As far as we're aware, the main story of Reverse: 1999 has its chapters named after numerous medias, mainly that of 20th Century literature. Most if not all of these medias tend to interconnect with the story in some way, and it's fun trying to figure out the themes that come from it.
This post will serve as a masterlist for all of the namesakes of the main story so far in global servers; I also posted this on twitter with CN-exclusive patches as well, but I'd like to rather play safe here. Most of these notes are reworded from the original twitter thread as well.
Any and all insights / personal interpretations are welcome! Let's get started.
Prologue - This Is Tomorrow
The prologue of the series is named after the 1956 art exhibition that was hosted in the Whitechapel Art Gallery in the UK. It featured 12 artists ranging from painters, sculptors, architects, and more with their unique styles highlighting their visions of contemporary art. This exhibition was renowned for being the turning point of art in post-war Britain, being a major contributor to the development of the Pop Art movement that rose in the 1960s.
Chapter 1 - In Our TIme
In Our Time 1925 cover published by Boni and Liveright
In Our Time is a short story collection published in 1925 by Ernest Hemingway. The stories are particularly themed around alienation, grief, and isolation during various settings like during and post-WW1. The collection contains over 15 vignettes and a few short stories that featured the character Nick Adams, a well-known main character among Hemingway's stories.
Chapter 2 - Tender is the Night
Tender is the Night, First Edition
Tender is The Night is the final novel written by American author F. Scott Fitzgerald. Set in the Jazz Age, it explores the diminishing relationship between a psychiatrist and his wife, who is one of his patients. It also explores the main character's fall from grace—as he begins to succumb to alcoholism and engages in affairs within the story. It is noted that the two main characters are based on Fitzgerald and Zelda Fitzgerald, his wife.
While it did not do well when it was first published, it gained its popularity once reevaluated in the 40s, after Fitzgerald's death.
Chapter 3 - Nouvelle et textes pour Rien
Nouvelle et textes pour Rien, first illustrated edition cover
This is a collection of stories and short prose pieces written by Samuel Beckett in the 50s. Its three main stories ("The Expelled," "The Calmative," and "The End") are about a group of old men who are forced to leave their modest lives for a niche place where they'll be able to fit in. While the thirteen proses of texts were left unnamed, they were all themed around 'nothing' and the unknown.
Chapter 4 - El Oro de los Tigres
El Oro de los Tigres cover published by La Nacion
A poem written by Jorge Luis Borges, its narrator talks of endlessly watching a Bengal tiger striding back and forth in an iron cage, until blindness overtakes the vision of the narrator, shrouding all but the golden colours. It's also the title of the author's poetry collection that was published in 1972.
Chapter 5 - Prisoner in the Cave
LeBooks cover of the EBook edition of The Allegory of the Cave
The title refers to the allegory of the cave, which was proposed by Plato. Written in his work the Republic, he states: People lived their lives shackled to watching only shadows on the walls. The philosopher understands a higher reality, and he sets out to leave the cave to reach it while the rest remain behind. It introduced a philosophical worldview of how the world is perceived by the people, and the shallowness of false truths.
Interchapter 5.5 - The Star
Illustration for The Star by John Giunta in Infinity Science Fiction
This is slightly leaning towards a personal interpretation—The Star is titled after a sci-fi short story written by Arthur C. Clarke in 1955. It contains the story of a dispirited priest struggling with his faith after finishing his visit of the ruins of an advanced civilization destroyed by a supernova.
It's revealed in the end that the priest had determined that the supernova that destroyed the civilization turned out to be the famed Star of Bethlehem (the one that shone brightly on the night of Jesus' birth). This revelation had caused him great despair over how one's divine blessing had become the destruction of another.
Chapter 6 - E lucevan le Stelle
Adolfo Hohenstein's Illustration Poster for Tosca by Giacomo Puccini
Tosca is a 3-Act opera which debuted in Rome during 1900. It entails the romance between Tosca and Cavaradossi, and the latter's imprisonment followed by the former's deceptive betrayal to save him. The romantic aria, E lucevan le Stelle, is sung by Cavaradossi; while he awaits his execution on the roof of Castel Sant'Angelo.
Chapter 7 - Vereinsamt
Friedrich Nietzcsche
Der Freigeist (Vereinsamt) is a poem written by Friedrich Nietzsche, reflecting on his loneliness and overcoming it in the form of a crow that roams the desolate winter alone.
Chapter 8 - Tristes Tropiques
The Librairie Plon edition cover of Tristes Tropiques
Published in 1955, the memoir written by Claude Lévi-Strauss depicts his transformative experiences when he had traveled to Brazil and other countries like India and the Caribbean in the 1930's. While the chapter itself is a sort of poor execution on the game's part, the book itself is an interesting piece.
Chapter 9 - Folie et Déraison
The Librairie Plon edition cover of Folie et Déraison
Michel Foucault, a prominent figure mentioned in the story chapter, writes about the meaning of madness founded in society, culture, philosophy, and politics throughout European history before the beginning of the 19th Century. He places his focus on the height of the "Age of Reason" in the 17th Century. This especially highlights how the "mad" are treated by the "reasonable" in society itself, and how it influences the structures of the definition of "madness" in society today.
Chapter 10 - Paradise Regained
1671 Cover of Paradise Regained printed by F.M. ; CN Poster for Chapter 10
A continuation of John Milton's "Paradise Lost", Paradise Regained is an epic poem that describes the Temptation of Christ as recounted in the Gospel of Luke in the New Testament. In resisting temptation, the angels guide Christ back to Mother Mary. The poem itself spans across 4 books, compared to Paradise Lost's 12.
An excerpt of the poem is also referenced in the Chapter itself, specifically in Stage 19.
——
Like I've done so for the twitter thread, I will be continuously updating this masterlist as we're introduced to the next chapters of the series. Thanks for sticking around!
The dream slipped into strangeness. She was in a room, a bed, both familiar and not. She felt hot like she was having one of her attacks. All was both so bright and so dark, the scenery smudged and fading in and out at the edges.
There was something, someone, by her bed – standing? sitting? – who felt gold and bright and warm in a way she recognised and did not at once. She strained to see, strained to make out the figure by her side but her vision was too blurry, was as crumbling and failing as the rest of this dream world.
“Oh, you are awake,” said a soft voice she could not place. “Good morning, Cloudia.”
Cloudia opened her eyes – and was immediately hit with the intensity of the world around her: The room was not faded but a splash of colour, brilliant greens and deep purples and the bright yellow light of the shining morning sun. There were multiple blankets covering her, and her head was propped up by several pillows. There were hushed footsteps and creaking wooden boards beyond the room’s door, and heels on stones and wheels rattling over streets and chirping birds and human conversations, both loud and muffled, sad and joyful, finding their ways through the slightly opened window and inside. Kamden was sleeping on a chair beside her bed, his hand clasped in hers, holding onto her tight as if it was high tide and he feared he would lose her to the sea.
My mind had tried to cling to the disintegrating remnants of my dream – now, it let go, stopping the process because it was too much.
Everything was too much.
The colours were too intense, the light too bright, the blankets too heavy, the pillows too soft, the sounds too loud, Kamden’s grip too tight.
I wanted to shut my eyes. Press my hands against my ears.
I didn’t want to see, to hear, to smell, to feel anything anymore.
I only wanted to curl up and shield myself from the world. From all that overwhelmed me so.
Get me out. Get me out.
Get me away from these pillows, from under these blankets, from this blinding light…
With all her might, Cloudia kicked and kicked until the blankets did not weigh her down anymore. Pain raked through her head, and her vision blurred when she sat up too quickly. She placed her free hand against her chest and gasped for air.
In one moment, it was hard to breathe, all these sensations lying heavily on my chest, pushing down.
In the next, the intensity of it all – the fabrics touching my skin, the colours shining in my eyes, the sounds from outside knocking against my ears – faded to normalcy.
Inhale, exhale.
And the world balanced itself out again.
Inhale, exhale.
And my senses lost their sudden amplifier.
Inhale, exhale.
And most of the strangeness went away.
Except for one piece that remained.
It took a while until Cloudia found her footing in the world again and remembered where she was and what had happened. She craned her head to Kamden who was still sleeping. Although everything had been too much for her barely a minute ago, Cloudia had, nonetheless, never freed her hand from Kamden’s. Now, she gently tugged on his hand; he would want to know that she had woken up, even if she was certain he needed all the sleep he could get. After a few tugs, Kamden finally opened his eyes.
“Good morning, Kamden,” Cloudia said and then frowned. She could not understand why, but something about this simple greeting scratched a part of her mind.
“Oh, good morning, Cl…” Kamden said drowsily before his eyes suddenly widened. With a jolt, he sat up straight in his chair, the blanket someone must have thrown over him falling off him. “Ah, Cloudie! What are you doing?” He scrambled to his feet and placed his hands on her. “You shouldn’t have pushed the blankets away and… and… you should still lie down and…”
Kamden gently pushed her down into the sea of pillows, and Cloudia let him. “I’m sorry. I got a bit overwhelmed by the absurd number of blankets,” Cloudia replied. “And I’m feeling…”
She frowned.
Only hours earlier, cascades of pain had radiated from the wound on her abdomen even as she had lain motionless in bed. But no agony had pierced her while she had kicked the blankets away or sat up.
“Cloudie?” Kamden said, puzzled. “Are you… are you okay?”
Cloudia stared at Kamden for a moment before she pulled up her nightdress.
“Ah, Clou-Cloudie!” Kamden exclaimed and reached for his bag on the bedside table with one hand. “I will change the bandage immediately. Please don’t do anything. Your wound could open up…”
With strength she should not have, Cloudia ripped away her bandages.
“… again.”
The word came out both high-pitched and muffled, thrown into the air and plummeting right down again.
Cloudia had been shot in a Paris alleyway two days ago, lost more blood than she ever had in her entire life before…
… and now, she and Kamden were staring at where her injury should have been but was not.
Her abdomen was void of any blemishes – no cuts, no bruises, no stitched-up bullet hole.
There was only smooth, unbroken skin and nothing else.
Kamden was the first one to find his voice.
“What the fuck.”
***
~Cedric~
Waking up was easier today. The core of me was still heavy, heavy with guilt, heavy with worry, and Kamden’s words from yesterday were echoing loudly and persistently in my mind – “She survived last night, but what guarantee do I have, does she have, that she survives this day too? This night too? And the following ones as well?” But the rest of me was lighter than it was yesterday. Because I had seen her alive, because I had held her hand and sat by her side.
Because I had told her the first part of my story.
How strange it had been to speak of my parents and my sister for the first time in over a century. To allow myself to think of them instead of pushing every thought and reminder to the back of my mind.
Cedric changed into his clothes from yesterday. Newman had arrived a few moments beforehand to wake him up and bring him some early morning tea. He had told him that he would seek him out when Cloudia asked for his presence, and had offered to help him dress. Cedric had declined; Newman was better needed elsewhere after all.
Cedric washed his hands and face in the bathroom, brushed his long hair, and gathered it into a high ponytail. He ran his fingers through the strands of his hair, mesmerised by their colour. He would need to get used to his hair being silver and clean now, he supposed.
With one last quick glance at his new reflection in the mirror – a strange sight as if it was a distortion and not the truth – Cedric left the bathroom. He followed the stairs to the ground floor, stopped by the kitchen on his way to the small drawing room. Newman had created a buffet and set it up in the kitchen for everyone to come and get something to eat when they found the time and strength, and Cedric’s stomach grumbled at the sight of the lavish dishes. He had barely eaten in days; his anxiety and worry had even made him forget that he was starving.
How unlike me, Cedric thought while he helped himself to some sandwiches and eggs and pancakes and whatnot until he was finally full again. Then, he continued his journey to the small parlour.
When he had entered it yesterday, it had exactly been as he had left it the day before as if time had stopped overnight.
This wasn’t the case now.
Time had run overnight, had taken Oscar and Cecelia and Barrington and their prisoners away into the dark city…
… and worked its magic on Milton too, for he was gone as well.
Cedric stared at the empty sofa.
It was a peculiar sight, but a welcome one, nonetheless.
Milton was awake at last.
But where was he?
Cedric turned on his heel, stepped out of the drawing room with the mission to locate Milton. He searched all the rooms on the ground floor, snatched another sandwich from the kitchen, and even made a cursory glance over the garden (he didn’t feel like going out), but Milton was nowhere to be found when Cedric had expected him to be everywhere, paper and pen in his hand, wandering the corridors like a ghost and mapping them all like someone who found just as little rest.
When Cedric climbed the stairs back up to continue his search on the upper floor, Aurèle came his way, wearing a deeper scowl on his face than usual. His hair was tousled from sleep, and his arm was still in a sling. Cedric wondered for a second whether he should address Aurèle at all or let him pass by in silence; he seemed not to be a morning person after all, and it was rather early in the morning indeed. In the end, Cedric decided to bother Aurèle anyway, against all better judgement.
“Aurèle, have you seen Milton by any chance?” he asked.
Aurèle’s face soured. “You’re asking me about Salisbury? Good morning to you too, Your Grace,” he replied dryly. “I suppose he’s still in the basement.”
Cecelia’s townhouse was comparatively small for a noble family’s city estate – two stories, a reasonable number of rooms, less than half the size of the Phantomhive townhouse – and not built winded and irritating like the Château de Charbonneau. Still, Cedric had completely missed the door to the basement on his search, had forgotten one existed at all, though he now recalled Barrington having mentioned one.
“In the basement?” Cedric repeated.
“Yes,” Aurèle said in such an annoyed tone that it was evident that he wished to be elsewhere doing anything but talk to Cedric about Milton. However, he must have concluded that this ordeal would pass quicker and easier if he just answered Cedric’s enquiry in full as Aurèle continued without having to be prompted. “I was in the uh, drawing room in the back when Salisbury woke up last night. That engineer, Quentin, asked me if I could stay by his side for a moment while he had to go… take care of something. I don’t know why I, or anyone, would need to watch Salisbury sleep – there was nothing wrong with him, right? – but Quentin asked nicely so I begrudgingly agreed.
“Salisbury woke up not long afterwards. I don’t think he slept well; he woke up with a scream, though it was not very loud, and I don’t think anyone else heard it but me. Did you hear the scream?”
Cedric shook his head, and his body ran cold at this information. Milton woke up screaming? “No, I did not.”
Aurèle shrugged. “At any rate, Salisbury then looked around, pale as if he had seen a ghost. He also seemed… confused? Disoriented? On edge? Something like that. Eventually, Salisbury wanted to know what had happened since he lost consciousness. I told him, and he then asked if I knew how to get to the basement. I thought it was a weird request, but I brought him there anyway and opened the first door I saw for him. I think it was the wine cellar? He should still be there.”
“Thank you, Aurèle,” Cedric said. “Could…” he began to continue, but Aurèle bolted down the stairs before Cedric could finish his sentence.
With a sigh, Cedric turned to go down as well. He combed through the ground floor until he finally discovered the door to the basement. Someone had put wallpaper over it, the same one as on the walls around, the pattern running seamlessly over the walls and door. Cedric did not know if this was done to create a “secret door” for the sake of a fabricated mystery or whether one of Michael Williams’ relatives had decided it was “unsightly” for a basement door to be displayed openly. Whatever the reason, the door was a hassle to find, and Cedric was immensely relieved when he spotted the golden doorknob and noticed the door’s outline at last.
The basement was clean and well-kept, not at all like a forgotten secret passageway. Cedric opened the first door he saw, just like Aurèle had before, and peered into the room. Wine barrels were displayed in the back, and the left and right sides of the room held shelves with numerous bottles of wine. An open doorway to the right led into another room which seemed to be a sitting room rather than a storage room. There was a low table in the middle of the wine cellar.
And Milton was sitting by it.
When Cedric saw him there, awake and alive and well, a wave of relief washed over him. It took him suddenly and fully, pulled him down into relieved exhaustion, and made him walk, as if in a trance, to the table.
Cedric had longed to talk to Milton for days, had waited for days for him to wake and make it a possibility – and now that Milton was awake again at last, his composure broke and crumbled into nothingness from one moment to the next. He collapsed in front of the table, unable to hold this weight any longer, and buried his face in his arms.
“I got the Countess shot,” Cedric mumbled into his arms, wondering if his words could even reach Milton and still being unable to raise his voice. “I held her bleeding body in my arms, carried her all the way here… Carried her while her blood seeped through the makeshift bandages, our clothes, and I can still feel it on me. The blood; the touch of her hand as she kept holding onto me, even as she grew weaker and…”
Cold hollowness spread within him, making his body and words shake; still, he dragged each word to the surface.
“But she’s alive. She’s alive. Alive and well, and I should be happy and relieved, and I am – of course, I am –, but she has lost so much blood, and no one knows for how long she will be well. If she can make it through another day, through another night… And all I can think of is that it was me. That I was the only one with her. That I was the only one who could have helped, who could have prevented this. If only I had been faster, quicker, better, she wouldn’t have been wounded, wouldn’t have lost all that blood, wouldn’t be fighting for her life as I speak.”
Cedric felt Milton shift slightly, but he neither spoke a word nor reached out to touch him. Instead, Cedric continued undisturbed, his words tumbling out of him, ragged and full of nails, “But it wasn’t like that. I was too late, too late again, and I could only stand there and watch her getting shot. It’s all my fault that she got hurt and that she might die, and it’s all because I lost my idiotic glasses.” His heart was hammering inside his chest so strongly, was racing with such intensity and such rage, that his whole body was trembling in anger and guilt and hopelessness. He wanted to fling his spectacles across the room again. Wondered whether it would be cathartic if only he repeated this motion another time, another hundred times. Still, Cedric did not lift his face to do so; he could not bear to raise his head, to let his words come out unmuffled and look at Milton as he spoke.
How pathetic he felt. How pathetic he was that he could not even do that.
And so, he kept on talking, words sent against the fabric of his sleeves.
“I don’t know what I will do if Cloudia dies,” Cedric whispered.
“Kristopher,” Milton said then, in that soft, siren-like voice of his; that voice that was always so full of warmth and gentleness and comfort. Only this time, something harder, something sadder, was mixed into it as he asked, “Did you do something that set everything in motion?”
“No,” Cedric answered.
“Did you arrange for this to happen?”
“No.”
“Did you divert your gaze and do nothing?”
“No.”
“Did you pull the trigger yourself?”
“No.”
“Then,” Milton said, the strangeness leaving his voice again, “none of this is your fault.”
His words made Cedric tense up, and he would have replied, would have protested, if Milton hadn’t kept on talking. “Lady Cloudia will live,” Milton said, the steadiness, the gentleness of his voice a becalming force that picked apart the tangled knot in Cedric’s chest and eased his racing heart and the tension in his body. “She will live because you were at her side then. Because you brought her here on time. Because you did everything you could to save her. Lady Cloudia will live because of you.”
His words pulled Cedric’s head up, made him look up and into Milton’s face for the first time since he entered this room in search of him – and the sight of it made him freeze.
Milton looked terrible.
He looked exactly the same as always, his skin its usual hue of paleness, not any shade lighter, his hair its regular gold-blond that caught the light and came alight, his eyes their normal hazel, sometimes more green, sometimes more brown. His hair was brushed, his clothes were changed, his face was unblemished, but something was undeniably wrong.
Even as his voice sounded the exact same, was still as soft and soothing as always as he went on, as if nothing was off about him at all, as if whatever seemed to pain him was irrelevant in the face of Cedric’s agony, “I know you are scared, but…” Milton looked directly into Cedric’s eyes then, his hazel ones both so familiar and so wrong. “Lady Cloudia will live,” he repeated. “Do not worry. Her time hasn’t come yet.”
Milton averted his gaze, redirected it at the table between them. “And I am so glad that you do not have to live with the burden of having held her corpse in your arms; it is a heavy one to carry,” he said in the same silken tone, and the dissonance of his words and voice made Cedric shiver.
A moment later, Milton realised it too. He clasped a hand over his mouth and shook his head a little. “I’m sorry,” he said in a little voice. “I… I have a bit of a headache at the moment.”
Cedric chuckled; he couldn’t help himself. “It’s okay, Mil–” His words and humour slipped from his tongue when he noticed the bottles.
Six empty bottles of wine, placed in a neat row at Milton’s side, half-hidden to Cedric by the table. A seventh full one was at Milton’s other side.
Milton followed Cedric’s gaze. “Do not worry,” he said. “I memorised the wines’ names and dates so that I can replace them, and I was careful not to pick anything the Marchioness’ husband might have purchased, or anything of great monetary value.” Then, Milton placed the full bottle on the table; Cedric hadn’t noticed before that it had already been opened. Milton read the label to him and explained a few things about this particular wine, but all the information he gave fell through Cedric’s head as if his brain had been replaced by a sieve because Milton followed his little ramble by setting the bottle to his mouth, tilting his head back, and drinking everything in one go.
Cedric could only stare at him in horror.
“Milton…?” he said, the name half-swallowed in shock, when Milton put the now-empty bottle back on the table.
Milton looked at him. His eyes were still clear, not clouded. “That’s my little party trick,” he said nonchalantly.
“Excuse me?”
Milton ran a finger over the bottle’s rim. “To drink an entire bottle of spiritus at once,” he replied, his voice sounding oddly… far away as if he was in deep thought. “And to down multiple in succession. I have never got drunk before as I have a very high alcohol tolerance. I thought you knew?”
Cedric felt his cheeks redden. “I didn’t know what Cecelia had planned.”
“I know that you are blameless, Kristopher,” Milton said gently. “She must have wanted to make me drunk to get something she wanted to know out of me. I only ever performed that party trick in a small circle; the Marchioness couldn’t have known about it. She could have just asked me her questions though.”
Cedric nodded. “My words. Cecelia made me taste her concoction afterwards. It was dreadful; I felt like I was on fire. If I had known that she had created such an infernal tincture to give to you, I would have stopped her.”
“It did tingle a bit,” admitted Milton.
Cedric stared at him. “It tingled a bit?” he said and then his eyes fell back on the empty bottle on the table and the various others on the ground. “Milton,” Cedric began slowly. “If you cannot get drunk, then why are you drinking that much?”
“I’ve never said I cannot get drunk.” Milton lifted the wine bottle, picking it up by its head and turning it in his hands. “I never got drunk before, yes, but everything has a limit, and I wanted to test what the limit of my alcohol tolerance is. I am human. Humans get drunk, but everyone has a different threshold and I’m searching for mine.”
“But why would you?” Cedric pressed. “Getting drunk is not pleasant. And people usually don’t get drunk just because. Milton…” He reached out to him and he would have grabbed his arm if Milton hadn’t pulled it away before he could.
Milton set the bottle down. “I just thought it might help to dr…” he started before he suddenly stiffened and shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. Milton closed his eyes before he continued, his voice quiet. “I just thought I might be able to cloud my senses like that, if only for a little bit.” He rubbed his face, and his voice was still faint as he said, “I’m sorry, Kristopher. This headache… It’s just so…”
Milton buried his face in his hands, breathed heavily in and out, and his whole body was shaking now.
“Milton?” Cedric said and extended his hand to him again. Again, Milton dodged his touch, letting him grasp the air instead.
“I’m sorry,” said Milton, eyes fixed on the ground. “But would you mind not to touch me? Not now?”
Cedric pressed his lips into a grim line. “Okay. I promise I won’t,” he replied. “But what is wrong, Milton?”
“Just a headache, as I said.” Milton lifted his head now, to look Cedric into his eyes and give him a reassuring smile; it came out slightly crooked. “They can get very intense sometimes. It’s nothing to worry about. Truly, Kristopher.”
“How about you sleep a bit?” suggested Cedric.
Milton shook his head. “No, I… I don’t sleep well. I always get terrible nightmares.”
“Right, Aurèle mentioned that you woke up screa…” Cedric started before the rest of the word died in his throat.
Shit.
I had justheard of that from Aurèle, and I wouldn’t even have enquired about it if Milton hadn’t mentioned his nightmares himself. Hadn’t reminded me of what I had forgotten, as I was too focused on my own troubles.
“Milton, I…” Cedric tried to apologise but Milton only shook his head again. “It is all right,” he said in that soft voice of his. “There is a lot going on right now. You didn’t mean to forget. I hope I didn’t spook Aurèle or anyone too much with my scream?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“That’s good to know.” Milton rubbed his face again. “I’ve had these nightmares since I was little. I rarely wake up screaming, though I usually wake up too soon because of them.”
“Really? You slept for over a day before you woke up last night.”
Milton suddenly turned very, very quiet. Then, when Cedric believed Milton would finally say anything in response, his hand drifted to his right sleeve instead. Tugging on it briefly before wrapping itself over his wrist.
And the movement made Cedric remember something else he had nearly forgotten.
He hadn’t thought much of this mannerism of Milton’s, had written it up as a mere anxious habit, a simple way to get his nervosity and restlessness under control. And after seeing it dozens and dozens of times over the last two weeks, Cedric had barely registered it anymore when Milton fumbled with his sleeves again.
More often his right one, rarely the left.
Cedric had not understood why, had not understood the reason for this preference, until they had stood in front of that cabin in the woods and Milton had panicked when Cedric had touched his wrist, until they had stood in the burning cabin, and Cedric had reached for Milton again and felt that unevenness under his sleeve.
That scar whose origin Cedric did not want to know but knew all too well still.
How often had I repeated that same movement, restless fingers to my wrists, in the years afterwards?
“Milton,” Cedric said, and it was his turn now to speak gently and be soothing, even if he would never do it as well as Milton did. “Have you eaten anything yet?”
“No, I’ve only had the wine and nothing else since I woke up.”
Cedric stared at him.
Of all similarities he had to share with Cloudia!
“No wonder you’re like that,” said Cedric and stood up. He held his hand out to Milton before he let it sink again, remembering his promise from earlier, and scolding his body for acting on habit. “Come, Milton. Alfred set up a little buffet for everyone, and I’m sure there is still something left. I’ll make you some tea too. And maybe get you a blanket; you’re shaking quite a lot.”
“I don’t need to eat anything.”
“Oh, you sure do. What did you say earlier? ‘I am human. Humans get drunk.’ You are human, Milton, and humans also get hungry. And now come.”
