thin ice with her considering that I researched Baron Salisbury and his butler.”
Cecelia leaned back. “At any rate, Cloudia grew quite close to Milton – not that she would ever admit this; their relationship has always been a little odd and complicated. And at some point, Milton told her that when he let go of his mother’s lady’s companion and his family friend left his household, he also talked to Wentworth about his retirement. Apparently, Wentworth was quite insistent that he would not retire anytime soon despite his advanced age.”
“Of course, he does not want to retire,” Cedric replied. “If he did, he would lose access to the Salisbury Company, and his illicit business would be harder to undertake.”
“Once you got your teeth into something, you really won’t let go of it, will you?” Cecelia sighed. “Cloudia did not go into detail as she may not know the full extent of Wentworth and Milton’s relationship, but from what I’ve heard, Wentworth very much cares for the Baron.”
“Milton said that while he views Wentworth as his family, Wentworth does not return this sentiment.”
“He’s a butler, is he not? I suppose he would want to keep a certain distance between himself and his master because his occupation requires him to do so. Just because he says that he does not think of Milton as family does not mean that this is the case. What you say is not necessarily the same as what you do and actually think and believe. Cloudia certainly believes that Wentworth cares a lot for Lord Milton.”
“And what about Dover? What about Wentworth’s neglect of Milton today?”
Cecelia rolled her eyes and poured herself another cup of coffee. “We are talking about Cloudia who has observed them for months and a few isolated cases that happened in the span of a few days. What may give us the best data to work with? You also care for Cloudia, don’t you? Do youget along with her all the time? Lord Milton and his butler are still human. Maybe saccharine Milton would never be upset with Wentworth, but Wentworth may have the capacity to be ‘harsh’ to a certain extend – and they have known each other since Milton’s birth. There isa certain familiarity and closeness between them; that cannot be denied. Also, have you asked why Wentworth was not with Milton today?”
“Wentworth wanted to spend time with Alfred and…” Cedric began before he stopped himself when the memory flowed back.
“Bram didn’t just leave me alone. I… I had to convince Bram for quite a while that I would be fine on my own. I didn’t mean to ruin Mr Newman’s day. I can look after myself after all.”
“Milton sent Wentworth away to be with Alfred because he knows they get along well and he did not want to hinder them from spending time together,” Cedric said ultimately.
“See? Milton ordered Wentworth to leave him alone – and a butler can only fight that much against his master’s wishes,” Cecelia said. “And in Dover… did the Baron flinch because his butler spoke to him or because someone said anything to him at all?”
Cedric blinked at her. “What?”
“In what state was Milton back then? Did he flinch because of Wentworth’s words or because of something else?”
“He flinched when Wentworth called him.”
“And?”
“Wentworth said Milton’s name when… when Milton was staring at Alfred,” Cedric replied haltingly, slowly drawing out each word as it dawned on him.
I had often seen Milton flinch like that. Every time he was deep in thought or very focused on something, and someone – anyone – interrupted him, he would flinch.
I had been the cause of this plenty of times.
Cecelia looked at her fingernails as she spoke. “Have you understood? Milton flinched not because Wentworth was the one who spoke and addressed him but because someone pulled him out of his thoughts.” She looked up. “And now, please answer this question for me:
“What is with you and your insistence to prove Milton’s innocence in this still very hypothetical matter that he may be an arms smuggler? Have you become so smitten with him in this short time? Or are you simply trying to convince everyone and yourself that you don’t hate and aren’t jealous of Milton for the petty fact that he was ‘there first,’ whatever this entails?”
“I am not jealous of Milton. I don’t hate him either.”
“Do you like him then?”
Cedric was silent, and Cecelia laughed. “Not-Kristopher, how idiotically amusing you are. What does it do for you to lie to yourself? No wonder why your hair is all grey. I never lie to myself as I believe it to be a matter too pointlessly exhausting. And look at me: As youthful as ever.” She leaned back. “So?”
“I barely know Milton,” Cedric said matter-of-factly. “I neither hate him nor am I particularly fond of him.”
“And still?”
“And still… There’s no ‘and still,’ Cecelia.”
“And still you were almost about to tell.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“No, you are being ridiculous,” replied Cecelia, raising her voice ever-so-slightly. “From all I know and from all I have heard, I believe that there must have been at least one instance today when you thought that there is something off about Milton. Am I right?”
Cedric stiffened a bit. Agitated by his stubbornness, Cecelia did not seem to notice as she energetically carried on. “I know you’re a fraud,” she said, “but I assume you have not lived under a rock until last year, have you? So, is there not something about Milton that strikes you as fundamentally odd?”
Cedric blinked at her. “I haven’t lived under a rock, but what do you mean? ‘Fundamentally odd’?”
She sighed. “A young man, well-bred, titled, extremely wealthy, and if I dare admit, rather easy on the eyes – do you understand it now?” Cecelia asked and when Cedric stared blankly at her, she sighed anew. “In his social class, people his age with such good attributes usually cannot save themselves from possible suitors – or are already married. I would even dare to say that if you ever glimpsed at Milton Salisbury’s bank statement, you would drop those trousers faster than humanly possible. Still, Milton is a bachelor, and there are only very few who even consider trying to win him over. In part, this has something to do with his constant travels, but then, don’t you think he should have still found someone by now? Maybe even in a different country? I believe Milton is like Blanche Ingram.”
“Blanche Ingram?” asked Cedric, and Cecelia rolled her eyes in frustration. “You cannot tell me I am the only one Cloudia is telling detailed plot summaries of novels to. I refuse to believe this.”
“Well, sometimes my brain automatically turns itself off while she rambles. I try to listen, but it’s an old habit and I haven’t managed to outgrow it yet…”
“What a wonderful suitor you are, Not-Kristopher. Cloudia should consider herself fortunate,” Cecelia deadpanned. “Anyway, what I want to say is that Blanche Ingram from Jane Eyre is beautiful, quite talented, and comes from a good family. All this should make her very desirable to everyone. However, like Milton, she is in her mid-twenties and still unmarried. For a woman, this is even more eyebrow-raising than for a man as women of the gentry usually marry in their early twenties or, in some cases, their late teens which means that she has surpassed the ‘usual’ age of marriage by a few years. The question is: Why does nobody want to marry Blanche Ingram despite her apparently good qualities? Because she’s a haughty person: beautiful on the outside, rotten on the inside with skin quivering in rot and on the edge of breaking up and falling apart. The kind of apple you would not even throw to the pigs. Beyond disgusting.”
“And you think Milton is like that… an apple rotten on the inside?”
“Maybe not as dramatically as Blanche, but I suppose there’s still rot inside him too. What kind of rot do you think it is? Blanche’s rot is her arrogance, her haughtiness, her ill-treatment of those below her in social status. I am aware Blanche does not know that Mr Rochester is in love with Jane Eyre by the time he faux-courts her. Still, imagine ‘indirectly’ insulting the governess of the ward of the man you are pursuing and that right in front of him? Reminiscing with your family how you maltreated your own governesses?” Cecelia shook her head. “Now, I am sounding like Cloudia, going on and on about books and fictional characters. What I am intending to say, and I am putting this as plainly and clearly as I can so that evenyou will understand it: There must be something about Milton Salisbury that is driving people away which is especially interesting as, from my observation, people are often strangely drawn to him as well. This is, of course, not always the case as can be seen from me and Cloudia’s maid Lisa Greene.”
Cedric yawned. He knew he should take another sip of the coffee, but every fibre of his being protested against it. “You are not particularly companionable people though.”
Cecelia raised an eyebrow. “Would you describe Cloudiaas a ‘particularly companionable person’?”
“No, but she’s not as openly hostile towards people as you and Miss Greene are. Or, well, in your case your hostility is packed up twenty times and wrapped to seem to be a gift.”
She smiled. “How nicely put, Not-Kristopher. Maybe your true calling is to be a writer of fiction. I believe Cloudia would very much welcome the career change.”
Cedric scowled at her, and Cecelia continued, “Maybe what draws others to him also keeps others away. However, I don’t think this characteristic of his is the one we are looking for. After all, this particular adverse effect does not seem to occur very frequently and, if it does, is more ‘severe’ if I can put it this way. Whatever drives others away from him must be something else. It may be more like a ‘feeling’ someone has in regards to Lord Milton rather than anything he does and says considering his personality.”
“Like some kind of ‘sinister gut feeling’ whenever he is around?” suggested Cedric.
Cecelia smiled. “Exactly. Have you felt something like that, Not-Kristopher?”
“I cannot say I have.”
She shrugged. “Very well.” Cecelia stood up, and relief made his heart jump.
I could sleep. I could have my peace. I could rest before Cloudia returned. I could rest to have the energy to talk to her for hours and hours, maybe even through the entire night. I-
“I will leave you now,” said Cecelia and those five words were an even more beautiful sound than the birdcage clock’s song to Cedric. She walked to the door, and he was ready to let himself drop onto his bed and promptly fall asleep as soon as the door fell into its lock behind her when she turned to him once more, a sly smile on her lips.
“This question has left me wondering for quite some time now, and I want to give it to you to ponder over as well,” Cecelia said.
“Have you never wondered why Lord Milton’s in love with our Cloudia?”
***
~Cloudia~
Hector hurried towards Cloudia, Yvette, and Vivienne as soon as he spotted them. “M Gauthier, Mlles Guilloux and Gaumont!” he greeted them with a wide smile. He was so happy and enthusiastic; one could almost forget that corpses were stored in the next room. Vivienne had told Cloudia that they did not have a separate deadhouse; they only refurbished a basement room to function as one some years back. They still called it a “deadhouse” though.
“I am glad you’ve finally arrived,” continued Hector.
“I am sorry to have left you and the others waiting for so long, Officier Monteil,” Cloudia returned. “Our conversation with M and Mme Guilbert took quite some time, and the way from there to here is long – and even longer in this horrible weather.”
Hector nodded a little excessively. “Indeed, indeed.”
A moment passed in which nobody said anything, though Hector kept smiling.
“Officier Monteil,” Cloudia asked slowly, “won’t you lead us into the deadhouse?”
“The deadhouse?” He looked to the door. “Oh. Oh, no. I cannot. I am prohibited from entering. I am standing here so that I am not a hindrance while they are working inside. M Fouille and Mlle Ledoux even told M Michaux to leave. However, he waits outside with me for a while, goes into the deadhouse to speak to your colleagues, M Gauthier, then comes back out, goes back in... I am not quite sure why. Every time, I try to stop him from entering, but he ignores me and goes inside anyway. M Michaux just entered the deadhouse again, so I would say that they will send him out any moment now. Mlle Ledoux in particular does not seem to enjoy being watched while she works.”
“That’s how she is,” Cloudia replied. “However, she does not mind when I see her work, so I would say that I can enter safely. If there is nothing else, I would like to go into the deadhouse to talk to my colleagues.” She stepped past Hector and barely touched the doorknob when he said, “The door is fairly heavy and a bit tricky to open. Not that I doubt that you can open it; it is just difficult and I want to warn you before you start to wonder. Perhaps, it would be better to wait until M Michaux is sent outside again…”
“Thank you, Officier Monteil, but I think I will be able to handle opening a door – no matter how heavy it is,” Cloudia said. She turned the knob and before she could push or pull the door – she assumed it was a “pull,” though could not be sure – the door opened and a man with greying hair came out… and flinched back when he noticed Cloudia.
“Not much was needed and then Mlle Ledoux could not oppose my presence in the deadhouse anymore,” Laurent Michaux said, glaring over his shoulder and into the room. Then, he cleared his throat and turned back to Cloudia and the others. “Vivienne, you are dismissed,” he said. “Please go and help out Corinne.”
Vivienne bowed her head and left without a word. Laurent cleared his throat again and held out his hand to Cloudia. “Laurent Michaux, pleased to meet you.”
Cloudia took his hand and shook it. “Jean Gauthier, likewise.” They let go of each other, and she proceeded to say, “I apologise if my colleagues have been troubling you too much.”
Laurent’s expression soured. “Not too much.” He narrowed his eyes and looked sideways to the deadhouse and closed the door to it.
Oh dear.
“M Michaux, may I briefly ask you a few questions?” Cloudia said.
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” she said and then proceeded to ask him about his relationship to the victims, to Nadia, Dominique, Gustave, and Marius. Laurent told her that he knew Nadia better than the others, but still barely knew her at all. He spent most of his time in the hospital or at home, wanting to spend the time he was not working away from people. As Laurent was one of the three physicians in the village, he was always pestered by everyone and, over the years, he had developed quite a distaste towards people. It did not affect his work; it only made him not spend any time with his fellow Nanteuillats. His house was even a bit farther away from the rest of the buildings to guarantee that he saw as few people as possible when he was home. Thus, Laurent had not been anywhere close to the crime scenes when the murders happened, though this circumstance did not provide him with an alibi that could protect him.
“I have one more question,” Cloudia said. “M Michaux, have you examined the corpses yourself? I know Grégoire and Maryse are currently examining them, but I want to know what you’ve learned before I talk to them about their findings.”
“I don’t have anything to say to that,” Laurent replied, and Cloudia looked at him in bewilderment. “I am not being uncooperative, M Gauthier. I did not examine the corpses myself at all.”
“Pardon?”
“Ever since I started working here as a doctor, I was never confronted with a murder case,” he explained. “Neither were the other two doctors. I asked them both, and both told me ‘Laurent, I am sorry, but I have no idea how to handle this.’ I stored the corpses and made sure they stayed in good condition which is not easy. Now, I am telling you what I have been told: M Gauthier, I have no idea how to handle this. Preserving the bodies was all I could do – Mlle Guilloux said I should keep them safe; it may be important for the investigation, she said. So I did. I cannot do anything else. Therefore, I cannot tell you about anything concerning the bodies, M Gauthier. I swear I did not tamper with the corpses in any way though.”
Cloudia nodded. “I see. Thank you for your efforts, M Michaux. They are much appreciated. Now, pardon me as I have just remembered that I wanted to ask you yet another question: I can see that the door is rather thick. Are the walls of the entire deadhouse built as thickly?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, they are. To contain any putrid smells. People also wanted to keep as much distance from the dead as possible. No one lying in a hospital wants to be constantly reminded that they may potentially die and end up in the deadhouse.”
“I see. I assume this also means that nobody can hear you gag or something like that?”
“Indeed. Nothing can penetrate these walls: no smells, no sound. That’s why always at least two people have to be here in case of an emergency. One has to remain close to the exit to get out quickly and call for help. It is quite tedious, and we are working to install some sort of bell system.”
“Thank you. That’s all I wanted to know. I know that you dislike it when you are told to leave your own workplace but may you please leave me and my colleagues alone? We have to discuss some matters of utmost importance and confidentiality,” said Cloudia.
“Of course,” Laurent begrudgingly replied. “I will wait for you upstairs if you need me.”
“Thanks. We will not take long.”
The doctor bowed his head to her. As soon as he was walking upstairs, Cloudia turned to Yvette and Hector. “This, of course, also applies to you. I am sorry, but you cannot go inside with me.”
They nodded, and Cloudia gave them an appreciative smile before she entered the deadhouse – a cold, grey, windowless room which was well-lit by multiple lamps – and closed the door behind her. Hector had not exaggerated: The door wasextraordinarily heavy.
“We can talk,” Cloudia said in English. “The walls are thick enough that nobody will hear us.”
“Oh, finally,” Lisa exclaimed. “I was going mad being moved around like a brainless game piece, not knowing what anyone is talking about, and not being able to say a single word. And then we were always with this girl – Yvette.” She grimaced. “I have no idea what she said all day, but she sounds insufferable.”
“Maybe when we are back in England or have some time left here after everything is wrapped up, you should learn French,” suggested Cloudia.
Lisa huffed. “Of what use is it to me then? The mission will be over; it’s unlikely that we’ll return to France. And it’s not like I am one of those fine ladies who may need to know French to find a husband, accumulating and listing ‘good traits and skills’ as if they are applying to a job, or to be able to continue gossiping even in the presence of lowly maids.”
“Oh, dear,” said Cloudia. “Kam, would you agree with me that Lisa’s grouchier than usual today?”
“I am not grouchier than usual.” Lisa turned to Kamden. “Mr Kamden, if you take her side, I’ll shave your head and make a broom out of your hair.”
Kamden looked between them. “I… I will not comment on the level of Miss Lisa’s grouchiness. However… learning French may be useful for you, Miss Lisa. You can never know enough. Mr Newman could help you practice.”
“You could listen in on the secret gossip of the young ladies you think are irritating,” Cloudia pointed out. “Imagine their faces if you reveal that you actually understood everything they said.”
Lisa crossed her arms in front of her. “Hm. This does sound intriguing. Let’s see.”
Cloudia clapped her hands together. “That’s good. Now, what did you find out?”
“Some things,” Lisa said. “Yvette is not the only nuisance. That man Lawrence…”
“Laurent.”
“…whatever his name is, is also tremendously annoying. Mr Kamden tells him to please go and wait outside, we want to do the examinations in private, and he keeps coming in! You have barely touched a corpse, he comes in, starts to chatter – don’t ask me what could be so urgent and important – and I stand here,” Lisa pointed next to a table with a body laid out on it, “or there,” she pointed to another table, “and can only think ‘If I could talk to him, I would cuss him straight to his own grave.’ Another reason why I should perhaps learn French. Mr Kamden has the most difficulty to get him out again – you know how soft he is – and I can only seethe and glare in silence. A pain. I don’t care what that doctor’s name is. He’s a pain. I’m calling him that – Pain.”
“‘Pain’ is bread in French,” Cloudia told her.
“That fits too. If we chop him up, we’ll likely find pieces of bread wedged between his cerebral lobes. Assembling the pieces might even give us a whole loaf.”
“A whole loaf?”
“A whole loaf! This village is infested with the most idiotic people.” Lisa gritted her teeth. “And then there’s this moronic police officer or whatever he is.”
“Hector Monteil.”
“He is so stupid, he’s wholly undeserving of any name. He got lost multiple times from the church to the hospital. We lost so much time because he has a worse sense of orientation than a headless chicken! And then when we finally arrived, he let Pain enter the deadhouse every two minutes! How can you be so spineless as a police officer? If someone says to maybe take care that someone does not enter a room – and Mr Kamden politely told him that after I could urge him to do so in the short window between us being all alone and Pain barging in again – you make sure that person does not enter the room!” Lisa pinched her nose. “If he was in charge of protecting someone, his protégé would die within minutes because he would let the killer into the room – maybe give them a little gift basket too.”
“Miss… Miss Liiisa,” Kamden said. “Do you want to sit down…?”