Milton looked up at Cedric and, after a moment of hesitation, he got to his feet. But he did not follow Cedric to the door just yet; instead, he craned his head to gaze at something in the adjourning room. Cedric frowned and turned to look as well, and he was quite surprised to see Milton’s tinderbox on the side table there. Now that it was in a properly lit room and not in a dim forest cabin, the blue pieces in the metal shone like stars. Without thinking, Cedric went to grab the tinderbox and held it out to Milton.
“You don’t want to leave it behind, do you? You said it’s important after all.”
Milton blinked at him before he smiled softly. “It is. Would… would you mind holding onto it for a while? I feel a bit scatterbrained right now and don’t want to lose it by accident.”
“Of course. I will take the best care of it,” Cedric said and put the tinderbox securely into the pocket of his jacket. “Now, let me acquaint you with the kitchen.”
***
~Cloudia~
Cloudia stared at the wound which wasn’t one anymore for a second longer, Kamden’s exclamation having only half-shaken her from her shock, before she ran a hand over her abdomen.
It was one thing to see that the injury had vanished. It was something else entirely to feel its absence too.
With horror, I felt the lack of any obstruction under my fingertips.
With fascination, I noticed how no pain bloomed under my touch.
With curiosity, I noted that not even a scar had been left behind.
As if the wound had knit itself together by magic. Which was, of course, utter nonsense.
Still, there was no wound anymore, no pain, no scar. It should have been impossible for me to have recovered with this speed and thoroughness, to go from shivering and weakened to perfectly fine in a single night. If my memories weren’t intact, if the shock of the day wasn’t one shared by many, I could almost think of the injury as a dream.
“Cloudie?” Kamden said, concerned. Cloudia realised at once that he must have said her name multiple times before without getting a response.
“I’m sorry,” she said and leaned back, sinking into the cushions. “I’m only deep in thought. I can’t understand why, but I’m fine, perfectly fine which...”
“… should not be possible,” Kamden continued quietly.
They were silent for a moment again before Kamden asked, “Would you mind if I examined the area too?”
She looked down at her hand which was still spread across the missing injury, as if lifting it would shatter the magic, unravel it and restore the hole at once; as if her hand was the dam that kept her blood at bay and her intestines secure.
What a silly thought, it rang through her mind as she removed her hand and none of that happened. “Be my guest,” she said and gestured to her stomach.
With light fingers, Kamden touched every bit of it, pressing down every now and then and asking “Does it hurt?” to which she would always reply “No.” After repeating the same spiel again and again, Kamden seemed to be done with his examination. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions; Cloudia could see the gears turn in his head. “Do… do you re-really have no… no idea what could have ha-happened, Cloudie? For your… for your wound to heal like this?” Kamden stared at where it used to be. “I... ha-have never seen, or even heard, of anything like that be-before.”
“Me neither,” Cloudia replied, following his gaze and staring at the same space too. “And no… no, I don’t think I do.”
A headache blossomed at the back of her head; it was still merely knocking gently against her skull when she said, her thoughts and voice faraway, “What about the rest?”
Kamden insisted to help her stand and get behind the folding screen. There was a large mirror in the room, not floor-length but portrait-sized, and when Cloudia pulled her nightdress over her head, she could see her blue eyes widen at the sight of herself.
She was always injured; she couldn’t even remember a time when she hadn’t been.
At any given time, bruises flecked her body and cuts marked her skin, from work and from training. Torn-open knuckles hidden beneath gloves, the fabric of dresses resting gently against bandaged stab wounds, special shoes which were particularly soft to walk in for her chafed feet. Since forever, her body had been glowing in wounds of any kind behind her clothes – a constant reminder of the chasm between her and any other court lady.
And now, they were all gone.
Her entire body had been wiped clean of any injuries, except for the old scars though they looked fainter now than they had before.
Cloudia touched the mirror first, separating herself from that stranger she was looking at, before she ran her hand over her body. The taxing last days played like a theatre performance at top speed in her head as she checked every millimetre of herself.
The chaos of Nanteuil-la-Forêt, the skirmish on the train, the high chase in Paris, even the horse ride between the château and Creil had left its marks on her.
And now, nothing was left of them too.
The headache knocked with more fury now.
“Cloudie?” Kamden said behind the partition.
Cloudia locked eyes with her reflection – she had looked into Kamden’s eyes so often without it ever feeling as strange as it did now – before she got dressed again, briefly washed her hands in the water bowl, and re-emerged from behind the screen.
“There’s nothing,” Cloudia told him. “There’s no cut or bruise left. There are no puncture marks or weirdly-shaped new scars either.”
Kamden blinked at her, and their gazes crossed.
“I don’t know,” Cloudia answered his unspoken question. She sat down at the edge of the bed, let herself fall backward into the messy layer of blankets of cushions. Kamden let out a muffled shriek when she did that.
Her thoughts were multiplying by the second, somersaulting in her head, tangling into knots. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on everything that had happened since she had stepped into Nanteuil-la-Forêt’s townhall to unravel a murder series; only, this time, the theatre performance ran at normal speed.
So many exhaustingly notable things had happened lately, between that summation in the townhall and me getting shot in an alley: getting hunted by hundreds of villagers, learning that Milton had known all along that I was the Queen’s Watchdog, riding on horseback to Creil, fighting my way through a moving train, and stumbling into Paris to find two people in the middle of an uprising.
And last night? What had happened last night?
I did my best to recall anything of the previous night, but no matter how intensely I searched my head for anything, I could only remember how sore and weak and tired I had felt, how my pain had eventually knocked me out, and how I had woken up with the residue of a fading and now forgotten dream in my mind.
My dream. How odd it was that I could vividly remember its existence, even if I could not recover its contents.
And the more I seemed to try, the stronger my headache seemed to become.
Cloudia pressed her hands against her eyes.
How come this was the only pain that was now cascading through me?
“Cloudie?”
She dropped her hands and used them to prop herself up. A flash of agony exploded in her temples when she moved, and she winced as she nearly fell backwards again. Kamden was quick enough to steady her though.
“Cloudie!”
Cloudia blinked until her vision cleared and looked into Kamden’s worried eyes. “Sorry. I got an annoying headache.”
“Are you… are you otherwise okay?” he asked hesitantly and glanced towards his medical supplies which had been set out on a desk.
“Yes, yes.” Cloudia held her head and gritted her teeth together. “It’s just a headache. My gunshot wound didn’t suddenly reopen. I doubt this could even happen at all, despite how miraculously it closed up.”
“A-are you sure? What… what if it’s temporary like…”
When he didn’t finish his sentence, Cloudia raised an eyebrow, though even that seemed to worsen her headache. “What do you mean? Temporary like what?”
Kamden avoided her gaze as he tidied up the bed a little and helped her settle back against the cushions. Only when he sat back down on the chair did he speak, “I… I don’t know… I…” He clutched his hands together. “When I… when I tho-thought how this could be, that you are-are healed already, my mind first went to… first went to the strange energisation.”
Cloudia’s eyebrows instinctively rose in astonishment – then, she winced from the pain and rubbed her temples. “What do you mean? We talked about that already, didn’t we? That the energisation is just that and nothing more?”
Kamden kept his eyes fixed firmly on his lap as he replied, “I know I-I saaaid that I was only e-energised and nothing else, just like… just like you. But I keep, keep thinking about this and… do you remember when, when we first no-noticed it? It was right after… right after we spent a day walking around Nanteuil-la-Forêt in star-stark rain. We got dre-drenched, and it was so cold; still, neither of us – you, Miss Greene, and I – got ill or, or felt under-the-weather afterwards. In-instead we were perfectly fine, vitalised even. Usually, if I… if I have to run errands all-all day while it’s raining, I feel un-unwell for a day or two eeeven if I don’t get sick exactly.” Kamden took a deep breath before he continued, calming himself, and he spoke a bit slower and more composed when he continued, “And the energisation returned before we left for Creil. What if its source doesn’t just refill our energy tanks but makes sure that we don’t get sick either? What if it can heal wounds too?”
It was a little difficult to follow him, with her head as fogged as it was right now, but Cloudia had strained to listen to Kamden’s hypothesis, and it did sound like it could be in the realm of possibilities. However…
“My energisation faded away long before I got shot,” Cloudia told him. “About the time we arrived in Paris. Even if it did prevent us from getting sick from that terrible rain, I don’t think it has anything to do with my recovery. If it hadn’t even been ‘active’ at that time, how could it suddenly have become active last night? And even if a piece of it had still been ‘active,’ why didn’t its healing properties set in immediately? What reason could there have been for such a delay?”
Kamden raised his head and tilted it too. “Hm, if it had already faded by then, I doubt any little remaining ‘ember’ would have been able to heal that injury in such a complete and flawless manner and rid you of all the other smaller wounds too.” He sighed. “Not that I actually know how any of this works. But then…” He looked her into the eyes. “Because we don’t know how your wound got healed, I think we should act as cautiously as possible.”
Cloudia sat up, her headache throwing her off-balance for a second. She dug her fingers into a blanket. “What do you mean?”
“That I should better re-bandage your stomach.” He got up and went to the desk with the supplies. “Just in case this is really only a temporary state and the wound reopens…”
With a sigh, Cloudia leaned back. “Very well, bandage me up again.”
She watched him work, and when Kamden was done, she sat up again. Cloudia was about to swing her legs out of the bed and stand up – her headache had subsided slightly while Kamden had bandaged her up – but Kamden gently pressed her back into the cushions.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I think it’s best if you stay in bed for a bit longer too.”
“Kam, I’m fine. As soon as my headache fades, I’m as good as new. I don’t need to stay in bed. And what about my work here? What about Townsend?”
“Lord Livingstone, Barrington, and the Marchioness left last evening with Townsend and another man the lord has caught because they thought this would be best, considering that Lord Livingstone is officially dead and should not be around the uninitiated if it can be helped,” Kamden replied. “Townsend was captured, and Her Majesty’s box is secure in this room. The Marchioness told us that there is a little safe here, and Miss Lisa put the box inside of it. And as far as I know, the city is still in chaos. There is nothing else for us to do but to wait until everything calms down again.”
Cloudia sighed. “Okay, I will stay in bed for now.” She reached to grab a blanket and pulled it over her. She was adjusting it when Kamden began to place the other blankets on top of her as well.
“Kamden.”
“I just want to be safe.”
“Sixty blankets wouldn’t help with a gunshot wound anyway.”
“There are only four.”
“That’s still three too many, Kamden.”
“I’m just worried,” he said and took one of the pillows that had fallen to the floor when she had got up earlier. “We don’t know anything about what happened. I just want to be on the safe side.
“I know I should just focus on the fact that you are well and healed,” Kamden continued as he fluffed and arranged the pillows. “But I can’t. Sorry, Cloudie.”
“It’s okay,” Cloudia replied. “But, truly, I don’t think I need to stay in bed anymore.”
Kamden re-settled on his chair. “Would it bother you so much, to stay in bed for a bit longer? It’s fantastic, of course, that you are fine, Cloudie…” He reached out for her hand, and she grasped his. “… but I don’t like that we don’t have a clue what happened and how. What if this is only temporary? What if whatever healed you also did something terrible to you which hasn’t shown itself yet?”
“Kam,” Cloudia began but she swallowed what she wanted to say when she saw the look on his face, the worry and fear in his gaze and the lines of his face, underlined by the dark rings under his eyes. Kamden had been asleep when she had woken up, and she was aware that Newman had given him something to make him sleep yesterday. Cloudia also knew that the former could have hardly been comfortable (he had fallen asleep on a wooden, unupholstered chair after all) and that the latter had only lasted a few hours which weren’t enough to catch up on all the hours he had missed.
And it was all because he was so worried for her. Because, from what Newman had told her briefly and quietly, Kamden had known that she had got hurt, had somehow been able to feel her pain across the city almost as if it had been his own. Freshly awake and with agony radiating through her, Cloudia had barely comprehended Newman’s words, but seeing Kamden now with her strength restored, she did realise that he was still mirroring her, always mirroring her.
Would I feel like he had, was feeling still, if he got hurt as badly as I had?
Cloudia’s heart ached as she squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “It is better that way, of course. We don’t know anything, and it would be very difficult to explain to everyone else. I think I’m just in shock and don’t want to dwell on my magical recovery any longer, even if I know that I should. And, besides, this is a very pesky headache. I should stay in bed for that too.”
Kamden shook his head. “No, you don’t have to apologise, Cloudie. I only want you to be well but all I am doing is being such a worryguts. Saying that the wound could still reopen must scare you more than help you.”
“Oh, come on, you know it takes more to scare me.” Cloudia pulled him towards her with the hand that was clasped in his and ruffled his hair with her free one. “I promise to remain in bed if you promise me to go straight to bed yourself and sleep, okay, Kamden?”
***
~Cedric~
Some people must have been very hungry because by the time Cedric and Milton arrived in the kitchen Newman’s buffet was almost gone. Only three sandwiches, one single muffin, and half a bowl of raspberries were left.
“That’s enough for me,” Milton assured Cedric; nonetheless, he felt bad at the pitiful spread and insisted to make him some eggs. But first, Cedric poured some water into a kettle and set it on the stove to heat and went to fetch a chair and the blanket Oscar had put over Milton two days earlier from the small parlour. Cedric made Milton sit down, wrapped him in the blanket, and pressed a sandwich into his hand.
“Please eat this and wait until I get the rest ready,” he said. Milton nodded faintly.
Milton had grown quieter with every step that had brought them closer upstairs, his reassurance from a few minutes ago were the first words he had spoken since they had left the wine cellar. It unsettled Cedric, but he kept on chattering about everything and nothing, whatever that came to his mind while he led Milton to the kitchen and worked to get some more food for him, just in case it helped. At the very least, it allowed him not to be engulfed in awkward silence.
And while Milton’s words from earlier had helped to ease my mind, I still did not want to be by myself in silence just yet.
Cedric searched the kitchen for some eggs. He still hadn’t found any by the time the kettle shrieked to announce that the water had boiled. He reached for the kettle barehanded at first, then caught himself before he could brush the hot metal, and tried it again with a cloth. Cedric set the kettle aside and threw some tea leaves into a tea pot before he poured the hot water in. “It’s almost done, Milton,” Cedric said, interrupting his convoluted and nonsensical little monologue on city design. “The tea only has to steep a little.”
When Milton didn’t answer, Cedric turned to him. The sandwich was gone, though Milton had left the rest of Newman’s food untouched. He was digging his fingers into the fabric of the blanket instead (he had wrapped it tighter around himself too), and from the way Milton held his head – slightly angled upwards – and the faraway look in his eyes, Cedric could tell that Milton must be listening to something – or trying to listen to something at least. Cedric could not figure out what it was, however, as he himself could not hear anything at all beyond some faint shuffling of feet across wooden and carpeted flooring.
Cedric filled a cup with the freshly brewed tea and tugged on the blanket to get Milton’s attention. Thankfully, it worked to pull him out of his strange reverie so that Cedric could give him the cup of tea. Milton wrapped both of his hands around it and looked down at the steaming brown tea.
Seeing him sitting there while I did something in the kitchen gave me the strangest déjà-vu – only this time, it was not raining, and he was worse.
He had been doing badly ever since we had come to Paris, and whatever had been ailing him since then had clearly not been erased by the hours and hours of sleep he had got. Instead, it seemed to have worsened. Could Milton have pushed himself too much when we had been chasing Townsend?
Cedric took a deep breath and then continued his search for the eggs – why couldn’t he find anything in this house? – and he wanted to say his frustrated thoughts out loud when…
“When do you think this will end?” Milton asked faintly. Cedric nearly didn’t hear him even though they were the only ones in this quiet room.
Cedric didn’t even close the cupboard doors before he turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“The uprising, outside,” Milton replied, his voice and gaze far away as if he was not talking to Cedric at all.
“I don’t know,” Cedric said truthfully. “What if it has already ended, and we just don’t know it yet? Cecelia’s townhouse is quite far away from the happenings after all.”
“It’s not over,” said Milton with unexpected sharpness. His grip around the cup tightened. “I… Quentin told me that it wasn’t over yet. That’s why I sent him away – he lives with his family in this half of Paris, but his thoughts kept straying to his wife and child in worry anyway.”
“I’ve wondered where he went,” Cedric admitted and then finally closed the cupboard doors before he began to rummage around in the pantry.
“Found them!” Cedric exclaimed when he procured a basket of eggs from deep within the pantry. “Milton, I’m going to make you some eggs. Do you prefer to have them scrambled or…” he asked as he re-entered the kitchen, though he dropped the question when he saw that Milton was glassy-eyed and mechanically gripping his still-full cup.
“Milton,” he started but before he could continue, Newman entered the kitchen.
Immediately, Milton’s head snapped up and to him. His eyes turned from glassy to wide and startled before he shook his head and said, his voice normal and soft again, “I’m so sorry; it must be so hard for you, Mr Newman.”
It took both Cedric and Newman a moment to decipher Milton’s words. Newman understood them first, and he set out to speak right before realisation dawned upon Cedric too.
What else had I been overlooking because of my own hurt and pain?
I knew little of a butler’s duty, but I knew that they did not only serve their masters…
… they kept them safe and well as well. And before me, it was Newman who would accompany Cloudia on missions.
“Thank you for your consideration, Lord Milton,” Newman said with a little smile on his lips. “Albeit it pains me that I was not at her side, my relief to know that my mistress will be well is greater nevertheless.”
“And you did everything to ensure that she would be,” Milton added.
Newman bowed his head. “And I did everything to ensure that she would be,” he repeated. “And she is flourishing.” Newman looked at Cedric. “I said I would seek you out if Lady Cloudia called for you; this is precisely the reason for my presence now: I came to inform you that the time has come – and to tell you that she is doing remarkably well, according to Master Emyr.”
Cedric’s heart made a jump when he heard that. He would have run out of the kitchen and upstairs right away if…
Cedric looked between Milton and Newman, glanced down at the basket of eggs he was still holding. “I…”
“It is all right, Your Grace,” Newman said and took the basket from his hands. “I will look after Lord Milton.”
“Are you sure? He…” Cedric leaned forward and whispered. “He has been a bit… off ever since he woke up. Apparently because of an awful headache, but it might also be a remnant of whatever had been bothering him days before too, at the Northern train station.”
They craned their heads to Milton. Cedric hadn’t even needed to lower his voice as Milton’s attention had been fully claimed by something in the distance again. Wordlessly, Newman set the basket down on the worktop before he went to kneel in front of Milton. “Lord Milton, how are you? Pardon me; I will be so free...” he said softly and rubbed Milton’s back with great gentleness. To Cedric’s surprise, Milton neither flinched nor recoiled at Newman’s touch; in contrary, it seemed to ease him back with little effort. Milton even closed his eyes and rested his head on Newman’s shoulder.
Newman blinked in surprise at that and, without stopping to pat Milton, turned his head to exchange a look with Cedric. Cedric raised his shoulders a bit.
Carefully, Newman took the cup from Milton’s hands and put it on the ground. “It is all right; it is all right,” he repeated to Milton, and to Cedric he said, “Please do not keep Lady Cloudia waiting any longer; we will be fine. There is also no need to worry about Master Emyr: He went to bed, exactly as he promised her.”
***
~Cloudia~
The door fell into its lock with a soft click, and I was all alone at last. Not for long, as I had asked Newman to call Cedric to me, but I still welcomed this little moment which I had all to myself.
I closed my eyes, exhaled, sunk with that action further into the plush pillows.
My temples pulsed still, sending little quakes through my head, though their strength and frequency had decreased.
Nonetheless, I rummaged through my mind again to search for the dream I had forgotten. I could not say why I was so set on finding it, only that I was. There was something within me that longed for it, or perhaps it was beckoning me towards it, even if its signals were impossible to trace back.
A broken line from here to there, something important I had forgotten.
A headache growing in the hole it had left behind.
An unpleasant déjà-vu.
Even if a quiet voice at the back of my mind told me that no, this time, what I was looking for was not forever gone.
I only had to remember.
There was a knock on the door, just like there was one against the inside of her skull, only the one that vibrated through the air was softer, fainter, gentler than the one in her head. Cloudia dropped her search – it had terribly exhausted her anyway and made her sink even more into the pillows which she didn’t think to be possible – and told Cedric to come in.
Though there was no way to tell without asking him directly, Cloudia was sure that he had been hovering in front of her room for a moment before he had raised his hand to rap against her door. When she called him inside, however, Cedric opened the door at once.
“Countess? You wanted to see me?” Cedric said as he closed the door behind him, his back to her. When he turned to look at her, he blinked at her at first before he frowned and walked towards her. Cedric took her hand which she had excavated from beneath the blankets and held out to him. When their skin touched, his eyes widened, and he blinked even quicker and tightened his grip on her.
“Countess, am I dead yet?” he asked.
Cloudia smiled. “No, you are alive.”
“Then, I must be dreaming. You look so much better now, and your hand is now warm.” He held her hand in both of his and looked at her. “I don’t think this can be accomplished by a good wash.”
She chuckled, and his eyes widened further; his chartreuse eyes were even more stunning than usual in the forenoon sun which softened the green and warmed the yellow inside of them.
“No, not a good wash, no,” Cloudia replied and squeezed his hand. “Neither a good night’s sleep.”
“It would have to have been the best sleep of anyone’s life, for it to have worked such a wonder. Countess…” Cedric circled his thumb over her hand and kept his gaze firmly strained on her as if he feared she was only an illusion, and she would vanish into thin air if he blinked. “Countess… You…”
“I can’t explain it,” Cloudia told him, cutting him off. She didn’t want him to describe her appearance to her; it would be embarrassing to hear on any given day, but it especially was today when she was locked in a stranger’s body. “Not because I don’t want to, or because someone urged me not to,” Cloudia added, and her words made Cedric’s shoulders which had tensed up slightly earlier relax again. “I can’t explain it because I don’t know the explanation myself.”
Cloudia sighed. “Kam and I talked about this; he has no idea either. It’s just that I went to sleep with a stitched-up gunshot wound on my abdomen and woke up with it fully healed.”
“Fully healed?” Cedric repeated. His eyes wandered automatically to the area where her injury used to be even though it was impossible to see, of course, beneath her nightdress and the five (Kamden had placed his blanket on her too) blankets.
She nodded. “The wound is gone. There is no lingering pain or a scar. Whatever caused that injury to heal also erased the smaller wounds I suffered. ‘Erased’ might be the best word to describe what happened even; it really looks as if someone took a rubber to me.”
“What a strange image you are conjuring in my mind, Countess.”
“It is true though. My injuries are gone, erased as if by magic which cannot be right, obviously, as there is no such thing as magic.”
Cedric burst into laughter. He lowered his head and raised it again as he laughed, but his grip on her hand never faltered, and Cloudia felt the vibrations of his snickering run up her arm.
“What’s so funny?” Cloudia asked, doing her best to sound stern despite the fact that his giggling was making her smile too.
“You saying with such certainty and conviction that there is no magic – to a Grim Reaper.” Cedric grinned at her.
“That’s not the same.”
“Of course, it is!”
“You cannot work any magic,” Cloudia replied. “You function almost exactly like any human. The most ‘magical’ thing you can do is making yourself appear in another place. And though you don’t age and cannot die under natural circumstances, you can still die, so you are not perfectly immortal either. Also, have you ever heard of something that could heal injuries with such perfection?”
“No, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that I’m a magical being myself.”
“Magically stupid, maybe.”
Cedric chuckled. “What do you think then what the cause could have been? If your miraculous recovery did not happen because of magic?”
Cloudia shot him a dark look. “That I don’t know. But just because I cannot explain it now it does not mean the explanation is ‘magic’ either. More research simply needs to be done. Also…” She trailed off, her headache momentarily intensifying at even the thought of the dream.
“Also, what?” Cedric leaned a bit closer, worry flickering in his eyes. “Are you fine, Countess? You suddenly paled.”
“I have a headache right now, and it’s not because of you, don’t worry; I’ve had it for about an hour now, I guess.” Cloudia struggled to free her other hand from the mountain of blankets to massage her temples. “I’ve been trying to recall anything that might bring me closer to the truth, but all I’ve got so far is this bothersome headache.”
“I would offer to use my Death Scythe to look into your Cinematic Record if you cannot remember anything amiss by yourself, but…”
“But?”
“… I’m not sure how it would go. I’ve never cut anyone alive with my Scythe before. Souls do ‘loosen up’ when their bodies die which makes it easy to sever them completely. Death Scythes are known to be capable of cutting through anything though, so I could possibly cut your soul from your body by accident if I tried to check your memories. And I don’t know if souls can even be reattached to bodies. It would be very interesting if this could be done.”
“Well, there must be a very good reason why they are called ‘Death Scythes’ too,” Cloudia pointed out. “The name itself does not make it seem as if they are particularly ‘friendly’ to use on the living.”
“Ah, that too, yes.”
Cloudia slowly and carefully shook her head. “I suppose this is an ‘it’s the thought that counts’-scenario, is it not?”
Cedric smiled faintly at her before he lowered his gaze and ran a finger absentmindedly over her hand. “The source of your recovery is important too, of course, and needs to be found but…” He raised his head and looked right into her eyes, his own bright with hope and worry. “… you are completely fine now, are you not, Countess? Your life is not in danger anymore? You will…”
“I will live, yes,” Cloudia said, and the light in Cedric’s eyes brightened. “Kamden worries that there might be a catch – hence, why he left me covered like this, a reversed Princess on the Pea – but something tells me that there is none, that this is permanent and benevolent, and…” She reached out despite the pain to cover Cedric’s hands with her free one. “… that yes, I will live. So please…” Cloudia lowered her voice, but kept her gaze steadily on Cedric even if she would rather avert it, even slightly. “… don’t worry about me anymore. I’m more than fine, and being a worryguts does not suit you at all.”
Cedric’s eyes widened at her words, and he broke off their locked gaze when he bent his head. “You didn’t let me yesterday,” he said, “but I think I should still apologise.”
“No, you don’t,” Cloudia responded. “Not for what you have been apologising since the incident at least, and if you do not know why and for what you should apologise instead, you really are magically stupid after all.”
“Countess, I…” When he lifted his head again, she met him with a stern expression on her face. His eyes were blank with non-understanding at first, but cleared when it, thankfully, dawned upon him. “Attacking Yvette, trying to kill her,” Cedric said, and she had to hold back a small smile. He let out a bitter chuckle and let go of their embrace, burying his face in his hands; Cloudia’s own hands felt cold without his.
“I really am magically stupid, am I not?” Cedric murmured. “I’m always focusing on the wrong thing. God, what an idiot I am…” When he faced her again, his eyes glistered, though there were no tears. “I only dwelt on what happened to you, on what I could have done, not on what I did. I forgot that I did everything I could to save you,” he said, to Cloudia’s surprise, “and that I hurt you too.
“Countess, I apologise for trying to kill Yvette and interfere with life and death. I’m sorry that I went and nearly broke my word and our deal. I should not have let my emotions get the best of me, should not have only thought of me, and not of you. I’m so, so sorry that I nearly did something forbidden and forced you to stop me, that because of my hotheadedness I almost jeopardised everything and…”
Cedric trailed off, their eye contact remained steady. This time, it was almost unbearable to hold it, with that unspoken thought, that unvoiced horror, hanging between them.
“You almost lost me, but I almost lost you too. And...”
“How did it continue?” Cloudia said instead, her voice quiet but firm. She reached out her hand to him, the cold harder to bear than his gaze. “The fairy tale?”
***
~Cedric~
Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – February 1732
“I cannot recall what I thought, what I felt, on that day when I saw the manor burned to its bones, warped by the fire into a ghastly shadow of itself, because they came in a rush. Thought after thought bombarded my brain. Feelings mixed together in a way that made it hard to recognise them anymore.
“There was only a single word that rang loud and clear in my mind and heart that day.
“‘Why,’ ‘why, ‘why.’
“Because there must have been a reason for this; what could have been the reason for this violence?
“And then, Cesca pulled me back into the woods and away from the manor house, the people picking through its charred remains.
“Though she had been a second too late.
“I had already seen the blackened, mangled bodies of our parents, half-hidden under sheets.”
Cedric’s legs gave away under him in the moment Cesca stopped briefly to orientate herself. They had held on to each other with an iron grip, knuckles white beneath their gloves, ever since they had begun their trudge through the woods, following the polished white stones to a house that had never been a home and was now not even a house anymore. Now, that grip split apart when Cedric fell to his knees, his bones crushing against the frozen ground. Still, this pain that shuddered from his knees through his body was incomparable to the one that dripped black like tar from his heart. He fell forward now too, hands colliding with the dirt and dead leaves, and in that moment, he wished to tear off his gloves, but did not find the strength for it.
“You know something,” Cedric said without realising that he had, the words coming out of him as he was being puppeteered, his voice so shaky and crumbly that he barely recognised it as his own. “What do you know?”
Cesca didn’t say a word. Hot tears welled in Cedric’s eyes and dropped onto the dirt. “Mother and Father are dead. The manor house is gone. No.” His fingers dug into the hard earth, crunched the dried leaves to dust. Cold seeped through the fabric of his gloves. “The manor was set on fire. Our parents were murdered. But why? Why? Please tell me why. Cesca.”
Cedric raised his head – and was startled to see Cesca kneeling in front of him. He hadn’t heard her move, had expected her to be standing a bit farther away, perhaps leaning against a tree as she had been when he had woken up; at the very least, he would have expected her to kneel before him with her head raised and her eyes fixed on him. Instead, her head was bent, and her hair was a curtain of silver hanging between them.
“I don’t know a lot,” Cesca said at last. Cedric was taken aback by her voice which had never sounded so devoid of strength and humour and warmth as it did now. “I overheard our parents a few times after the Christmas party. We were deceived by them all – the head butler, the rest of the staff, the executor of the will. Our grandfather didn’t die because he was sick. Our half-uncles didn’t die in an accident and from an ailment. They were all murdered.”
A shiver crawled across Cedric’s skin.
“Mama and Papa noticed that something was very, very wrong with the people the butler advised them to invite, the old friends and acquaintances of our grandfather. If his circle was full of people like that, what did that say about him?” Cesca paused for a moment. “Our grandfather was a terrible person. Papa’s older half-brothers were too. The executor of the will and the head butler were their accomplices, but our grandfather didn’t think to pass any part of his estate to them, or to any of his disgusting friends – it would have been too laughable if he had. He couldn’t give his riches to just anyone; it had to be a blood relative, even if it was one he had never met – or one born illegitimate.
“The butler and the executor just needed someone who could access our grandfather’s wealth, as per his will, so that they could keep their awful activities afloat. That’s it. Perhaps, they hoped they could rope Papa in in due time. They did bring him in contact with the… with the others at Christmas after all.”
“Father would never do anything bad,” Cedric protested.
“I doubt they knew or cared,” said Cesca. “Or maybe they did, but thought they could break him into joining them. I don’t know.”
“But what did… did our grandfather and our uncles do? Who killed them?”
“They were killed because of what they did,” she answered. “I never heard Mama and Papa talk much about their murderer, only that they found out that there was someone who was hunting them for their crimes. The manor where we lived for almost a year? It’s not our ancestral home as we were told; it’s just one of many old manors our grandfather purchased as a hiding place.”
“And last night that man found us,” Cedric said quietly.
Cesca nodded. “And last night that man found us.”
“But we didn’t do anything!” Fresh tears broke free and ran down his cheeks. “We’re uninvolved. We’re innocent. Why did he come for us? Why? Couldn’t he figure out that we had nothing to do with that?”
“We might have just been loose ends for him,” she replied with a hollow tone. “Nothing more and nothing less.”
Cesca lapsed into silence. For an agonisingly long moment, the only sounds Cedric could hear were the rapid beating of his heart, his strained breathing, and the wind howling coldly through the skeletal trees. And all he could think of was how strange it was, to be with Cesca and for her not to say a single word. Even in the weeks after her change, when her laughter and her jokes had faded into nonexistence, had it never been like this.
“In retrospect, this state could not have lasted for very long. We couldn’t have been like that for hours – us kneeling in the dirt without a single word passing between us – but it had felt like an eternity.
“And in that moment, with everything confusing and lost and uncertain, the silence was unbearable.
“My sister was right there, but seemed gone now too, as if she had vanished into the stillness, leaving me all alone.”
Cedric opened his mouth to speak, half of the question already out – “Do you know any…” – when Cesca wrapped her arms around him. She pressed him tightly against her. She did not say anything still, but her heart was beating next to his now, and it was enough to reassure him. Cedric leaned into the embrace, folded his arms around her too.
“I knew that she knew more, that she was keeping some secrets to herself and away from me. But I didn’t care to ask, didn’t dare to ask.
“She had done her best to hide it, but I already knew then that she had been crying too.”
***
“Where did one go when they had nowhere to be?”
“There was no way back, for we had neither a home nor parents anymore. There was no way forward because they were all unknown and shadowed. Still, it was the only direction we could take, forward into the unfamiliar forest.
“Without letting go of each other, Cesca and I wandered through it without a plan or a clue. All we had was a vague understanding that we had to bring as much distance between us and the destroyed manor and our parents’ remains as we could, that we shouldn’t leave the forest to search for a village or a town or farmlands until we did.
“What if whoever had killed Mother and Father was currently hunting us too?”
When the sky darkened but had not yet dipped into night, Cesca found them a hollow tree to hide in. It was a tight squeeze but it was better than nothing, and when night fell at last, and the temperature dropped as well, not only their thick clothes shielded them against the cold but their shared body warmth as well. Cedric stared into the dark forest for hours until sleep finally claimed him.
The next day, they resumed their walk. Their stomachs were growling from hunger, but they kept on pushing themselves to go forward and forward, to go as far away and away as they could. But hunger fed itself on everything it could find, and when there was no food to keep it at bay, it sunk its teeth into one’s sanity, drank itself full on one’s energy.
The laced tea was the last thing Cedric had consumed. The first day they traversed through the forest on empty stomachs, and their pain and their grief made them forget their hunger. On the second day, adrenaline pushed them forward, urged them to get away as quick and far as they managed. By day three, their steps slowed significantly; their hunger became louder than their grief, and the voice in their heads now persuaded them to sit and rest and eat instead of to flee. But their energies were depleting and the temperature was decreasing, and sleep and rest became false friends to lead you into death, so they kept on moving, even if it was slow and tedious and so, so tiring – and could they not sit down for even a moment? Close their eyes for even a second? Who was speaking now? The hunger, the cold, or the devil?
Cedric and Cesca could find water at least, small frozen ponds that had to be broken free and half-frozen rivers running sluggishly through the woods. It was better than nothing even if it let in the cold, made them shiver from within too.
On the fourth day, they found a cabin in the woods. It was not old or broken, mouldy or brittle, made of rotten wood and looking at them through shattered eyes. No, it was painted in shades of green, the windows were polished, and when they looked through them, they saw a perfectly furnished interior: a living room with a large carpet on the floor, and an adjourning open kitchen with a basket of bread on the worktop winking at them.
Cedric’s stomach growled louder, and he turned instinctively to the door. Cesca grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
“What are you doing, Ces?” he asked.
“It’s someone’s home,” Cesca replied. “We are in the middle of a forest. We haven’t stumbled over a single soul or even glimpsed at a village through the trees in days. Who would ever live here?”
“I don’t know but whoever does is not here right now.” Cedric looked at his sister with pleading eyes. “Please, Ces… I know it’s wrong but please just let us go in and take the basket, nothing more.”
Cesca pressed her lips into a thin line.
“Please.” He tugged at her sleeve, just like when he had been very small and begged for a bedtime story. “We’ll leave immediately. Please…”
She looked at him for a while longer before she closed her eyes and sighed. “We’ll just get the basket and then we’ll leave, do you understand?”
The front door was locked but a window was propped slightly open. It was small and located up high; the cabin was two stories tall, albeit the upper one only seemed to be half the size of the lower one. Cesca lifted Cedric up with all the strength she had left in her battered body. He squeezed himself through the opening; he barely fit through it with his thick coat, and when he finally passed through it, he landed on a bed. Cedric’s heart ached with longing. It was not a plush bed with thick soft pillows and blankets like at the manor but it was a bed nevertheless. If his hunger had not been so loud and scratched on the inside of his stomach like a demanding cat, he would have fallen asleep right there and then.
Cedric rolled from the mat and took the low staircase down. Although the open window had cooled the cabin’s inside, it was still so much warmer than outside that he could only sigh in joy. Cesca, he thought. Cesca is waiting. I cannot stand here and take in the warmth. He walked to the kitchenette. As soon as he laid eyes on the bread basket again, Cedric could not help himself but peel off his dirty gloves, stuff them in his pockets in haste and without a care, and grab a slice and shove it into his mouth.
“Maybe you could, if you tried and wanted to, draw a parallel between that moment and the Garden of Eden. But Eve hadn’t been a hungry, exhausted child who didn’t hear Adam knocking against the glass from outside, begging her to come back.”
“But just like it had been over for Eve the second she bit into the apple, it was over for me, for us, the instant I shoved the slice of bread into my mouth. My control was lost, and I only moved to satiate my hunger: taking another slice and another and another…”
“I only ‘woke up’ when I had emptied the basket.”
Cedric flinched when his hand reached for the basket and toppled it over and made it fall to the ground, for he had eaten everything that had been inside it, and there was no weight to keep it steady anymore. He pressed a hand to his mouth. A shameful heat spread over him like a wildfire.
And then, he heard the knocks and saw Cesca’s wide-eyed, pale face on the other side of the window. Cedric gulped before he picked up the basket, put it back on the worktop, and went to look for something else. He had promised only to take the bread, but in his frenzy, he hadn’t left anything for his sister; he needed to find something for his sister. He pulled open a cupboard. His mouth watered at the sight of the food. Swallowing his saliva, Cedric grabbed some fruit and a block of cheese and put them in the basket. He hesitated when he saw a bowl of candy, his heart making a joyous leap at the sight. He ultimately dug his hand into the bowl, curled his fingers around a handful of candy, and let them vanish in his coat pocket. Cesca kept on rapping on the glass, faster, louder than before, urging him to hurry and come out.
Cedric took the basket and turned to a window – he couldn’t go upstairs and leave the way he had entered after all, not without hurting himself – but the path there led over the carpet. His feet caught on something hidden beneath it, something metallic from the feel and sound of it, and Cedric toppled forward. He let out an “ow!” when he collided with the ground; an apple rolled out of the basket and beneath a shelf. Cedric gathered the rest of the food again, returned them to the basket, and went to the window where Cesca stood. He was about to pry the window open when he noticed that his sister was mouthing something. “Someone is coming!”
A key slid into the lock a moment later.
Cedric froze. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide; no convenient long curtains framing this window. Cesca vanished from the glass. The key turned in the lock. He heard a loud, muffled sound coming from outside. The door flew open.
Cesca rushed into the cabin, took her brother by the arm, yanked him after her and out of the cabin. She had always been quick and fast on her feet, having spent so much time of her life running and exploring the outside, but she hadn’t eaten in a while, and her strength and energy had suffered from that. And just when they were about to hurry out of the cabin, their way was blocked by a man, tall and wrapped in winter clothes like they were.
They skittered to a halt. Cesca shoved Cedric behind her and pulled herself to her full height. “We are very sorry that we broke in,” she said. “And I promise that we didn’t take anything of importance. Apologies for the troubles we must have caused you, but we will be on our way now, and you won’t have to see us ever again…”
The man ran his eyes over Cedric and Cesca, mustered them from head to toe. His gaze lingered on their faces for a moment, his own obscured by the shawl wrapped around it and the hat he had pulled down deep. When he moved, Cesca took a step back at once, taking Cedric with her, and he could see her eyes glance at a bottle on the table…
… but she stilled, her plan never coming to fruition, when the man knelt before them and took off his hat and scarf to reveal a surprisingly friendly face. He smiled. “Oh, my poor children,” he said. “Did you get lost? And tried to heat yourself up in here? It really is freezing cold out there…” The man looked at the moved basket which did not harbour any bread anymore. “You seem to be starving too. Please take a seat; let me make you some tea.”
***
“Having lost the opportunity to run, Cesca and I could do nothing besides complying. We sat down on a narrow sofa with our shoulders brushing together and our hands clasped. The bottle Cesca had wanted to take earlier was right in front of us on the table; if the man tried anything, I was sure that she would grab it and hammer it over his head. For now, we were simply waiting for tea in a stranger’s forest house.”
“While he worked – he had to make a little fire outside to boil the water – he chatted with us as if it was the most normal thing in the world: His name was Martin, and he had cut and stored some dry wood in autumn for when it got too wet and cold. He explained that he lived here only part-time and that he had built this cabin many years ago because he liked to be alone sometimes and “clear his head.” In spring and summer, this area was apparently very pretty too, with many berry bushes around as well. There was indeed a village not too far away from here – it took barely an hour to get there –, and Martin resided there when he did not stay in his cabin.
“Cesca and I listened with tense faces, nodded along to his words, and answered his questions curtly and dishonestly.
“‘How did you get lost in the woods?’ – ‘Our father brought us here, but we lost sight of him.’
“‘Where do you live?’ – ‘If you bring us to that village you spoke of, we can find our way back home on our own. Thank you.’
“‘What are your names?’ – ‘We are not meant to tell them to strangers; I hope you understand.’”
“We ate with him – bread and cheese and apple slices – and did our best not to wolf any of it down, even if the state of the bread basket (empty, refilled, moved) had given our hunger away. Still, it was best not to let Martin know how hungry we were. Let him think of us as greedy, not starving children.
“Afterwards, he offered to let us sleep here. It was too dark and late now to head to the village; he would take us in the morning instead. We could not refuse because of the late hour.
“Martin allowed us to sleep in his bed in the little half-level while he curled his large frame on the narrow sofa. It was close to the door; we took the risk anyway: We waited until we were certain that he had fallen asleep. Cesca and I went downstairs with soft steps and treaded cautiously over the carpet. However, when Cesca pressed down the handle, slowly and carefully, and then pulled on it, the door would not open.
“He had locked us in.”
***
“After deciding not to shatter a window and climb out of it in the dead of night – something that would definitely wake Martin up and give us cuts from the broken glass and might potentially jeopardise our lives completely – Cesca and I returned to Martin’s bed and went to sleep huddled together.
“We were taciturn at the breakfast table while he talked and talked.
“‘One can never know what they will encounter in the woods,’ Martin said and took his axe with him when he guided us to the village, cutting apart our plan to flee on our way there.”
“He did bring us to a village, just like he had promised. And I still wonder how things would have turned out, if we had sought refuge in the crowds, hiding ourselves there the instant we arrived, or screaming and crying to draw the villagers’ attention to us. But we did neither. Martin had proven himself to be a friendly man who was true to his word, and even though Cesca and I did not fully trust him still, we did not exactly think ill of him and followed him to a friend he said would surely be of aid.
“It was such a beautiful little inn too which his friend ran, in the village’s heart with a welcoming yellow façade and painted flowers climbing over its walls inside, and people greeted Martin’s friend so warmly.”
“We were led to a room upstairs.
“The key turned, locking us in, before we could do anything.”
***
“Cesca and I were kept there for two weeks. We were given food and water every day, and a washing bowl, soap, and a change of clothes too. But this cheery inn was still a prison, and we had no idea why.
“We would sit on the bed and wonder about the possibilities, especially as more and more days passed with nothing happening. Could they have found out about the burned down manor and that we came from there? But why keep us here then? If they thought we were the perpetrators, why didn’t they hand us over to the authorities? If they knew we were the lord’s missing children, why didn’t they seem to have alerted the authorities too, or perhaps even the killer who must surely be looking for us?
“And if they knew neither, what other reason was there to keep us imprisoned here?”
“Two weeks later, the door to our room was unlocked, and the innkeeper told us to get dressed and out. We wrapped ourselves in our original clothes and followed him with funereal silence downstairs.
“When the door had opened the first time on the evening of our arrival day, Cesca had jumped at the innkeeper’s deputy with the water jug and earned quite a few bruises and lost a few hairs for her efforts. Thus, our hands were bound together in front of us before we were led down and to a carriage. Martin was on the coachman’s seat. He smiled at us when he saw us as if we were old friends, and he was happy to see us again. Cesca spit on him and was immediately pushed into the cab.”
***
“Did you ever find out why you were held captive by them?” Cloudia enquired and tightened her grip on his hand.
Cedric shook his head. “No, never. They never told us a thing, but we could overhear something about money and ‘getting lucky.’ At some point, we contemplated that they might have heard of Mother’s family and the silver hair and how they were looking for her, and that Martin and his accomplices got a kind of ‘finder’s fee’ from our Towers relatives, but that wasn’t it either. Because if it had been, they would have brought us to Mother’s cousins, wouldn’t they? Or brought them to us. But they did neither. Which wasn’t all too surprising, all things considered; how could they have known after all? We were in a village somewhere in Scotland, and my mother was from Cornwall.”
“Where did they take you then?”
“To a farm.”
“A farm?”
***
“We travelled for hours. If they hadn’t locked the carriage’s doors, or if its windows hadn’t been too narrow for both Cesca and me, we would have jumped out mid-journey. All we could do instead was to wait until we arrived and try to run then.
“We got to a farm late at night. They must have anticipated that we might make a run for it because Martin and the innkeeper’s deputy dug their fingers into our arms as they led us to the main house. There, they exchanged a few words with the farmer, and Cesca and I were locked away once again, this time in a shed.”
“I don’t think the farmer brought us, that this sale was what Martin and his accomplices had been referring to. From what we could gather, the farm was only a temporary place for us to be. For some reason, they couldn’t keep us at the inn anymore – perhaps, people in the village had grown aware and suspicious of our presence there? At any rate, we would be moved elsewhere ‘soon’; until then, we were forced to help the farmer and his wife with the upkeep of their house, land, and animals. The farmer’s wife never let us out of her sight, holding a whip ready if we dared to escape. Sometimes, she would use it to punish us if we worked too slowly or too poorly for her taste.”
“We didn’t stay there for long, however. Cesca and I had no inclination to find out where Martin and the others actually wanted to take us, and because we didn’t know when ‘soon’ would be, we escaped on our fourth night at the farm. My sister had managed to swipe two hairpins from the farmer’s wife, and we did our best to open the lock with it that night. The first pin broke, but we were able to open the door with the second one.
“Hand in hand, Cesca and I ran through the night and away and away and away. And when we spotted a deliverer who had stopped to feed his horses, we sneaked onto his cart and hoped he wouldn’t notice us until we arrived at his destination.”
“To our luck, he didn’t notice us, and we got to a town as stowaways. Cesca and I were stunned when we got out of the cart and saw the size of the place; we had never been in a town for too long, had only moved between villagers before. But while we could easily hide here – there were so many other people, and the town seemed to be rather far away from the farm – we still had nowhere to go.
“What authorities could two orphaned children seek out safely? Particularly ones that might be hunted by a serial killer?”
Cedric and Cesca walked through the town without a destination in mind, just covered distances to keep being in motion in this terrible cold and maybe to try to find a spot where they could spend a night; some place where they would be shielded by any possible rain and be unbothered by people. Cesca instructed Cedric to walk with his head held high as if he knew where he was and belonged to this place, not like a wide-eyed visitor or a skittish child on the run. It was a little difficult because everything was new and exciting, and they sometimes passed by shops which emitted the loveliest of scents.
And their pretence might not be needed after all: After an hour or two, Cedric noticed that most people did not seem to pay them any attention. They were moderately clean, and the farmer’s wife had taken shears to Cedric’s head to rid him of his hair (“don’t you bring any lice to my house!”) and forced Cesca to hide her hair beneath a bonnet at all times (“what an unsightly colour and conduct!”), so their most eye-catching feature was hidden away. They were simply one of many orphaned, poor children wandering these streets. No one would turn their heads for them; they were practically invisible.
Eventually, Cesca found a good place beneath an older-looking bridge where they could stay for the night. They huddled together, and Cedric retrieved the candies he had stolen from Martin’s forest cabin all these weeks ago. By sheer luck, they had never been searched. At the inn, someone had cleaned their clothes a few times, but they had had to hand over their clothes for that, and Cedric had always removed the candy and the ring beforehand. He could have lived to be parted with the candy, of course, even if he had saved them for an occasion such as this one but the ring… he didn’t know what he would have done if Martin, the innkeeper or his deputy, the farmer or his wife, or anyone had taken their mother’s precious family ring away.
Cesca didn’t ask about the origin of the candies; she merely accepted one and wordlessly put it in her mouth. She had grown quieter over the weeks, with her speech having shifted from chatty to utilitarian. It is the hunger, Cedric thought to himself a lot. It is our situation. It is no wonder why she has become quiet.
But just because he understood did not mean it hurt any less. It was almost as if Cesca wasn’t there; especially at nights like now, Cedric missed her and her stories so badly it hurt. It was the only sound of home he had, she was the only piece of home he had, and it, she, was right there but had left nonetheless.
Without a single word passing between them, they rolled the hard candy in their mouths until it vanished and fell asleep with footsteps above and weakly running water next to them.
***
“We spent many more nights under that bridge and tried our best to find a way to get some money during the day. We weren’t so desperate yet to steal, so we went around and offered our services. After all, we had learned how to make pots and baskets, and cook and clean; we weren’t completely useless. At the very least, we – or rather I – could help to move around cargo.
“Some people did take us up on our offers. I loaded and unloaded boxes while Cesca helped clean the shop. If they couldn’t pay us, they gave us something to eat and drink in exchange. A few even allowed us to sleep in their homes and get washed.”
“We survived every day, saved our money, and kept our eyes out just in case the killer, Martin, or anyone else had tracked us down. I wished we didn’t have to live that way, of course, and, of course, I understood that they were all necessities – living dependent on the mercy of others and always glancing over our shoulders – for us to live at all. It wasn’t the most pleasant way to exist, but not the worst one either, and I learned to bite my tongue and settle into this new normal. Cesca, on the other hand, struggled to adjust, running off sometimes without looking for work and only returning to me late at night. Then, she would pull me into a wordless embrace, and I would lean into the touch because she was all I had.”
***
“When we had gathered enough money, Cesca and I left this town for another. We found a little room to stay in and went around to find work, and after a while, we headed to a new place. Two weeks later, it was time to move again. A month later, we packed our bags anew. Three weeks later, we paid someone to bring us to another town in his carriage.
“Five weeks was the most time we spent in one place. Though we were used to moving around a lot, it had never been that frequent before. But then, we weren’t moving to escape some pesky relatives anymore; now, we were running away from a murderer, and perhaps Martin and his accomplices too.
“On good days, when Cesca was herself, she would either roll closer to me in our bed or drag me outside to look at the starry sky before she would tell me about all the places we could go to. For now, we were focused on getting whoever might be searching for us off our trail, but Cesca dreamed of crossing the border and returning to England in the future. Of paying a brief visit to our old village, the last one in which we had lived with our parents before everything had changed. (Remaining there would be unwise, however. After all, the executor of our grandfather’s will had found us there once; maybe he – if he was still alive – or someone else could find us there again.)
“Afterwards, we could travel through all of England, and perhaps, in a more faraway future, we could even go all the way to the south of England, board a ship, and be carried to the continent. ‘We could see Italy and France, just like Mother had before,’ Cesca would say, her voice full of wishful softness and energy as she clutched my hand. ‘And head to those places I’ve told you about before, the ones where it’s always warm, no matter the time of year.’
“I would mostly nod and tell her to continue when Cesca began to talk about what rivers, what castles, what hills we could see. What places we could visit, and what adventures we could have. I didn’t have such lofty dreams myself, but I did not mind carrying Cesca’s as mine too. I grew to want to go to those places too, just because I hoped that, if we were to ever get there, she would be happier again and fully return to herself.
“The bad days – the ones when Cesca got very quiet and sometimes refused to leave the room at all – were few and far between, but they were slowly increasing with every move.”
***
Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – September 1732
It was a surprisingly lovely day with a blue sky and no wind, and he had been able to readily find some work too.