“Nice of you to ask, Mr Kamden, but I cannot simply sit down in Lady Cloudia’s presence.”
“You have my permission to sit,” Cloudia said.
“Well then,” Lisa replied and threw herself on the deadhouse’s singular chair.
Kamden took a deep breath. “Cloudie, what Miss Lisa was trying to say was that we did our best but were unable to do much due to outside factors.”
Lisa huffed and crossed her arms in front of her. “Don’t be so kind to those idiots, Mr Kamden. They hindered us at our work. It is a miracle that we managed to do a full external examination for all four bodies.”
Cloudia pressed her lips together. “That’s definitely not ideal.” She glanced at a clock and sighed. “And it’s too late to continue now.”
“It is not that late, Cloudie,” Kamden meant, but she shook her head. “No. Today is an awful day. You must be tired. I do not want to force you to do the internal examination now too. Also, if you do it while you are exhausted, you are more likely to make any mistakes which I’m sure you don’t want. This is not ideal at all and things can change overnight, but whether we like it or not you will have to continue tomorrow. The results of the external examination are better than nothing.” Cloudia leaned against the door. “Now, Kam, tell me, what did you find out? Then, we can finally head back and have dinner.”
Kamden grabbed his notes and walked to the table with Nadia’s body on it. “Nadia Allemand. 61 years old. Killed in the night from the 16th to the 17th of June. She was found by Mme Armelle Peletier in her tailor’s shop. As you can see, Cloudie, Mme Allemand wore only her nightgown when she was killed. Her bed was untouched, so it can be assumed that she was killed shortly after she changed clothes. Mme Allemand possibly heard noises downstairs and went to look for their source. I doubt the culprit changed her clothes; neither her wardrobe was in disarray nor could we find any marks that indicate this happened.” With his pencil, he pointed to the numerous pins that still protruded from Nadia’s corpse, though many had already been carefully removed and placed in bags. “Her nightgown exposes large parts of skin. Every exposed part has been meticulously punctured with pins. Miss Lisa found the same pins in a tea box at the tailor’s shop, meaning that the culprit knew Mme Allemand and used her own property against her. However, the pins were not the cause of her death.”
“It would be odd if they were,” Lisa continued. “They are quite thin and have not been stabbed very deeply into Mme Allemand’s skin. It’s a bit like acupuncture: There are so many pins in her skin and it makes for a horrifying image, but she did not die of that. I checked the needles and can say that they aren���t laced with poison.
“There’s nothing special about her nightgown; it’s some old rag-type thing, too often washed, too long in use. This is surprising considering that Mme Allemand used to be a seamstress. I guess, she was simply fond of it. Thomas is also weirdly attached to his especially stinky pieces of clothing that won’t ever lose their horse stench no matter how often I wash them.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, apart from the hundreds of little puncture holes, Mr Kamden and I found only one more outward blemish on her body.” Lisa touched the back of her head. “The backside of her head shows clear signs of blunt force trauma. Fractures in skulls aren’t as ‘flashy’ as hundreds of needles, I suppose, so it was overlooked. Mme Allemand was likely hit in the back with something and died. Then, the killer spent an ungodly amount of time putting metal-toothpicks into her skin for whatever reason. Maybe they wanted to distract from the head injury, no idea.”
Kamden moved to the next body and pointed with the pencil at it. “Dominique Duhamel. 19 years old. Killed in the night from the 17thto the 18th. He was found by the clergy when they went to the church to prepare for Sunday Mass. He was hanging from the church’s roof and a knife pierced his heart.” He pointed to the “empty” wound. “We removed and bagged the knife. The knife seems to be perfectly ordinary.”
“Imagine if the culprit had used a knife with their initials on it. We would only need everyone’s name and the case would be wrapped up in no time,” Lisa said. “We might have caught Townsend by now and be on our way home. Who knows?”
Cloudia sighed. “If only things were that easy,” she said and immediately remembered Cedric’s frequent suggestions to use “his method:” “Don’t be like that, Countess. You know that my method is much easier and faster. We can spend the time we save getting something to eat.” She knew that “his way” was indeed easier and faster; only, she did not want to become too reliant on such methods and use Cedric’s “short-cut.” As long as a case was not virtually unsolvable through regular means or she had not completely lost patience with an investigation, Cloudia had no desire to use it. While this investigation was wearing her nerves thin, it had not snapped them yet.
Maybe that would happen one day; maybe it would not. I hoped it would not. I very much wanted to avoid seeing Cedric’s triumphant face and hearing his snappish remark.
“Kam, please continue,” Cloudia said.
“Of course.” Kamden looked at Dominique’s body. “He was hanged on his neck, though he was not strangled to death. He was already dead by the time he was hanged. His neck didn’t break and uhm…” He looked at his notes. “M Duhamel was stabbed in his heart twice. The first stab killed him. Miss Lisa guesses that the murderer removed the knife when carrying his body to the roof as it may have been inconvenient to carry it with a knife protruding from it.”
“‘May’? Mr Kamden, I want to see you carrying a corpse with a knife lodged in its chest without any problems,” Lisa interjected.
“I wouldn’t be able to carry M Duhamel’s body though,” Kamden said. “Obviously, the culprit has to be strong as he was able to hang M Duhamel from the church’s roof. According to M l’Abbé, no contraption to get the body to the roof has been used after all. Also, Dominique Duhamel is quite muscular; it would not have been easy to carry him at all. We have no idea where he was actually killed before he was brought to the church.”
“Someone stabbed M Duhamel in the heart,” said Lisa. “Then, that someone brought him to the church, hanged him and stabbed him anew. It is curious that the culprit stabbed him again.”
“Indeed,” Cloudia replied. “I would say that it has some significance; maybe not the fact that he was stabbed twice, but that he was stabbed in the heart. It’s interesting that he was stabbed cleanly through the heart – and that the murderer made the effort to bring him to the church. Are there any other injuries? Any signs of a struggle?”
Kamden shook his head. “Nothing. I can’t say yet if he was drugged or not, but I would assume he was. It would be strange if he had stood still while someone stabbed him in the heart.” He moved to the next table. “Let’s continue with Gustave Beaubois. 18 years old. Killed in the night from the 18th to the 19th. He was found by Marc Cazal in the woods. He was lying on the ground, and, unlike M Duhamel, he was stabbed in the back. The kitchen knife that was used to kill him still protruded from his back. We bagged the knife too, and it is, again, a regular knife. M Gustave was lying on his stomach, but his head was turned to look up. His eyes were still open when he was found. Again, there were no signs of a fight. It is likely that he was also drugged before he was stabbed. His pockets have been emptied. Because he is the woodcutter’s son and helps his father a lot, I think, M Gustave is very fit and muscular.”
“If there had been a fight,” Lisa added, “he could have easily subdued his attacker. So, he musthave been drugged. However, there are no signs that Gustave Beaubois was carried to the woods. The culprit must have given him the drugs then and there, though why would he have taken something from someone he potentially did not know at all? It’s weird, but then the living residents of this place are all horribly dumb. I guess, he was as much of an idiot and took something a stranger gave him. In the forest, no less.”
“Or it was not a stranger,” suggested Cloudia. “The killer knew where Mme Allemand stored her pins. The killer could easily give Gustave something to drug him. If the stab to the heart and the church have some deeper personal significance, the killer may have known Dominique too. I do not want to completely disregard the ‘the murderer is the stranger’-hypothesis just now, but it seems more probable that the culprit is one of the villagers. Furthermore, the stranger was seen by multiple people – he does seem to exist. The question is: Where is he?”
Kamden nodded. “I would also say that one of the villagers is the true culprit.”
“And everyone is blaming the stranger because it’s always easier to blame the stranger,” said Lisa.
“Exactly.” Kamden walked to the fourth and final table. “Marius Beaubois. 17 years old. Killed in the night from the 19thto the 20th. He was found in the fountain on the village square by someone on their way to work. His entire body was submerged in the water. His skin is shrivelled because of this and his clothes are completely wet. It rained heavily that whole night, but he is not wearing a jacket or a cloak. There was also not an umbrella found at the crime scene. The rain made it impossible to check for any marks that indicate that he was carried to the fountain or that he fought against his assailant. Thus, unlike with the others, it is harder to discern whether M Marius knew his killer or not.
“M Marius did not drown. His head was smashed.” Kamden nonchalantly circled with his pencil over the damaged head. “He was both hit in the back and the front with possibly a hammer or something similar.”
“It looks like someone tried to pry open his scalp with a hammer and brute force,” commented Lisa. “As if the murderer saw Marius Beaubois and thought ‘oh, canned food.’ Only the culprit did not manage to open him up properly and then threw him in the fountain out of frustration.”
Kamden looked at her, horrified, and she shrugged. He blinked at her and then cleared his throat and looked through his notes. “I think that is all for now. We’ll have to look further into everything tomorrow.”
***
~Cedric~
“Have you never wondered why Lord Milton’s in love with our Cloudia?”
If I had not seen her eyes and knew better, I could make an excellent case detailing why Cecelia Williams was a demon – maybe even the devil. It would be a case so convincing that everyone would hunt her down, and I would finally be at peace.
Cedric rolled around on his bed, trying to shake away the question and rattle his restless mind into silence.
What had I even done to her? Nothing. Nothing at all. I was her “ally,” and she still did this to me. Heavens, how would Cecelia behave if I had done something to her? If I were her enemy?
If she ever found whoever killed her husband Michael, I would not want to know what she would do to that person.
Cedric turned and turned around. He rolled over his bed countless times, even changed his position from correctly to sideways to upside-down and all the way back. The bed must look like a warzone.
He kept his eyes firmly closed while he tried to find a comfortable sleeping position and shut out his thoughts. Unfortunately, Cedric was quite unsuccessful in either as Cecelia’s damn question had taken root in his mind: “Have you never wondered why Lord Milton’s in love with our Cloudia?”
He turned on his back and sighed. The question was haunting him, but he had refused to give it an answer.
Until now.
Lying in his bed for what must have been hours and being unable to find any sleep while a very persistent question asked by a demon lady knocked against the walls of his mind had drained the last bit of energy and strength Cedric had. His willpower had been filed off, and when the question knocked again, he answered in his mind: “How could he not.”
My sleepless, restless, haunted mind kept threading this string of thoughts into a cursed blanket that laid heavily over me.
I had no idea how they had met, how they had interacted and been at each other’s side, but if Milton had spent such a long time with Cloudia, he should have collected plenty of reasons to fall in love with her. How could he not have fallen in love with every bit of her being then?
The light in her eyes when she rambled about anything she was passionate about. The mischievous shine in her eyes when she had a witty remark on the top of her tongue. The triumphant smile whenever she solved a case. Her smiling face, her thinking face, her annoyed face when I teased and teased her…
Her sternness, her stubbornness, her eagerness to succeed and win. Her determination to take on all challenges. The calmness that appeared on her face whenever she was reading and which made her look so youthful – made her look as young as she actually was. Her softened expressions when she read a sad part, a lovely part, a funny part.
Her glares and scowls and strained patience… The brief moment of disdain that laid itself over her face whenever she had to eat olives – or any other bitter or overly salty food.
Her hand in mine. Her warmth against me.
The warmth that filled my body whenever she laughed at a silly joke or made one herself.
And her laugh. Her laugh, her laugh… Carved in my memory was the meadow in Wales, the sunshine, the bright blue sky… and her laugh that filled the air, rang in my ears and heart and which had been more beautiful than any song I had ever heard.
It was one of those memories I liked to dust off and replay on bleak, grey days when I had worked long, tiring hours, and her and my work had kept us apart and busy for too long.
If he had heard this laugh once too, what other reason could he even need to be in love with her?
“God, what am I thinking?” Cedric mumbled into his pillow. “What’s the matter with me,” he said and rolled around again, trying to shake off these thoughts, shake off these thoughts which had not arrived with Cecelia’s words. They had been infesting his mind for weeks and weeks and months and months. They had come one day in silence and never left again, no matter what Cedric did.
These thoughts had been there all this time, but he had managed to hide them away temporarily –only for Cecelia to drag them out again with her damn, damn question.
Cedric rolled around again, though his movement was a little too wild this time and he fell with a shriek. He opened his eyes, saw himself tangled in blankets and stared up at the ceiling.
If I did not know better, I would be certain that Cecelia was a demon.
“I am not,” said Cedric to himself as he struggled to sit up in this tangled mess he had made, “in love with the Countess.”
“I am not,” said Cedric as he pulled himself up and sat down on his bed, “in love with the Countess.”
He let himself fall back. “I am not in love with the Countess,” he said a moment before he sat up quickly, his heart pounding vehemently in his chest, because Newman came to his room to tell him that Cloudia and the others had returned and were currently taking baths.
***
~Cloudia~
Relief overcame Cloudia as soon as she walked over the threshold and into the château. It felt as if she had been away for a year or more, as if she had travelled far and long and finally returned home after spending a long time on the road and living through countless adventures. Only, she had been in the village down the road for less than a day. Cloudia wondered how intense the feeling of return would be when she came back to Phantomhive Manor after actually having travelled far and long with many hours on the road and adventures on the way.
One step after another.
First a bath. Then Cedric. Then catch the murderer. Then Townsend.
Then return home.
But, first, it was time for my bath…
“What is this mess?” Lisa asked. She pulled down her hood and stared at the weird “apparatus” that took up most of the entrance hall and even went up to the main staircase’s first landing. It was made out of all sorts of things, and Cloudia had no idea where to look as there was so much to see. So many unrelated objects – cutlery, books, wheels, toys, a service wagon, etc. – had come together to create this Frankenstein-construct, but for what purpose?
“That’s not a mess!” said a very upset voice. A second later, Anaïs walked into the entrance hall, carrying a few boxes of playing cards. Gérard followed her like a duckling.
“Miss Lisa,” Anaïs continued when she stood in front of them. “This is a chain-reaction machine Arnaud, Gérard, and I have been creating with Milton’s help.” With a bright smile on her face, she gestured to the machine. “Oh! And welcome back, of course,” Anaïs quickly added and curtsied to them.
“Thank you, Anaïs,” said Cloudia as servants came to help her, Kamden, and Lisa out of their wet cloaks and wrapped them in dry blankets. They wanted to usher them to their respective rooms to take a hot bath and change clothes, but Cloudia told the servants to prepare the baths and that they would go to their rooms in a little while on their own. With nods, they left, and Cloudia, Lisa, Kamden, Anaïs, and Gérard were alone in the entrance hall.
“With this now over…” Cloudia said and wrapped the blanket tighter around her. She yearned for this bath, but her curiosity prevented her from rushing to her room just now. “…could you tell me more about this chain-reaction machine as you have called it, Anaïs?”
Anaïs nodded enthusiastically. “After lunch, Arnaud, Gérard, and I explored the château. We have been here so often, but its unique shape allows you to discover new things, no matter how well you think you may know the place. So, we found this one room and a beautiful clock was in it. All gold, shaped like a cage – it even had a bird inside! And the bird sings!” She sighed. “It’s sopretty, Claudette! But then we made a mistake and the clock was damaged. The bird fell off and the clock stopped working… We panicked and walked around in the château and eventually met Duke Kristopher and Milton. Milton recognised the clock and said it is a Jaquet-Droz and very expensive and important. We panicked even more and then he said he could perhaps repair the clock! We went to his room, and it was like magic, actual magichow he fixed the clock, Claudette! I shudder only thinking about it. Afterwards, Duke Kristopher went back to his room because he was sleepy. We returned the clock to its original place and then gathered all kinds of objects to build a chain-reaction machine. As you know, Milton can’t be left alone now, so I suggested that we could build something together if he can do such things, and he said we could make a chain-reaction machine. And it’s been so fun to put everything together! Milton is amazing. He thought of most, but we helped too, of course. We are almost done! He and Arnaud should return soon with the last few bits and then we can see if the machine works. I know you are wet and tired, but it will not take long, I suppose, until they come back.” Anaïs looked at Cloudia with big eyes.
Cloudia blinked at her cousin, trying to make sense of her words. Milton had fixed a broken birdcage clock that could sing? A Jaquet-Droz even? She had heard of the Jaquet-Droz and Leschot clocks and while she did not know much about them, she knew that they were definitely not simple to build or repair. And then, Milton had also planned out this convoluted monster-machine that had taken over the entrance hall and wound up the stairs?
“Yes, I will wait a while to see the machine in motion,” Cloudia eventually said. “But Milton and Arnaud better be quick.”
Anaïs smiled at her and then turned to Kamden and Lisa. “And what about you two?”
Kamden glanced at the machine. “I think… I think I’ll wait and see the demonstration.”
“Lady Anaïs,” said Lisa, “excuse me, but I will not stay. I am wet and cold to my bones, so I must decline.”
“I understand. Warm yourself up well, Miss Lisa,” Anaïs replied, and Lisa bowed her head at her words. She was about to leave when Newman and Wentworth entered the entrance hall.
Immediately, Lisa stopped in her tracks and huffed at Newman’s sight. “There you are,” she said. “I have started to wonder whether you were eaten by this unnecessarily confusing building.”
A soft blush crept into Newman’s cheeks. “I profusely apologise, Lisa. I have been busy all day. Still, I should have worked harder to wish you a good morning earlier at least.”
“How dramatic you are being, Al,” said Lisa as if she had not complained about his busyness and absence this very morning and said that she had begun to believe that he was eaten by the château a moment ago. “It’s fine.”
“Let me make it up for you later,” Newman replied with a smile and then turned to look at Cloudia and Kamden as well. “Welcome back, Lady Cloudia, Mr Emyr,” he said with a bow. “I suppose preparations for your baths are being undertaken at this moment?”
Cloudia nodded. “Indeed, though Emyr and I are waiting until Milton and Arnaud arrive so that we can watch the chain-reaction machine’s demonstration.”
“I see,” Newman replied, and right on cue, Milton and Arnaud entered the entrance hall. They halted at everyone’s sight.
“Lady Cloudia, Emyr, Miss Greene,” said Milton, looking rather surprised to see them. “Welcome back. I did not expect to see you here. Or you, Mr Newman and Bram.”
“Everyone has been waiting for you, Milton,” Cloudia told him. “We are very much looking forward to seeing you demonstrate the machine you put together with Anaïs, Arnaud, and Gérard.”
Milton’s eyes widened. “You have been waiting to see this machine work although you are wet and cold?”
Kamden nodded. “Yes.”
Milton blushed and looked down at the final piece in his hands, a small toy wagon. “Then, we should not leave you waiting any longer.” He was about to set out to make his finishing touches on the machine when Wentworth said, “A moment, please, Master Milton.”
Milton turned to his butler who walked to him, held his arm, and put a hand on his cheek to crane his head to inspect him. “Mor,” Wentworth said softly. Cloudia had heard this voice of his many times before; still, it always surprised her anew. “We have been separated all day – how have you been?” the old butler continued. “Did you get lost?”
Milton leaned a bit into his touch. “Almost,” he answered faintly. Their conversation, despite being held in the presence of others, felt so private, Cloudia was nearly embarrassed for listening to it. “But Kristopher was there for me, and then Anaïs, Arnaud, and Gérard. It was all right. I am all right – I am as well as the circumstances allow me to be, Bram.”
Wentworth let go of Milton’s arm and cheek, and Cloudia could have sworn to have seen a smile on the butler’s face for a split second. “That is good to hear, Master Milton.”
Cloudia tore her eyes from the scene – and noticed Lisa next to her grimacing at them which made her chuckle. Lisa had always disliked seeing Milton and Wentworth displaying their closeness.
Some things never changed.
“Ah, the chain-reaction machine,” Milton exclaimed, “but first before I forget it.”
He swiftly took hold of Kamden’s hand, and Kamden blinked at him, clearly taken aback by the sudden touch. “I know this is several hours late,” said Milton with a smile on his face. “Still, I wanted to thank you for helping me during breakfast.”
Kamden blushed and promptly looked away. “Youu… Yooou’re we-welcome, Milton.”
Milton’s smile brightened a little and then an embarrassed blush crept into his cheeks and he let go of Kamden’s hand. “I am so sorry, Emyr. I got carried away. I didn’t mean to take your hand like that.”
“No-no, it… it is aaall right,” Kamden replied, still keeping his gaze diverted from Milton.
Milton smiled awkwardly at him and then looked at Anaïs. “Anaïs, do you have the card games?”
“Yes, I do!” Happily, she handed them to Milton. “Thanks,” he said and then hurried upstairs to do… something. Cloudia could not tell what he was doing from where she was standing, though he seemed deep in concentration as he set the pieces in place.
“Anaïs, Arnaud, Gérard,” Milton said after a little while. “May you come up here please to set the machine in motion?”
The children looked at one another for a moment before they bolted upstairs with surprising care not to destroy the precarious apparatus. When they arrived by Milton’s side, he turned to speak to those downstairs, a shy smile on his lips, “It has been a while since I last created a chain-reaction machine, but as this one has been a group effort – and Anaïs, Arnaud, and Gérard did so well for this being their first one – I would say that it will be a success. I hope you will enjoy the demonstration.” He nodded to the children who together pushed the wagon forward to set the machine in motion.
The wagon collided with a row of playing stones that fell down one by one. Like dominos, they fell – and so did the rest of the machine. One part fell into the other, drove into the other, circled and catapulted and pirouetted and rolled into the next. One by one, the separate parts and objects handed the energy the children had put into the machine with their push to the next in line. This inanimate relay race continued down the stairs, circled and zig-zagged over the entrance hall’s floor. It was fascinating to watch the objects interact, and all their interactions cumulated into a set of domino stones falling against a doll that had held down a wound-up music box. The doll tumbled down, the pressure was taken from the music box – and its song echoed through the hall.
Excitedly, Anaïs and Gérard and even calm Arnaud jumped up and down when the music box’s melody rang out. “It worked! It worked!” they chanted and hugged one another.
Cloudia started to clap and the others joined her, even Lisa who had said that she would leave but who had been intently watching the machine in action. The children hugged a taken-aback Milton. He turned red in all this joy and the praise he and the children received from those downstairs. It was a lovely sight, and it had been a triumphant, satisfying moment when the box had begun to sing. Still, a bad feeling had overcome Cloudia when the machine had reached its end. She was glad no one noticed how stiff her clapping was.
***
~Cedric~
Cedric thanked Newman for the information, and when Newman asked him what had happened to his bed and offered to tidy up everything, he declined the offer and said he would fix it himself. He forced himself to smile to seem normal and not distressed from his mind infestation and sleep deprivation. Then, Newman left, and the first thing Cedric did afterwards was to rub his eyes and stand up. He swayed a little, but quickly recovered and went to the little desk where Cecelia’s evil coffee still was.
Cedric had planned to sleep a bit before Cloudia’s return so that he would be energised enough again to be able to talk to her at length. Only he had been unable to catch any sleep, and the coffee had helped him earlier. It would have to help him now too. Cedric braced himself before he poured himself another cup and drank it like it was bitter medicine.
It was worse than before. Earlier, it had at least been hot and fresh, now it was cold, and every fibre of his being protested as Cedric forced the cup down.
If this didn’t work now…
Grimacing, Cedric put the cup down. It was as vile as before, and the coffee’s bitter taste stuck to his mouth and throat in the worst way possible. He then walked to his bathroom and splashed cold water into his face – however, he had forgotten to remove his glasses first. Cedric cursed and took them off. His vision blurred, and he kept his face close to the furniture to see anything at all. It must have looked comical how he was hunched over, dripping to the ground and onto objects, carefully moving from the sink to the shelves to find tissues. Normally, Cedric would have wiped his glasses on his clothes, but that would wet them, and he neither wanted to look even more dishevelled than he already did when he met Cloudia nor was he pretending that he would have enough energy to change.
If someone entered my room now…
After an agonising while, Cedric finally found some tissues and dried his glasses. He put them back on, walked back to the sink, took them off to wash his face again and dry himself off, and then put his glasses back on. He felt like a fool with every action he took, but it couldn’t be helped. Cedric rubbed his eyes and squinted at his reflection.
He looked awful. Maybe, before he had washed his face, he had looked worse, but he had forgotten to look into the mirror beforehand. At any rate, he looked pale and exhausted and had dark rings under his eyes. Cedric knocked against his head to set his tired brain in motion to think of good excuses and come-backs for later when Cloudia would remark on his appearance. At least, while he could not fix his face, he could fix his hair which had turned into a bird’s nest.
Cedric leaned against the sink – he wanted to sit down but knew very well that he would be unable to stand up again if he did – and stared at his reflection while he brushed and brushed his hair. The length was a hassle. Hard to wash, hard to brush, hard to maintain. Still, Cedric could not imagine ever cutting off more than just the tips again.
When he had brushed out all knots, Cedric bound his hair to a ponytail and then stood for a moment in his bathroom. The coffee’s bitter taste still clung to him, and the cold water had minimally helped to wake him up.
Maybe I should move around a bit. Wake up my body, get my blood pumping. I had no idea how many minutes ago Newman had come to tell me that Cloudia, Kamden, and Lisa had returned from Nanteuil-la-Forêt, though I discerned that enough time must have passed that Cloudia would now be in her room.
I guessed she would want to talk. She always did even if I were to say nothing at all, not that I had ever sat quietly and listened; she liked to have someone to whom she could talk about her cases. Talking to yourself too often was, after all, maybe not the healthiest in the long run.
Still, I didn’t think that Cloudia would come to seek me out. She would want me to come to her. After all, I had, theoretically, the opportunity to rest and catch up on some sleep, and she had been wandering around Nanteuil-la-Forêt all day in terrible weather and must now be awfully exhausted. Cloudia couldn’t know that I had delayed my rest and that Cecelia had come to ruin my day and sleep.
Of course, I could tell her that “yes, I know that you are expecting me to come to you, but Cecelia was being a nuisance and did not let me sleep, so could you come to me instead?” But I didn’t want to sound whiny, and moving would likely help me to shake away some of my sleepiness. And I needed to be, I wanted to be awake when I talked to Cloudia. I had, after all, much to say to her too.
Cedric clapped his cheeks a bit and then coerced his protesting body to leave the room and get to Cloudia’s. At least, it was not far.
***
~Cloudia~
Cloudia sighed in relief when she slipped into the warm bath. She had known that she needed this for hours, but she had not known how much she needed this until she was doused in water.
My body warmed up and relaxed, soaked in bubbly, scented water. The water soothed my muscles, untangled my thoughts that laid in my mind as a ball of string. The strings came loose, snippets of today rattled my mind: the carriage ride, the rain, Yvette, Antoine, the tailor’s shop, the bakery, the church, Nicolette and Marcel, Hector, Armelle, the rain, the rain…
I could stay in the bath forever. Let my skin shrivel for warmth and relaxation, for comfort and peace.
At least, I wanted to stay until I could sort all I learned today and the days before. Bring the pieces together bit by bit like the chain-reaction machine, laying the pieces out one by one in my head before I wrote them down. Laying them out until they clicked into place and I reached a conclusion.
But it was only a small part of me that wanted to remain here. To think this through all by myself. A small piece that was still the lonely girl of the past that had no one to talk to, no one to listen to her words.
I had one now.
With yet another sigh, Cloudia emerged from the water. Her body was refilled with energy. She could do anything – sprint over fields, climb mountains, swim across seas – but for now, it was enough to get dressed and cross a few corridors.
And the thought excited her more than anything else she could do now.
***
~Cedric~
It was such a short way to Cloudia’s room, but Cedric’s tired bones made him feel every step, every movement, every minute and second. It was not a long way; still, he felt like he had been wandering for hours like an adventurer crossing forests, deserts, glaciers in the hope to find anything at all that was not a tree, a dune, a sheet of ice.
Cedric had seen enough carpets, enough lamps and portraits and vases of flowers, had wandered enough corridors that looked the same.
His destination was so close, yet so far. And so he trudged through monotony until finally, finally he arrived.
***
~Cloudia~
Quickly, Cloudia put on layer after layer of undergarments before she stepped into a yellow dress. It was not a colour she usually wore and would pick herself. Cecelia had chosen the dress, telling her that yellow complemented blue and that she was young and should bring more colour and change to her wardrobe. Cloudia had accepted the gift with a raised eyebrow. After all, she very much doubted that even though blue and yellow were complements, the dress would look flattering on her – and Cecelia who had not worn anything but black for nearly seven years had made this remark. On a whim, Cloudia had agreed to pack the dress when Lisa and she had been laughing over it during travel preparations. And she had only chosen to wear it now because, after all that rain, she could not bear to wear anything blue or dark.
Now, wearing it for the first time and looking at herself in a full-length mirror, Cloudia had to admit that Cecelia had chosen well: She looked brighter, looked like she was glowing, and the yellow of the dress went exceptionally well with the blue of her eyes and hair. Baffled, Cloudia gazed at herself from all sides. If Cecelia saw her in this dress, she would never talk about anything else again.
Let her talk. I did not care. At least not now.
Cloudia tore her gaze from her reflection and then went to leave her room. Talking to Cedric about cases had become a normalcy in the past months; he would expect that she wanted to talk about the Nanteuil-la-Forêt murders now. Expecting this, Cedric often came to her, but Cloudia would seek him out just as often. She could wait a while until he appeared on his own. However, she doubted this would happen today: Even if Cedric had been able to sleep for a few hours, he would still be tired. Newman would have informed him of her return by now, and this and the expectancy that she wanted to talk made her sure that Cedric was awake now – awake and waiting as he, while he was ready to talk and listen, would not want to go to her room in his current state.
It was her turn to visit him.
Cloudia pushed open the door and walked down the corridors to his room. It was, thankfully, not very far.
***
~Cedric~
The carpet looked the same in all passages. No matter the wing nor the floor, the carpet was a rich burgundy hemmed with gold and lightly threaded with other shades of dark red. Every step Cedric took was heavy as if his shoes were made of lead. The corridor did not seem to end, and he grew sick of the carpet.
And then a dash of yellow entered his sight. The colour clashed horribly with the carpet but still brought a smile to Cedric’s lips.
***
~Cloudia~
Energised by the bath, Cloudia wanted to dash through the halls, gather her skirts and run, but she held herself back and covered the distance between her and Cedric’s room in long, fast steps instead. The corridors’ colours blurred a little, ran into one another – the burgundy of the carpet, the beige of the walls, the gold of the frames and the light emitted by the lamps –, partially because of her speed, partially because Cloudia did not pay much attention to them.
Gracefully hurrying through the halls, it did not take long until Cloudia spotted a dark figure. He moved slowly and did not mix with the other colours. A steady, separate spectre – and she smiled upon seeing him.
***
~Cedric~
Cedric wanted to rush to her, wrap his arms around her, whirl her around. Only, his body betrayed him, and while he made the first step after they both had halted for a moment when they had spotted each other, it was her who reached him first.
He wanted to tip forward, fall forward and into her arms, but he caught himself and stood upright.
“Undertaker,” Cloudia said, and his heart stopped for a second when she took his hand and smiled at him, shining so brightly from inside and from outside in this yellow dress… “Undertaker, come, let’s go.”
***
~Cloudia~
Cedric’s body temperature was slightly too low. It was something she always noted whenever she touched him. Colder than the living, warmer than the dead. Cloudia wondered if it was a trait he shared with the other Grim Reapers or one that was all his own. She tightened her grip on his hand and did not let go until they were inside her room and she had placed Cedric in an armchair. As soon as she let go of him, he fell back into the chair like a puppet whose strings were cut. He looked pale and had dark rings under his eyes. The few hours of sleep she guessed he had definitely hadn’t been enough. Cedric certainly needed to get back to bed after their conversation and dinner.
Cloudia clenched and unclenched her hand. Apparently, it was now her hand’s turn to be cold. She sat down on a sofa opposite Cedric and when she was done arranging her skirts and brushing her hands over them, she looked up and saw him grinning like an idiot at her.
“You are grinning like an idiot at me,” Cloudia said, and his smile widened.
“I must be an idiot,” Cedric replied, and she was stunned by his sudden introspection. “Because I missed you all day, Countess. You were gone for a day, not even a day, but it feels like years have passed since we’ve last seen each other.”
Cloudia chuckled, and he continued, “Who would have thought that, at the end of the day, you are the most normal person here.”
“Beside you?”
“Beside me, of course.”
“I would not exactly describe you as ‘normal’ in any way, Undertaker.”
“Me neither, but this is a madhouse! A madhouse! No matter how weird you are, you become the most normal person as soon as you enter a madhouse. The competition is too hard.”
“Even for you?”
“Even for me.”
Cedric smiled at her, and she smiled at him. There were a million things she could have said now, so many possibilities that were ready to be spoken out – and out of them all, Cloudia chose a question she wanted to ask, but not one that rang true now. “How was your day, Undertaker? Did you play chess with Milton like you planned to?”
Cedric sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I was able to play chess with Milton. He was fairly good, but I still beat him every time. Except once.”
Cloudia’s eyes widened, and he laughed. “I lost on purpose! He is doing so badly today; I didn’t want to be too hard on him. I let him win the first round we played, but Milton noticed it and told me to play normally. I did not think that he would notice. But then – I told you that, remember? – he somehow correctly guessed that I’m allergic to cats. Milton is as strange as he is nice. Anyway, we also ate together and then he fixed some pretty birdcage clock Anaïs, Gérard, and Arnaud accidentally damaged.”
“Anaïs told me about it,” Cloudia said. “Earlier in the entrance hall. They were building a chain-reaction machine there, and we arrived just in time for it to be completed and watch the demonstration.” She let her gaze drift through the room, let her eyes jump from shelves to books to lamps to paintings.
“You look worried. Are you all right?” Cedric asked, and she looked back at him. “I am. There is just so much on my mind right now, as you know,” Cloudia replied. She took a deep breath. “I… I didn’t know that Milton could build such things.”
“You didn’t?”
She shook her head. “I would say that I know him fairly well, but I did not know about this until today. Just like I didn’t know that you were allergic to cats until today.”
“It never came up. We’ve never run into a cat together, and I could start to sneeze like I’m a step away from my second death and tell you, ‘Countess, I have a confession to make: I am allergic to cats.’ You were my cat-repellent until now, Countess.” Cedric shifted in his seat. “You can know people for years – friends, family, colleagues, etc. – and never know all they are. Some things simply do not come up in conversations. You can know people for decades and still discover new aspects of them. It happens.”
“You’re right. It’s only…” Cloudia sighed and brushed non-existent dust from her dress. “I doubt this will become an issue. I do not want to sound overly arrogant, but if I didn’t know, what are the chances many others do? Milton’s quite isolated after all. Still, I cannot wonder: How many do know about this and how good he is?”
Cedric blinked at her and then his eyes widened when he understood what she meant. “The box.”
Cloudia nodded. “The box. It was the first thing that came to my mind when I saw the chain-reaction machine work. I’m not sure if you’ve seen it, but it’s not a simple construction at all. And the Jaquet-Droz clock – I have heard of those clocks! They aren’t easy to create or fix either. I have no idea if this means that Milton can open the Queen’s box. It doesn’t even matter if he can or not. If Townsend could not find the Clockmaker and learned that Milton might also be able to open it, he would definitely force him to try.”
Cedric took a deep breath. “I would say you are worrying too much about this, Countess. As you have said, it is highly unlikely anyone knows beside those who are here in the château…” He suddenly stopped talking and all colour vanished from his face.
“Undertaker?” Cloudia said and stood up to walk to him. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, but...” He looked at her. “Countess, I’ve been in cahoots with a demon.”
“Excuse me?”
“You see, Countess, two days ago, Cecelia gave me some papers on Milton. She said that you forbade her to research him, but she still did it because she didn’t want to go on the same ship as him unless she knew all about him. Only she could not find out everything because Milton’s extraordinarily secretive and large parts of his history are widely unknown. That’s not all: Cecelia has also heard of a weird rumour that Milton’s smuggling weapons with his trading company! Those rumours surfaced one day. Interestingly, before they could blow up and be everywhere, they vanished overnight. Cecelia caught them in time though and as the situation is so odd, she is, of course, especially suspicious. Rumours don’t have to mean anything, but the fact that they disappeared that fast means that someone wanted to get rid of them. Of course, this could have been done to protect the Salisbury Company’s reputation, though it’s unclear if this was the case or if there’s not another reason…
“Anyway, Cecelia is immensely suspicious when it comes to Milton. The rumour is bad enough, but then there is also his hidden history. It’s easy for her to find out everything about anyone else; only, she cannot find out many things about Milton. It annoys her. It also annoys her that he learns his employees’ names and gives them gifts and amazing pay and benefits. Cecelia thinks that it is only a ‘good persona’ and that he is, in fact, a terrible person. As Cecelia is Cecelia, she does not want to take the rumours at face value and told me about them so that I can spend time with Milton for her and find out if he seems like the kind of person who would viciously smuggle weapons.