Cedric Rossdale was now twelve but still hated nothing more than braiding baskets which reminded him of before, except for sitting in front of a potter’s wheel which did too but also dirtied and forever stained the few pieces of clothes he had. He hadn’t had to do that a lot since the fire at least. However, out of all things, he hated how distant Cesca had grown, how this was the eighth town they were staying in in as many months, how little time to grief he had in-between the hunger, the fear, the work. His tears seemed to be clocked, welling in his eyes whenever he found a quiet moment to himself, but he couldn’t have a crying fit when he was unloading boxes, cleaning small crevices adults couldn’t enter, delivering an urgent letter, or having to fulfil an order of three dozen baskets like he did now. And, at night, Cedric didn’t want to disturb his sister as they always shared a bed when they could afford or were offered a room, or huddled together when they had to stay in an alleyway or under a bridge. She needed to sleep after all, as she was just as busy as he, offering cleaning and cooking services at every door on her good days. There were many good reasons why they – he – had to live that way, swallowing tears and screams and pain; it was necessary and important so that they – he – could keep going, but… but...
But then, today was such a lovely day. Why dwell on such terrible things, even if they rested so heavily on his heart and soul?
Cedric focused on the willow rods instead and plaited them neatly into one basket, and then into another and another and…
Streaks of red and orange and purple ran over the sky when he was finally done. He was one of the faster and most skilled workers the shop owner had, and he smiled at Cedric when he gave him his money and told him to come back tomorrow. Why he couldn’t just employ him properly Cedric didn’t know. If only he did, maybe he and Cesca could stay here for longer; what if that employment could even help to keep them safe? They had no way to tell whether anyone was still looking for them, but if the shop owner gave him a proper job, he might help him too if push came to shove…
Cedric looked up to the colourful sky as he walked back to the shabby inn where he and Cesca were staying. The stone façade was crumbly, and the wooden steps groaned under his light weight as he walked up to the front door but it was better than nothing. Cesca wasn’t home yet, so Cedric tidied up the room a bit, which didn’t take long because it was rather small and they had few possessions, and put his earned coins in his pouch. They kept part of their money under a floorboard which they had pried off and carried the rest close to their bodies.
Cesca had said she would bring something to eat today; the lady of the house in whose kitchen she currently helped out was hosting a party today, and one of the scullery maids had told her that the servants always got some of the leftovers on these occasions. Thus, Cedric curled up on the bed, tried to think of everything but his parents, the destroyed manor, and the murderer, and waited for Cesca.
The orange and red faded out of the sky and the purple darkened to a deep blue as he waited. She never took that long, and Cedric now did his best not to dwell on his worry either. She would be fine; she would be fine…
“Ceddie – it is time to wake up!”
With a groan, Cedric slowly opened his eyes and rubbed them. He hadn’t even realised that he had fallen asleep. The sky was now pitch black with flecks of gold, and Cesca stood by their bed with a little bag in her hand and a bleeding gash along the side of her face.
Cedric was immediately wide awake and got to his feet at once. “What happened?” he asked aghast.
She put the bag on the sliver of a table and leaned against the door. Her eyes were dark. “Nothing of importance, Ced,” Cesca pressed out between gritted teeth.
“Nothing of importance? You’re bleeding!” Cedric went to fetch the water bowl and looked around for a cloth. He was quite relieved when he found one.
“It’s a shallow wound,” she insisted.
“But someone still hurt you,” Cedric replied and reached out to dab the injury with the wet cloth. Cesca, despite her reluctance to tell him of the incident, allowed him to clean her wound at least without protest.
“It doesn’t matter who hurt me or why.” She paused and directed her eyes to the ground. “It just matters that I hurt him back, and that it’s best if we left now.”
Cedric frowned at her. “What do you mean you…” He trailed off when he finally took a good look at her hands; the gash had been such a shocking sight, he didn’t notice that his sister had blood on her hands as well.
“Not mine,” Cesca said quietly.
Cedric lifted his head and stared at her with wide eyes. “Whose then?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s not dead though, in case you’re wondering.”
She pushed past him and removed the loosened floorboard. She threw the pouch with the money on the bed and fetched their bags with their clothes from under it. “And with now, I really meant now. Ceddie, we need to hurry.”
“Cesca never told me about the incident even if it forced us to move sooner than planned. Her eyes had burned with anger when she had come into our little room. Her shoulders had shaken with shame while she imparted that little piece of information.
“And on our way out of the town, she had pressed my hand and said ‘I’m sorry’ in a tone that made me never ask about that incident again.”
“I didn’t understand until much later what must have happened.”
***
Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – June 1733
New town, new start.
In the worst sense of the word: Just as they had settled in – having found their first small jobs and a tiny room to stay in – their money was stolen. Their landlord had gone through their room when they had been away and found the hidden pouch. Cedric and Cesca had protested upon their return, but he merely kicked them out, and there was no one who could help them. That day, they sat seething in an alley as they shared the bread they were given as payment for their day’s work. They had still some money left, the one they carried with them at all times, but it wasn’t a lot, and certainly not enough to go and spend it on another room for the night. Thus, they slept on the streets with one eye open.
In the next few weeks, they struggled to find work, and when they did find something, they were either paid in food and shelter or not at all and tossed to the streets after a full day’s work with a venomous laugh. It was fine to be be given something to eat and drink, though it was usually only very little, and they ended the day with growling stomachs nonetheless. Their little savings slowly depleted, and when the weather turned and it rained heavily for a week straight, and they had to pay for a room with a heavy heart, something inside Cesca snapped.
“By the time this happened, it had been more than a year since we had lost our parents, more than a year since we had begun travelling in a zig-zag throughout Scotland. We had to endure a lot, though things had started going better since January: It had become easier for us to find work, as we now knew how to present ourselves and had learned various new skills since. We hadn’t spent a single night on the streets since February because of our savings, and we had decided to stay in one place for longer periods of time after my 13th birthday. Maybe, we would even head south to England later this year. Cesca’s bad days had decreased significantly too. Naturally, just as we had settled into this life, it kicked us down in the most horrid way.”
“Despite everything, the core of her had remained: Cesca had always been a dreamer. Wandering off into the unknown, searching for adventures and something new. Sitting by a storyteller, her head propped on her hands and her wide eyes glittering with fascination, to learn every fairy tale she could. Loving Father’s inheritance and the new, shiny life it gave us, even if the lessons had been so bothersome, until the day of the Christmas party.”
“Cesca grew angrier after that stormy week, even though things began to pick up for us again afterwards, after we had departed that town for a nearby city. Her anger was not directed outwardly, however; she did not start to yell at me or slam doors or throw objects. Instead, it lived under her skin and burned holes inside of her.”
“Still, that incident with that thief of a landlord and Cesca’s rekindled anger were not the most notable events of that summer as it was the summer we met Chester.”
***
Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – July 1733
Cedric was on his way back from work when it happened. On a busy walkway in one moment, looking forward to a meal shared with his sister, and pressed against the wall of an alley in the other, blinking away stars from having hit his head.
When his vision cleared, he could make out two men towering over him. The one who had grabbed him from the street and was now holding him up and against the wall spoke first, “Come on; search him already,” he said to his companion. Cedric kicked about with his feet, wiggled to try to free himself, attempted to bite the hand that was covering his mouth, but the man was strong: He restrained Cedric’s legs with little effort when he kicked at him, kept his grip iron-tight, and did not even flinch when Cedric managed to ram his teeth into his flesh. He merely chuckled and told his partner to hurry up, and his partner patted Cedric down and rummaged in his pockets until he found and retrieved his pouch of money. Since the incident with that larcenous landlord, he and his sister had split their entire money and were now carrying half of it around each. Thus, when the thief opened the pouch, his eyes widened, and Cedric’s heart dropped.
“The brat wasn’t just carrying around his day’s wages, Ralph!” he exclaimed and showed the other one the pouch’s contents.
Ralph’s eyes lit up immediately. “And here I thought it would be yet another meagre grab.” He smiled at Cedric. “A little idiot, aren’t you?”
With a dirty laugh, he threw Cedric to the ground. Pain vibrated through his body. By the time, Cedric had recovered enough to lift his head, he could only see the two thieves hasten away. A second later, Cedric got to his feet and hurried after them. “Hey! Stop! Help! Please, someone stop the thieves!” he shouted but no one did; many merely murmured angrily under their breaths when he cut off their path in his chase or bumped into them.
Cedric did his very best to go after them, but they were older and taller than him with more energy and strength and wider strides, and no one was helping him, no one was helping him… Breathing heavily, his heart thundering in his chest from the strain, Cedric fell to his knees at last, the thieves unreachable. The crowd did not part for him, not quite: While some did move around him like any other bothersome thing blocking their way, others bumped and brushed against him. Someone scolded him for sitting in the middle of a walkway but Cedric could barely make out their words. Blood was rushing in his ears, and thoughts were somersaulting in his head.
How could he ever explain this to Cesca?
It had only been a month since their landlord’s theft, and about two weeks since something had fallen apart within his sister. Two weeks of Cesca having grown angrier and moodier. Cedric knew she was doing her best to hold herself together but he feared what yet another blow could do to her…
He raised a hand to his throat, felt the piece of thread around it which held the Towers ring close to his heart, and wept even harder. At least, at the very least, Ralph and his companion hadn’t discovered his mother’s ring too.
Suddenly, there was a hand on his arm, pulling him up and away from the crowd and the disapproving glances. Something inside Cedric froze before it burned, and he broke away, ready to run, ready to fight, because what were the odds? To be attacked and robbed twice on the same day? Twice within a few minutes? But he didn’t want to test his luck and…
Someone blocked his fist and said, “Hey, calm down. I don’t want to do anything to you.”
Only then did Cedric realise that the person in front of him was not much taller than him and that his own eyes were clouded with tears. He took a step back, wiped angrily at his eyes, and scrutinised the other boy properly.
Because, this time, it was indeed a boy. He seemed to be about Cesca’s age with wild brown hair and blue eyes and his hands held out in front of him as if he were approaching a scared animal.
“I just saw you crying there and thought to get you out,” the boy continued. “It is a very busy street, and people can get trampled to death, you know? Didn’t want to see you flattened…” He paused. “Maybe I shouldn’t have added that...”
“It’s fine,” Cedric replied a bit gruffly. “And thanks.”
The boy tilted his head as he mustered him. “Why were you crying in the middle of a street anyway? It must have been something very upsetting,” he said and quickly added, “If you want to talk.”
Cedric rubbed his eyes. “I don’t. And thanks again for saving me, but I should really leave now. My sister is waiting and…” Fresh tears welled in his eyes when he thought of Cesca.
Without a word, the boy grabbed Cedric’s arm and dragged him after him for the second time today.
“Hey! What are you doing? Let me go!” Cedric protested.
“Won’t do!” the boy returned. “We don’t know each other, sure, but you have a face like a wet weekend. And I don’t know your sister either, but I’m sure she wouldn’t like to see you like this, and you wouldn’t like for her to see you like this, right?”
“No… but…”
“Then it’s agreed upon!” he interrupted Cedric. “I’ll get your mood up again before it gets too late and your sister starts to worry about you! Now, what’s your name? Mine’s Chester Fleming…”
***
“… And that was how I met Chester. It was odd, of course, to be dragged across the city by a strange older boy, but I was used to whirlwinds, and he had been right: I didn’t want to return to Cesca gloomy and with red-rimmed, teary eyes.
“He brought me to a beautiful plateau from which you could see almost the entire city and shared the candy with me which he had purchased on our way there. Although we were strangers, Chester spoke freely with me, and I did eventually forget about the ordeal with the thieves as I listened to his stories, looked down upon the city, and put candy after candy into my mouth. However, this did not erase what had happened: that I had lost half of our money. And when it was time for me to go, everything came crashing down on me again.”
Cedric halted on the stairs. He had to go down and back into the city to get to Cesca but his entire body felt like lead. She wouldn’t be mad at him; he was certain she would not be. She would be mad at Ralph and his friend and worried about him. Still, he couldn’t go on; he could not. He didn’t want to tell her anything to break her further. He couldn’t do that.
“Kris?” Chester had been a few steps ahead of him on their descent; now, he was standing right in front of Cedric, his blue eyes full of concern.
“I can’t do this,” Cedric whispered and sat down on the stair. He folded himself together, head buried in his knees and arms wrapped around his legs. “Everything has been going so badly and…”
His eyes burned up again, and tears were ready to cool them but he didn’t want to cry again. He was so sick of crying…
“What happened?” Chester asked with a hard voice. “I know you said you didn’t want to tell, but it must be something very, very serious if you are like this. Please tell me. Maybe I can help.”
“No one can help,” Cedric said, and the words made his chest tighten. “Our money… I lost half of our money.”
“You lost it? Where?”
“No, not like that…” Cedric gulped. “It was stolen…”
“Ah, I see,” Chester said with a strange tone. “Do you know by whom?”
Cedric looked up. “I don’t know why it matters. It’s gone. That’s what matters. The money’s gone…”
“No, it matters too. Who stole your money, Kris?”
“Two men… I think one of them was named Ralph…”
Chester’s eyes darkened momentarily before his face lit up again. He crouched before Cedric and put a hand on his shoulder. “Do not worry, Kris. Trust your new friend Chester, and everything will be perfectly fine again, okay?”
***
“His plan went as follows: I should return pretending that everything was all right; Chester would lend me a few coins which I could show Cesca as the money I had earned that day. Chester would get my money back, I would hand him the borrowed coins, and all would be right again.
“I had my reservations about this plan, of course, particularly regarding the part about Chester getting my money pouch back from the thieves. He assured me that he would definitely be able to do it and reiterated to trust him. I ended up agreeing to the plan; for one because I really didn’t want Cesca to know what had happened but also because I wanted Chester’s word to be true.”
“Two days later, when we met up at the foot of the staircase to the plateau as we had the day before too, Chester grinned widely as he held two bags out to me: one was unfamiliar and filled with candy, and the otherwas my pouch with all the money inside.
“When I asked him how he did that, Chester only said that he knew the right people.”
***
It was a particularly sunny day when Cedric stumbled down the stairs.
It had been almost three weeks since he had met and befriended Chester, and they had agreed to meet up every other day at the plateau. Cedric had grown to look forward to this hour or two between the end of his work day and the beginning of dusk. He had never had a proper friend before and was very glad that his first one was Chester, not only because he had saved his and his sister’s likelihood: He was kind and funny, and whereas Cesca used to tell him fairy tales – dreamy stories of faraway adventures and lands, of magic and wishes – Chester gave him stories of things that had actually happened – stories Cedric knew from his history books, as well as anecdotes Chester had heard from others. Despite his age (he was 17, one year older than Cesca), Chester had travelled around a lot in England and Scotland and met many interesting people. It was pleasant and soothing to listen to him, and just like that first day, Chester’s stories had the ability to fully distract Cedric’s busy mind.
However, although he spoke about other people’s experiences a lot, he rarely parted with any details on his background and personhood – not that Cedric told him much of his story either; he hadn’t even revealed his actual name to him, had only given Chester the false names his sister and he had chosen to use over a year ago. Cedric had told him that he and his sister were orphans without going into any more details though, and during that one conversation, Chester had admitted to being one himself as well. That was all Cedric knew. Over the last few weeks, he had also learned that his friend liked red candy the best (the taste did not seem to matter to him, just the colour “like the setting or rising sun”), loved climbing up trees and façades and balancing on tree trunks and the edges of roofs, disliked getting wet (apart from taking baths in a river, thankfully), and, most curiously, held a special kind of hatred and distrust for adults in his heart. It was curious to Cedric because he did not know the reason (nor did he feel like enquiring; it seemed to be a private matter, and they had not known each other for long enough that he was in a position to pry, he thought) and because Chester was nearly an adult himself.
Now, Chester’s story – how a man he had met named Joseph O’Connor had once tried to scale Tron Kirk’s stone spire in a drunken stupor– was broken apart by Cedric’s tumble and yell. Immediately, Chester rushed to his side and helped him up.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Cedric nodded faintly but dug his fingers into the fabric of Chester’s shirt until his head didn’t spin anymore. “I… Yes, I think I am,” he said at last. “I think I just scraped my knees and a bit of my hands.”
“Thankfully, you stumbled on the last stair,” said Chester and helped Cedric stand on his own. “You didn’t seem to have hit your head.” He paused. “You didn’t hit your head, right? I heard of people who dropped dead hours after hitting their heads even though they were fine in the hours between.”
“No, I didn’t. But I should really get going now.” Just as Cedric took one step forward, his legs buckled under him, and pain exploded in one of his ankles. Chester barely managed to catch him on time.
“I think I hurt my ankle instead,” Cedric said sheepishly. Chester assisted him to sit on the step and then gently rolled up Cedric’s trousers and inspected his ankle by poking it carefully; Cedric clenched his teeth together to stop him from whining loudly.
“It doesn’t seem to be broken, thankfully.”
“But Fey awaits me at home, and I can’t walk like this.” Cedric looked up at the darkening sky and felt sick.
Chester turned around and gestured to his back. “Come, I’ll carry you, Krissy.”
***
“Oh, there you are fina-” said Cesca as she opened the door with wide eyes and her chopped-short hair stuffed under a bonnet. Her eyes widened a bit further when she saw Chester. Then, she positioned herself right in front of him and braced her hands against her sides. Last year’s wound had left a scar along Cesca’s face, and she was a little upset that it was only a faint one as she thought that a more pronounced one might have made her look even “fiercer.” (Cedric was sure that she was overall happy that it wasn’t a deeper one; after all, she had always been proud of her looks.) The scar, coupled with the stern expression on her face and her ever-burning anger glowing beneath it, made Cesca look fierce indeed.
“Who are you?” she asked gruffly. “And why are you with my brother?”
Chester stared down at her – he was half a head taller than she was – with his mouth slightly open, though he seemed to be at an unusual loss for words.
“That’s Chester,” Cedric introduced him. “He’s… a friend. We met a few weeks back, and he helped me get back home because I twisted my ankle when I fell down a stair.”
Cesca’s head snapped to her brother. The stranger was forgotten; with one stride, she was at Cedric’s side, touching his face and holding one of his grazed-up hands gently in hers. “You fell down a staircase? Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?”
“No, no doctor. I’m fine, Fey.” His cheeks turned red. “And it wasn’t a flight of stairs… it was a single one.”
She blinked at him. “A single one?”
Chester nodded and said, having rediscovered his voice at last, “It was a beast of a stair.”
“It absolutely was,” said Cedric and nodded too.
Cesca shook her head. “I’m just glad that you haven’t broken anything. You didn’t break anything, right?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“That’s good.” She looked up at Chester and narrowed her eyes as she mustered him. “And you’ve befriended my brother?”
Chester straightened his back. “Yes.”
“And brought him here when he got hurt?”
“Carried him all the way. It was nothing, really.”
Cesca let her eyes wander up and down, and Cedric saw that Chester’s forehead was beaded with sweat. At last, she opened the door behind her wider and gestured into the small room she and Cedric inhabited. “Well, then, why won’t you come in?”
***
“We spent a lot of our spare time together afterwards. Because Chester had been living in this city for much longer than we had, he showed us all his favourite places, from the high plateau and a beautiful meadow nearby to a small sweet shop hidden in a corner street. Sometimes, Cesca met him on her own, as she had grown fond of his company too and decided that he was trustworthy to be around us. She would listen to his stories intently, though never share one of her fairy tales with him, and her eyes would get their old shine back when she did.
“Chester also liked to give us gifts: He would get us food and books and trinkets, and me specifically sweets from that little shop whenever he could and Cesca flowers, to put in her hair or in a vase, and once, sheepishly, a dress he thought might fit her well when her favourite one ripped and couldn’t be mended anymore.”
“The summer passed in a beautiful rush of mostly successful work and hours spent traversing the area and rolling around grass laughing. Everything was still bright and shiny in our lives when autumn came: Our situation might not be the best (we were kicked out of our room once when a higher-paying tenant arrived, and there were still – were always – nights when Cesca and I clung together, not saying a word but sharing the memory of the burned manor and bodies nevertheless) but Chester brought new energy and light into our life, and we in his.”
“And in all that joy and bliss, we never once asked what he was doing during the day when we worked. How he got the money to buy us all those gifts.
“And where his bruises and injuries came from.”
***
Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – October 1733
The days were growing cooler and shorter and the leaves more colourful with every passing day. Autumn had been his mother’s favourite season because its light and colouring had always felt warmer to her than summer’s and because she had loved to see the world wind down slowly, getting itself ready to get their well-earned sleep in winter after a busy spring and summer. It was Cesca’s favourite for the same reasons too and because everything felt more magical to her in the golden glow of autumn.
Cedric, however, had never liked that it was the foreboding of the cold winter. With his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat (Chester had helped him purchase it after he had worn Cedric down enough to accept the offer), he strode back home. He only dug out one hand to pick up a particularly pretty red leaf to take home and bring to Cesca.
He didn’t make it back to the dinghy apartment building: Chester found him two streets away with a grim expression on his face and multiple bags slung over his shoulder, two of which Cedric recognised as his and Cesca’s. Before he could ask his friend what was going on, Chester had already clasped his hand in his and was pulling him away from his one-room flat.
“What-what is going on?” Cedric pressed out, struggling to keep up with Chester. “Chester, did something happen? Is my sister all…”
“She should be fine,” Chester replied and quickened his steps, not even slightly turning his head to talk to Cedric. “We’re going to get her from her work – she’s at Old Mary’s tavern today, isn’t she? – and then we’re leaving.”
Cedric stared at him. “Leaving? Why? To where? Chester, I don’t…”
Chester tightened his grip on Cedric. “I’ll explain when we have got Fey and have left the city. I promise.” He paused before he added in a low voice, “I’m so sorry.”
***
“What on earth is going on?” Cesca asked when they had passed through the city gates and left them behind, though they were still visible in the distance. Cesca hadn’t even had the chance to be upset to leave work early and lose her day’s wages; Chester’s pleading eyes and voice had smothered any anger she could have felt in that moment. Mirroring his grim face, she had simply left the tavern with a quick apology to Mrs Mary, grabbed a bag and Cedric’s other hand, and allowed herself to be guided away from yet another home. “Chester, you promised us an explanation and you owe us one too. What is going on?”
“When we’re a bit farther away…” Chester said and quickened their pace again, pulling Cedric along with him and making Cedric pull his sister after him too.
Cesca halted abruptly, bringing everything to a stop and making Cedric tumble against Chester’s back. She yanked on Cedric’s arm which caused him to lose his grip on Chester and fall against his sister. “No, explain it now,” Cesca demanded. Her now chin-length hair was blown about by the wind. “I’m not following you blindly to wherever with my little brother.” Her voice softened as she continued, “Please, Chester, tell us, what happened? Who hurt you?”
Chester turned around to them then. Cedric sucked in the air when Chester faced them as he could finally make out the bruises that peeked out from behind Chester’s scarf and bloomed around his throat like a collar and the red rim around his eyes. “I’ve messed up,” Chester said in a thin voice. “I’m sorry I’ve messed up. We tangled with the wrong people, and I accidentally made them aware of you and…” He paused, bowed his head. “Please… Fey, please let me explain everything to you later. We need to get going before they…”
“He could never finish that sentence; it was broken off by the people we were running away from: They came by horse and by carriage, and a knife flying through the air and past Chester interrupted his words and distracted us for long enough for them to grab us and haul us into the carriage.”
“It turned out that Chester had belonged to a group of child thieves led by a sixteen-year-old boy named Flynn. He had gathered many orphaned children over the years – some were his age like Chester, others as young as six – and instructed them in the art of thievery. (Flynn himself had learned it from a man who had taken in street children to commit crimes for him.)
“Chester had encountered Flynn when he was eleven; he had been part of this group ever since. They sometimes moved between towns too, losing and gaining members from place to place. They had stayed in that city the longest because of its size, and everything had gone well until they had begun stealing from Percy Lennox’s gang.”
“Lennox and his gang were infamous in the Scottish underworld and known for their ruthlessness. Flynn’s thieves had stolen money from a shop affiliated with Lennox once by accident a few months ago and then fell into blind recklessness and greed.”
“They had got caught yesterday at last, with Lennox and his people hunting down all members of Flynn’s group so that they could punish them. Chester had managed to escape when he had been captured a few hours before I ran into him. Some of Lennox’s men had seen Cesca and me with Chester before and mentioned to Chester that they would get us too, uncaring that he assured them that we had nothing to do with the thievery at all.
“For that reason, he had come to get us and made us escape at once, though Lennox’s men had been faster in the end after all and...”
***
~Cloudia~
Cedric trailed off and stared absent-mindedly into the distance, all while circling his thumb over Cloudia’s hand. She mustered him for a moment. He had told her a good amount of his story already, and she had listened to him intently; still, it was difficult for her to think of him – her ever-laughing Grim Reaper – as that serious, worried boy who clung to his older sister.
“You don’t have to continue if you don’t want to,” Cloudia said after a few minutes of absolute silence.
Cedric shook his head, having recovered from his stasis. “No, I want to keep going for a bit longer at least… It’s just…” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the knuckles of her hand. A bitter laugh escaped from his lips. “It’s been so long ago, and everyone from that time is truly and fully dead except me, and I still barely wish to talk about that piece of my past, even to you. It’s silly, is it not?”
Cloudia raised an eyebrow even though he couldn’t see that. “Well, I doubt that whatever you did, whatever you had to do, was that bad. And, at any rate, it was a very long time ago. Also,” she added, suffocating her own curiosity, “you can skip all the unimportant bits of that part if you want. It’s not as if you told me everything about the time before too – or begun with your birth. I do like a lengthy novel but not under these circumstances.”
He laughed again, brighter this time, and the improvement made Cloudia’s skin tingle in joy. “You’re right, of course, Countess.”
“When haven’t I been?” Cloudia tugged on his hand to make him look up again so that she could see his face as he went on…
***
~Cedric~
“They brought us to their hideouts where they had taken the other members of Flynn’s group of thieves too. When they had collected them all, they guided us to a room where Percy Lennox himself was sitting. He began to talk how he did not take kindly to what the thieves had done and that they had cost him a lot of money before two of his henchmen dragged a brunette boy into the room. He had been beaten up badly, and his face was swollen and cut. I had never seen him before but I knew instantly that this must have been Flynn, the leader of the thieves.
“The two henchmen forced Flynn to his knees, and then a third one came with a flintlock pistol and shot Flynn right in the head.”
“It was a rather horrifying sight. I had been embracing Cesca since we had been led into that room and I remember holding her even tighter, and she me, when we saw Flynn getting shot and his body toppling backwards and left to bleed out on the ground. Lennox continued that, with ‘our’ shabby leader now gone, it was time for someone else to take control of that little thievery group: Despite the troubles they had caused him, he was fascinated by their skills. He wanted them to work for him, robbing people at his command and undertaking other kinds of jobs for him as well, until their ‘debt’ – the monetary damage they had caused him – was repaid. Lennox emphasised that our labour under him would only be temporary: As soon as the debt was paid in full, we would all be free.
“Some anxious children tried to flee before Lennox had finished talking; they were caught and their throats slit open for their efforts. Two others attempted to run after he had mentioned the debt; they got their necks twisted and broken. The others remained, both out of fear and because they felt reassured by the part with the debt. If their work under Lennox was indeed only temporary, it would be easier to endure; it was good to have a ‘finish line’ after all.
“He did, however, emphasise that he only wanted people who could actually benefit him. This part scared me the most. Cesca and I had neither expertise nor knowledge in thievery and crime. When would he filter us out?”
***
“Later, Chester tried to teach Cesca and me a few things without Lennox’s people noticing that something was amiss. It turned out that, despite my lack of experience, I was not empty of skills: A lifetime of weaving baskets and making tableware had made my fingers rather nimble. I had never been so glad for my parents’ teachings as I had been in that moment – and I had never wished to spend long hours with a potter’s wheel or willow rods like in that moment either.”
“I might have the needed talents to be a thief, but I did not have the conviction and the courage to do it. Chester made sure that we would be sent out on missions together – to steal a specific letter from a drawer, a piece of jewellery, a key that opened something we didn’t need to know – so that Lennox wouldn’t learn that I was too hesitant to ever take anything because whenever I was about to, I was transported back to that cabin in the woods.
“How would things have turned out if I hadn’t taken more than I should have? If I had left the cabin on time, or never begged to go in?”
“Lennox, of course, noticed this. He had eyes and ears everywhere, but he did not kill me on the spot. He simply reassigned me to different work, shuffling me from task to task and making me do whatever needed to be done in the moment.
“This astonished me, obviously. Why was he so lenient with me specifically? But as a child, I was merely relieved to be allowed to live another day, relieved to know that I wouldn’t leave Cesca all alone. And as an adult, this arrangement had become so commonplace and natural to me, as had my position in Lennox’s gang, that I never thought to dwell on this oddity.”
“A month after we had been forced to join him, Lennox had cut down Flynn’s remaining thieves – with Cesca and me included – from eleven to seven.”
***
“We might not have needed to spend another night outside in dirty alleyways and under bridges, but we had to tread carefully at all times, for we lived in the constant terror of doing something wrong or something that could upset Lennox in any way. We might have been together and been able to huddle together and comfort one another but we were frequently separated for our differing tasks. We might have steady work but it was one that gnawed at our souls. A startlingly stable life, albeit one filled with fear and devoid of peace.
“But as the time passed, as weeks turned into months, months into years, and years into decades, we had grown number, duller. Something inside us had eroded over the years and made us complacent and used to what we were doing. We still worked and worked to pay off that never-ending debt and be able to leave, but this was what we had been doing for so many years now and it was all we were familiar with, and this unsafe existence still brought about a kind of security that we couldn’t quite turn away from. The qualms from the first theft were extinguished, the tears from the first kill dried out, and even the nightmares from it all that would fill every night for years and years eventually lessened. Everything we did was a necessary evil we had to do to survive.
“This was our life now. It quickly surpassed Cesca and my time moving between towns all alone and later even the time we had spent with our parents. Everything we did for and with Lennox’s group became our normality. The errands we ran, the crimes we committed, the long hours we spent drinking together and going to...”
***
~Cloudia~
“Why did you stop? Is something wrong?” Cloudia asked. She scrutinised him curiously as Cedric turned his face away from her.
“I… I had simply begun to ramble,” Cedric replied at last, his voice a little high-pitched. “And I didn’t want to stretch this out for so long. Please give me a moment until I’ve caught myself and found a good point for resuming, Countess…”
***
Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – November 1753
~Cedric~
Cedric looked up to the sky. It was grey and overcast. Clouds were crawling over the sky but at least they weren’t heavy with rain. The icy wind was bad enough; he didn’t need rain to be added to the terrible weather too, not when he was out running an errand. A special one, even.
But then, Cedric thought as he raised his shoulders against the cold and trudged through the city, it is almost December. The weather’s only going to get worse. It’s a wonder that it hasn’t snowed yet.
Shivering even beneath the multiple layers of clothes he was wearing, Cedric made his way to his sister’s favourite bakery. It was all the way across the city and already a bother to get to on days when the weather was good and friendly. However, Cedric hadn’t seen Cesca in a week as he had been sent away to another place for a mission – this time, it had taken him all across the Scottish-English border –, and Cesca hadn’t wanted him to bring her something from there, so he was going to get her something from here. They had agreed to meet up at a park that was located about halfway between the bakery and the headquarters afterwards. Albeit it was certainly a walking-heavy day today, Cedric did not mind it much (he only slightly minded the cold but then he had never been fond of autumn, particularly autumn rolling into winter) because he ached to see Cesca.
The ache from being away from her had lessened when he had grown into adulthood but never vanished. Until the debt was paid, and they were finally freed, Cedric and Cesca only had each other to truly trust. It did not matter how many people they had befriended over the years or how close they had become to their debt sharers. At the end of the day, it was only them – Cesca and Cedric.
“Out of all the others, we trusted Chester the most as we had known him the longest. And while we had forgiven him for pulling us into this mess (he had done this unintentionally after all), that incident had created a wound that had never fully healed. For me at least.”
Holding the paper bag pressed against his body and soaking in the pastries’ warmth, Cedric headed straight to the park. He only stopped for a brief moment when he noticed a sweet shop. He went in and out – it did not take long, maybe a minute or two – and then he was already on the road again; only now one of his pockets was heavy with candy.
Cedric found Cesca sitting beneath a tree. At this late hour and in this cold, there was barely anyone else in the park. The temperature had dropped further since he had set out on his errand run, and Cedric’s breath turned into white clouds in the air now. Cesca, however, seemed perfectly unbothered by the cold. She just sat there – legs stretched out, hands pressed against the frozen ground, and eyes fixed on the sky – as if it was the height of summer, not a late autumn night. For a moment, as Cedric looked at his sister, it was as if they were children again: Cesca sitting idly under trees, listening to the nature and turning stories in her head, and Cedric sighing in relief of having found her at last, a call to come inside as dinner was ready at the tip of his tongue. And then, he blinked, and they were orphans and adults again.
“How did it go? The mission?” Cesca asked without taking her eyes off the night sky when Cedric settled down next to her.
“It went well,” he replied. He debated whether to give her any details and ultimately decided against it. Instead, he asked, “How has it been for you?”
And Cesca grew quiet at once.
“I was always reluctant to talk about work. I did what I did and did not want to dwell on it any longer unless absolutely necessary. Cesca, on the other hand, did not like speaking about her work at all. She had only reassured me that she was not doing anything dangerous not long after we had been forced into Lennox’s gang; she refused to say anything else.”
“I mean in ge-” Cedric said when she didn’t answer. Cesca cut him off with a shake of her head. “I know what you mean,” she replied. “I was only wondering…”
And now, at last, did Cesca turn to her brother, her brown eyes dark but her hair alight – moonlight hair shimmering in the silver light.
“As a child, Cesca had always wanted to grow her hair out and show it proudly to the world, but ever since we had to join Percy Lennox, she kept it boyish short and firmly under bonnets and hats at all times. It was a rare sight to see her bareheaded, and light being able to tangle in her silver hair.”
“I was thinking,” Cesca said, and something about her tone made Cedric back away ever so slightly. “Wondering, really: When you’re sent someplace else for a mission, why don’t you try to stay there?”
Cedric blinked at her. “Why should I?”
“Why shouldn’t you? Wouldn’t it be better than to remain here?”
“Why would it be better?” he returned aghast. “They never let me take you with me – if I left while on a mission, I would leave alone. And we don’t have that much to repay anymore. We suffered major setbacks when Ezra and Maud died but we should be almost done now.”
Cesca pressed her lips into a thin line. “We should be, yes,” she said hollowly.
Cedric took her hand in his. Her hand hadn’t been bigger than his in many, many years now; still, it always sent a shock through his system to see how small it was now inside his. “Yes, and when we are done, we will be able to leave together.” He gave Cesca’s hand a squeeze. “With Chester too, if you wish.”
“Ceddie, I…,” Cesca continued in a low voice before she shook her head and leaned it against his shoulder. “Yes, I am still glad,” she said instead, “that we have each other at least.”
***
“Cedric.”
Cedric turned around to see Chester leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest. He was the only one here – in Lennox’s gang and the city as a whole – who knew Cedric’s and Cesca’s real names. Cesca had imparted them to Chester one day, a month or two into their new life, saying that she would have wanted to tell him the truth sooner if it had not been for that October day. He had traded his full name (“Chester” was merely a nickname) and pieces of his history too in exchange. It had been the same day on which they had forgiven him for his part in their current situation. Cedric had been mostly quiet then, having found the timing of it all odd; to him, that conversation had felt like a last message, a last chance to give their story to someone else so that it might never be forgotten. But here they were, twenty years later and still very much alive.
“Ah, Chester, what’s brought you here?” asked Cedric and gestured for Chester to sit on his bed while he turned to keep reorganising his desk.
“Couldn’t I have visited you just because?”
“Of course, you could have. It’s just become a bit rare lately, so I was just asking…”
“It hasn’t become that rare…”
Cedric lifted his head and raised an eyebrow at Chester. He withstood his gaze for a moment before he scratched his head. “Okay, maybe, it has,” Chester admitted. “I’m sorry; it’s been so busy lately. I really just want to talk though.” He paused. “If you aren’t too busy right now...”
“I am, actually,” replied Cedric and shuffled through more papers. “I still need to give my report to Lennox.”
“Right, of course.” Chester paused again before he continued, “I will be quick.”
“That’s fine, I…” All of a sudden, a realisation hit him. Cedric put down the documents he had been holding and looked at Chester again. “I’m sorry. I have been too busy to seek you out too.”
“It’s all right, Cedric.”
“It’s only that I’m a bit excited,” Cedric said, warmth blooming in his chest. “We should be almost done with our debt and…”
“Cedric,” Chester said, cutting him off and sighing. He ran a hand through his hair which was now nearly shoulder-long and usually bound into a ponytail at his back. He took half a step back, away from the doorframe and into the corridor, looked left and right before he stepped fully into the room. “Did your sister…” Chester began at last, and the strain in his countenance and his words made Cedric’s heart sink and his blood freeze.
“What’s with Cesca?” he asked.
“Nothing of note, but did she already…”
Someone knocked against the doorframe then, making both Cedric and Chester flinch. Chester even took a step away from Cedric.
“Hey, you,” said the man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and Cedric couldn’t remember his name. It seemed to be mutual as the man simply nodded at Cedric and said, “Lennox is calling for you.”
***
“November passed in a blur. I kept getting sent to England for tasks which irked me as I couldn’t be with Cesca.
“Of course, it was because I wanted to be at her side. She was my only family, my beloved sister who had always been there for me. But my frequent travels bothered me mostly because of her. Because Cesca was so much worse than I.”
“I had never liked to see her go, never liked for her to be away, but I had learned as a child to accept that it was like that when I would look for her, and she was long gone, having run off into the unknown for her explorations and leaving me behind.
“She had always been the one to reach out to me, to take my hand, to keep me close.
“The outside had always called her away and away. But her heart always returned her home because it could never bear to be away from me.
“And though the situation was so very different now, the core of it was still the same: For years, Cesca would pull me into an embrace before saying ‘hello’ when I had been away for even a small errand – a message to be delivered to the other end of the city, or an item fetched from a specific place. She would insist on sharing a bed when we could spend the nights together, which wasn’t always, and she would hold my hand until she fell asleep.
“Eventually, Cesca had become more hesitant in her reaching out to me, but her need for me to be at her side, to be in her sight, had never decreased. I had started to close the gap more often then, taking her hand or pulling her close when she seemed to waver, and she would always lean into the touch and relax, and I would know that despite the years and the pain, she was still the same.”
“I left the city again and again in that month, for a couple of days or even a week, and I would always return with a panicked heart, wondering how Cesca had fared in my absence.
“But something would always feel off and tense when I would hug her then.”
***
Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – December 1753
The day began as regularly as any other: An unremarkable waking, a standard breakfast, a fresh list of tasks to go through if he wanted to keep his nails and decrease his debt. Only around three o’clock in the afternoon when Cedric had finished a letter delivery did the day turn and dip and begin its descent into chaos.
“Cedric,” Chester said, emerging from a side street with the quiet steps of a cat. He held a pouch out to him and shook it in his hand. “Do you have a moment? I have candy and something to talk about.”
Because Cedric had completed the delivery earlier than planned, he did indeed have time, so Chester walked him to the park where he had been with Cesca the month before (it was Chester’s favourite too), and Cedric led him to the tree under which Cesca had waited then. Cedric immediately folded himself together to shield himself against the cold as best as he could. The sky was fully covered in clouds today, grey and bleak, and Cedric wondered when it would snow at last.
Chester put a candy in his mouth and then handed the pouch to Cedric. He took it with a thanks and let it vanish into his pocket after throwing a sweet into his mouth as well. They sat like that for a moment in silence, freezing off their bottoms and rolling candy in their mouths, until Chester finally spoke.
“Cedric,” Chester began. “It was me.”
“Hm? You were what?”
He craned his head to him then, his blue eyes as hard and serious as Cedric had ever seen them. “The thief who stole from Lennox.”
Cedric nearly choked on the half-sucked candy. “What?”
“I was the one who stole from Lennox and his people,” Chester repeated emphatically. “It wasn’t anyone else who did that; it was just me.
“I was the one who decided to mess with Lennox. I was the one who got too cocky. I was the one who got all those children killed. I was the one who doomed you and your sister to this life, not because I happened to belong to a group of child thieves but because I instigated it all.”
Cedric stared at him. “What the…”
Chester grabbed him by the shoulders all of a sudden, pushed him down and against the cold, hard ground. If someone noticed the commotion, they did not step in. “And do you know what is worse than having got you into this mess, Krissy?” Chester said, his voice cracking now as he spoke. “That I could never get you out. That there was never an end to this at all except death.”
“But, but the de...” Cedric pressed out but Chester ripped his sentence apart when he yelled, “It’s been twenty years, Cedric! It must have been repaid tenfold by now, but here we are – still working for that bastard and still getting placated with a ‘not now but soon’ because he never intended for any of us to leave! Ever! Especially not Cesca, my Cesca…”
Cedric grabbed Chester’s collar. “What’s with Cesca?”
Chester laughed hollowly. “How can you be so old now and still such a child, Krissy? Surely you must have understood by now that I condemned her to the worst of fates as Lennox’s…”
Cedric punched him in the face, sending his head flying back. Before Chester could recover from the impact, Cedric reversed their positions. He slammed his head against the frozen ground, lifted his fists again and again to pummel Chester with punches, now that he was on top. Some of those punches landed, and Chester dodged the others. He swung his fists now too. Stars burst across Cedric’s vision when Chester’s knuckles hit his jaw. They punched and kicked at each other, rammed their elbows into the other, all the while rolling down the small elevation.
When they had transferred from frozen grass to uneven cobblestone, Cedric pushed Chester away and scrambled to his feet. He spat blood onto the ground and then looked up to see that Chester had stood up too, though he remained a few metres away.
“How could you…,” it burst out of Cedric. And just like the day he had met Chester for the first time, he felt broken and lost and only noticed that he had been crying all along too late. Tears ran over his face and mixed with his blood as he opened his throbbing mouth to repeat his question when…
“Because of you.”
Something inside Cedric stilled. Chester raised a bloody hand to his head and let out a bitter laugh. “Isn’t this the worst of all, Krissy?” he exclaimed. “That I only got so reckless and so greedy because of Cessie and you?”
Red-hot rage surged through Cedric then. He could not remember moving, or pushing him at all; he could only remember standing above Chester, breathing heavily. “What nonsense is this?” Cedric boomed. “To blame my sister and me for your faults and weaknesses?” He spat on Chester, his own body shaking. “I don’t want to see you again,” he said, the strength slowly leaving his voice. “I hope you go to hell – and stay away from my sister.”
Without another word or look, Cedric turned and ran.
***
“I was seething. My schedule was tossed aside as I walked and walked and walked through the city, blindly and aimlessly and with my whole body feeling as if it was on fire.
“My anger and my pain pushed me ever-forward and tangled my thoughts into a mess. And I walked and walked to cool my rage and walked and walked and walked on because it wouldn’t work.”
“I was angry at Chester for doing this to us with his recklessness. I was angry at Lennox for trapping us. And I was angry at myself for having known all along – of course, I had; part of me had always known, one way or another – and refusing to face it head-on.”
“When my fury had decreased at least, when my chest was not as tight from the pain anymore, I came to a halt. And my right pocket suddenly felt so heavy and weighed me down.”
Cedric collapsed against the façade of the closest building, leaned against it and slid down on it until he was sitting on the ground with his back against the stone. Passersby threw odd looks at him, but he ignored them all. He dug his hand into his pocket to retrieve Chester’s candy pouch, and Cedric would have thrown it carelessly onto the road if a piece of paper hadn’t sailed out of his jacket alongside it.
Frowning, he picked it up and turned it around to see the note on its back, written in Chester’s uneven scrawl: I am sorry that we haven’t told you anything earlier, Cedric. Stay away and do not look back.
Time slowed down at once.
The sky wasn’t darkening as swiftly, the people on the street weren’t walking as quickly, his heart wasn’t beating as frantically and still it was aflutter with terror and confusion.
Cedric raked his eyes over the note again and again until the letters blurred together into one long word and later into complete illegibility. His mind was racing and then he was on his feet and running and running towards the headquarters.
“There hadn’t been a note the last time. No apology, no goodbye. But the strangeness and the distance had been there, right in front of my eyes, and I still hadn’t understood them as the markers they were before it was too late – again.
“Decades later, and I was still none the wiser.”
The headquarters were located outside the city and inside an old castle. People roamed the area at all times – guards patrolling the exterior and interior, people returning from tasks or heading out to missions, lovers sneaking into chambers, and others playing cards outside, warmed by the liquor they tossed down their throats. This was a place that was never truly empty or quiet; screams and laughter were always abundant.
Tonight, there was no one to be seen, and no sounds could be heard.
The air smelled of the dark and the cold – and copper and black powder.
The headquarters were located outside the city, just far enough away for nothing that happened here to be heard there.
The smells intensified as Cedric came closer to the building, its eyes hollowed out but not darkened. Candles burned behind windows and made the scene in front of him look almost ordinary. As if he could blink, and everything would be normal again, even if it was not fine.
With his mind filled with hopeful wishes and prayers running on repeat, Cedric kept close to the walls as he entered the castle.
And nearly stumbled over the first body.
He jumped back at once, but it was not Cesca, it was not Chester, and so he walked around it, kept his pace and heightened his vigilance. Cedric had just rounded a corner when he heard a shot ringing through the corridors. His heart stopped for a split second.
They are still here.
Steps followed the shot – not from one person or from two but from multiple, and Cedric couldn’t decipher how many exactly because his heart was thumping, and his ears were rushing, and damn it, hadn’t he learned to stay calm in situations like these? But none of them had ever involved Cesca. His sister, his sister, where was his sister?
He quickened his steps, looked over the corpses littering the ground in haste and in fear. He ran chaotically through the castle, opening and closing doors in a frenzy. He would have called out if he knew whether the attackers were gone already (it had been a while since the last gunshot, but he had lost his sense of time, and what if he had missed one? with his ears and mind everywhere but truly here?) and if he didn’t know that his voice would fail at the attempt.
The air outside had grown cooler while he had been inside. Cold hands wrapped around his body, but Cedric barely registered them when he was standing in the garden with the hard, steady thud, thud, thud of his heart setting his blood ablaze.
He found them at the back of the garden at last.
Chester had landed face-down, clothes matted in blood that bloomed from his back His right arm was stretched out, forever frozen in his last motion: reaching out to Cesca who was lying a few metres away.
How odd it was that both of them were dead, but only Chester looked as if he was. Cesca could have been sleeping just as well considering how she was lying on her side, her face relaxed, her tousled short hair gleaming silver in the dim moonlight.
But, of course, she was dead too. Her injury was merely on her chest, and her body curled up to hide it as if she had wanted to shield her little brother one more time from something bad.
Cedric’s knees gave up from under him. He crashed to the ground right in front of Cesca.
He hadn’t felt her death, hadn’t realised that something was amiss at all until he had found the note, and still and still, he knew that something inside of him had snapped even if he hadn’t noticed the tear.
His thoughts collapsed. His mind was empty, and his body was numb, and he buried his face in his hands because he couldn’t reach out to, couldn’t even look for a second longer at his sister’s cooling body and his own failure.
Maybe it was a good thing, that his mind and body had got overwhelmed and shut down when they did. That he knelt motionless on the frozen ground. There was nowhere for him to go, nowhere for him to be, not anymore. He could just stay here and joi–
The faint smell of smoke startled him awake. Cedric let his hands sink and lifted his head – and that’s when he saw him.
The man stood several metres away from Cedric, right by the back entrance to the castle. Despite the distance, and thanks to the lantern in the man’s hand, Cedric could make out the man’s finely tailored clothes, a suit and a top hat and a heavy coat. An ensemble that would have made him disappear in the crowds of London and one that made him stand out like a sore thumb in this poorly kept garden that stretched out behind a washed-out, brittle castle.
Cedric could only stare at the man. He must have got lost in the worst possible way to have wandered to this place at this hour – or, rather, he would have seemed lost if he wasn’t standing there so full of purpose with his head bent over a stack of papers.
And if another man didn’t emerge from within the castle then, his clothes stained slightly with soot and blood and a hunting rifle in his hands.
Cedric felt nauseous while the man with the rifle spoke something unintelligible to the dapper one before he peeled away into the night. The man in the fine clothes, however, remained where he was. A moment later, he folded the papers and put them in his pocket and blew out the candle in his lantern as if he had all the time in the world.
And then he lifted his head…
… and looked right at Cedric.
Cedric held his breath.
With the candlelight gone, the man was repainted under the winter moonlight: He looked otherworldly with his blond hair lightened to white and his green-blue eyes glowing in the dark.
They bore into him, and they stared at each other for another long, long moment.
Then, the man turned and left.
And the night was illuminated orange and red.
***
Silence descended upon the room when Cedric ceased talking. He wondered what Cloudia must be thinking now as she appeared to be deep in thought, but he didn’t dare to ask.
He wasn’t ready to hear those words voiced aloud after all.
And as they remained in quiet togetherness with their hands still interconnected, Cedric shifted a little in his chair – and felt something heavy in his right pocket. For a moment, he froze, wondering if he was imagining the weight while he was wide-awake or if he was fast-asleep and dreaming. With slight hesitation, Cedric reached into his pocket. He sighed in relief when he procured not a sack of candy and a worn note but Milton’s tinderbox. Its small blue stones blinked in the light as if in greeting.
“Oh, why do you have Milton’s tinderbox?” Cloudia enquired.
How nice it was of Milton – to unwittingly provide me a new topic of conversation from afar.
“I looked for him after I woke up and before I came to see you. He’s awake again,” Cedric told her and mentally bit his tongue to leave out Milton’s current state of mind for now. Between Cloudia’s injury and miraculous recovery and his story, there was enough heaviness and enough to worry about; he didn’t even know if Milton wanted her to know at all. “I got him to eat some breakfast because he forgot, and he forgot to take his tinderbox with him too, and I fetched it before we left.”
Cloudia’s eyebrows flew up. “He forgot his tinderbox?”
“I know it’s important to him, but why are you that surprised, Countess?”
“Because it used to be his mother’s,” she said.
“It is? Milton didn’t speak a word of that.” Cedric turned the tinderbox in his hand, and he was both taken by its beauty and saddened at its sight as he recalled the file Cecelia had compiled for him: Kordelia Bloomfield, Milton’s mother who had died giving birth to his sister before he had even turned 15.
How weird it had been, to read bits of that file. Near-same name, both dead so young and so sudden.
Cedric tightened his grip on the tinderbox and felt that its bottom was strangely uneven. “Milton said that I could hold onto it for a while, but if it used to be his mother’s, I think I should return it to him now. And Kamden might wake up anytime soon now, and I don’t think I should be here when he does; he will certainly come to see you, Countess, and he definitely doesn’t want to see me.”
“He won’t be upset for long.”
“He’s upset right now though.”
Cedric stood up, and his heart ached when he let go of Cloudia’s hand. “And don’t worry, Countess, I’ll come to visit you again later,” he said and leaned forward to press a kiss on her head.
Only when he had closed the door behind him did he realise what he had just done.
Trolberg was a historical city that prided itself on its loud, obnoxious bells. The nine bell towers built into the wall were guarded twenty-four seven, and any establishment that tried to replace its old bell with a modern, automated device, was simply laughed at.
Elias Henriksson had semi-recently taken over as Head of Trolberg’s Safety Patrol, and maintained that the preservation of the city’s ancient bell towers was essential. Both as iconic imagery of their historic city, and because he insisted they were the one true barrier between Trolberg and the diligent army of Trolls waiting outside the wall to attack.
Lauren was sceptical of this, she understood the need for the tower’s and accompanying wall in ancient times, when people had no other way of defending themselves. But technology had evolved since then, surely there were much easier ways of defending oneself against trolls now.
She wondered if anyone had tried hitting one with a car.
It should be a non-issue, of course. A mere triviality, nothing more and nothing less. The briefest of touches, the lightest of kisses – even more so than Cloudia’s kiss from last Christmas. But his face was burning red, and his heart was hammering in his chest louder than the bells at St Anne’s.