“I think that everything about this is silly. I swear I only spent time with Milton because I wanted to spend time with Milton and because there was no one else I could spend the day with – not because Cecelia made me do it. Only, of course, her wicked words were always at the back of my head while we talked and played and cooked and you know. And I spent the entire day with Milton! It was interesting. He’s very odd, but under no circumstance, I would say that Milton is an arms smuggler. This doesn’t fit at all. And then I thought: If Milton is not the smuggler but his company is, in fact, involved in illicit activities and that’s how the rumour came to be, who else could be the smuggler? Milton is so careful and observant. However, he mentioned that he is good at ‘reading’ people – except for Wentworth. Thus, I thought: Wentworth is so close to Milton, and Milton can’t ‘read’ him, so it would be fairly easy for Wentworth to exploit Milton and use his company for his illicit activities. I told Cecelia how I believe Wentworth to be the actual weapons smuggler and she laughed in my face – she actually laughed at me! – because she thinks my hypothesis is beyond outlandish.
“And now, you have talked about Milton and his hobby of fixing and building objects and machines and whatnot and who could know of it: Wentworth knows of it! He literally watched him grow up and changed his garments when he was an infant! He knows of Milton’s aptitude and is apparently a dangerous smuggler that does not seem to genuinely care for Milton: Who says that he wouldn’thand Milton over to Townsend?” Cedric clapped his hands to his cheeks. “Countess! Milton is here because something went wrong with his company! What if Wentworth made sure something would go wrong and Milton had to go to France of all places to fix the problem? Like that, he brings Milton to Townsend without him knowing! Perhaps, Wentworth is already in cahoots with Townsend like I am in cahoots with the demon Cecelia. What if Townsend is not here but in Paris and Wentworth will give Milton to him when they go there? What if…”
“Undertaker,” Cloudia said, holding up her hands to emphasise that he should stop. “How much sleep did you get today?”
“I am not sleepy. No worries, Countess. Where was I again? Oh right… What if…”
“Undertaker.” She walked to him and looked down at him, narrowing her eyes. “How much sleep did you get? Did you take a nap before I arrived or not?”
Cedric sank deeper into the armchair’s cushions. “I tried but I could not. But I am awake, Countess. I drank the horrible coffee Cecelia gave me. I put my face in ice-cold water and all.”
For a moment, Cloudia was surprised that he had done all this and wondered what reason he could have had. Then, she sat down on the armrest and said softly, “Undertaker, you are talking nonsense. You always do. Right now, it is especially nonsensical. Wentworth and Milton hold each other very dearly. They would never do anything to each other. And don’t listen to that rumour: Milton would never do anything like that. Maybe someone else has been secretly using Salisbury Trading to smuggle weapons, but I assure you that it was neither Milton himself nor Wentworth.” Cloudia chuckled to herself. “What else has your exhausted brain cooked up, Undertaker? That Milton is the murderer terrorising Nanteuil-la-Forêt?”
Cedric slipped a bit down from the chair, and Cloudia stared blankly at him. “You cannot be serious.”
I had been looking forward to this – and he came with that? Seriously?
“Countess, I know it sounds a bit outlandish, but hear me out,” Cedric honestly continued and sat up properly again, and Cloudia was too poleaxed to interrupt him just now. “You remember what Maxime said? The stranger is a tall man – Milton is a tall man! The stranger likes to vanish – Milton likes to vanish! Maxime said the stranger has a ‘nice’ eye colour – Milton has nice hazel eyes! The stranger hid his hair beneath a hat – Milton has very noticeable gold-blond hair! And you found blond hair on the stranger’s bed! Today I was in Milton’s room because he had to get some tools to fix the birdcage clock. You know how odd it is that the stranger’s room is completely untouched as if no one was there? It’s the same thing with Milton’s room! Nothing looks like he ever even touched it. There are no signs of anything. I had the same feeling I had when I entered the stranger’s room when I entered Milton’s.
“I’ve not told you about this because I didn’t have the chance until now, but last night, I went to the kitchen to get some biscuits for our night talk which did not work out. I saw Milton on my way there. I turned invisible and followed him. I wanted to see where he was going because it was so late, you know? What could he possibly want to do at such a late hour? I followed him, and when I noticed that he was also going to the kitchen, I waited until he was inside, turned visible again, and went in too. I wanted to greet him and say ‘oh, what a coincidence to find you here, Milton!’ – only Milton was nowhere to be seen when I entered the kitchen! I entered it a minute after him! Maybe there was even less time between his and my entering. He couldn’t have left. Still, he managed to disappear in this minute. I was in the kitchen for about five to ten minutes and he never reappeared. What if there is some sort of secret passage in the kitchen that leads outside? What if Milton has been leaving the château via this passage to get to Nanteuil-la-Forêt and murder people? He does not seem at all like a person who would ever kill someone, but you can never know! Someone can be the nicest person around and still have a basement full of skeletons.”
While Cedric had been talking, a laugh had built up in Cloudia – a laugh that now burst out of her in full force. She doubled over with laughter and it took her several minutes and multiple attempts to calm herself down enough that she could say anything.
“Dear Undertaker,” Cloudia said, smiling. The laughter still lingered in her and it was hard to say anything without accidentally reigniting the ember. “I appreciate your efforts and that you went out of your way to make deductions to bring this case forward. However, you are disregarding one very crucial aspect: The stranger came to Nanteuil-la-Forêt and the murders started a day before we even arrived here. How could Milton have committed the first murder when he was still on his way like we were? He could have only done it if he were like you and capable of transporting himself instantly to another place. And I know for a fact that Milton cannot possibly be like you.”
She brought her face close to Cedric’s and noticed him sinking into his backrest a bit and sucking in his breath. “After all, as you’ve told me, all Grim Reapers have eyes like you, and I’ve seen yours enough to be able to say that Milton certainly doesn’t share that trait with you.”
Still smiling, Cloudia backed away, and Cedric breathed out again. Did he forget to brush his teeth and did not want her to know or why was he doing this? “Undertaker, you are too sleep-deprived to think properly.”
“I am not,” he protested.
“You can barely keep your eyes open as we speak. Go to sleep.”
“No, we had this already!” Cedric sat up straighter and then fell back again, his body too tired to hold him up.
“You don’t have to push yourself like that. If the rain stops tomorrow, you’ll have to wander to the Clockmaker, have you forgotten?”
“I do not care about the Clockmaker!” Cedric exclaimed. “I do not care about this case, about this mission. I am only here for…” He trailed off and looked away.
Cloudia raised an eyebrow. “Whatever you are here for, Undertaker, it is no reason to die a second time because you didn’t want to go to bed.” She brushed over his face, and he tensed for a second but there was not enough strength in him anymore and he immediately relaxed again. Cloudia rested her hand in his hair, and Cedric’s eyes fell closed.
It was astonishing how feathery and soft his hair was, considering how rarely he washed it. It was so silky and pleasant to touch; one could almost forget to wash their hand afterwards.
“You should go to sleep now, Undertaker. You are completely exhausted. We can always talk later.”
“No, Countess,” Cedric mumbled and opened his eyes again. “Perhaps I can’t talk much anymore, but I can listen. I can listen.” To her surprise, he took her hand. “Just tell me anything. I’ll lend you my ear for anything. I don’t want to sleep now. I can’t sleep now. I…” He yawned. “I’ve waited for you to come back all day…”
Cloudia’s eyes widened and she suddenly pulled back her hand from his head, and Cedric’s head rolled back and fell hard against the backrest. He groaned, and she put a hand over her mouth. “Why are you always hurting me… Countess…”
“This time I didn’t mean to do this,” Cloudia said and stood up. Surprised by her own action, she had forgotten that they were still holding hands. Thus, when she abruptly stood up, Cedric was first pulled forward and then let go and his head collided just as hard against the armrest. He groaned and mumbled something into the armrest Cloudia could not make out.
What was wrong with me?
“Let me get you something to cool your head. You’ve hit it twice now,” Cloudia said and hurried to the bathroom. She grabbed a towel and ran it under cold water. Cloudia turned off the tap and briefly looked up, catching a glimpse of her flushed face, before she hurried back to the main room.
“Undertaker,” Cloudia said, “this will be cold now; beware.” She was about to put the cold, wet towel on Cedric’s head when she noticed that he had fallen asleep.
Cloudia sighed and smiled at him. Then, she put the towel in the washbasin and called Newman to carry Cedric to his room.
***
Her stomach made highly unladylike sounds while Cloudia walked to the dining hall, and she was quite relieved that no one was with her to hear them, even if it was a little boring to walk alone. She sighed. It couldn’t be helped though.
To entertain herself and drown out her stomach’s noises, she mumbled a poem to herself: Thy soul shall find itself alone/’Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone –/Not one, of all the crowd, to pry/Into thine hour of secrecy:/Be silent in that solitude/Which is not loneliness – for then…
“‘The spirits of the dead who stood/In life before thee are again/In death around thee,’” Cloudia heard a voice behind her and startled. She halted and turned to see Milton behind her who was looking absentmindedly ahead. “‘And their will/Shall then overshadow thee: be still,’” he finished the stanza and then blinked – and turned red when he saw her.
“Ah, Lady Cloudia,” Milton struggled to say. “I am sorry. That must have been so weird… I’m so sorry. I… I heard you start and I recognised the poem and I couldn’t help myself and continued half-consciously – I had not heard it in a while and…” He craned his head to the empty corridor behind him and swallowed. “After the kitchen… Anaïs forgot to get something for Gérard, but Arnaud had to go to his father, and she could not leave Gérard with me and could not leave me alone. I assured her that it would be fine; I said I was fine enough to walk a bit alone, and she left after I convinced her, but said she would be quick and would catch up with me in no time. She’s still not here, and I feel very guilty relying on a little girl. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have. I thought… I thought…” Milton scratched at the hem of his sleeve, a nervous movement that Cloudia had not seen before and which made her eyes widen in concern.
“I thought it would go well because I did fairly well while we assembled and disassembled the machine and then went to... Then, she left… she left, she ran away, and I…” His eyes became distant, and Cloudia stepped forward and gently took his hand. It was an instinctive action – how many times had she seen him like this? how many times had she helped him through this? – and what little awkwardness she might feel now, taking his hand again after all this time, was drowned out by focusing on the situation at hand.
“Milton,” Cloudia said softly, “what do you need me to do?”
Milton looked at her, though it seemed more as if he was looking through her, his wide eyes looking, searching for something, someone else. Cloudia had never doubted the story of his weak heart and childhood illness, but she had always wondered if there was not more to it than he was comfortable to share; it just seemed so much like he was stuck in a nightmare.
Cloudia slightly squeezed Milton’s hand, and it seemed to help. His face twitched a little, and he closed his eyes, breathing a bit raggedly. “I… I…” Milton pressed out. “There is too much, too much… I cannot recall how it goes on.”
She smiled. “It is fine, Milton. I do. I do. ‘For the night – tho’ clear -- shall frown –/And the stars shall look not down, /From their high thrones in the Heaven,” Cloudia said and wished to have chosen a more pleasant, less heavy poem than one titled “Spirits of the Dead.” “‘With light like Hope to mortals given –/But their red orbs, without beam, /To thy weariness shall seem/As a burning and a fever/Which would cling to thee for ever.’”
“‘Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish –,’” Milton continued slowly, eyes still closed, his hand loose in her tight grip. “‘Now are visions ne'er to vanish –/ From thy spirit shall they pass/No more – like dew-drop from the grass.’”
Milton opened his eyes again and the odd far-away expression was gone from them. A little smile appeared on his lips, the kind that made it seem as if he was half-dreaming, half-awake, and Cloudia was rather relieved to see it. “Lady Cloudia, you’re here,” he said as he always did.
“I am,” she responded. “Tell me, what do you need now?”
“I want to sit down,” Milton said after some time of consideration. Without letting go of his hand, Cloudia carefully helped him to sit on the floor and lean against the wall. She sat down opposite from him, and their entwined hands hung between them as if he would float away and disappear if she were to let go.
Maybe that’s what would happen – that Milton would float away like a balloon into the sky or like a buoy out to the sea.
Milton and Cloudia sat like this in silence for a few minutes. He breathed in and out evenly to calm himself down, and she scrutinised him. Seeing Milton like this reminded her how ridiculous Cedric’s words from earlier were. Still, thinking about them again, Cloudia remembered something. The thought had lingered in the back of her mind since Lille, only she had been unable to grasp it until now. She had heard the name “Quentin Nichols” before; she was sure of it now.
In 1843, he had killed one of his co-workers. Quentin had managed to escape, and Scotland Yard had been searching for him since.
However, Cloudia could not imagine Milton hiring anyone without doing a background check first. Quentin’s crime had been in the newspapers for some time. It wasn’t an unknown case. Perhaps the Quentin Nichols she had met in Lille was not the same as the one she had heard of? That was possible. Milton surely would not employ a wanted criminal, and Quentin’s full name was “Quentin Thibault-Nichols.” The Quentin from the papers didn’t have a hyphenated surname. The Quentin from Lille might have been born a “Thibault-Nichols” or one part of it might come from his wife. As “Thibault” preceded “Nichols,” it was more likely that “Thibault” was Quentin’s birth surname.
Cedric’s absurd theories had really got to me.
“Lady Cloudia,” Milton said eventually. He still looked like he had seen a ghost, but some colour was slowly returning to his face. “I am sorry for making you see and do this again.”
“It is all right, Milton. You cannot help it,” Cloudia replied.
He smiled weakly at her, and at once, they let go of each other. Cloudia held her breath for a moment, but Milton stayed where he was.
What a silly thought, Cloudia.
Milton dug his hands into the carpet as if he too was thinking about floating away. “Thanks, Lady Cloudia.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I may need another moment.”
“Take your time. It’s fine.”
He leaned his head against the wall, and she heard him count to himself from thirty downwards. When Milton was done, he let go of the carpet and rose to his feet. As soon as they were both standing again, Cloudia heard a screeching sound behind her. Someone was running and had momentarily lost balance. She craned her head to see Anaïs hurrying towards them.
“Milton,” she said when she reached them, “was everything all right?”
Cloudia looked at Milton, and Milton avoided her eyes and replied, “Yes. Everything was all right.”
Anaïs beamed. “That’s good. You’re getting good! I feared something might have happened while I was away. And hello, Claudette! I am so happy. Now, we can go to dinner together.” She trotted ahead, and Milton and Cloudia readily followed her.
“Where did you leave your brother, Anaïs?” asked Cloudia.
“We walked into Maman on our way! He wanted to stay with her which was better anyway.”
“You ran into your mother?” Milton said. “Anaïs, you did not have to find me then.”
“Of course, I had to! I promised I would come to find you. You never break promises!” Anaïs replied energetically. “And I could not risk an incident and lose you back to the faerie realm.”
Milton smiled. “Of course. I’m sorry for saying that. Thank you, Anaïs.”
She returned his smile and then started to chatter about helping out a bit in the kitchen with Milton and the others – they had brewed some tea –, getting the item they forgot, and running into Amélie. Cloudia listened intently to what she had to say but kept glancing over to Milton. He looked fine; he thankfully looked fine. Under normal circumstances, he would have long left such a rain-heavy place, and Cloudia felt bad again to have dragged him here.
I only hoped Paris would have nicer weather.
They had almost reached the dining hall when Cloudia saw Milton putting a hand over his chest. A cold calm rushed over her, and she was about to ask if he was fine… and then, he smiled. Cloudia looked at him in bewilderment.
“It has stopped,” Milton answered her unspoken question. “The rain has stopped.”
***
Except for Cedric and the Marquis, everyone was at the dinner table today. Even Cecelia had come and was now conversing with Sylviane about something Cloudia could not catch. Jacques and Anaïs were arguing again. Aurèle was grimly eating his food, and she spotted him glaring at Milton now and then. She had to talk to him about his, to her, unreasonable dislike of Milton later. Arnaud was helping Gérard, though the little boy could eat remarkably competently for his age. On the other end of the table, Amélie was talking to her husband and brother. A few moments ago, the constellations of the conversations had been different: Anaïs had talked to her and Kamden, Jacques had asked Milton something, and Arnaud had spoken to Aurèle. Now, the exchanges and interlocutors had shuffled and Cloudia had no one to talk to. She did not mind much. This would change soon again after all, and like that, she could properly savour the delicious soup that was part of the entrée.
Cedric would be over the moon if he had it. He would swoon and then say something along the lines of “If the appetiser is this good, how would the dessert be?”
A few times, Cloudia glanced over at Kamden and Milton who were talking. They got along rather well, and Kamden seemed slightly livelier than usual when he spoke to Milton. Since the rain had stopped, Milton was looking and doing well again. He still seemed a bit shaken up, but he was almost back to normal.
By the time the main course replaced the appetiser and tea was served with the meal, Cloudia was telling an interested Anselme about her experiences during the last Season and the bit she had to endure this Season before she had been thankfully sent away by the Queen to France – not that she mentioned the latter part, of course.
It never stopped being strange to engage in such ordinary conversations in such normal settings after having looked for a murderer and inspected corpses hours before.
Halfway through the main dish, Amélie addressed Milton: “Lord Milton, I heard that you will leave us tomorrow.”
Milton halted in his movement with the sudden addressing and put down his cutlery. “Indeed, I will leave you tomorrow, Baronne, though it will not be for long. A few days, a week at most.”
“I see. For business, I heard?”
He nodded. “Yes. I have to do some business-related duties in Paris.”
“Paris?” Amélie repeated, and an odd silence fell over the other adults. “You may not have heard of this, Lord Milton, but the atmosphere in France and especially in Paris has been considerably tense in the last months. Lately, a great number of people are heading to Paris to find work. I am sure that this will not end well considering the current situation. Lord Milton, I advise you, if you haveto go, to wrap up your business quickly and return here.”
“Thank you for your piece of advice, Baronne,” replied Milton with the trained calmness he reserved for social events such as this one. “I will take care. I will do my best to complete my work there as fast as possible then.”
Amélie smiled. “You are welcome, Lord Milton.”
***
After dinner, Cloudia instinctively headed to Cedric’s room. Only halfway there did she realise that he was sleeping and that she should not disturb him. She hovered for a while in the corridor, not knowing where to go. Suddenly, Cloudia remembered that she had wanted to speak to Aurèle, and now he was elsewhere and she scolded herself for forgetting. At least, she didn’t want to talk to him about anything urgent.
Eventually, she decided to just walk. Cloudia hoped she would think of something to do while she was moving around – and that her legs would not lead her to Cedric nevertheless. Also, she had barely been in the château since her arrival; she still had so much to see and explore.
And now, I sounded like Milton. I wondered how he was doing right now. The rain had stopped before dinner, but it had bothered him all day long. It must have been awfully tiring; not that he would ever admit it.