Cedric shook his head and took a deep breath. He couldn’t possibly appear in front of Newman and Milton, or anyone, in his current flushed state. There was no reason at all to get so worked up about this. Hadn’t he done that and more in his human life before already? It was nothing new; and still and still…
He shook his head again, clapped his hands against his cheeks for good measure. Damn his traitorous body for having moved by itself in Cloudia’s room. Damn his mocking mind for circling around that memory.
Damn his heart for aching for her already, a few minutes after having left her room and being a handful of steps away from it.
Cedric stopped halfway down the stairs to compose himself properly before he continued his descent, with Milton’s tinderbox clutched tightly in his hand. The shimmering metal dug into his palm and kept him focussed on what he had been meant to do.
With wide, quick steps, Cedric went to the kitchen but only found Newman and Lisa there preparing dinner.
“I took him to the wine cellar earlier at his request,” Newman told Cedric without much preamble, for he must have read the question and the slight worry in Cedric’s eyes.
Newman missed the naked anxiety in them, however, when Cedric nodded absentmindedly in return and bolted to the basement.
Shouldn’t Al have been able to guess that Milton should be anywhere in this house besides the wine cellar?
Why, why hadn’t I warned Al about Milton earlier? About the drinking – party trick or not? About the scar?
Cedric opened the door to the wine cellar with such ferocity that he nearly fell into the room. He caught himself on time, staggered for a moment before he pulled himself upright again right in front of the doorsill. And that’s where he remained for now, taken aback by the sight before him.
It was better than he had feared, but worse in a manner too.
For one, Milton wasn’t in the wine cellar at all, strictly speaking; he was in the adjourning room, very much alive, with no empty bottle in view.
The sight of him made Cedric’s heart sink nonetheless, for Milton was scurrying around the sitting room, almost more of a blur than a person, doing this and that and muttering something under his breath that Cedric could barely make out. It was as if whatever thing that usually kept all that nervous energy within him contained had cracked, and it was now flowing out of him uncontrolled and untamed.
Milton halted abruptly in the middle of the mess he had created and looked right at Cedric. It made Cedric’s skin crawl when Milton’s gaze locked with his. His eyes were so blank in that moment, and he was standing so still and quiet in a sea of dissections, pieces strewn haphazardly all over the floor and lying half-assembled atop the table.
Dissections. What a terrible name for something so very mundane and so very harmless. A litter of hardwood scraps, not a mixture of blood and bones and intestines, was covering every centimetre of the ground. Where would have Milton even got the latter from, with every person within the townhouse accounted for, and his own chest intact and not hollowed out?
Cedric very much preferred the word this game would have in the future – puzzles – and could not wait for it to become commonplace in about half a century’s time. It conjured less unfriendly images in one’s mind, though Milton somehow managed to look unsettling right now, nevertheless.
Cedric exhaled slowly when Milton slid his eyes away from him and to something behind him instead. “Kristopher,” he said with a strangely faraway voice. “It is good to see you. Would you mind closing the door?”
Cedric blinked at him before he turned and did as requested.
“Thank you,” Milton said and then straightened up ever so slightly. “Ah – there you are.” He fetched a piece from the other side of the room, clicked it together with the one in his hand, and linked them to a bigger piece that laid on the table. He did that with absurd casualty as if he hadn’t looked like a nightmarish deer in the headlights a mere moment beforehand.
Cedric wanted to point out just that – minus the headlights – when the remark died in his throat. He stiffened when he registered the bottle of wine on the table.
“Ah, that,” said Milton. Cedric hadn’t even noticed that he had turned his attention back to him.
Milton reached for the bottle, resting his hand on its neck. “Do not worry; I do not mean to drink this,” he said. “The Flajolet simply caught my eye earlier. It used to be my cousin’s favourite, and I pulled it out of the shelf because I briefly contemplated asking Mr Newman to share it with me. I swiftly changed my mind though, remembering that it would be unwise and unfair to request such a thing from Mr Newman when he is working. I would wager that Lady Cloudia would not mind much, but Mr Newman certainly would. I also decided to pause my experiment. Going any further with it in someone else’s wine cellar would be tremendously rude. After all, I don’t know how many bottles I would have to drink to get drunk – which is, as you know, the reason why I am conducting this experiment in the first place – and I cannot with any good conscience decimate the Marchioness’ collection in any significant manner, especially not without her explicit consent.”
When he was done with his explanation, Milton tilted his head a bit, hazel eyes bright with curiosity and concern. It confused Cedric for a moment until he realised that he must have blanched while Milton had talked.
“Kristopher, are you all right?” Milton asked.
What a question to be spoken by someone who looked like he could fall apart at any minute; what a question that could only be spoken by Milton in such a state.
“I am fine,” Cedric replied slowly. “What about you?”
“I’m doing well.” Milton turned the puzzle piece he was holding in his hands and raked his eyes over the ones on the ground. “I’ve been busy. I helped Mr Newman clean the kitchen. I helped to check the remaining inventory. I reorganised the pantry six times…”
“Six times?!”
“…and the Marchioness possesses an awe-inspiring number of dissections.”
“Milton.”
“Don’t worry. I will tidy up everything when I’m done. I…” He trailed off when something caught his attention, and he went to set the piece in his hands against another.
Cedric ventured very carefully into the room. “Milton,” he said softly and gestured to the masses of assembled and disassembled hardwood maps. “Would you call this ‘doing well’?”
“Hm,” made Milton and linked together a few puzzle pieces in quick succession. “Yes, it’s as good an activity as any.”
Cedric ran his hands through his hair. “Milton, you are looking especially pale – as if you have seen a ghost or your life pass in front of you. You cannot tell me that excessive pantry organising or dissecting is not frantic behaviour. Earlier, you were even murmuring something while you were buzzing around like a deranged bee.”
“Oh, that? I was reciting a book.”
Cedric stared at him.
“It is a very long poem, really. I memorised it alongside some others for Pa… for my father.” Milton paused briefly before he continued, sorting and connecting pieces with a slightly more increased speed as he did. “It keeps my mind busy, and my thoughts focused. It’s… it’s also soothing despite everything and even if the poem is not the most calming content-wise.”
“I think the only words I caught were ‘sin’ and ‘death’ and ‘sufferance,’ so I believe you on that front, yes,” Cedric replied.
He watched Milton for a while in silence thereafter, a few soft clicks filling the air as pieces were merged back together. Only when Milton completed a puzzle did Cedric realise that these weren’t the shambles of one enormous map at their feet: It were the parts of many. All mixed up together and waiting to be sorted like the peas and lentils in Cinderella.
“Milton,” Cedric tried again. “Would you mind answering me this question plainly and truthfully: Are you losing it?”
Milton stopped mid-movement, let the piece in his hand hover over its neighbour without reconnecting them before he put it down very gently. “No, not exactly,” he began and sacked against a shelf behind him. “It’s… it’s just that the headache hasn’t faded yet,” Milton told him, looking straight back at Cedric again. “It’s… all a bit much, and this is simply what I do every time such a thing happens: I try to find a distraction, and I try to lose myself in it.” He fumbled with his right sleeve. “I know it must look bewildering to others. This is part of the reason why I am here and not upstairs.”
Cedric mustered him intently. Milton didn’t seem to be lying, and he did not know him to be a liar. However, given the fact that he had kept silence about knowing that Cloudia was the Watchdog for two years and told them all that he was in France for a mere “business reason” with barely even alluding to the true extent of it, to Townsend and the weapon smuggling, Cedric was well aware that Milton liked to keep most of the truth to himself. That he preferred telling white lies and half-truths over outright fabrications. He also seemed more off than usual right now too which did not help matters. Cedric was sure that, again, Milton had only described the tip and left out the rest of the iceberg.
“I see,” Cedric said slowly. “I cannot help but feel that it’s our fault – in part at least – that you are doing so poorly right now. Maybe we shouldn’t have taken you with us…”
Milton shook his head. “No. I insisted. You didn’t ‘take’ me. Not exactly. I made you do it. Even if you had continued to refuse, I would have come on my own.”
“We should have tried harder to make you reconsider anyway. Watchdog work is a lot to take in after all. Most would feel unsettled and overwhelmed if they got thrown into a situation like this one as you were, though not even we could have anticipated the scale of this mission beforehand. Who could have foreseen an uprising happening just when we’re in Paris?”
A little smile tugged on Milton’s lips then. He turned his head downwards and ran his fingers over the puzzle pieces next to him. “No,” he said softly. As he went on, his voice grew more robust, his presence more palpable as if he was a ghost and materialising right before Cedric. “I did not mind any of that, actually. You forget that I keep my ears open to underworld business and nothing about it is news to me, and that I put myself very knowingly and very willingly in this particular crossfire. When I found out about Townsend’s pretence and his small success at misusing the resources of the Salisbury Company right under my nose, I didn’t have to go after him personally. It didn’t have to be me who would chase him in France. I could have gone to the police; I could have asked anyone else I knew who might have expertise in such matters. And if you ask Bram, he will agree that I should have stepped back from this matter and let someone else handle it, but…” Milton picked up one of the wood pieces and turned it around in his hand. “This was a mistake I have made. The company and its people were given into my care. This was my responsibility alone, and not something I could have asked anyone else to risk their life for. My life is not more precious than anyone else’s.”
He palmed the puzzle piece and raised his head.
“I meant what I said to Lady Cloudia back in the château before our departure to Paris,” Milton continued. “I have never thought lowly of her because she is the Queen’s Watchdog.
“While the exact circumstances of her work might be inglorious to many, the essence of it I believe to be quite noble. To keep the order of things in balance and punish those who do evil. Of course, everything she does is done at the Queen’s behest – but have the people not benefitted from it all, nevertheless? A change of fate for a potential victim? A little safer world?”
Cedric stared at him, stunned speechless for a moment, before he chuckled briefly, amused. “What a way to look at the Phantomhive family and the Watchdog duty. You would have great difficulties finding someone who shares your sentiments, Milton.”
“I do not mind that too.” Milton opened his hand again and trained his eyes on the puzzle piece on his palm. “What I am and what I do is not noble at all. I am barred from doing what I do; I cannot simply go and hunt down a criminal myself, especially not in this manner, not in this scope. This is not my place, not my right. I am neither a police officer nor anything like the Watchdog. The police would not be pleased if they knew of my actions, and the Queen might not be either – haven’t I, by sheer coincidence, interfered with her Watchdog’s mission in a way? I helped Lady Cloudia, yes, but my ineptitude also extended this case. The police might have difficulties arresting me for this alone because of the status and title I hold, but Queen Victoria might see me punished despite that.”
Cedric stood up a bit straighter. Milton leaned forward to affix the piece in his hand to one on the ground before he, at last, combined the parts next to him, the ones abandoned some minutes back. He ran his fingers over the pieces, smoothed them down, and picked up the next puzzle piece. “If you ask Bram, he will list this as one of my hobbies he dislikes; perhaps, he would even proclaim it his least favourite of them all. Of course, I understand the danger too, and that I am barred from carelessly throwing away my life as well. I’ve only done something like this – looking into a matter of relatively large scale quietly by myself – a few times for that reason. I shouldn’t do it at all, but this is the least I can do with my existence. And…” He bent his head down; his voice was a little fainter, a little quieter, when he continued. “And I like it too. What a terrible thing, is it not? To like something that always starts with someone else’s suffering? Terrible – and selfish too, to put my life on the line when I am not meant to and make Bram and others worry about me just because I like something that I shouldn’t.”
Milton looked up at Cedric again, his eyes soft even though a slight strain brushed the lines of his face. “I have never done Watchdog work, naturally. This is the first time I have run into a revolution too. However, I am not fully unfamiliar or inexperienced in matters like these in general. The matter with Townsend is not the source of my headache, I assure you, Kristopher.” He tilted his head. “Now, what is bothering you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were grasping my tinderbox very tightly when you entered, and your grip has never relaxed since. Not even a fraction.”
Cedric glanced at his right hand at Milton’s words. His hand was balled into a tight fist, knuckles white, around the tinderbox. Earlier, the box’s metal digging into his palm had served him as a sort of anchor. He hadn’t registered the moment the pain had shifted to numbness; he had even been too distracted to notice that he was holding it still. “Ah, right,” Cedric said at last and opened his stiff hand with great difficulty. The tinderbox glistered grey and blue in his palm. “I’ve come here because of it, actually. The Countess mentioned that it used to belong to your mother, and I thought it best to return it to you immediately in that case.”
“You did not have to hurry to me just for that,” said Milton, his eyes fixed on the tinderbox. “I said it was fine for you to safekeep it, but thank you for making the effort nonetheless, Kristopher. You can place it on a shelf or on a table.” He lifted his head. “So, all that has been ailing you is your worry about Lady Cloudia and your worry about me?”
Cedric glanced once more at the tinderbox before he went and returned it to its original position on the table in the sitting room. “Yes, that’s all,” he said without taking his eyes off the little metal box.
“That’s all, truly?”
Cedric met Milton’s gaze. They were now about a metre apart at maximum; Milton looked at Cedric with his eyes oddly alight. “Yes, that’s all that’s weighing on me right now,” Cedric told him. He pointed a finger at Milton. “Between a bullet wound and whatever is ailing you I don’t need any other worries. It’s more than enough.”
Milton mustered him for a moment before that bright look in his eyes faded; only then did Cedric understand that it had been something like curiosity or expectancy.
How weird. Did he want me to be bothered by something else? That was rather unlike him.
Milton hauled himself to his feet. “That’s good,” he said, sounding just the slightest bit absent-minded like before in the kitchen when he had asked Cedric, “When do you think this will end?” Milton reached out for the tinderbox but let his finger hover above it instead of giving it a little tap. Then, he suddenly pulled his hand back and made a step backwards.
Cold surged through Cedric. “Milton…?”
“Hm?” He craned his head to him before he rubbed his eyes and held his face in his hands for a moment. “Sorry, Kristopher. Just a little stab of pain. What were we talking about?”
“How I’ve got enough to worry about between you and the Countess.”
“Ah, yes, right.” Milton’s eyes fluttered closed. Cedric wondered for a moment whether he should ignore Milton’s request from earlier not to touch him. However, before he could close his internal debate, Milton exhaled and muttered something to himself – certainly the continuation of the poem; the bits and pieces Cedric caught of it sounded the same as before, “sinful” and “aethereal” and something about Heaven. Then, he rubbed his eyes again, and his temples too.
“I’m sorry, Kristopher,” Milton said when he reopened his eyes. For a second, Cedric thought they were wet with unspent tears; one blink later, the tears were gone as if they had never existed at all. “It’s a bit…” Milton grabbed a puzzle piece from the table, gyrated it in his hands as he searched the ground for one of its neighbours.
“It would be very helpful if you could just tell me, or anyone else, what is wrong,” Cedric remarked. “So far, you only told me you have a headache and that it’s not because of the situation with Townsend. But what is its source? No one can help you if you don’t confide in anyone.”
Milton halted, froze in his movement – stepping towards a corner, a promising piece of hardwood in his sight. It did seem as if he was considering it for once, telling Cedric what was wrong, and it became Cedric’s turn to look at Milton with great curiosity and expectancy.
In the end, Milton shook his head and pulled on his right sleeve. “I’m sorry; I cannot,” he said quietly. “I can say this though.” He looked directly into Cedric’s eyes. “I am not well now, but I will be again. I cannot say when, only that I will be.”
***
Cedric closed the door behind him, took one step into the corridor – and then another and another and then he was climbing the stairs, out of the basement and to the ground floor. His steps were becoming ever the slightest bit quicker and louder with each one.
He had rounded half the ground floor without aim before he realised that he was brimming with rage. That it was anger that was pushing him forward and forward. One part of him wanted to turn around, return to the wine cellar, and shake Milton. Another wished to run into the cool night, to kick against a façade or wander the unfamiliar dark streets until he couldn’t find his way back anymore.
Not that I ever could.
He did neither, however. Instead, Cedric leaned his forehead against the closest wall and took a deep breath – again and again.
That idiot, that utter fool.
Maybe, it had been my mistake too – to seek him out, knowing a piece of his ailment so well, too well, right after I had recalled the loss of my sister and of my friend. To seek him out, and see him again so battered and so lost, when the memory of that day had been so fresh, that wound rubbed raw anew.
And another about to burst open too.
Cedric buried his face in his hands, inhaled deeply and exhaled lengthily.
Too close, too close. It had been too close together.
He groaned and slammed a hand against the wall; it only made the paintings along it shake but did not allay his heart. He couldn’t calm it, couldn’t prevent it from pumping fury-heated blood through his veins.
Cedric peeled himself away from the wall. His body was shaking and burning so much with seething rage as he headed to the stairs and up to the first floor that it came as a surprise that he wasn’t setting the townhouse on fire while making his way through it. Cloudia’s room came into his view at last. He would have entered it without another thought if his senses had been fully melted away already. They had not been though, and he halted right in front of the door. Lisa or Newman had hovered before it last night; now, it was unguarded. Cloudia was better now; of course, there was no need for this extra precaution.
But Kamden might be feeling differently.
Cedric dug out the necklace, wrapped his fingers around the skull pendant – and recalled suddenly and violently Florentin’s words: of the skull necklaces being a danger, a risk. His grip tightened around the pendant, its edges digging into his flesh. He would never be able to reconcile the pendants’ true identities as instruments of death with all the good they had brought him. Cedric closed his eyes as the anger surged in his chest, set aflame by the memory of when he had first received the skull pendant necklaces.
What is wrong?
He reopened his eyes with a gasp. Cloudia’s voice had just rung loud and clear in his head.
Is Kamden inside? he returned with slight hesitation, having laboured over the right question for a minute.
No, come in.
Somehow, Cloudia had managed to sit herself up enough to light the lamp on her bedside cabinet between her enquiry and Cedric’s entry. She had been covered in a ridiculous number of blankets and pillows before, but Kamden had added a few more since.
“I know,” Cloudia sighed and rearranged the superfluous bedding atop and around her so that it didn’t completely swallow her up. “I just can’t bring myself to protest properly; he’s been so very antsy about this after all.” She met Cedric’s gaze from across the room. He had remained by the door, fearing – faintly, stupidly – that he might hurt her if he approached her now, so full of boiling fury as he was. She had only just recovered; he didn’t want to take a risk, no matter how idiotic it might sound. There was no actual fire in his veins after all. That was an impossibility; he was merely filled with feelings he could not handle. It was too much, this singing heat that wouldn’t be extinguished. He could hardly blame Milton for wanting to numb his senses, to try, even in vain, to lessen the pain, to bury it underneath another that was easier to bear. The thought of Milton only ignited the anger within Cedric further and twisted his stomach.
“Come here now,” Cloudia commanded. Her steady voice made Cedric snap out of his thoughts. She extended her arm out to him and kept her calm gaze on his, beckoning.
He took a few steps forward, clasped her hand in his – he was bracing himself for a burn, for a singe, that, of course, of course, didn’t come to be –, and let himself be pulled into that chair next to her bed.
He expected an interrogation, but Cloudia didn’t say a word. She merely held his hand, her lips pressed into a thin line, and watched him with her dark eyes.
Waiting and waiting until, at last, the fire within Cedric decreased a bit – a little, little bit. The whole of him cracked like firewood. “It’s never been a fairy tale, Countess.”
***
Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – December 1753
Heat reached out to his back, but he kept on moving.
He couldn’t remember getting to his feet, couldn’t remember starting to walk.
The night was dark and cold ahead and bright and warm behind him. Smoke was drifting through the air.
He couldn’t remember where he was even heading to. He might have never known at all.
The shouts and cries were muffled in his ears. The fire had been noticed – how could it not have been? It was a fire like a lighthouse, far away but breaking apart the night with its beam and beckoning people towards it – and sending him away.
His movements were sluggish; something within him was forcing him to drag himself forward. He was limping a little; he couldn’t remember when and how he had injured his foot, his leg.
If anyone saw him now, stumbling farther and farther away from the castle with accelerated speed, would they assume that he had set the fire?
Would they think that of the gentleman too as he passed through the night in his carriage?
Though, of course, he wouldn’t be in a hurry. His horses and his carriage would carry him through the dark as leisurely as he had folded his papers and blown out his lantern in the garden.
As if he had all the time in the world.
As if this was yet another ordinary day for him.
His blood was rushing in his ears so loudly that he could barely hear the distant shouts, the crackle of the fire, his feet dragging on the frozen grass – his knees colliding with the ground.
He couldn’t remember tripping, couldn’t remember falling – or getting up again. A moment, numbed, dulled, erased by the fire that ate at him from within. It feasted on his thoughts, his tears, his wants until all that remained was the need to go forward and away.
Away from the castle, away from the bodies, away from his failure.
Even if he longed to head back too. To find that man, to return to their bodies, to embrace that fire as well.
But he was forced ahead and ahead while part of him clung to the castle still, and it tore him up inside, this tugging war.
And now there he was, unable to get up – though he should – and either turn around or move forward, unable to do anything at all.
The world ahead was an inky blur his ears were ringing his bones were creaking his muscles screaming and Cesca was dead and Chester was dead and the castle was burning and he had to leave them behind was now wandering and wandering and he didn’t see where the gentleman went didn’t know where he was going and his sister was dead everyone was dead dead dead dead…
***
He woke up and was blinded by a changed world. Overnight, a blanket of snow had been laid over everything; the white sheen a gentle hand that dampened all sounds, softened all edges, and led all to tranquillity.
He pressed his fists against the frozen ground. It was still greyish brown beneath him, covered in pieces of fallen leaves, not painted white like everything beyond the underside of this bridge.
And everything within him remained ablaze, not soothed into calmness.
Cedric had slept but hadn’t rested. He had moved but was still there. He was in the castle, running around, wondering and wondering and hoping and hoping. He was outside it too. He was in the garden, standing over them, kneeling by them. He was watching the gentleman. He was staring into the fire and watching the castle burn.
He was everywhere at once, and not there at all, and the longer the memory haunted him in his now-awoken state, with the world veiled in snow and ice, the angrier he became at the discrepancy between what he was seeing right in front of him and what he was seeing in his mind.
His sister was dead. His best friend was dead. The place he had called home for most of his life had been eaten away to dust. He had lost everything he had – and the world had turned innocently white, so calm and so bright, while he had been passed out from exhaustion.
He wanted to scream, but his throat was stitched shut. He wanted to cry, but his tears were emptied out. He wanted to let out the unrest boiling him from within, but it had curled up inside him and made itself a home in his hollowed-out body.
Cedric wanted to lie down on the cold ground and wait and wait and wait, until the pain had ebbed and time stilled…
… but his heart kept thundering in his chest, his thoughts kept running erratic in his head.
His fury still warmed his body, still sent red hot blood through his veins.
She hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t told him the truth.
They had been lying and lying to him for weeks and months and years and years.
“I am so glad that we have each other at least,” she had said in that cold manor house.
“Yes, I am still glad that we have each other at least,” she had said underneath that tree in the park.
With her hand always, always, always tucked in his.
Cedric stared down at his fists. He hadn’t opened his hands since he had left the castle behind. He feared that they were frozen forever in this state. With great difficulty, he pried them open again, his fingers stiff from the strain and the cold.
Something prickled at the back of his eyes.
It had been a quick idea, half-formed by his numbed mind. It had hardly even felt as if he was moving out of his own will when Cedric had taken out the knife that he was always carrying with him and leaned down to his sister and to his friend too.
Dying was delicate and harsh, slow and fast. It was never a state; it was always a process. That’s how Cedric had come to learn of it first: There was always someone dying somewhere, wasting away in sickbeds and fading away in deathbeds. And where there were the dying there were the living too – attending to those flickering out of the world and to those who had already closed their eyes forever. When Cedric had been five, and their neighbour had been passing, he had watched her little house come alive in a way he had never seen before: Villagers had gathered to see her; family had travelled to be with her. They had been talking with her or reading to her when talking became difficult. They had been basking in the other’s presence; even when she was gone, people had been sitting at her side still, reminiscing. It had baffled Cedric greatly, for he had not seen most of them at his neighbour’s house when she was fully well. His mother had had to explain that this was how it was meant to be: The dying were not to be left alone, and the dead were only considered that when they were buried in the ground. “No one comes into this world alone,” Cordelia had said, “and no one should leave it alone too.”
The memory, having grown dusty over the years, had returned to Cedric in full force as he had hovered above the bodies of his sister and his friend and realised with great horror and great sorrow alike that he could neither take them with him nor bury them there and then. Not with the fire spreading to consume the castle and its surroundings. Not with his mind and body petrified by shock and grief and anger.
No, this was goodbye. This was how they would have to part forever: In this cold, bleak garden by their burning home, with no ceremony and no preparation – with Cedric having to leave them behind alone. Because there was no time left for anything; because Cesca and Chester had left him behind first, had gone to a place where Cedric could not follow.
But he had wanted to. He had wanted to run after them like he had always done since childhood days – into the woods, through cobbled streets.
To that one last place.
The knife was heavy in his hand.
As was his heart in his chest.
And the ring against his neck.
The Towers family ring – a mourner’s ring with a lock of moonlight hair encaged within, a tether to the past, a line between life and death.
The softest of winds now brushed its fingers against the strands of hair in Cedric’s hands. One set brown, the other silver and bright in the pale winter light.
Hand in hand.
There was her voice again, so loud and clear still, – “I am so glad…” – when the wave came at last, and the ground was flecked with tears and the tranquil air pierced by weeping.
“I am so sorry,” he pressed out between shuddering sobs, “that I couldn’t take you with me too…”
***
Snow was falling softly upon the city. Vendors stood by their booths, bundled in their warmest clothes, shouting about their offerings. Carriages rattled over the snow, making it crunch. Children were running through the streets, jumping, laughing, playing. People were slipping and catching each other on the icy roads. Shovels and brooms were brought out to fight nature, to clear the ground from the frozen rain, all while it kept descending upon them.
Everything around him was cool and alive whereas every fibre of him was both ablaze and so, so numb. All sounds amalgamated into white noise in his ears. Snowflakes landed on him, to no registration.
He had no idea where he was going. He only knew that he had to keep on moving.
And moving and moving and–
Cedric almost hit a building’s façade face-first, having slipped and staggered on the powdered ground; his injured leg was not fully well yet. He managed to brace his hand against it in the last moment to prevent the collision. He took a step back. Snowflakes got tangled in his lashes as Cedric looked up to the belltower and the stained-glass windows.
The sight of the church made him halt, made him remain on that spot and break his perpetual movement for only a little while, and that was all it took: Forcing his body to keep on moving, concentrating on this very action and on nothing else, had kept Cedric warm and his mind occupied. Now, the weather and the guilt were touching him again with their cold fingers, running them along his spine and pressing them on his chest.
Paralysis was crawling up his body, and a storm was making itself at home in his mind – all while the church loomed, tall and dark, against the bright white-grey sky and over his body, and the tendrils of warmth that escaped through the gaps in its wooden door pulled him inside.
Cedric resisted at first. He had arrived at a church of all places, the best and worst place to be. He had been a child the last time he had entered one in good faith; even back then, it had been a rare occurrence as his parents preferred not to mingle, no matter if it made them oddities in every parish they had resided in. Still, this was not a question of faith or of belonging but of icy gusts and warm hearths. Before Cedric knew it, he was standing in the church’s vestibule, the door falling behind him into its lock with a rattle.
Cedric’s stomach turned at the sight of the vast empty space before him: No soul lined the pews or lit a candle or hovered by the altar. He was all alone with his thundering thoughts in this echoing place.
He turned to leave – quick, quick, the cold was nothing; this had been a bad choice, he should have just kept on moving – when he heard steps behind him.
“My child, can I help you?”
It was a tight space, the inside of the confessional booth. Tight, cold, and dark – such a stark contrast to the church at large. All that parted Cedric from it was a mere cloth curtain even, one that did not reach all the way down, and still he felt so cut off from everything as if he had been entombed.
His heartbeat quickened, his chest tightened.
Breathing in was painful; sharp needles were pricking his lungs. A reminder that there was still air to breathe. That he was aboveground. That he was not alone, even if he could not make out the priest beyond the latticed panel in this dimness. Even if the voice that seeped through the small gaps did not reach Cedric’s ears as anything but white noise.
He leaned into it, nevertheless. Rested his head against the dark-panelled wall, let the timbre of the priest’s voice try to extinguish the rattling in his mind.
Noise against noise, cancelling each other out.
But it was only a wish, not a fact.
It was not enough.
The priest’s voice was too soft still, the turmoil inside Cedric too loud after all. All that anger, all that pain, all that guilt within him wanted to boil over and get out. And he didn’t know for how much longer he could stand to keep them at bay, if he could last another day, a month, a century – if he could even manage to make it out of the booth and out of the church without getting buried beneath the weight of it all.
Buried.
His heart fluttered, and then the first word was out. And then the next and the next… all running together, bursting out of him incoherent and unbound.
But it was so, so refreshing. Each word was a weight lifted. There was not enough to say to remove them all; some would have to remain, like stones enduring against time. But it was a start, and he hadn’t felt so light in so long, if he had ever felt truly light at all. What a warm feeling it was, amidst all that residing pain.
Cedric did not quite grasp that his words had stilled. Not until the priest spoke, his words now crisp and intelligible,
“I’m sorry that your sister died such a bad death.”
All at once, they were summoned again. The weight. The fog. The blood rushing into his ears, concealing every sound and confining him to his own thoughts.
Nausea overwhelmed him as they returned, the weight buckling him down with such force and intensity that the brief relief from before felt now like a distant dream.
He got to his feet. The curtain was pulled back. His ribcage seemed ready to burst from the pressure and the pain as he stumbled out of the church and into the arms of the waiting cold.
He clutched his chest, reached with the other hand – the one still balled into a first, the fist that held onto Cesca and Chester, his guilt and his pain – out to search for something to steady himself against. When he touched the church’s stone façade, he drew back his hand as if he had been burned.
Cedric willed himself away – away away away – until there was another building, another stone façade to fall against. He pressed his forehead to the cold wall, pulled his fist against his heart. Snow descended upon him, wrapped him in white. It was not wise to remain as he was, stationary in the freezing cold. But he had no thought to spare for himself. All he could focus on was if they, Cesca and Chester, had been left by the ruin, untouched and uncared for. And if they, now too, were being covered in snow. Then, they would have been buried at least, one way or another – if not beneath earth, then under a blanket of snow. A temporary tomb was better than none.
But how disgusting it was of him, to be horrified that he had been unable to tend to his loved ones in death, that he had not been able to lay them to rest and live knowing that they were at peaceful death now, if for so long now, he had been the cause of bad deaths aplenty:
After all, there was no “dying” in his profession, only cold, static “death.” No gatherings, no last offices, no proper farewells. Just a sudden end – and then it was time to dedicate oneself to something else already.
How horrifically fitting it was, Cedric had thought as he had loomed over Cesca and Chester, that they, too, had found their end so abruptly.
A fitting end for the life they had led.
And still, and still.
Had they not just been children then? When they had been taken out of one existence and pushed into another?
Why would they have to be blamed for that?
Every part of him felt so heavy now.
If they were buried in this same grave, of ice and snow and winter pain, would they find each other then? In that place he wasn’t meant to follow them to yet?
Again, he so wished to just close his eyes and remain as he was until nature had consumed him whole, but his heart was still beating, knocking, hammering against the fist pressed to his chest. A reminder to him, a reminder to them, that he was still alive.
One out of three still on this side of the river.
And had this not been what they had wished?
Cedric took a deep breath, the oxygen he exhaled forming a cloud in the icy air, before he took a step back and away from the wall. It was such a simple action; it was such a hard one too. This step, the next one was the same, as was the next and the next and…
He was on the move again, through the streets, through the town, with no goal, with no end, just the knowledge that he had to keep on going, for himself to tame his thoughts and for them to honour their sacrifice.
Then, in the corner of his eye, a shadow vanished in an alleyway.
He stilled, parting the crowd before and after him.
No, not vanished.
One small shadow pulled into an alley.
His blood was singing, a siren’s song to guide him ahead, and Cedric stepped into the side street and fell back into the past before he registered his strides.
Different town, different street, different weather.
But there was still a child pressed against a wall.
And there was still he. Both the child and the grown man.
Cedric barrelled into them, hair mementoes tucked away, knife raised, catching the bandits unawares. His vision blacked out. When his consciousness balanced itself out again, returned from the then to the now, the thieves were gone; there was only he, the boy, and stains of blood remaining in the alley.
Blood dripped quietly from the tip of his knife and his bottom lip into the rumpled snow. Cedric wiped both and pocketed the knife before he turned to the child, a boy who could not be any older than nine or ten. He was flattening himself against the very wall the thieves had thrown him against. His body was swallowed by his threadbare coat that was too large for his frail frame, and his eyes were wide and blue and terrified.
Cedric tilted his head at the boy. They stood like this for a moment longer, in silent observation, until a memory trickled into his mind. He held out his hands – stained with soot and dirt and blood – in front of him as if he was approaching a scared animal. The words came out rattling and strange, as if they had been distorted by the pull into the present.
“Hey, calm down. I don’t want to do anything to you.”
***
How good it was that he had never lost this habit despite the misery it had caused him, once upon a time. Cedric had only forgotten that it was there, the pouch of money, inside the pocket of his jacket. When had he slipped it there? It had been several days – days; the word sounded hollow in his ears – but the gorge between then and now felt more gaping than that. What had time become even? It was passing in a rush, pushing him along. It was folding inward, staining each and every corner with memories: The snow melted, and he was thirteen years old again, Chester was still a secret kept from his sister, and they were darting through the streets laughing. And then, there was Cesca now too, leaning against a façade in the height of summer, her brown eyes widening at the sight of Chester’s gift of roses. Cedric blinked, and the snow reappeared, though it was one that had fallen in a long past winter. It had been the third one since Lennox and the first one in which Cesca returned Chester’s onslaught of snowballs, and Cedric helped his sister pelter their friend and bury him in a pile of snow.
Cedric closed his eyes. Besides him atop the stone wall sat the boy, and he was chewing his way through a bag of rolls. The boy evidently hadn’t eaten in a long while; Cedric was glad to have reached into his pocket in the right moment to rediscover his money. What a strange sight they had made: He, a hollowed-out spectre of a man who hadn’t bothered to scrub the blood off his hands, and this dirty, spindly thin child who was following him like a sheepish duckling entering a bakery to buy a sack of bread.
The snow had stopped falling. Wind brushed against his cheeks. He concentrated on listening only to the boy eat to drown out all the other sounds, lest they summoned yet another memory he could not bear.
There was a soft tug on his coat. Cedric’s eyes fluttered open. He craned his head towards the boy. He was gazing at him with wide eyes – blue like Chester’s and not like his at all at the same time, because, of course, it was just a colour; just a colour like any other – and opened his mouth hesitatingly to say, “Won’t you eat too, mister?”
Cedric tilted his head ever the slightest, needing a moment to comprehend his words: Yes, of course, he hadn’t eaten in a while too. The taste of the candy he had eaten days before returned to him now, foul and bitter, and those he hadn’t eaten yet turned as heavy as rocks.
“Do you have a moment? I have candy and something to talk about.”
“Mister?” the boy asked.
Cedric rubbed his eyes, scrubbing the memory away, before he reached into the bag and retrieved a bun. They ate in silence then until the bag was emptied and their stomachs filled.
The boy folded and unfolded the paper bag, lining it with creases and tears. “Mister? I am sorry for having been afraid of you earlier. You are a good man. And I’m sorry for not introducing myself earlier; that was rude of me.” He stuffed the bag into his trousers and held a bony hand out to him. “I am Rasmus.”
Cedric eyed the little hand for a moment. Of course, he knew that the boy wanted a name in return, a name for a name like in those faerie stories Cesca had severely disliked, but something within him lurched at this simple request. No one had ever called him by his real name for decades except for Cesca and Chester who were no more.
Wiping the snow away, melting it with the fiery-hot rage that continued to run beneath his skin, he took Rasmus’ hand in his and said, “I’m Cedric.”
Rasmus blinked at him. “What kind of name is ‘Cedric’?”
“What kind of name is ‘Rasmus’?”
“I asked first.”
The ghost of a smile briefly settled upon Cedric’s lips before it vanished again. “My father was not good at spelling words, or names. And you?”
“It’s Swedish,” said Rasmus. “My family is from Sweden.”
“Well, now, I can say that I’ve met a Swede,” Cedric said and jumped from the wall. “It was good to meet you, Rasmus. You should return to your family; they must be worried sick. Take care.”
He had taken a few steps already when he heard Rasmus’ little voice behind him, “I don’t have one.”
Cedric halted and craned his head to the boy. “Pardon?”
“I don’t have a family,” Rasmus repeated and clutched at the hem of his coat. “I used to have one but not anymore. I’m actually on a quest to find another.”
“You are?”
He nodded. “After my parents died and my sister was taken in, I stayed alone in our old house for a while until I realised that it is unusual for potential new parents to come to you, so I thought I should head out and go to them.”
The rage-hot fire was stirred in Cedric’s chest. “What do you mean your sister was ‘taken in’?”
Rasmus cast his eyes downwards. “There was this friendly couple who lived in our street,” he told Cedric, half-mumbling. “They looked after Hilda and me when our parents died. They were very nice to us. One day, they moved away and took Hilda with them. They said they could only take one of us, and Hilda was smaller and more in need of a family, and she did look rather angelic with her blonde locks whereas my hair is straight and boring…”
Cedric wasn’t sure whether Rasmus had trailed off or the blood rushing into his ears had suffocated the rest of the boy’s words. He was seeing red. Who would do such a thing? Take one sibling and leave the other to rot? Who could do such a thing and think of themselves as righteous?
His vision only cleared when Rasmus got off the wall too and hesitantly approached Cedric. “… And I wanted to ask, Mr Cedric, if I could stay with you? Until I have found a family?”
Cedric mustered the boy – he was so very small in this large coat, his straight hair matted, and his eyes clear and wide in his dirty face – and thought for a moment that he shouldn’t take him with him, that Rasmus was still better off alone than with him in his current state. In the next, Cedric recalled the charred Brannan Manor, his parents’ blackened bodies, and Martin and his comrades and Lennox and his people; he then knew that he couldn’t leave Rasmus alone. Rasmus had no Cesca. Had no Chester. No hand to hold while wandering these dark roads.
Cedric held out his hand to the boy.
***
“He stuck with me then, little Rasmus. We would usually sleep outside when it was not snowing at night or when it was not too freezing to preserve our monetary reserves. That first night, however, I searched and paid for a room and made sure that he was washed and fed and held under a blanket and not a bridge.
“Rasmus was so brittle in my arms, like one of the baby birds Cesca used to rescue and return gently to their nests. So small, so fragile, so easy to break.”
***
“Unlike the little birds, Rasmus had no nest to return to; and unlike Cesca, I did not possess the power of reuniting him with his family. Where could I even start? I only had a few names and a young child’s memories, and the world was wide and populous. All I had to offer was my company, and though it was shabby, Rasmus accepted it gratefully nonetheless.”
“We wandered and wandered from place to place; I kept waking to differing days and differing seasons, held ghostly hands while trudging through woods, felt winds that had long blown past nevertheless. I tightened my grip on Rasmus when this happened, turned his little self into an anchor.
“We quickened our pace, moved in zig-zags. We floated through towns; we rushed through villages.
“Time moved forward, was supposed to move forward – as did we; and still and still there was an echo in the woods, an echo in every street and every corner beckoning me to look back.
“Sometimes, it was a simple call. Other times the melody of a violin or the cadence of a fairy tale told from the heart.
“Snow was falling steadily. I wished the cold was all the reason for my aching body.”
“There was no end to my restlessness. No end for Rasmus’ search either. How could one linger, settle into a place and turn it into a home, if they could not find rest first?”
***
“My money was slowly depleting. There used to be a time when I would have gone and found myself some work, no matter how fleeting or wretched it was. But even with little Rasmus in my care, and knowing very well that I was no child anymore and would be punished like any other vagabond if caught, I could not bring myself to do anything at all. I was full of energy, full of rage and hatred still – for Cesca and Chester, for myself, and for Rasmus now too –, and none of that fuel was one that could propel me to work. It would only remind me of times that were no more. It would only push me to go on and on and on.
“Despite that energy, that rage, that pain, I was so, so tired. It was an exhaustion that was bone-deep and unshakeable, and the more it snowed, the deeper it ran.”
“We spent our days wandering, thus. My turmoil hummed in the air, making the silence between us vibrate.
“Rasmus was such a quiet child, near invisible in his mismatched, oversized clothes. Unlike me, he was so full of life still – warm hand clasped in my frozen one, and eyes wide and bright, he followed me into the world.”
“Once, he pulled me down to create angels in the snow. It had caught me off-guard. One moment, we were wandering over a field. The next, I thought earth was taking me back at last. But instead of darkness, I fell into a bed of snow.
“Rasmus prattled on about spring as we drew angels into the ice – how much he looked forward to lying in the warm grass and looking up to the blue sky. His face had been flushed bright from the cold, his eyes glittering with joyful anticipation, as he had told me this. However, as abruptly as this outburst had come, it left in the same manner too: With his words still hanging in the air, Rasmus retreated into himself. The light in his eyes dimmed. He rolled towards me, pressed his face into my coat – ruining his angel in the process.
“He did not have to say a single word. I understood him perfectly well, nonetheless.
“I reached out to him, smudging my angel too, and pulled him close.”
***
They were walking through a forest, its trees barren of leaves and crystallised with snow, when Rasmus’ face suddenly lit up. He dashed through the fragile bushes as quickly as he could with his short legs.
“Ra-Rasmus?!” Cedric called. He was stunned into stagnancy for a moment before he hastened after Rasmus. He swiftly caught up to him, being taller and stronger and having wider strides, and this circumstance opened a door to a decades-old but never-forgotten memory. Cedric slammed it shut and went to his little friend.
Rasmus was standing still and quiet, like a tree, next to a river; his eyes were fixed upon it, a slight glitter shining within them like he had been bespelled.
“Rasmus?” Cedric asked quietly, hesitantly. A shiver ran over his body at the sight before him. He was about to repeat Rasmus’ name once more, to reach out and try to pull him back, when Rasmus lifted his gaze from the frozen river at last and said, “Sorry, Cedric, I just heard the river!” Rasmus presented Cedric with a sheepish smile. “Isn’t it pretty?”
Cedric glanced at it. It was a pretty sight as Rasmus had said, but Cedric failed to understand why exactly he was getting that excited over it. It was a narrow river running through a skeletal forest like any other; it was covered in snow and ice like everything else around them too. “It is,” Cedric replied to placate him and nodded for emphasis.
“Why do you think it is like that?” Rasmus asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The river!” He pointed at it. “It’s all frozen over but it keeps running. And look,” Rasmus moved closer to the edge of the riverbank, “the fishes are moving in it too!” He leaned down a bit more and lost his footing. Cedric’s heart shot into his throat. He reached out to Rasmus blazingly fast and yanked him back.
“You need to be more careful!” Cedric shouted. His voice came out louder than he intended to and carried far too well in this silent forest. “One should never cross a frozen river. The ice is rarely if ever stable enough to hold your weight. You will break through it and die a sure death!”
Rasmus stared at him with wide eyes and distanced himself more from the river and from Cedric too. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I just stumbled.”
Cedric took a deep breath, willing his heart to quiet down. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
The boy looked at him before he went to wrap his arms around Cedric. “I was very scared for a moment,” he mumbled against him.
“It’s all right now. I got you,” Cedric said. He placed a hand on Rasmus’ head and ruffled his hair. When they had met, Rasmus’ hair had been caked in dirt and discoloured brown. Now that Cedric took care to get him washed whenever he could, it was the colour of straw. The dirt had been like a poultice – and whenever this thought crossed Cedric’s mind, he felt unsteady on his feet. His own hair had grown a little too, curling against the top of his ears. The first time Rasmus had seen Cedric’s hair clean when it had begun to grow out, his eyes had widened in wonder. Cedric had had to suppress the urge to find a pair of scissors or simply use his knife to cut it down again then and there. The wish not to spook the boy had been victorious in the end.
“It’s interesting that the fish are alive under all that ice,” Rasmus continued. His words tugged a little at the corners of Cedric’s mouth.
“Is it? Unfortunately, I don’t know why that is so.”
Rasmus peeled himself a bit away from Cedric to look back at the river. “Where do you think they’re going?”
“Wherever the river leads to, I suppose.”
At this, Rasmus grabbed Cedric’s hand. “Come!” he exclaimed, both his face and voice so bright, so cheerful – still, something within Cedric stiffened when Rasmus seized his hand.
“Come!” he repeated, tugging at his hand. The past overlapped with the present again; blink, and someone else was before Cedric, blink, and it was not Rasmus animating him to move.
Cedric’s heart tumbled in his chest, was rocked like a ship at sea. He tore his gaze away from the cheery little face before him – the one that was meant to be Rasmus’, that should have been Rasmus’ – and towards the river. Frozen and alive, stagnant and running. Its sight made Cedric’s stomach lurch, made his lungs contract. It pushed him down, tore him along. He closed his eyes; when he reopened them, he reawakened in the now.
With feeling returning to his body, Cedric rose to his feet and allowed himself to be guided away.
***
Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – January 1754
“We occasionally encountered people who took pity on Rasmus and me and invited us into their homes for a meal, a scrub, a bed for the night. It was never for longer than one night – and then, we often slept in a barn, not in the main house – until Rasmus caught a fever.”
“He woke up one day, his eyes fever-bright and his skin scalding hot. I bundled him in my coat and scooped him into my arms before I ran through the cold to find signs of civilisation. We had left the last town the day before and had gone to sleep in the middle of nowhere. Why did Rasmus have to fall ill now? When there was no one around who could help besides me?
“He murmured ramblings into the layers of fabric wound around him and kept a weak grip on my shirt. I was sinking deep into the snow – it had fallen afresh two days before, had fallen strangely too: It had arrived as half-rain, half-ice and landed as soft powder, as smooth as sand and as consuming as the wetlands. Every step I took was a challenge. I was sinking into depths unknown; it took great effort to lift oneself out of it and ahead.”
“Civilisation seemed to be eluding us. Before and behind us were only stretches and endless stretches of pure white; the deep furrows I was leaving the only marks that someone had ever been here.
“But I had to keep pushing on, so I did.
“I could not let Rasmus die. My frozen-stiff grip tightened on his small body.
“I could not be alone again.”
“Then, before the sun sunk fully, drowning us in darkness and taking all the meagre winter warmth with it, I espied a little farm in the distance.”
Cedric’s breath came out in white clouds. His legs were crying out with every step. “We’re almost there; we’re almost there, Rasmus,” he said in-between sharp intakes of oxygen. Rasmus muttered something he could not make out. Cedric was not even sure if his fever-laden words were in English either. Of course, he could be mistaken – his ears must be on the verge of falling off; that’s how cold he was feeling.
The closer he got to the farmhouse, the more another old memory resurfaced: a carriage in the night, a harsh whip, the rough brush of straw against his skin, and moonlit Cesca holding his hand and the pins that led them to freedom. Cold sweat enveloped Cedric’s body. He pushed the memory away. “I’m sure the people there will help us,” he said, more to himself than to Rasmus. “I’m sure they will be nice people who will help you get well again.”
When he, at last, arrived by the door, Cedric shifted Rasmus around, propping him against his shoulder, so that he could free one hand and – hesitate – knock. Once, twice, his hand a frozen ball hammering against the wooden door.
The door creaked open. Cedric could not make out the person who had appeared in front of him. The relief to know that there was somebody here was enough for his body to give up. He could only barely make out the failing of his legs before his mind shut down.
***
Cedric woke up feeling warm and wondered whether he was not dreaming after all. He strained to move his arms and hands enough to pinch himself. A brief, sharp pain sprang through him before ebbing away again.
Not a dream, Cedric thought. Then, coldness rushed back into his body.
He had just moved his arms around and not even brushed Rasmus.
With a start, Cedric sat up and searched the bed frantically for his little friend. It had been over a month since he had last woken up without finding Rasmus next to him. How could he let him out of his sight? Particularly now, when Rasmus was sick and needed him more than usual?
The worst of thoughts somersaulted in his mind as Cedric climbed out of the bed – and slipped right on the little carpet before it and crashed onto the floor.
“What are you doing?”
Cedric flinched at the sound of the unfamiliar, rough voice. A second later, his training returned to him. He jumped to his feet, ready to attack – though he was wearing nothing but a nightdress.
The man raised an eyebrow and sighed. “She should be happy that I love her so much,” he murmured under his breath. “No one else would put up with this.” Then, he straightened up and crossed his arms in front of his chest. The man was tall with blonde hair and green eyes. Although his clothes were obviously old, they were well-kept, and he wore them as gracefully as a general wore his aged uniform. Cedric was rather taken aback by that.
“There’s no reason to panic,” the man said without much warmth in his voice. “You collapsed right before our house, and we took you in and warmed you up. The boy is in another room.” His eyes darkened a little. “My wife has been losing sleep fussing over him all night. She thought it would be best not to keep you in the same place for that reason; she feared you might not get much rest otherwise.” The man glared at Cedric. “Therefore, the polite thing would be not to cause a ruckus, do you understand?”
Cedric stared at the man, dumbfounded.
“I brought up your clothes – washed and dried – earlier. They are on that chair,” the man pointed at it, “so get dressed quietly. Come downstairs if you want to eat something.”
Without another word, the man turned around and left.
***
The smell of food wafted through the house as Cedric, now dressed and coiffed, took the stairs down to the ground floor. The man was cooking something – Cedric could pick out eggs and sausages – and standing with his back to Cedric. His stomach rumbled, and saliva multiplied in his mouth. He kept his mouth shut and himself distanced, lest the man noticed either of Cedric’s embarrassing reflexes – or him overall. The man didn’t seem to be particularly fond of having Cedric around after all.
Nonetheless, the man said without turning around, “Just get here already and sit down.”
Cedric did as he was told and seated himself at the table. A colourful, handwoven tablecloth had been laid over it. It was one of many, many spots of colour in the room: The kitchen tiles were hand-painted with herbs. Drawings depicting nature motifs covered the walls in the dining area. Plant pots, most of them empty now, filled the corners, the ceramic tinted in cheery yellows and warm oranges.
The room where Cedric had slept had been the same. After the initial shock of waking in a foreign place without Rasmus had faded away, and the man had left the attic room, Cedric had taken in his surroundings properly. Every piece of furniture had been painted and re-painted. A few bands of pearls in all colours and shapes had been hung on the ceiling. The blanket under which he had slept had been quilted from a large, colourful conglomeration of fabric pieces. His eyes had hurt upon taking everything in; how strange it was to be bombarded with so much colour, to have found a place as colourful as this one in the middle of a grey, snowy nowhere. Cedric had even had to pinch himself again, to make sure that he had not fallen victim to a Fata Morgana.
And though it was none, this place still felt wrong.
The man handed Cedric a plate with scrambled eggs and sausages. He placed a basket full of bread on the table and gave him a steaming mug of milk too. Cedric stared at the food. He was reminded yet again of the faerie stories his sister had despised so much: Beautiful but wicked creatures leading you to dazzling places, offering you the most fantastic food and drinks. But beware, your life would be forfeit, forever bound to this strange place, if you accepted any and put them in your body.
Of course, faeries only dwelled in myths and legends, not in forests and by rivers, let alone in cosy farmhouses in a desolate area in Scotland.
But hadn’t Cedric entered a stranger’s home once and taken food that hadn’t been his?
Hadn’t he paid dearly for that?
Cedric’s stomach was in knots. Cedric’s stomach rumbled. He had warmed up but he was so tired from yesterday and from the days before. And he was so, so hungry too.
He was not a child anymore. Surely, he was overthinking things, mistaking the echo of a dread from the past with a danger in the present.
Surely, this would be fine and not a damnation.
Cedric ate quickly but as silently as he could – the man was watching and unnerving him. When Cedric was done, the man cleared the table and washed the dishes. Just as he was drying his hands on a towel (white with embroidered daisies), a door flew open, and a woman hurried into the room. She was short with long brown hair that hung loose to her hips. She had been saying something – “Aaron, could you please…” – when she stepped into the room, but she interrupted herself when she spotted Cedric at the dining table.