Cloudia wandered a while through the labyrinthine château before she grew bored. The building was immensely beautiful and filled with objects that could make her talk and talk for hours – but without having anyone to talk to, it was not enjoyable at all. She had already spent years of her life talking to herself. She was not very eager to repeat the experience. Sighing, Cloudia gathered her skirts and headed downstairs. She had no idea where those stairs would lead her but they would eventually bring her to the ground floor of which she had a fairly good grasp. From there, she could go to her room, wrapping up this tiresome day even though her blood was still boiling with the desire for more. Cloudia’s entire day had been filled with the investigation; she wanted to do something for herself. The bath had re-energised her, but since dinner, she felt even more vitalised.
With nothing else to do, I supposed I would have to satisfy this want by simply reading a book. First, I would have to navigate my way through this maze though. Next time, I should ask Lisa for the Maid’s Manifesto.
Lisa.
With an idea overcoming her, Cloudia stopped on the stairs. Of course, she had been with Lisa all day long, but apart from the deadhouse and the drives to and from Nanteuil-la-Forêt, they hadn’t had an opportunity to talk. And she had barely spoken with Newman all day too. Smiling, Cloudia bolted down the stairs to the next landing and sought out the next best servant to ask which way she had to take to get to the servants’ quarters. The servant told her how to get there, she thanked him, and then excitedly went off her way.
Cloudia was almost there – only the corridor down and then through a hidden stairway – when she noticed familiar footsteps behind her. For almost a year, those footsteps had followed hers, and she would forever recognise them: His ghostly steps which came along with a soft metallic clack. She had always wondered why, but never asked.
And then, they were sometimes so ghostly I could not hear them at all. That had been the case when I encountered him before dinner.
Her smile widened a bit as Cloudia turned around to face Milton. “I had thought of you a little while ago – and now you are here as if I managed to manifest you, albeit a little slowly.”
A small, sheepish smile appeared on Milton’s lips. “I…” He took a deep breath. “It’s good to see that you are still so lively.”
Cloudia looked at him in bewilderment. “Why shouldn’t I be lively? Because my powers of manifestation are weak and lacking?”
“Oh, well.” He looked at his sleeves and fumbled with them. “I suppose my mind is still a bit muddled from today. I did not mean to blurt it out. I… Anyway, I said this because you have been so busy lately, and you also seem deep in thought whenever I see you.”
She chuckled. “I suppose my mind is still muddled from today because I should have figured that you noticed. Don’t you always notice?”
“Not always.”
Cloudia looked at him and then shook her head before she realised with a pang that, for the first time in years, they were actually all alone again. Earlier, it had been an emergency, and Milton had barely been with her in that hallway mentally. There had been much else to focus on besides the awkwardness between them. Now, the rain had cleared and they were both well and conscious and all alone again.
The last time had been on the day of the failed proposal, and Cloudia felt awkward thinking about it. Everything had become weird and fallen apart after that day. Although they had resumed their talks via letters a few months afterwards, it had never been the same again. Their written words were always laced with a certain stiltedness, one worse than the one when their little acquaintanceship or whatever one could call it had begun. Cloudia had never known how to describe their relationship.
With the others around, it had been so easy. She could have nearly forgotten that anything had ever happened at all. Now, being alone with Milton, the distance between them was palpable again. He stood only a few steps away from her, but he could have been kilometres away. Cloudia had never been a natural when it came to understanding people. She did not have the talent to look at someone and understand, see every bit of them and realise what might be hidden. She had had to acquire this skill through hard work and training, and although she was good at it now, the skill failed her every now and then.
It did not fail her now. Cloudia had intentionally not paid it any attention before, but there was always a bit of hurt in his eyes whenever they talked. He was still friendly to her, still smiled at her, had still helped her with this trip. Cloudia had been shocked and annoyed when Milton had behaved as if nothing had occurred the day his villa blew up – a month after the proposal. She also had not expected him to write to her months later.
It had seemed as if Milton had been doing well after the failed proposal, as if he had got over it well. Accepting that he was not, that he had not, made her realise with a heavy heart that they had yet another thing in common: For one and a half years, they had pushed the memory of the proposal away and pretended that all was fine although the event still clung heavily to them. It was easier like that. Even now while acknowledging everything, Cloudia’s first instinct was to push it all away. It was a bad habit, yes, but it had been a long day. A very long day. This was her hard-earned time off. She had a murderer to catch and a thief to find. She had no time and strength to deal with the remnants of the past.
Maybe one day, she would. But not now. Not now.
“Where were you heading to?” Cloudia asked, smiling as if nothing had been. “You are quite a bit away from your room. Did you get lost again?”
“I didn’t,” Milton replied. “I wanted to go see Bram.”
She blinked at him. “In the servants’ quarters?”
He nodded. “In the servants’ quarters.”
“Isn’t it funny how I planned to go to France at the same time you planned to?” she said. “And how now, again, I am going to the servants’ quarters at the same time as you are?”
Milton chuckled. “It is indeed quite funny,” he said and walked towards her. “I guess you know the way?”
“Yes, a footman told me. Do you?”
“Yes. I…” He hesitated. “I have been charting the château.”
“Huh?”
“Did I never tell you?”
“No, never,” Cloudia told him.
Cedric’s words came to my mind: “You can know people for decades and still discover new aspects of them. It happens.” And now I had found out two new things about Milton in a single day.
Milton smiled bashfully. “I like to create maps for buildings, make my very own blueprints. It’s an old habit of mine, and I know it is strange but…”
“There is so much to see, so much to explore even in a building?” Cloudia continued, smiling.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Yes.”
“You are becoming predictable, Milton.” She put her hands on her waist, content that she got at least that. “Also, when I said that I was thinking of you – and unwittingly conjured you by doing so – I thought about this exact thing.”
Milton closed his eyes. “‘There is so much to see, so much to explore. Roads to travel, people to meet, mysteries to unravel.’ Right, I said that to you.” He reopened his eyes, and they began to walk, side by side, down the corridor and to the hidden stairway without any of them having to indicate to do so.
“Mysteries,” said Cloudia; the word alone brought excitement with it, and she hoped she did not sound too eager as she continued. Not that Milton had ever seemed to care for that. “Have you found any on your most recent travels? Where have you been last again? Sweden?”
“Yes,” Milton replied, paused, then added: “Yes, I’ve been to Sweden last. I’m not sure about mysteries though. There has been the occasional misplaced document, but that’s not really a mystery, isn’t it? And while this is also not a mystery – after all, I know how this came to be – there is this mistake I have to fix and for which I have to go to Paris. Maybe you could call it a bit of a mystery still… the Paris part at least. I need to go there to find something out; however, I don’t quite know what will await me there. I cannot measure the extent of what I will learn there and…” He fidgeted with his right sleeve. “I mean I knowmore or less what will await me. It’s just the details, you know? Perhaps it’s more of a ‘surprise’ than a ‘mystery’ though. I am not sure.”
Despite our commonalities and Milton’s odd little habits, he was still so amusingly ordinary. My mystery was a serial murder in the nearby village. His, a company-intern mishap.
“Let’s call it a mystery,” declared Cloudia as they descended the narrow stairs together. He let her go first and followed her. “It sounds better like that. And it’s not quite a ‘surprise’ if you know that you will find something out, isn’t it? Only the content of the information will be a surprise, but that’s essentially what a mystery is anyway.”
“You’re right,” Milton said. “Of course, it cannot be a surprise when I am expecting it.”
“Your mind is still really quite muddled. Are you okay?”
He nodded. “It has been a long rainy day. I should be completely normal again by tomorrow.”
Cloudia threw a glance over her shoulder at him. The light was so dim here that he looked quite ghostly. “Speaking of today… how was spending time with the Duke?”
“It was lovely,” Milton replied. “Kristopher is so kind to have kept me company despite being unwell himself. I’m glad that he could finally find some sleep. I hope he will sleep well and sound. Kristopher was very patient with me all day, and he defeated me in every round of chess we played. He is really talented.”
“He sure is,” said Cloudia, remembering the countless days they had spent playing chess together and how Cedric had beat her in every single round without fail. He would always tease her for being so bad at the game. She was not even that bad; he was simply very, very good.
“Kristopher surprised me quite a lot of times today,” Milton continued. “Not that I believe that he was incapable of any of the kinds of prowess he showed today, of course. I simply have not met anyone with such chess skills in a very long time. Or anyone at all who, I suppose, correctly guessed that when it rains and my senses act up, I anchor myself by focusing on all kinds of details – often details concerning people. I have never thought about this myself before. It’s usually just Bram and me on rainy days after all.”
Cloudia halted on the stairs and turned around to him. “Oh, he did that?”
Milton stopped too, and she noticed that he had been walking a few stairs behind her to keep his distance. “It was a remarkable observation. Kristopher did not believe that you would believe him, so I wanted to let you know.”
“He did not make you say so?”
“No. He…” Milton paused. “He did say I should be the one to tell you, but what I am saying is not a fabrication. Kristopher cares a lot about what you think of him.”
“The Duke? Caring for what I think of him?” Cloudia laughed. “I assure you, Milton, that this is not the case at all. He does not care for anyone’s opinion of him or he would not walk around the way he does. He cares for mine the least of all. If he truly did, would he do me such a disservice with the way he dresses and carries himself? And have you ever seen him dance? It’s like watching a chicken hobble about.”
Cloudia felt Milton’s eyes scrutinising her. As if he was searching for something specific. Then, he smiled.
“Is something?” she asked, and he shook his head. “No. It is just that…” His gaze softened. “I’m just glad for you.”
Cloudia blinked at him, then turned and continued to descend the stairs. “Milton, the storm had gone on for very long today. Your mind is still all scrambled. Are you really fine?”
“Yes,” Milton replied, sounding a bit merrier than before. She heard him following her. “I am perfectly fine now.”
They walked for a while in silence, but the silence soon became stifling. The stairs seemed unbearably endless, and Cloudia felt herself suffocating under the stillness and her overflowing energy. “Milton,” she said to break the silence open and be able to breathe again, “the clock you’ve repaired – do you think you can show it to me before your departure? I am interested to see this birdcage clock of tales. I have heard of Jaquet-Droz clocks but never seen one in real-life.”
“I can show it to you on the way back from the servants’ quarters if it has not become too late by then,” Milton replied. “I have to head out so early tomorrow; I doubt I will find the time then. Though I will return in a few days or a week at most anyway. Thinking of it… maybe, if it does not work out later, it may be better if one of the children showed it to you.”
“I can wait if it does not work out. I want you to show it to me so that you can tell me what you fixed and how.”
“Eh,” blurted it out of Milton, and Cloudia smiled to herself. “I, uh,” he stammered. “You are interested in this?”
“Yes, I am. Very much so. I have never been very adept at creating or repairing anything, so I am quite fascinated whenever someone can. I am actually a little bit mad that you have never mentioned this talent of yours before, Milton.”
“It’s… it’s not a talent. It’s just… something to pass time with. A little hobby. I am not even very good at it.”
“Let me be the judge of this,” Cloudia said. “How many know of this ‘little hobby’ of yours anyway?”
“Not many. Before today, only my family knew. Now, everyone here knows too,” Milton told her the very instant Cloudia reached the end of the staircase and arrived in front of the door that would open up to the servants’ quarters. She waited until Milton was caught up with her before she put her hand on the doorknob.
“Lady Cloudia,” Milton said then, and she stopped her action and looked at him. “I will not ask for specifications regarding the matter that is keeping you busy,” he continued. “All I want to say is that, if you require my help, I would be happy to offer my assistance in any way. And if it is a mystery you are busying yourself with and at which you are stuck… at times, it is best to take a short break and think of anything else, do anything else. Sometimes thinking too intensely is the problem: It often blocks your mind. Letting your mind wander to different places, you may be able to think of possibilities you have not considered before.”
Cloudia’s gaze softened. “Thank you, Milton. Let’s see if whatever chaos my servants will hand me behind those doors will ease me up,” she said and opened the door. They stepped into a hallway with multiple doors left and right that led to the servants’ personal rooms. Newman had told her before that Lisa’s, Wentworth’s, and his rooms were those closest to the door and that there was a community room at the end of the corridor. Cloudia knocked on Lisa’s and Newman’s rooms and Milton on Wentworth’s. When they got no response, they walked to the community room.
“… to Nanteuil-la-Forêt today,” said Lisa when they entered. She was sitting at a table with Wentworth and Newman, some biscuits and sandwiches spread out before them. There was a pot of tea on the table and everyone had a cup in front of them. “And I tell you: Denis Cuvier attempted to kill us – what other reason could he have to race into the village with such speed? Gallop there if you want, but don’t drive a wagon like that, least of all one with people in it. Mr Emyr was rather green throughout the entire rides.”
“Telling everyone about our adventure in Nanteuil-la-Forêt, aren’t you?” Cloudia said, and everyone turned to her and Milton. From the corner of her eye, she could see Milton’s gaze wandering to Newman before he discreetly looked away.
“Our disgustingly wet misadventure, Lady Cloudia,” Lisa replied and shuddered. “I took a bath and still feel cold. I’ll be counting the sponges I waste trying to scrub off the moistness that seemed to have sunk into my very flesh and bones.”
Newman stood up and bowed to Cloudia and Milton as a greeting before he turned to Lisa. “Shall I fetch you a jacket if you are still so cold, Lisa?”
She patted his hand. “That would be nice if you can be bothered, Al. Maybe a blanket would be even better.”
“I can always be bothered for you, Lisa,” Newman said with a small smile. “I will go and get a blanket from your room at once.” He looked at Milton and Cloudia. “If you may excuse me for a moment.” Cloudia nodded, and Newman left the community room.
Lisa grinned at Cloudia. “I see you are wearing the yellow dress.”
“Yes. I surprised myself by picking it today,” Cloudia replied and looked down at herself. “I didn’t expect Cecelia to be at dinner for once, so she has seen me in it. Until now, she wasn’t able to say anything to me about it, but the time will definitely come…”
Lisa chuckled. “It had to come to this. You don’t look as silly as we imagined you would though, Lady Cloudia.”
“That surprised me too.”
“You do indeed look very lovely, Lady Cloudia,” Milton said and immediately blushed and looked away. Lisa rolled her eyes.
“Thank you, Milton,” Cloudia responded. Then, Wentworth stepped to them and bowed to Cloudia before he asked, “Master Milton, are you all right?”
Milton took a deep breath to compose himself and then smiled at his butler. “You asked that earlier already, Bram. When Lady Cloudia, Miss Greene, and Emyr returned, and we all met in the entrance hall.”
“The rain didn’t stop until shortly before dinnertime. A lot could have changed between the chain-reaction machine’s demonstration and dinner. Between dinner and now.”
“I promise that it did not,” Milton replied, and Cloudia was surprised that he lied to Wentworth like that. Though perhaps he didn’t want to disclose what had happened before dinner to Lisa?
“What I told you before still holds true,” he went on. “Kristopher and the children helped me, and I have been doing well because of that. And since the rain stopped, I have been even better.”
“Albeit your mind is still a bit muddled,” added Cloudia, and he looked at her. “Indeed.”
“I am glad, Master Milton. It was a strong storm today,” Wentworth said. “Even with the support you received, I was worried. Forgive me if I am overstepping my boundaries, but my duty is, first and foremost, to ensure your well-being, Master Milton. Next time, I will not leave your side; today was an exception I do not want to make a rule.”
“I’m sorry to have worried you, Bram. I…” Milton fumbled with his sleeves. “I should not have asked for that.”
“It is also my duty to worry about you all the time, Master Milton. You do not have to apologise for something that cannot be helped,” Wentworth replied, and Cloudia could see Lisa grimacing in the background again.
“I have returned,” Newman announced as he stepped into the community room, a blanket in his hands. “I apologise for having kept you waiting.” He walked to Lisa and gently draped the blanket around her.
“Thank you,” she said, and his cheeks roused a bit. Pulling the blanket tighter around her, Lisa said to Cloudia, “Not that I oppose your presence, but why have you come here, Lady Cloudia?”
“To see how you and Newman are doing, and what you are doing,” Cloudia replied and sat down at the table where Lisa was sitting. “And to talk to you for a while.”
“Is His Grace still asleep?”
“Very much, but I might have come here anyway.”
Lisa scoffed. “Very well, Lady Cloudia. Do you maybe want to play something then? To pass the time and have something else to do while we talk?”
“Why not?”
“Great,” said Lisa and took out a deck of cards from beneath the blanket. She was always carrying playing cards with her, eagerly awaiting the first available moment to take them out and make someone cry.
“Milton,” Cloudia said and turned to him. “Would you like to play too?”
Milton blinked at her, taken aback by her offer. “Oh. Sure. Thank you,” he responded and sat down – keeping a chair between them free.
“How about we play poker?” suggested Lisa while she shuffled the cards. A mischievous light shone in her eyes.
“Still taking every opportunity to practise, aren’t you?” teased Cloudia, and Lisa scowled at her.
“One day I will return there and be victorious.”
“Return where?” Milton asked, puzzled.
“Earlier this year, Lisa lost to someone in poker,” Cloudia said and earned a dirty glance from her maid. “Apparently, I am forbidden to say more on this matter. Anyway, she taught me how to play poker afterwards so that she had more people to play with. Lisa already taught the servants at the manor as they regularly arrange game nights.”
“That sounds interesting,” replied Milton. “Miss Greene, I wish you the best of luck that you will win against that person one day.”
Lisa nodded at his words and kept shuffling the cards. “Lord Milton, have you heard of poker?”
“I have, actually.”
“And can you play it too?”
“Yes,” said Milton, and Lisa was surprised by his answer – and so was Cloudia. After all, poker was still very unknown in Europe.
“Of course,” Cloudia said when the realisation hit her. “You have told me you travelled often to the States.”
“Do you want to play poker with us then, Lord Milton?” Lisa asked with a little sly smile on her face. “I can guarantee that this will not be a pleasant game to play as a newcomer, and it may be better if you found something else to do.”
“Every game is not a particularly pleasant one if you play with Lisa,” Cloudia interjected. “She is quite passionate and competitive when it comes to games.” At her words, Lisa’s little smile became a wicked grin.
Milton smiled sheepishly. “I do, in fact, know how to play poker,” he told them and worried at the hems of his sleeves. “However, I have not had an opportunity to play poker for quite a few years. Or to play any card game, to be frank. Playing cards is common at social gatherings of a more familiar nature, but as you know, I do not really attend such gatherings or any at all as I have been on the road for the last year and…” He cleared his throat. “I want to say that I do know how to play poker but I may be a bit rusty.”
Lisa raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, it is good that you know, but I hope you don’t expect us to play kindly for your sake, Baron.”
“Oh, I would not want that,” Milton replied. “I think that no game can be enjoyed if the participants do not give their fullest. I will try my very best. I simply wanted to inform you that I’m not very good even at my best.”
Lisa shrugged. “Well, not that you would have had a chance if you were any good,” she said, and he chuckled.
“Wentworth, do you also know how to play poker?” Cloudia enquired.
“I do, Lady Cloudia,” the old butler replied.
“Then, do you want to join us?”
“I am thankful for the invitation, but I will have to decline. I have only played the game once myself and have mostly watched others play. I do not want to slow the game down and would rather spectate.”
Cloudia nodded. “I see. Feel free to watch then, Wentworth.”
“But you’ll have you watch from a place where Lord Milton can’t see you but I can,” interjected Lisa. “I do not want to outright accuse anyone of cheating – not before we have even begun playing at least – but I want to make sure that it does not happen at all.”
“I can do this if it eases your nerves, Miss Greene,” said Wentworth.
“Thank you.” Lisa smiled at Cloudia. “See? Manners.” Then, Lisa craned her head to Newman who was still standing behind her as if he was her butler and not Cloudia’s. “Al, you’ll play too, won’t you?”
He bowed his head. “As always, Lisa.”
She smirked at his words, and Newman sat down next to her.
“If I am recalling correctly,” said Wentworth, “chips are needed for this game.”
“Yes, of course,” Lisa replied. “I put a bag of them on my nightstand. Could you fetch it, Mr Wentworth?”
“Of course. I will hurry.” Surefooted and quick for someone his age, Wentworth left the community room.
“I’m glad that you play too, Mr Newman,” blurted it out of Milton whose eyes lingered a bit too long on Newman yet again. Cloudia frowned. She would have been a fool if she had not noticed Milton staring at Newman back in Dover, but she thought that, by now, the initial surprise would have waned. Apparently, it had not. At least, Milton was seemingly trying to suppress his staring.
“As it is said,” Milton continued, fidgeting with his hands, “‘the more the merrier.’ How well can you play poker, Mr Newman?”
Lisa chuckled and distributed the cards. “Trying to find out if you will have any chance at all, Lord Milton?”
“Not at all, Miss Greene. I only wanted to ask,” Milton replied. “I do not care whether I win or lose as long as the game will entertain everyone.”
Lisa rolled her eyes which Milton, fortunately, didn’t see as his own eyes were fixed on Newman who answered him, “I am not as proficient as Lisa, though she assures me that I still play fairly well.”
“Definitely better than Thomas,” said Lisa. “Which isn’t that hard, but still.”
At this moment, Wentworth returned with the bag of chips which he handed to Lisa before he went to sit at a nearby table, a bit away but still close enough to spectate. Quickly, Lisa distributed the chips and then smiled. “Let’s begin.”
***
They had not agreed to bet actual money. Lisa had never asked, and Cloudia thought that she might not have wanted to be overly brash, though she was still very brash, to Milton even if he likely would not have minded playing for money. Still, Lisa grinned like she was doubling and tripling her monthly wages with every won round and envisioning retiring early. Although Lisa was triumphant in every round, they had great fun playing the game. Milton had said that he might be rusty as he had not played poker in years, but he was a surprisingly good bluff. He was almost as good as Lisa. However, here and there, his façade would crumble: His mouth would twitch, his eyes would betray the truth… Cloudia caught it twice.
I wondered whether this was normal or a product of the fact that Milton had not fully recovered from today’s “phantom pains.”
Lisa was better at that and relentlessly played everyone to the ground. It was past midnight when everyone decided that it had become too late for another round.
“That was fun,” said Milton with a smile on his face and stood up. “Thanks for letting me play.”
“You are such a strange one, Baron,” Lisa replied and closed the bag with the chips. She did not have to do much collecting as the chips had naturally wandered to her anyway. Newman, on the other hand, had to walk around the tables to collect all the cups and the empty teapot.
“All smiles although you have not won a single round this evening,” Lisa said.
“It is only a game. I don’t particularly care if I lose or fail.”
Lisa huffed. “Well, once or twice you were fairly close to winning.”
“I was?”
“Yes. It was quite a surprise – you are not half as bad as I thought you would be.” Lisa grimaced at her own words, and Cloudia chuckled at Lisa’s anguished appraisal. Then, Cloudia stood up too.
“The evening ended as expected,” she said. “Nevertheless, that were some good games. I’ll head to bed now. Tomorrow will be a long day again.” Cloudia looked at Milton. “And didn’t you say you will leave very early in the morning?”
He nodded. “Yes, I will.”
“All the more reason to return to our rooms now. You need to be well-rested for tomorrow’s gruelling carriage ride to Creil.”
“That would be good,” replied Milton and fumbled with his sleeves. “Good night, Miss Greene, Mr Newman, Bram.”
Everyone returned the “good night” and Cloudia gave her own before she and Milton left the community room and walked down the corridor and back to the château’s main area.
Unlike when they had gone to the servants’ quarters, they were silent now as they ascended the stairs. This time, Cloudia was too tired to perceive the silence as suffocating or awkward and attempt to pierce it. Upstairs, they walked around until they found a servant still wandering the halls to ask for directions and then headed to a forking the maid had referred them to. According to her, they could go to their respective wings and rooms from there.
“Until here and not farther,” Cloudia said when they arrived at the forking and halted. “Well, at least, not together.”
Milton smiled at her. “Good night, Lady Cloudia. I suppose we will not see each other tomorrow, so I guess this is also goodbye for a little while.”
“Seems like it. I wish you well in Paris, Milton. Don’t forget that you will have to show me that clock upon your return, and good night.”
His smile brightened. It was like sunshine after a long grey day. “Thank you. I will not forget this, and I wish you all the best for your mystery. Speaking of mysteries… we haven’t finished the poem earlier: ‘The breeze – the breath of God – is still –/And the mist upon the hill/Shadowy – shadowy – yet unbroken, /Is a symbol and a token –/How it hangs upon the trees, /A mystery of mysteries!’”
***
I could not sleep.
I had not looked at the clock since I had laid down, but I was sure that it had been about two or three hours since I had said goodbye to Milton at the forking. I had tossed and turned in a desperate attempt to find some sleep. I needed to be rested for the day. However, the energy and restlessness that filled my body did not allow me to sleep.
I needed answers, I wanted answers.
This needed to be over.
I had told Yvette to barricade everyone inside for the night, to huddle them together, to keep them safe. But that had not worked before.
One slip-up would mean another dead body. Another web of strings I had to investigate.
Lives and time were running through my fingers, and I was sick of it.
Cloudia kicked away the blanket and stood up from her bed. She had to go back to Nanteuil-la-Forêt. The murderer had made the worst mistake to come here, and she was dead-set to show this to them.
A stakeout was something I had not done yet.
It was time to wait and watch from the front row.
It was time to catch the culprit red-handed.
Cloudia went to her wardrobe and pulled out some clothes she could wear as “M Gauthier.” When she was done changing into them, she let her skull pendant necklace vanish beneath her shirt. She had not taken it off before going to bed. She never did as it soothed her mind to have someone on close-call in case of an emergency. Cloudia only ever removed it when she bathed, but still kept it close to her then.
Of course, this only worked if Cedric wore his necklace all the time too. And I had no idea if he did.
Afterwards, Cloudia took off her blue Phantomhive ring which she also never removed before bedtime and went to her jewellery chest. She wanted to wear it on her finger all the time, but could only ever do it when she was at home or exclusively around family. Nobody knew that the ring was in her possession – it was, after all, “Earl Phantomhive’s.” Not that this mattered now, of course. After all, Cloudia would go to Nanteuil-la-Forêt as Gauthier, and it would be rather eyebrow-raising if a simple detective’s assistant wore such a fine piece of jewellery.
Cloudia opened the chest but did not put the ring inside. She did not like to leave it behind, and in cases she could not wear it openly, she wore it on a chain around her neck. Behind her clothes, it would be concealed for all; only she would feel the ring’s comfort against her skin.
She rummaged in the jewellery chest until she found the chain and then slipped the ring on it. Just as Cloudia had finished putting on the chain, she spotted something in the chest. Smiling, she took it out and inspected it.
The four-leaved clover necklace Cedric had given her for her seventeenth birthday was a piece for which she rarely found an occasion to wear. It was too simple to wear at balls and gatherings, and Cloudia generally disliked wearing two neck-pieces at once. She only, begrudgingly, did an exception for the Phantomhive ring. The clover necklace had no place next to the skull pendant one.
However, Cloudia sometimes put the clover necklace in her pocket if she had any. Skull pendant around her neck, ring on her finger, clover in her pocket – it was a bit like a spell. But then, the clover necklace was supposed to be a good luck charm on its own anyway.
Cloudia pocketed the necklace, grabbed her cloak, and left the room.
She had gone down to the stalls often enough to know the way herself, and she went there with quick, silent strides. Denis should be fast asleep now, and a wagon would be too bothersome to bring to Nanteuil-la-Forêt anyway. A horse would do; Cloudia would tie it to a tree before going to the village.
Cloudia pushed open the door to the outside and was relieved to see the sky dark and clear above her. No rain clouds. She had seen enough of them already.
She hurried to the stalls. There, while she was looking around, trying to find a suitable horse to borrow, a voice said behind her: “Cloudie?”
Surprised to hear it here and at this hour too, Cloudia turned around and saw Kamden standing at the doorsill to the stalls. The moonlight left him as a shadowed silhouette – except for his hair which shimmered a bit under the light. Lisa was right: Kamden just looked odd with blond hair.
“Kam, what are you doing here?” Cloudia wanted to know.
“I had the weird feeling that you would be here,” he said, and she smiled. “Cloudie, have you slept at all?”
There was no use lying to Kamden. “No. I have tried for hours, but could not. I am too restless to sleep.”
Kamden nodded. “Then let me accompany you. We can take a wagon then: I can drive, and you can take a nap until we arrive.”
There was no use fighting back either. Especially not when it was already so late and time was tight. “Okay,” Cloudia said. “Let’s go to Nanteuil-la-Forêt.”
***
~Cedric~
Cedric was woken up by Jacques and as soon as he saw his face, he groaned.
“Your Grace,” said Jacques while Cedric sat up and glimpsed at the clock – six in the morning, brilliant. “It is a clear day today. It is time to visit the Clockmaker.”
***
Somewhere, United Kingdom – May 1843
~Cloudia~
They had guided her into a room where she could wait while they released him. Cloudia had not expected much of this process – in fact, she had barely thought about how exactly Oscar’s actual release would go – but having now waited for over an hour, she admitted to herself that she had hoped that someone would have simply opened his cell’s door right after she was done talking to him. Right then and there. If they had done that, Cloudia could have been on the road home now. Instead, she was waiting in potentially the least shabby room the wardens could find for her, twisting and turning her father’s sketchbook in her lap.
I hoped they had at least informed Clifford that it was taking so long. I would not want him to worry whether or not the Yard Ripper had killed me on the spot after being released or not. But then, I supposed, the wardens would certainly tell him that.
Cloudia drummed her fingers on the sketchbook and looked at the clock whose hands seemed to move painfully slow. Sighing, she flipped open the book. Since she had found it in a secret passage in Phantomhive Manor three years ago, Cloudia had looked through it a million times and every time, it gave her a warm, comforting feeling. She loved the soft brushstrokes, the precise lines made with pencil and coal. Nobody had ever told her about this hobby of her father’s, and looking at his drawings made her feel closer to him than she ever had before. It was a solace Cloudia sought out whenever the days were especially bleak or she was hit with yet another wave of loneliness, though this had been happening less and less frequently since she met Kamden.
Cloudia thumbed over the landscape drawings and went to the one that had brought her to this place. She had stared at this portrait of Oscar Livingstone for three years and wondered who and where he was. Now, she looked at it and wondered how much he had changed since Simon Phantomhive had immortalised him on paper.
Not that I even knew how exactly Oscar had looked back then. The portrait was uncoloured, a quick sketch in black coal. His hair was drawn black in it because of that, but maybe it was not that dark at all. His eyes had not been filled in, so, I thought, they must be of a light colour. Blue or green? Maybe grey?
Cloudia closed the sketchbook. Soon, she would find out. She only hoped this “soon” would not break the word’s definition. Cloudia leaned her head back, looked up at the tattered ceiling, and kicked her legs back and forth. A year ago, her feet had hovered above the floor when she sat properly on a chair. Now, her feet reached the ground, and when she kicked her legs, her feet scraped the floor – click-clack like a pendulum.
Had so much time passed that I had become my own clock?
Then, the door opened, and someone entered. Cloudia had thought at least one of the wardens would be with him, but, apparently, they had only escorted him to the door and allowed him to enter the waiting room on his own. He was truly her problem now.
“They took their time arranging the final steps of my release,” said Oscar, “but here I am now.”
With a pounding heart, Cloudia tore her gaze from the crumbling ceiling and sat up properly on her chair. Her imagination of him was replaced by reality, and she hoped she did not stare as she scrutinised him.
Oscar Livingstone towered over her in the truest sense of the word as he was fairly tall and broadly built. He seemed robust and steadfast although he was not well-nourished: His cheeks were sunken and his skin taut. If he had not been so broad, his clothes would have hung on him like laundry on a washing line. He was only forty-four, but his black hair had largely faded to grey, and it hung long and wild over his shoulders. Oscar’s beard was also long and unkempt. Despite the wardens’ efforts to shield her eyes from the other patients in the asylum, Cloudia had been able to glimpse at some of them. Unlike Oscar, their heads had been shaven. She wondered if he had resisted when they tried to shave him, or if the staff had been too frightened of him to ever try.
But it was not the fact that Oscar looked like he had not spent the last six years of his life in an asylum but hidden away from the world in a forest that surprised and fascinated Cloudia. It was his eyes which were a beautiful light blue and which, despite the last few years, were still sharp and shone with life. They also provided such a stark contrast to his hollow body.
Looking at the rest of him, she might not have stared, but she feared that she was staring at his beautiful blue eyes now. Cloudia blinked, shook herself out of her amazement, and wrinkled up her nose when her focus was broken and her senses were not directed to one thing anymore.
“You need a bath,” Cloudia said.
#I'M FINALLY DOOONE#watchdog of the queen#main chapters#fanfiction#kuroshitsuji#cloudia phantomhive#undertaker
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Welcome back to the POTC AU! Sorry for the day-long delay -- I was out and away from my computer almost all of yesterday, so I wasn’t able to finish this up until today! XD; But yeah, moving on to the notes...
The information about the Chest and its locking mechanisms, honestly, was all stuff I had to kind of surmise and research, since to my utter shock, there were just about no sources I could find online discussing the process of designing the original Dead Man’s Chest for the Pirates films. There is concept art for it, showing some possible decorative designs for the outside, and there are prop replicas showing the different angles and the inside of the lid -- but there is NO discussion made about the Chest’s construction/locking mechanism or what kind of 18th century or earlier chests may have inspired it. And that kind of blows me away as -- for all of the films’ flaws -- I have to applaud them on taking a lot of historical influences for things, especially in the costume and prop design. I apologize in advance if any of my research on 18th century locks and lock-picking is flawed or incomplete, but I did try my best. XD;
The song “Fifteen Men on a Dead Man’s Chest” was originally featured in the book Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, which was written in the late 1800′s, over a hundred years after the end of the Golden Age of Piracy, but it has since become entwined with the idea of pirates in pop culture, to the extent that it’s also referenced in Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest, where it’s sung by Joshamee Gibbs and of course it inspired the core concept that the movie is named after. The original song was likely about Blackbeard or a similar pirate marooning a bunch of his crewmates, but I changed the meaning slightly to better fit with this narrative.
This version of Davy Jones, who is in truth an AU!Finn McGarry, belongs to @theguythatdraws Ican’twaittotrydrawinghimsoon, while Juliette “Jules” Farrier-Weasley belongs to @cursebreakerfarrier...and the previous part of this AU is here, while the entire tag is here! Hope you all enjoy! xoxo
x~x~x~x
Cutler Beckett did turn out to be just as unpleasant as Skye and Orion had suggested. Pretty quickly Carewyn could suss out that this so-called “businessman” had no loyalty to or caring for anyone or anything besides himself and his vested interests, namely his own wealth and status.
Unfortunately Percy was not as quick to catch onto that, presumably because of Beckett’s stated interest in supposedly bringing all pirates to justice and (Carewyn suspected) the fact that Beckett had spoken on Percy’s behalf before he was named a Captain himself. Part of Carewyn wanted to chastise Percy for letting himself be blinded by Beckett’s attempt to manipulate him, but she knew she couldn’t risk doing so. Not only would it make Percy and therefore Beckett suspicious that she was more sympathetic to their enemies (namely, Orion, Bill, and other pirates), but she also didn’t want to come down too hard on Percy. She knew that Percy, being the youngest Weasley brother in the Navy, had a lot to prove, especially considering that his “older brother” (namely, Carewyn) was a well-respected Commodore and war hero. Even his real older brothers had gotten their fair share of glory while they were enlisted in the Navy and now were seen as wanted criminals...so it was little wonder that Percy was determined to stand apart from them, not just as great in his own right, but ultimately better because he didn’t “fall from grace” like they did.
Cutler Beckett stayed at Governor Farrier’s mansion for the next week and visited the fort just about every day in that time. Whenever he was there, he pretty frequently sought Carewyn out, engaging her in conversation and asking her about her experiences fighting the Spanish and in escaping from the crew of the Revenge. Carewyn didn’t enjoy his rather pointed attention, but she hid her discomfort and mistrust as best as she was able. As much as she really found herself disliking the man, she knew that Beckett trying to get to know her better could give her the opportunity to get some information on him too. And ultimately, her polite, charming affect did help her learn a few things.
“From there, it was simply a matter of applying the proper pressure to the cylinder with one of the hat pins, while pushing the pins into the proper alignment with the other,” Carewyn explained. “Once the padlock on my chains was properly unlocked, I was then able to adjust enough to still look like I was locked up, wait for one of the enemy soldiers to enter my cell, and then overpower him so I could take his uniform, weapons, and keys and escape.”
“You truly are quite an escape artist, Commodore,” said Beckett, his eyebrows raising approvingly. “I’m impressed.”
Carewyn offered a casual smile. “Thank you -- but I only learned those things out of necessity, Lord Beckett.”
‘Jacob and I knew we’d both have to know how to pick locks, if we ever had to escape the Revenge’s brig. And even before that, it helped keep Grandfather happy, for us to be able to open chests of loot we didn’t have keys for.’
“It’s not a skill set I like to use if I can help it, considering I’d much prefer to be the one locking others up, not vice-versa.”
“Yes,” said Beckett, “I suppose for one with such a strong moral compass as yours, it would be only natural for you to wish to enforce justice, rather than fight against it.”
“Just as I’d say it’s only natural for a gentleman such as yourself to work toward the protection of our realm and interests -- am I right?”
“Of course,” said Beckett airily. “Someone has to make sure that people get what they pay for and that business remains profitable -- make sure the world turns properly, as it were.”
“A difficult proposition for any one man to do,” said Carewyn lowly, “considering this wild, untamed world we live in.”
Beckett smiled -- unlike Carewyn’s, however, there was no warmth in it at all.
“Fortunately, Commodore, the world we’ve been saddled with will soon be a thing of the past.”
He and Carewyn looked out over the wall of the fort. Down below, at the western dock, several rows of newly arrived red-garbed militia were disembarking from a Man o’ War and marching into Port Royal.
“As the map is filled in, our hold around this world becomes better defined,” said Beckett. “Its treasures are collected, its value assessed...and with that, a new sense of order begins to take hold.”
Carewyn looked down at the Man o’ War, her eyes narrowing slightly. She hadn’t seen such a strong military presence in Port Royal since the War against the Spanish -- and yet, here they were, being used not against foreign countries, but against individual people -- some of them even British citizens. As much as she knew that there were plenty of pirates that weren’t as goodhearted as Orion, it still seemed bizarre to her to unload all this firepower to destroy and kill, as opposed to capturing.
“And hopefully, peace,” said the Commodore softly.
Beckett glanced at Carewyn with a discerning eye. “Indeed. Peace and order do go hand-in-hand, wouldn’t you say?”
‘Not if the order is being instilled by a tyrant,’ she thought, as Charles Cromwell rippled over her mind.
“Definitely,” she lied instead.
Carewyn glanced at Beckett out the side of her eye, before turning her gaze out to the ocean.
“...I only profess as much knowledge to this matter as one can acquire, fighting against the likes of Orion Amari and being in the captivity of a pirate crew like the Revenge’s,” she said in the hardest, least sympathetic voice she could, “but it seems to me that pirates know their existence is unsustainable. Regardless of how renown they are and how much they can terrify merchant sailors, they’re still only men, facing off against Empires and kings. And as the world is plotted out -- as you yourself pointed out, Lord Beckett -- there will soon be less and less havens where such criminals can hide...”
She then looked at Beckett with a cold look in her eye.
“...From the way things stand...it seems to me that it would be in their best interest to stand down while they still can.”
'It would be, if there was any true justice for those who turned themselves in.’
Beckett’s lips spread into a slightly wider, cold smile as he inclined his head in agreement. “Well said. There could always be clemency, for those who embrace that wisdom -- it’s just good business.”
With this conversation, Carewyn had gotten a proper fix on Beckett, and it made her feel more disconcerted. It only got worse when later that week, both she and Percy were summoned into Carewyn’s own office at the fort for a meeting with Beckett. Some might have been offended at the idea of someone coming in and stealing their office just to demand a meeting with the office’s owner, but Carewyn honestly couldn’t make herself care too much about that. She couldn’t help but think that Beckett being so forceful could only be a bad thing, and when she arrived in her office, Percy right behind her dressed in his shiny new Captain’s uniform and powdered white wig, she immediately got the feeling she was right.
Beckett had already made himself very at home in Carewyn’s office. A crystal decanter filled with red wine and several glasses had been laid out and an entire map complete with tiny soldier pieces plotted in different positions covered nearly all of Carewyn’s desk. There was also an even larger map that had been applied to the back wall, which an employee was currently adding more details onto with his paintbrush. Standing in front of Carewyn’s desk across from Beckett was a middle-aged woman with hair as ginger red as Percy and Carewyn’s -- when the two officers first entered the room, her sharp-lidded dark blue eyes ran over both of them, lingering on Carewyn critically.
“Ah,” said Cutler Beckett, his lips spreading into a smile as his eyes narrowed upon Carewyn, “Commodore and Captain Weasley. Good of you to come.”
Carewyn and Percy both saluted.
“Lord Beckett,” Carewyn greeted formally.
She glanced at the older woman out the side of her eye, to find that she was likewise still looking her over with narrowed eyes. Carewyn couldn’t help but look at her suspiciously in return -- Percy had said Beckett had a female associate...and, if Charles Cromwell was to believed, then this woman had to be --
“Allow me to introduce my associate, Patricia Rakepick,” said Beckett smoothly. “Madam Rakepick -- this is Captain Percy Weasley, and his elder brother, Commodore Carey Weasley.”
Carewyn’s blood ran cold. Being face-to-face with the woman who tried to kill Jacob was like a dose of cold, shuddering poison to her system. It took everything in her to not look at Rakepick with wrathful, vengeful hatred -- instead, she tried to hide the bile she felt by bowing respectfully, her head slightly bowed to obscure her expression.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madam,” she said softly. Somehow her voice came out levelly, despite the rage pulsing through her blood.
Rakepick’s eyes narrowed a bit more on Carewyn’s face.
“The pleasure’s all mine, Commodore,” she said, but she didn’t sound quite so convincing -- she almost immediately turned back to Beckett, looking noticeably impatient, “Lord Beckett, you can’t think that these -- ”
Beckett held up a hand to silence her and turned to the employee working on the map. “One moment -- Mr. Elliot, you may stop there, for today. On your way, now.”
The employee bowed his head respectfully, before descending from his ladder and quickly leaving the office. The door shut with a SNAP behind him.
“Now then,” said Beckett, as he rose to his feet, “Commodore...Captain...I invited you here to request a favor of you. Madam Rakepick has recently uncovered a rather unique and valuable artifact.”
Carewyn’s eyebrows furrowed. Even Percy looked startled.
“What artifact is that, your Lordship?” he asked.
Beckett poured some red wine and offered a glass to Carewyn. She accepted it to be polite, but did not drink it. He then similarly offered a glass to Percy, who took a sip, even if he still looked a bit confused.
“How familiar are you both with the legend of Davy Jones?” asked Beckett.
Carewyn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The captain of the Flying Dutchman?”
“Well, I’ve...heard the stories, of course,” said Percy, glancing at Carewyn uncertainly. “We both have -- the silly things the soldiers would pass around, at sea...ghost stories, you know...”
Rakepick scoffed, crossing her arms. “‘Ghost stories’ -- and these two are supposed to be sailors? Any sailor worth their salt knows that these things are hardly just stories -- ”
“Madam, please,” Beckett cut her off very coolly, as Percy frowned deeply, clearly offended. “I’m afraid the stories are indeed real. We now have the Chest to prove it.”
He reached under his desk and placed an intricately carved iron treasure chest on top of Carewyn’s desk.
It looked older than anything Carewyn had ever seen, and yet also oddly beautiful -- the inset lock framed by the moon’s phases and stylized flames, and iron tentacles clutched at the lid as if keeping it shut.
Carewyn immediately put down her full wine glass on a side table so as to walk up to the chest, trailing a hand along the heart-shaped lock.
“This is the Dead Man’s Chest?” she whispered.
Percy glanced at Carewyn. “The Dead Man’s Chest? Like in the song?”
Carewyn shook her head. “‘Fifteen Men on a Dead Man’s Chest’ was about this Chest, Perce. It’s said that Jones was so determined that no one know where he buried this treasure chest that he abandoned the entire crew who knew of its existence on that island with nothing but a bottle of rum to sustain them.”
“Leaving them to take the secret of its location to their graves,” said Beckett. He was idly playing with a silver piece of eight in his right hand as he spoke, his eyes resting on Carewyn. “Alas, it seems that the key needed to open the Chest may be in a location we cannot reach -- ”
He shot a cool look at Rakepick, who looked very affronted and opened her mouth to say something, but couldn’t before Beckett spoke again.
“ -- so I’d like to ask for your expertise on the matter, Commodore. Can this Chest be opened, without its key?”
Carewyn looked from Beckett to down at the Chest, unable to hide the trepidation completely from her face.
“...I can’t say for sure,” she said slowly. Her mind was working very fast as she regarded Beckett with a cautious look. “Were it an ordinary chest, I daresay it’d be easy enough to find a way to open it...but if there were any kind of curse placed on it or, more importantly, the treasure inside it...it might not be wise to try to break it open.”
“Curse?” repeated Percy disbelievingly. “Carey, you can’t be serious -- ”
“I saw the curse of Isle de Muerta with my own eyes, Percy,” she reminded him sharply. “If the Dead Man’s Chest has such a curse on it, it would not be worth the risk to open it, no matter how valuable its treasure is.”
Percy immediately quieted, looking a bit uncomfortable. Rakepick once again looked Carewyn over with a critical eye, even as she gave another light sniff.
“The treasure inside is not magical, so it would have no chance of hurting us, that is for certain,” said Rakepick dryly. “And from all the evidence I’ve gathered, I found nothing hinting that Finn McGarry -- pardon, Davy Jones -- was particularly adept at curses. All of the abilities he has now were a result of the role bestowed upon him by Calypso, as ferryman of the damned.”
Her face then turned much more serious.
“I will agree with the Commodore on one thing, though: Jones’s Chest will be too strong for the likes of a single man to break open. Look at the lid -- there are dead bolt locks around the entire Chest. The only way we’ll be able to unlock it is if I fetch the key from Jones myself -- ”
“And yet the Commodore thinks it’d be easy enough, to find a way to open the Chest without that key,” said Beckett rather coolly, raising his eyebrows as he once again shifted his gaze to Carewyn. “Commodore -- if you would?”
Carewyn looked from the Dead Man’s Chest to Beckett again, before glancing back at Percy. Percy gave her an encouraging nod, but it didn’t make Carewyn feel any better. She wished beyond reason that Charlie or Bill had been there instead -- they’d understand why she was so hesitant to help someone like Cutler Beckett.
But at the same time...she couldn’t refuse. She was put in the position that she had to open the Chest, if she wanted to stay on Beckett’s good side and keep the position that allowed her to protect Bill, Jules, Charlie, Jacob, and Orion. Even if she did refuse to open the Chest, then Beckett would no doubt find someone else who would...and would also likely not trust Carewyn enough to let her overhear any more information that could help her protect the others.
'If the treasure inside isn’t cursed, then there isn’t much reason to refuse,’ she thought grimly. ‘And lining Beckett’s pockets with a bit more gold would only help me help the others that bit more, by earning his trust.’
And so, swallowing back the ball of fear in her throat, Carewyn started looking over the Chest. She turned it around a few times, examining the hinges and the dead-bolts lining the base of the lid.
“What do you think, Carey?” asked Percy anxiously.
Carewyn’s eyes narrowed upon the Chest as she ran a hand over the top and pushed down on each of the iron tentacles one at a time.
“Its construction most resembles an armada chest -- some of the Spanish captains used them to hold their valuables during the War, and I’ve seen some pirates use them too, to hold their loot,” she murmured to him, though she could feel Rakepick hovering over her other shoulder as she worked. “On armada chests, the locking mechanism is actually built into the inside of the lid -- that explains the dead bolts around the edges. It also would prevent you from just unscrewing the hinges on the back of the chest and opening it from the back, like you can on a lot of wooden chests. But armada chests usually have a false keyhole on the front, with the real keyhole being hidden under a flap on the lid. This one does not. Judging by the construction of the keyhole, there looks to be a double cylinder design -- one that requires pressure on both sides of the keyhole, as well as the pins inside both cylinders to be in the proper position...”
She looked up at Beckett.
“...It’s easily the most complicated locking system I’ve ever seen on any chest,” she said grimly.
“Can you open it?” asked Beckett.
Carewyn steadied her jaw, her face blanching slightly as she inclined her head in a short nod.
“I think so.”
Beckett got Carewyn the tools she needed. Due to the two-sided nature of the keyhole, she enlisted Percy to help her -- he had far less experience with opening locks, but he followed Carewyn’s directions as closely as he could.
After almost an hour, there was a loud, booming CLICK as all twelve of the dead bolts around the lid popped out and the lid opened a crack, letting off a small gasp of dust.
“You did it!” said Rakepick.
Despite the seriousness of her expression, there was a slight echo of excitement and awe at the back of her voice. She was clearly impressed.
Carewyn stared at the slightly open Chest. Her heart was slamming up against her rib cage anxiously.
Nothing had happened, when she’d opened it -- so had the Chest not been cursed, after all? That was a relief. And Rakepick had said the treasure inside wasn’t cursed, so...
Tentatively Carewyn reached out a hand and slowly eased the lid open.
When she saw what was inside, though, she couldn’t hold back a sharp intake of breath.
The Dead Man’s Chest was devoid of any of the gold or jewels she’d envisioned. Instead, all it held was a slimy, reddish, pulsing, thumping thing about the side of a coconut.
It was a human heart, still beating lowly despite no blood rushing through it.
Percy squeezed Carewyn’s shoulder as he looked down at it too, visibly taken aback.
“Is...that...?”
“The heart of Davy Jones,” finished Rakepick darkly, “first cut out when he was named captain of the Flying Dutchman -- for the Dutchman must always have a captain who’s left his heart behind in the world of the living. Only then can he truly be a subjective judge of the dead and dying at sea...and thus the souls of the damned will not haunt the seas and terrorize all those who sail it.”
Carewyn’s eyes were very wide. ‘Then...the treasure Jones locked away was his own heart?’
Rakepick’s dark blue eyes flickered down to the heart rather pitilessly.
“Not that Jones hasn’t done a fine job of terrorizing those who sail those seas all on his own, over the years,” she added very dryly.
“All the more reason for us to bring Jones into our enterprise.”
Beckett rose from his desk again. Taking a sip from his own glass of red wine, he came around to purposefully take a step between Percy and Carewyn and look down at the heart himself. His lips curled up in a dark smile as he reached out a hand and picked up the heart to get a better look at it.
“Whoever controls the heart of Davy Jones...controls the sea,” said Beckett.
He gave it a rather tight squeeze. Carewyn couldn’t stop herself from flinching.
‘If that thing is still beating,’ she couldn’t help but think, ‘then does that mean that it’s the only thing keeping Davy Jones alive? If so...’
She felt like her own chest was being squeezed.
‘...Beckett’s holding Davy Jones’s life in the palm of his hand.’
For all of the terrifying stories Carewyn had heard about Davy Jones over the years, both on the Revenge and in the Navy, she found herself feeling nothing but righteous anger and pain at this thought. What a disgusting, terrible thing to do to anyone -- no matter how awful a person they were...
There was a loud splash outside the window of Carewyn’s office.
Carewyn, Percy, Rakepick, and Beckett all looked up, to see a giant, terrifying ship erupting out of the waves just outside the fort. It was a sickly gray with torn sails and a bow cut into a set of massive, jagged jaws like a crocodile.
“The Flying Dutchman,” breathed Carewyn, hardly daring to believe it.
Beckett’s smile broadened, actually showing some teeth. “A rather fine addition to the fleet -- especially considering that it can go just about anywhere and travel in record time...”
Rakepick turned to Beckett sharply.
“If that’s the case, the first thing we should do is have him hunt down Black Jack Roberts. I know he made a deal with Jones -- he’ll have a way to track him down and kill him once and for all -- ”
Carewyn’s heart spasmed in horror, but fortunately no one else in the room noticed the fear flashing through her face.
“Didn’t you say you already destroyed the Tower Raven?” said Beckett coolly. “One can hardly see a pirate with no ship as a real threat.”
“Don’t underestimate Black Jack Roberts,” said Rakepick lowly. “By all accounts, he should’ve died, and he would have, if he hadn’t somehow managed to recruit a merman to his crew -- ”
Percy sputtered in disbelief. “‘Merman’ -- you mean, like mermaids? Those are real too?”
“Afraid so,” said Carewyn.
Her mind and heart were both racing, but she tried desperately to keep her cool. She couldn’t let them go after Jacob...or Duncan, either, if he was the merman who’d helped him like she suspected. Now that she knew the true power Beckett now had, thanks to her opening that Chest for him, she couldn’t stand by and let him use it to hurt her brother --
“...I can’t say I know much about Black Jack Roberts, aside from him being captain of the Tower Raven...” she said slowly, “...but it seems to me that attacking one man would be a poor way to use the weapon we’ve acquired.”
All three of the others looked at her. Beckett raised his eyebrows in keen interest.
“And what would you say would be a better way to use it, Commodore?” he asked, sounding intrigued.
Carewyn’s eyes drifted away from the others as she walked up to the window of her office and looked out, her arms crossed behind her back as she went. She tried to keep her face as stoic as possible, even with how scared she truly felt.
‘In order to pass up the chance to hunt down and kill one of the most wanted pirates in the world,’ she thought, ‘I have to offer an even more enticing option...’
The idea forming in her mind made her feel ill.
‘It’s been over two weeks since I saw Jules, Bill, and Charlie,’ she thought very quickly. ‘That’s more than enough time to have made the repairs to the Revolution and get some new crew members, especially if Orion and the crew of the Artemis is helping them. And...whether they’re just leaving or have already left...this way, they’ll know the true extent of the danger. All pirates will know what the Navy’s new weapon is...and can prepare for it.’
She closed her eyes solemnly.
“...I say we send a message to all pirates -- one that makes them tremble in their boots, the way they’ve made merchant sailors tremble at the sight of their black flags...by attacking them where they’ve always felt most safe. By arresting them somewhere they all gather together, in one place.”
She opened her eyes again, her gaze blazing as she turned back to Beckett.
“I say...we sack Tortuga.”
#potc au#au#pirates of the caribbean#carewyn cromwell#patricia rakepick#percy weasley#jacob cromwell#duncan ashe#charlie weasley#bill weasley#jules farrier#finn mcgarry#my art#my writing#my fanfiction#oooooh boy carey#this kind of feels like when you were stuck at the ministry under the death eaters in your canon#having to stay in line while secretly biding your time to try to find a way to defeat the enemy#and also trying to find a way to help the people you love at the same time#she's going to hate herself so much after this whole thing is over though given how paragon she is#she knows practically speaking this is the best way she can help#but it doesn't make it any easier for her to keep her head down even if it is ultimately to try to help others#carewyn has impossible standards for herself as the resident paragon slytherin#she'll hate herself no matter what path she takes honestly#of course rakepick's already giving carey the side eye#wonder why... >>#also percy isn't just wearing the wig because it's a symbol of the 'upper-class' status of his position#but also because remember redheads are considered bad luck at sea?#so he figures people will treat him slightly differently if they don't immediately know he's a ginger on first meeting#and -- yeah sad to say he's right
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Interrogation
A Musketeers angst fic as a Christmas present to myself. Inspired entirely by @why-this-kolaveri-machi‘s recent ficlet
As Richelieu’s manipulations went, even d’Artagnan had to admit this was a masterstroke. A combination of a few careful rumours, paying off a handful of mercenaries to stage an attack, and the oh-so-careful planting of evidence in his dorm room and suddenly d’Artagnan found himself surrounded by armed Red Guards in the middle of the street with no help in sight. Even when Treville had shown up, shouting something about the King’s orders and the authority of the Musketeers, the outcome had still been a swift, terrifying march to the Bastille and a series of freezing cold nights in a cell with no word from anyone.
In short, d’Artagnan was having a bad week.
The one positive of this whole awful affair was that apparently Treville still held enough sway with Louis to ensure his interrogation would be handled by the Musketeers rather than the Red Guard – keeping any dirty laundry in house, as it were – so he was probably faring better than he otherwise might. At the same time, it meant he found himself faced with the three men he would previously have said he trusted most in the world and being forced to look them in the eye as they questioned every decision he had ever made with open suspicion on their faces.
He shifted in his chair for the third time in as many minutes, wishing he could at least have his hands unbound so he could shake out the stiffness that had taken root. “I’ve told you,” he said again, weary, “I have no idea who Reynard is.”
“There are eyewitnesses who swear to have seen you meeting with him on multiple occasions.” Athos’ voice was stone cold, level and emotionless. Aramis and Porthos had at least had the grace to believe d’Artagnan in the beginning, before the evidence started piling up against him, but it was clear that their de facto leader had harboured no such hopes from the moment the chains were closed around d’Artagnan’s wrists. Richelieu had called him a traitor, and Athos had taken him at his word.
“Then they’re lying. I don’t know anyone called Reynard.”
“Did you know he was under the employ of the Spanish army when you met with him?”
“I never met with him,” he stressed, knowing it would make no difference. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise half a second before the cane in Aramis’ hand flicked against his shoulder; more of a warning than an actual blow, but enough to sting all the same. He hissed. “It’s the truth. I don’t know how to prove it to you.”
“When did you last visit the Rue de la Lièvre?”
He thought for a moment, long enough for Aramis’ cane to come to rest lightly against his shoulder blade. “About a month ago,” he said eventually. “Not long after I arrived in Paris. I was exploring.”
"Exploring? Why?"
It was obvious Athos had immediately assumed he was doing something nefarious, but the truth was simply that Porthos had suggested he get to know his new environment should any more trouble come knocking at his door. It had been good advice and he'd happily done as he was bid - somehow he didn't think that explanation would help.
"I was new to the city. I'd never been to Paris before. I wanted to learn more about it since it looked like I'd be staying."
Instead of shooting off another question, Athos took a moment to lean back in his chair to examine him, his eyes sharp and unreadable. d'Artagnan, half starved and gradually freezing to death, stared balefully back, too wrung out and exhausted to even offer up any malice at the speed with which his so-called friends had turned on him. He wanted nothing more than for this to be over, no matter what the outcome might be.
Behind Athos, leaning casually against the wall with a dark expression heavy on his brow, Porthos opted for a different approach. "d'Artagnan, you haven't eaten in three days. I can see you shivering from here. If you tell us what we need to know then we can help you - get you some food and blankets. Maybe even get you out of here altogether. Reynard isn't worth your loyalty. Let us help."
The act was good, very good. It might even have been believable if it hadn't been greatly overshadowed by Athos' presence looming large and the fact that yesterday, the cane had been in Porthos' hand.
Still, it was as good an opening as any.
"If I knew the answers to your questions, I would tell you. I am loyal to France. I would never betray my King."
I would never betray the Musketeers hung cold in the back of his throat, but invoking their name had historically not gone well during these little chats and d'Artagnan was good at learning from his mistakes. He swallowed it down.
"The first time I heard the name Reynard was when you asked me about him. I have never been to Spain. I have never knowingly had any contact with anyone associated with the Spanish army. I would never betray my country."
He was breathing too quickly, he realised with a start. He forced himself to take a deep breath and cursed himself when it shook. The cane brushed over the back of his neck.
Athos leant forward again with something unshakeable in his eyes. "Before your arrest, you were apprenticed with the Musketeers."
It wasn't a question, but he paused so d'Artagnan nodded.
"You had been with the regiment for about a month."
"Yes."
"Why did you join them?"
Despite his crippling exhaustion, he found the energy to feel a sudden surge of irritation. "It wasn't to uncover state secrets if that's what you're getting at."
The cane snapped sharply against his back with a thundering crack of sound. He cursed breathlessly, writhing until the pain ebbed enough to bite out a better answer. "I needed work and it seemed like a good fit. They were honourable men."
If Athos took issue with his use of the past tense, he didn't show it. "You agreed to risk your life in service of the King for so small a reason?"
"Athos," he breathed out, still shuddering with pain, "You know why I joined."
He had the gall to laugh at that. "It has become very clear that anything we thought we knew of you cannot be trusted. Answer the question."
It was the response he'd expected, but it still hurt to hear. Unbidden, he remembered how Aramis and Porthos had immediately and unflinchingly brushed aside his accusations against Athos when he had first met them, the ardency with which they held their ground against a tidal wave of suspicion. He'd had no misconceptions about his worth relative to their friend of many years, but their willingness to believe the worst of him still managed to catch him off guard.
"I had nowhere else to go. My family is gone and I didn't want to resign myself to a lifetime of farming. The only other skill I have any claim to possess is swordcraft." Although given that one of the guards had broken his finger on his first night here and he hadn't been able to set it right by himself, it was perfectly possible he'd never hold a sword right again. Not that he had any real hope of getting out of prison alive at all.
"You could have been a mercenary. I hear the pay's better."
"I wanted to serve my country."
"Which country is that?"
He sighed, deeply and with feeling, only to gasp in another breath when the cane came down again. He hissed through his teeth and pretended like tears weren't beading at the corner of his eyes. "France."
Athos hummed to himself. “It is very uncommon for apprentice Musketeers to be allowed the seniority you were by virtue of your relationship with us. Did you intentionally manipulate us to gain greater access to the King?”
He forced himself not to flinch and shook his head slowly. These questions were pointless - no one was going to believe a word he said anyway, even if he’d had the answers they were looking for. “No. I didn’t know anything about you when I met you. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have tried to kill you.”
"Why did you come to Paris?"
Not liking where this was going, d'Artagnan's answer was monotone. "My Father was hoping to petition the King for relaxing the taxes in Gascony. We'd had a few bad harvests in a row and people didn't have the money to pay them."
"Did you petition the King?"
"No. After my Father died, I abandoned his mission. I continued on to Paris in search of the man that killed him."
"Me."
"You."
There was a weighted, vicious pause, then, "Do you have any proof that your Father really did perish on that trip?"
The fury that overcame d'Artagnan was so sudden and so blinding that his muscles were trying to launch him out of his chair before his brain could remind him he was tied down. As it was, Aramis' hand caught him by the throat and slammed him back into his seat before he could do anything more than rock it violently forward. "Stay down," he hissed sharply, but softened the threat by turning to Athos and saying, "Porthos and I can confirm that, at least. We spoke to the innkeeper, saw the grave. His story's true."
The marksman's hand stayed curled around d'Artagnan's neck for several strained breaths, evidently a threat. As it was, d'Artagnan did nothing but try to breathe through the searing anger and crippling grief that had torn right through his centre. To be called a traitor was one thing, to question his Father's memory was altogether another.
This was not the time or place to break apart, but d'Artagnan could feel the fault lines threatening to tear open.
"d'Artagnan," Athos started, then hesitated. It was the first sign of uncertainty he'd displayed all day. "We just need to know what information you passed to Reynard, that's all. Tell us that and we can be done here."
He sounded earnest and that somehow hurt more, to know that Athos still cared just enough to not want to watch him starving to death, but too little to actually believe anything he said. d'Artagnan wished he had the strength to laugh. "That's easy enough," he said instead of trying to convince them any longer, "I told him nothing."
Porthos sighed heavily, pushing off from the wall to bring himself level with Athos, looming over the table like a dread spectre. "What is it you're protecting? What's more important to you than your own life?"
d'Artagnan briefly fought a losing battle against the urge to let his chin drop to his chest, his eyes slipping closed under the weight of his own exhaustion. When he spoke, even he could hear how defeated he sounded. "I'm not protecting anything. I don't know any Reynard, and whoever's claiming I do is probably who you're really looking for. If I could prove it to you, I would."
Athos' lips thinned, visibly unconvinced. d'Artagnan flinched a beat before the cane flicked against the meat of his arm and cursed loudly at the sting. "It's the truth," he bit out, letting the frustration shine through. "I don't know the answers you're looking for."
"d'Artagnan, there are four different people willing to swear that you met with Reynard on multiple occasions and we found missives with his name hidden in your room, along with more money than you could ever have made from your farm. Do you really expect us to believe you don't know anything about the Spanish plot?"
If he'd had anything to drink in the last two days, he would have wept with his own frustration. "I know you won't believe me. It's still the truth."
In the corner of his eye he saw the cane twitch, but Athos waved Aramis down before the blow could land. He pushed away from the table with a heavy sigh. "We're getting nowhere today. Let's see if another night here helps to jog your memory."
There was a certain relief in that, free from the threat of the cane and the judgement in his friends' eyes, but it meant another night cold and hungry with no respite. He barely resisted the urge to groan.
"He needs water," Aramis put in quietly. "He'll last without food for another few days but he has to drink if we want him able to talk."
Athos nodded easily, accepting his ruling. "Speak to the guards, make sure it happens." With that he was gone, sweeping out of the room without another glance at the young man he would once have called brother and leaving a thoroughly defeated d'Artagnan to be frogmarched back to his cell by Aramis and Porthos in silence.
His promised water didn't appear for another few hours, when a guard he'd never seen before dumped a bucket in the corner of his cell with a thump. Sunken down on his little patch of straw against the far wall, d'Artagnan didn't react even when the guard cursed his name and spat on the floor beside him, taking care to slam his door with enough force to shake the room. It was one of the least offensive encounters d'Artagnan had had since his arrest; that awareness in and of itself was almost enough to put him off drinking the water after all. As it was, he eventually decided that tomorrow's interrogation would be even more tortuous if he was critically dehydrated at the same time, and he hadn't quite reached the stage of trying to kill himself.
Just as he had for the last however many nights, d'Artagnan spent his time curled tightly in a shivering ball in the corner of his cell, desperately trying to ward off the pervasive chill that swept beneath his door. One of the few benefits of his previous occupation was that the guards were sufficiently wary of him to not trust him with a windowed cell, so he at least didn't have to try to cope with wind and rain pouring into his tiny little portion of Hell, but it was far from comfortable. Frozen stiff and hopeless, he didn't sleep a wink.
The Musketeers were back at dawn, dragging him from his semi-aware fugue state and back into his gloomy little interrogation chamber without fanfare.
"Sleep well?" Aramis asked snidely as he bound his hands firmly back in place. d'Artagnan didn't bother to respond.
Even though he wasn't the one who spent the night freezing in a cell, Athos somehow managed to look even more drawn than d'Artagnan did when he settled himself down across from him. He slid a piece of paper across the table towards him without a word, his face pale and tight.
A glance at the parchment showed a long passage of text with a signature scrawled at the bottom, followed by a very official looking seal. Unable to reach for it and far too weary to try to interpret the scratchy handwriting at a distance, d’Artagnan just returned his gaze to Athos and waited for the inevitable question.
“Do you know what this is?”
“No.”
“Do you recognise the handwriting?”
In an attempt to not anger Athos in the first few minutes of the day, he obliged him by casting a more searching glance over the page, but came away none the wiser. “No.”
“Do you recognise the seal?”
“Red Guard. Richelieu, maybe.”
The cane, back in Aramis’ hand, grazed against his collarbone. “Cardinal Richelieu.”
It was a testament to d’Artagnan’s sheer strength of will and his desire to not make things worse for himself than they already were that he was able to restrain himself from hissing, Like you give a damn. Instead, he clenched his jaw, and kept silent.
Seemingly satisfied, Athos withdrew the paper to look at it himself. “This is the sworn statement of Gaspard Vincent - a resident on the Rue de la Lièvre."
"One of my witnesses," d'Artagnan said lowly, starting to connect the dots.
Athos hummed in agreement. "He claimed that he had hosted you and Reynard on several occasions, under threat of retribution should he reach out to the authorities."
"Claimed?"
There was a long, still pause during which d'Artagnan doggedly crushed the hope threatening to spark to life in his chest. Eventually Athos sighed. “He recanted his testimony yesterday morning. Twelve hours later, he reconfirmed his original statement.”
There was no doubt something meaningful there, but d’Artagnan was starving and exhausted and he had absolutely no desire to play Athos’ games. “Meaning?”
The cane rested carefully against his shoulder, a gentle caution to watch his tone. That he hadn’t already received a blow was… unusual. “It means we have reason to doubt his word.”
“Why did he reconfirm?” There was a telling pause. “You think someone threatened him, don’t you? You’re just trying to work out which way the intimidation went.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell us that he only testified against you because he was being threatened?”
d’Artagnan couldn’t help momentarily raising his eyes to the heavens as though to plead for strength. “I’ve been telling you that for five days.”
“Buying off one witness wouldn’t explain everything else. We found evidence of treason in your room d’Artagnan.”
“You really think someone with the power to make a handful of witnesses appear on command couldn’t get into my room? I wasn’t even there the day I was arrested.” The cane snapped harshly against the meat of his back, but he forced himself to keep his voice level. With bruises layered over bruises, he found it faintly remarkable he could still feel the pain at all. “I spent that entire night in The Wren, watching your back when you decided to drown yourself in a wine bottle. Do you really think it’s an impossibility that someone snuck into the house when I wasn’t there?”
He heard the cane whistle through the air, but Athos flicked a hand up and the strike never came. d’Artagnan breathed out slowly. “You were in The Wren,” Athos confirmed quietly, his eyes far away and distant as though he was only just now realising this fact. “I remember you being there.”
If his hands had been free, he thought he might be tearing his hair out in frustration. “Why on Earth does that make any difference?”
When no immediate response was forthcoming, Porthos inched forwards to fill the silence. “It makes a difference because another witness claimed you met with Reynard that night.”
d'Artagnan blinked, breathed, then surprised himself by laughing sharply. "Of course they did."
"I-" Athos started, then halted uncertainly. He threw a wild look in Aramis' direction, clearly thrown. If he hadn't already known, d'Artagnan would need no more evidence that Athos had entirely forgotten about his presence in the inn that evening.
Porthos' hand landed on his shoulder, steadying. "We need to talk to that witness. No sense hammering d'Artagnan any more today if we're not sure about those statements."
For something that seemed as though it should have been a thrilling redemption, their session ended with remarkably little fanfare after that. Athos and Porthos disappeared before Aramis had even got him untied, and it was clear the marksman had absolutely no intention of offering him any further information. He had a vague sense that the man thought they had already said too much.
d'Artagnan knew that pressing for answers was futile and as likely to backfire on him as help, but all he could see was Athos' lost expression when he'd realised a second witness had been caught lying. Despite everything, he found himself turning to Aramis just before his hands came free. "Did he hesitate? When Richelieu called for my head, and I was arrested- Did he hesitate?"
His voice sounded raw to his own ears, and maybe that was why Aramis didn't immediately lash out. The tears shining bright in his eyes might also have had something to do with it.
"We all did."
There was nothing he could say to that that wouldn't hurt them both. He walked back to his cell in silence.
What followed was an awful lot of nothing. He heard nothing more from the Musketeers for three full days, but his outlook did brighten substantially when his now-daily bucket of water was joined by a hunk of bread and cheese, and a small collection of blankets was quietly deposited in his chilly corner. It wasn't comfortable by a long shot, but it was miles better than what he'd had and it was a strong sign his future might hold something more substantial than a slow, miserable death and an unmourned grave.
With so little contact with the outside world, he had no real idea what to expect when a guard appeared in his doorway and ushered him out without an explanation. For all his new-found comforts, he still wore the weight of days without food and water, spattered with bruises and aching in ways he hadn't known possible, so when he was led through a door into the sunlight he could do little more than blink, half-blind and confused. The guards flanking him retreated in silence and it was only after he watched them leave that he turned his head to see Athos, Porthos, and Aramis standing before him.
All three of them looked unsure of themselves, clutching their hats to their chests and watching him warily.
"What's going on?" He rasped, though he was starting to catch on quickly. He’d initially assumed he had been led into an inner courtyard for whatever reason, but as his eyes adjusted to the light it became clear he was standing in the square that fronted the prison. Well beyond the Musketeers, he could see the bustle of people going about their business like always. The guards wouldn’t have left him here, Musketeers or no, unless they no longer felt the need to keep him contained.
After an uncertain heartbeat, Athos stepped forward. “Your name has been cleared. The King has issued a pardon, and an apology for your treatment.” He hesitated, then added softly, “We need to apologise too.”
d’Artagnan considered that for a moment. He thought about every bruise he could feel prickling against his skin, every harsh word, every sleepless night, took a deep breath and held it. When he felt steady enough, he met Athos’ eye. “I’m free to go?”
“Yes.” He untucked a bundle from beneath his arm and held it out carefully - d’Artagnan’s sword and pistol. “The rest of your belongings have been returned to your lodgings.”
He had to force himself not to recoil at Athos’ nearness, but he reached out to reclaim his weapons all the same, tucking the belt back around himself like an old friend. He half-wanted to scorn the offering, but it was his Father’s sword and no amount of spite was worth losing it now; the moment it was back in its rightful place, he felt strength starting to leech back into his bones.
“d’Artagnan,” Aramis started, sounding wrecked, only to cut himself off when his eyes snapped to the marksman’s.
He looked around the three of them for a moment, taking in their guilt, then made a careful sidestep and walked straight for the main gate without a word. None of them tried to stop him, but he heard at least one of them suck in a sharp breath as he marched forcefully past him; he tried very hard not to take any satisfaction from finally, finally having the upper hand.
As cornered as it had made him feel, his friends’ ambush had served one purpose: he knew where he needed to go to collect his things. A quick stop during which he was viciously grateful his landlord and lady weren’t home, and he was free to put the garrison and its Musketeers at his back and start walking.
He was gone from Paris by nightfall.
On AO3 here
#angst#unhappy ending#Fic#fanfiction#fanfic#my fic#the musketeers#d'artagnan#crossposted on ao3#bbc musketeers
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