Her whole face lit up. “Oh, you are awake!” she exclaimed and went to grasp Cedric’s hands. He stiffened at the sudden touch, whereas the woman remained cheerful. “And you’re not so awfully cold anymore! I am glad,” she continued. “I’m sorry that we couldn’t get acquainted earlier: I am Julia, and you have already met my husband, Aaron.” The man – Aaron – made an annoyed sound, by way of greeting.
“I’ve been looking after the boy – your brother? your child? His fever has not broken yet, albeit he seems a little better than upon your arrival. Fear not, someone is already out to get a doctor,” Julia told Cedric.
“Thank you,” Cedric managed to get out at last. The pit in his stomach grew heavier as he took her in. He would have shaken her hands off his if Aaron hadn’t been watching, if he hadn’t known how impolite that would have been. Wrong, wrong, wrong, it echoed in his mind. “I am Cedric,” he continued, “and the boy – he is not related to me at all; he is just a child who has decided to wander with me – is called Rasmus.”
Julia’s eyes glistered. “Rasmus! What a cute name. It is good that I can now call him something.” She let go of his hands and went to her husband. “Would you mind fetching me more water?”
“Not at all,” Aaron said, his voice surprisingly soft. He pressed a kiss atop Julia’s head before he grabbed a coat from a hanger and went outside.
“I need to check on Rasmus again,” said Julia. “Please make yourself at home, Cedric.” She smiled brightly at him. It made Cedric’s skin crawl. “I will make sure that you are informed when the doctor comes; don’t worry.”
***
“Looking back at my memories of Julia and Aaron’s farm, they felt more like a fever-dream than reality.
“I hadn’t noticed it before, but I later learned that there were multiple farms in this area. One that belonged to Aaron’s brother and another that was a family friend’s; that family friend, Ken, had been the one to go and get a physician for Rasmus. They were a close-knit community, and though some of them were a bit prickly or standoffish like Aaron, none of them were unfriendly or outright unpleasant. We had been incredibly lucky to find those people in that time.
“But I could never shake off my unease.”
“Everything at that place had felt wrong. Not because it had been, but because it had been too perfect.
“Everything was too bright, too cheery. I would lie in my bed, stare up at the strings of beads, and tense up. I would run my hands over the painted walls and feel ice fill up my veins. I would look at steaming meals and warm smiles and wish to run.
“It was the place of dreams. The house Hansel and Gretel should have ended up at.
“But it had not been the place for me.
“Not when everything within me clawed to get out, get out, get out, back into the wilderness and away.
“Not when I could not summon the image of Cesca sitting in the living room, flowery blanket across her lap and chatting with Julia. Or Chester tending to the fields with Aaron or Ken. Not when their absence inside this place grieved me, not when their presence before it startled me.
“They would stand there, quiet imaginary ghosts as they were, some metres in the distance, looking at the farmhouse but never coming close.
“Even if they had been alive, this would not have been the place for them.”
“I would stand by the windows, watching the memory of them.
“And it hurt and it hurt.
“I should have wanted to stay.
“If, like them, I had not grown so accustomed to the witch’s cottage already.”
“How sad it was, that this was not a Faerieland after all.”
***
“The doctor came, inspected Rasmus, and instructed Julia how to nurse him best. She didn’t ask for anything in return, but Aaron made me help in the house, carry food and wood and sweep the floors. Apparently, he had made that remark when we had first met because Julia had the habit to take in all kinds of injured animals, restore their health, and set them free. Rasmus – and I, to a lesser extent – was the first person she had invited into her home for that reason. His explanation made my heart clench. Maybe in another time, in another life, Julia and Cesca would have got along after all.”
“Rasmus’ fever broke a few days later, though he remained weakened and had to stay in bed. He was very happy to see me again, and I was happy to see him.
“He was treated like a little prince by Julia and the others. Even Aaron warmed up to him eventually, albeit while keeping a distance still.”
He could not sleep again – after that very first night, he had been unable to find any rest in this cluttered, suffocating house – which meant that he was left wholly undisturbed by Rasmus crawling into his bed in the small hours of the day. It was pitch-black outside, and the temperatures were so low one might freeze solid upon stepping out of the door; there was no warmth and no benevolence beyond the frames of this bed. At this hour, in this darkness and cold, only the dead and the unfortunate were awake.
It was not the time for young boys recovering from sicknesses to wander around. But unwelcome he was not. Having Rasmus’ warm little body nudged against his again was the first normal thing for Cedric in a week. The universe had restored a bit of its balance. Cedric threw an arm around Rasmus, righting the universe even more.
Rasmus stilled then, remained quiet for so long thereafter that Cedric believed him to have fallen asleep until Rasmus muttered something. His words were unintelligible at first, muffled by the night and the fabric of Cedric’s shirt; Cedric had to ask him to speak up for the tones to take form.
“They asked me to stay,” Rasmus whispered.
The scale had fallen over. Cedric’s ears were numb as Rasmus continued: He had told Julia and Aaron about his quest to find a family and about the reason why he was looking for one in the first place. In return, they had offered to take him in, permanently, because their wishes aligned. They had had no luck having any children of their own; they would have adopted a child long ago but there were no orphanages anywhere close-by, and they could not afford to travel to one. How miraculous it had been then, that they – the boy in search of parents, and the spouses in search of a child – had crossed paths in the middle of nowhere. But, of course, Aaron and Julia did not want to keep Rasmus here by force, and, of course, Rasmus had not arrived here alone.
“If I stayed,” Rasmus asked, a quiver in his voice, “would you stay too?”
How easy things would have been if Cedric had had the strength to turn around and leave after handing the ailing Rasmus over. If the dread he had felt upon stepping on the porch and Cesca’s memory at the edge of his vision had pulled him away, instead of the cold and exhaustion pulling him down.
Wrong turn, wrong choice.
The correct answer having come too late.
And now there he was again, before yet another end that was so much worse than the one he could have had.
It was too dark to see her; the walls were too thick, and the wind too loud to hear her. But he saw and heard Cesca nevertheless, her voice in his mind forever crisp and clear.
***
Rasmus had drifted into sleep while Cedric had pondered over his response. There could only be one, one true one, one right one; nonetheless, the search for it had left him sickened and paralysed.
As the first rays of sunshine brushed against the embroidered curtains, Cedric peeled himself away from Rasmus and slipped out of bed. His heart thundered in his chest. Cesca rapped at the window. He had to get out. Get out and run and run and run.
Cedric changed into his clothes – cleaned and fixed, curtesy of Julia; he suppressed the urge to tear off the patches and rip apart the stitching – and grabbed his bag; in all the time he had been here, he had never unpacked. He was almost ready to go, to vanish into the wilderness all alone again, with only ghosts chasing him. All that was left was to sneak downstairs, put on his jacket and shoes, steal into the new day…
… and not look back.
Cedric halted at the doorsill. The stairs were right ahead. He hovered where he stood. Rasmus was still asleep. Little Rasmus, all the joy he had left in this world. Cedric itched to turn, to fidget with the blankets, to pat his head, to kiss his hair – but all of that would ruin everything. He fixed his eyes on the staircase, descended them in quiet hurry. He shrugged on his coat, briefly touched the repaired parts, and stuck his feet into his shoes. Julia and her husband had tended to them too. They were rather old and had been caked with blood more than once. She had polished them to the best of her ability and even replaced the shoelaces while Aaron had rightened the soles.
This was a good place, even if it was not the place for him. It would be for Rasmus. Aaron and Julia would be the best of parents for him and love him dearly until the end of their days, whereas Cedric would fade out of Rasmus’ memory.
Cedric tied his laces faster; it was time to leave.
The early morning sun was too weak to push against the cold. Ice wrapped its fingers around Cedric the instant he stepped out of the farmhouse. Maybe he would have indeed frozen solid if this rage, this panic, this hurt that made him walk and run and go away and away had died inside that house. If it could have been eased, tamed, pacified by the love of strangers, by the frightened, shaky question from the only living soul he held dear. Instead, it had grown wild and restless within him.
He couldn’t await to unwind that coiled turmoil within him, even if his heart was in lament.
He made his way towards Chester and Cesca. They were waiting for him beyond the freshly fallen snow, at the edge of the forest. Cedric had made it to the halfway point when the quiet of the waking world was ruptured by a shout.
“Cedric!”
Cedric hadn’t turned in the house; he wouldn’t turn now. But like in the house, he stopped. The snow behind him crunched. “Cedric!” Rasmus called in-between huffs. “How… how… how could you just leave without a goodbye?”
When Rasmus went on, Cedric could not hear his steps anymore, just his tear-stained voice.
“You could have just said that I should say ‘no’! You could have asked me to come with you. Why didn’t you ask me to come with you…”
Cedric knew he should move, make a run for the woods or pick Rasmus up and deliver him to Aaron again. Only this time, he would do it properly. But he could not go ahead, and he did not dare to turn around, even to bring Rasmus back to the farmhouse.
“I… I don’t want to stay here without you. I want to stay with you,” Rasmus pressed out. “Cedric, please… please don’t leave me alone too.”
“Selfish heart, treacherous body.
“If only I had been stronger in that moment.”
“It has been nearly a hundred years, and I keep wondering what would have happened if I had had the strength to walk away that day.”
Rasmus’ coat was half-buttoned, and his scarf hung from his hand. His eyes, watery and red-rimmed, widened slightly at Cedric’s sight.
“Please don’t leave me behind,” Rasmus cried, and all Cedric could think of was himself.
He stepped forward, his heart and legs made of lead.
Always, always saying those words to Cesca, to Chester, out loud and in his mind.
He closed Rasmus’ coat properly without a word.
Always, always saying those words when they had been alive and now when they weren’t.
He took the scarf out of Rasmus’ hand, winding it properly around his throat. He kept the end of it grasped in his hands.
Always, always wishing for the wrong things.
***
“He clung to me more than ever before in the days that followed. He would hug and embrace me a lot, would hold my hand tighter than before. I must have scared him more than I had fathomed, and this thought made my heart grow heavier with guilt.
“How could I have ever contemplated to do the very thing to him that I had always feared the most?”
“The days were rough and short, the nights worse and longer. It was the greatest comfort to know that I did not have to endure them alone.
“To know that I still had someone to hold onto.”
“Since we had left Julia and Aaron’s farmhouse, we had arrived in a new town. A quaint, quiet place that looked picturesque in the persisting snowfall. We wouldn’t stay – I couldn’t stay – but it was as lovely a place to pass through as any.
“Rasmus was sitting beside me on this crumbling stone wall eating the bread we had acquired from the friendly baker down the road. It was as if time had been spooled back. The cold, hard stone beneath me. The ice crystals glittering around us. The smell of bread perfuming the air. His little body radiating warmth beside me. How similar it was to that first day, how different it was too.
“I reached into the bag of pastries unprompted. There was no blood on my hands and Rasmus was not a stranger anymore. The spectre of a smile appeared on my face as the snowflakes resumed their descent.”
***
“In the wake of our almost-parting, Rasmus grew more playful and lively too. The day we had made angels in the snow, and the day he had been bewitched by the river had been anomalies in his behaviour before; now, it finally fit into the grander whole. He had become so chatty. He would point out every interesting little detail he spotted – painted birds on façades, a headless weathervane, stones in odd shapes, discarded toys waiting for their owners to return – and ask so many more questions whose answers I did not know. The snow continued to be ever-present, but something within him seemed to have melted.
“Now and then, Rasmus would ask me to play some game with him. Hide-and-seek in the ruins of a cathedral. Tag in the serpentine streets of a village. Today, he suggested we play in the snow again.”
Rasmus groaned as he rolled the ball forward and towards Cedric. “Is this big enough, Cedric?” he asked. Cedric had bestowed Rasmus with the task to provide the snowman with a head. That had been meant to be easy enough to do for someone of his height and weight. Both of them were eating better now – their stay at the farmhouse had replenished them, and Cedric had recently taken a small job again, and they had had a little feast afterwards – but all that time in hunger before could not be rectified with such ease and quickness. It appeared as if Cedric had made a slight miscalculation though: Rasmus had managed to roll a decently sized and shaped ball without needing his help. However, while he was not lying on the ground, too spent to stand anymore, and sucking in oxygen like a fish on land, Rasmus’ entire face was red, and his thin arms were shaking within the wide sleeves of his coat.
A pang went through Cedric’s heart. Perhaps he should have approached this differently; this division had been how Cesca and he had built their snowmen in their childhood days, but neither of them had ever been as frail as Rasmus. Cedric let go of his own task, the base sphere, and put his hand on Rasmus’ head, ruffling his hair. “It’s perfect. Come, let’s make the middle one together.”
They ended up making a big snowman and a small one. There was snow in such abundance that they could have created a whole army but two were both Rasmus’ and Cedric’s limit. It had been so long since Cedric had built one, or since he had physically exerted himself that much. Lately, the most he had been doing was walking after all, and at the farmhouse, he had merely been given small tasks.
Exhausted, Cedric let himself fall into the snow. He didn’t want to ponder over the repercussions of this day’s activities – maybe they should have stopped after completing the large snowman –, and Rasmus was so happy about them; whatever revenge his body had in store for him would be worth it.
Cedric closed his eyes, tired and content, and he would have remained in this peaceful state for much longer if he had not been assaulted a second later. The snowball hit him in the cheek. His eyes flew open. Before him stood Rasmus with another snowball in his hand and a radiant smile on his face. “I’ve realised,” he said, “that we haven’t played this so far either!”
A small chuckle escaped Cedric’s lips. Then, he was back on his feet and ready to strike back.
Somehow, they had managed to drag their battered but fulfilled bodies back to town. It hadn’t snowed the entire time they had been on the field; it had only started again when it was time to return. Cedric had opened his coat, held half of it up to shield Rasmus from the heavy snowfall, and Rasmus had hugged him all the way to the next inn – both out of gratitude and necessity. Cold night had fallen upon them so quickly, but they hadn’t minded it for once; their bodies had still run warm with joy.
Now, they were in a small room in an inn, sharing an even smaller bed. It was storming outside. The walls could not keep all the cold out. Rasmus was fast asleep already. Cedric’s heart warmed as he watched his little friend sleep so gently and placidly, all the resemblance to that anxious boy in the alleyway gone. Carefully, Cedric inched closer to him. If their clothes hadn’t been soaked, they could have used their coats as extra blankets; instead, they had to make do with just the singular one provided by the innkeeper.
Cedric shut his eyes. The pain and the anger weren’t gone yet. They had echoed through his mind throughout the entire day: The remnants of Cesca and Chester – of his parents too, albeit even paler – had lurked at the edges of his vision, as he had been caught by old memories – of winter days, both peaceful and filled with fright, and of the fire, always of the fire. He was still restless, still guilt-wrecked, still furious. He would remain that way for a long time; Cedric was very aware of that. But today, for the first time since the fire, he finally allowed himself to think, to wish, to want, that it would not stay like that forever.
***
“My memory crumbles here.
“Maybe it already had, long before.”
The next thing Cedric remembered was standing in front of the inn and carrying Rasmus’ still body. An icy wind was passing by; he hardly noticed it. The view before him was a blur. Passing bodies, waking stores – life all around him.
The innkeeper had kicked them out just now. The night was over. The storm had ceased. There were customers who had paid more for that small room.
The innkeeper didn’t know that Rasmus had died.
Cedric barely knew himself.
“He had not fully recovered from his illness when we had left the farmhouse. I had not realised; I had been too focused on myself to understand. I had frightened him too much for him to confess this to me.”
“‘Like the shadow that departeth; or like a tale that is told; or as a dream when one waketh.’
“Rasmus had lived, had disappeared in that exact manner. I held onto him like I would have held onto that shadow, that tale, that dream, to keep him from dissipating.”
Cedric did not look at Rasmus as he wandered through the town. A silent procession, unnoticed by those around them. The world had only halted, had only quieted for him. He only dropped his gaze at Rasmus when he had returned to the field.
The snow had fallen all night, repairing the damage they had made to this bed of ice. Their footsteps wiped away. The signs of their snowball fight erased.
Merely the large snowman rose intact and proud, albeit powdered and with one arm lost, in this field. It was all the evidence that they had been here yesterday. That yesterday had not been a dream. That that joy had been true and real.
Cedric could not remember if he had cried in the morning upon finding Rasmus unmoving beside him. He could not remember whether he had cried as he had made his way through the town and to this place.
He only knew that he was crying now.
He wanted and did not want to avert his eyes from the corpse. He hadn’t been able to do this, to look upon the dead properly and in quiet peace, before after all, neither to his parents nor to Cesca and Chester. He had solely been able to catch glimpses of them in this state.
They said the dead looked like sleepers. He had thought the same about Cesca.
Quiet, still, but appearing as if they could wake at any moment.
They were liars. How sorely mistaken he had been.
Cedric had seen people sleep. He had watched the soft rise and fall of Rasmus’ chest, his eyes moving slightly beneath his lids, the twitch and turn of his limbs, the voiceless movements of his lips just the night before. Sleepers were not truly still. They were animate, in their dreams and in reality alike.
What was this boy dreaming of that made him equal to his friend?
It had been a kind of mercy that he hadn’t understood back then when Cesca had dragged him away, when the fire had made him flee, to be shielded from gazing upon someone he had loved and only finding an empty shell.
He bedded Rasmus in the snow, right before the snowman. The ground was too hard and too frozen to take him back. Cedric shook with guilt that he could not bury him either, that Rasmus, too, had to make do with only a temporary tomb of ice. Another body to add to the list. Another failure. But it was not quite February yet; snow would fall again. Like it concealed the decay of winter, it would entomb Rasmus’ corpse too. Wrap him in white like a shroud. Reveal him come spring. He had been looking forward to it so much, to welcome its arrival.
It was all Cedric could do. It was the most he had been able to do so far.
Yesterday, they had seen people passing by as they had played. No soul approached this field all day, as if they knew that this place was one of death now. Cedric remained at Rasmus’ side until the grey, cloudy sky was dipped in ink. The pale light retreated. The temperature dropped. All the world was asleep, except for the dead and the unfortunate.
Cedric took out his knife at last. Aaron had cleaned and polished the blade at Julia’s behest but there were no stars visible in the sky to be mirrored in the metal as Cedric cut off a piece of Rasmus’ hair. He had been so insecure about it when they had first met. Cedric reached into his coat and pulled out the flask that hung around his neck on the same thin string that held his family ring. He had found this little thing not long after encountering Rasmus; it had lain discarded and forgotten between some cobblestones, its glass having become cloudy with age. He had picked it up absentmindedly, had only later realised that he could store his mementoes in it. Cesca’s silver and Chester’s brown locks were now joined by Rasmus’ straight, straw-coloured hair. Cedric hoped that, somehow, some part of Rasmus would know that it, that he, had been precious enough to be preserved.
He knelt beside Rasmus for a little while longer, took in his face, fixed his clothes, ruffled his hair, kissed his head for the last times.
The first snowflakes descended, silently and slowly, as Cedric left the field for the forest. His limbs were stiff from the cold, and his steps were heavy from the added weight around his throat.
***
The snowflakes’ dance to earth remained quiet and slow throughout the night. Softly, they tangled in his hair, repainting it white. Gently, they touched the trees, the hills, the ruins, the bustling towns, connecting everything and everyone, all that was alive and all that was dead, with the same threads of ice.
His steps were growing heavier. The night was getting darker.
His friend was watching him with hollow eyes from afar. His sister was wandering many steps ahead of him. The child hovered in his wake.
They were always there. They would always be there.
Reminders of his mistakes and misdeeds. Never letting him to. Never letting him rest.
How could he have ever thought the days would change again?
They had been the same since the fire, since Lennox, since Martin, since that knock on their door. Dark and shadowy, cold and restive.
The wind cut his cheeks. The snow dampened his steps. The ice petrified his limbs. The cold crawled into his lungs.
He was suffocating.
He had been suffocating. The entire day, his entire life.
The darkness around him was thick and inky. He could not see ahead, could not look back. Every path he could choose would lead him somewhere but never away, never forward, never further.
No matter how much he accelerated his steps, he could never overtake his sister, could never escape the scrutiny of his friend nor the weight of the child.
Could never outrun himself.
He had been trying that for almost two months now, to no avail.
A river ran through the forest, silently beneath a sheet of ice. Ghostly fingers brushed his frozen ones, inviting him along.
Memories lurked in the shadows, twirled in his periphery, making his mind spin.
A challenge to see who could climb the highest a lopsided birthday cake riding on horseback blood dripping from a knife the fragrance of a bag of pastries jumping from cobblestone to cobblestone a dead man’s glassy eyes a failed music lesson tumbling into a hole warm hugs having a snowball fight in a lone field a broken vase a scolding a bowl of candy rounds and rounds of card games an alleyway of thugs hiding under beds a stifling church vomiting into a bush finding images in stars making baskets in solitude and wishing for company running after his sister his friend running after everyone and never being fast enough never being quick enough always getting left behind always being alone alone alone alone
The river ran into another.
He halted, enchanted by the view in front of him. Two rivers, feeding into each other, forming a perfect cross between them.
He had never seen anything like that before. What a truly miraculous sight it was; it left him light and hollow, quiet and tranquil for one moment. A long pause for his tumbling thoughts. A place for resolve, for resignation, to bloom.
When that moment was over, his body moved on its own.
He opened his bag and dug within it until he found the battered tin box. They had discovered it days before; it seemed to have stored candy once although the lid showed the weathered image of a bird in flight. Rasmus had taken a liking to it, so they had kept it. Now, he opened it and retrieved the flask and the ring from around his neck once more. The faintest of hesitations; then, he ripped them off the string and placed them in the tin. Their loss did not lighten him; his heart grew heavier when he closed the lid, and even more when he found a hole at the bottom of a tree and put the tin inside.
Twenty-two years of carrying the ring. Two months of carrying Cesca and Chester. One night of carrying Rasmus.
A lifetime of carrying this accursed, miserable heart.
He closed his eyes.
Once more, he would leave them behind, his family and his friends. There was nothing but broken promises between them.
And one wide, wide river.
He reopened his eyes for the last time.
He approached the rivers. There was no fear within him anymore, no fight. What was there to fear, what was there to fight for if there was nothing left?
He stepped onto the ice. A warning he had issued himself long ago rang in his ears as he made his way forward.
The ice had been cushioned by snow. The crack was still loud to hear.
A constellation of spidery lines, growing bigger and wider.
At the crossroads of the rivers, he knelt. The ice groaned beneath his weight.
He saw movements beyond the dark ice. Where would these strange, twinned rivers lead them? Where would they lead him?
He pulled out his knife, weighted it in his hands.
He could not be unlucky today; he could not risk being seen and retrieved.
He did not think that he could do this again if he were to survive.
But he did not think he could bear seeing another sunrise all alone either.
He would leave the remnants of his loves behind to return to them. But, first, he had to leave himself behind too.
He cut lines into his arms and into the faltering icecap. His contribution to this orchestra of cracks.
For one moment, he felt warm – impossibly warm, warmer than he had in a while, his blood running over his skin and seeping into his clothes. An oasis of colour in this landscape of white, in the darkness of the night.
In the next, he plunged into the river.
He felt the biting cold.
He felt nothing at all.
He was weightless. He was infinitely heavy.
He was so, so cold.
Water, water; there was water everywhere. It ran around him and into him.
He did not know where he ended and where the river began.
His eyes were wide open. The water was tinted black.
A red line curled upwards.
He could not reach it. Could not pull himself back.
He fell deeper and deeper, was tipped along the stream.
His limbs burned. His lungs burned.
His heartbeat slowed.
His mind cleared.
It was so quiet, so peaceful.
This waiting dark.
This cold grave.
***
Paris, Seine, France – June 1848
~Cloudia~
How still it was in this city in battle. How quietly fell the dead man’s tears.
There had been a disconnect for Cloudia, between the Cedric of this tale and the one before her. That stern, diligent child, that frightful boy, that hollow man – none of them had ever felt like her Cedric; her smiling and laughing Cedric; her Cedric who had never not gleamed with life. None of their plights had moved her as the story had gone on. They were strangers, unrelated and unknown to her.
But this quiet shudder, these endless tears, this ancient pain she was witnessing just now belonged to her Cedric. The one from the tale and the one before her were one and the same after all.
At some point, Cloudia had lain back down, and their hands had come apart. Now, she sat up again with great difficulty and great strength, pushing away a tower of pillows and peeling after layers of blankets. She took one of his hands in one of hers, reached with her other one for his face. Cedric flinched when their skin collided; he relaxed when she brushed her fingers over his cheeks; he leaned into her touch when she wiped his tears away.
She pulled him onto her bed, did not let go of his hand as she lay down herself nor as she drifted with him into sleep, with one blanket, a few centimetres of space, and two heartbeats between them.
Sleep fell away from me, suddenly, abruptly, seamlessly; its spidery touch having barely kept me under all night, and now it had left just as faintly.
It took a few more minutes until I opened my eyes.
It felt as if I had never closed them at all.
It felt as if I had never slept at all.
My temples were aching. My muscles were burning. As if the hours had passed, night had turned into day, without affecting me at all.
Still, when I opened my eyes and saw sunlight pressing against the thick curtains, trying to get in, my first thought was of her, not of me or what time it was.
I sat up with a jolt.
Time had done nothing for me this night; I was as sore and exhausted as before.
But what had time done to Cloudia?
Cedric clambered from the bed, pulling blankets and pillows with him. His legs nearly buckled from beneath him when he got to his feet, but he could catch himself before he joined the bedding on the floor.
Cloudia, Cloudia, Cloudia, it echoed through his head. His heart hammered in his chest in the same rhythm. Thud, thud, thud.
It was not a large room, he recalled. One, two steps to the door. Four, five because he was stumbling. Over the blankets on the floor. Against the side table he didn’t notice. Because of his own legs that had not woken up yet.
Cloudia, Cloudia, Cloudia.
He half-fell against the door, pain blooming from his shoulder to the rest of his body as he placed his hand on the doorknob.
And froze.
Her body, so fragile against his own. Her hand, so cold in his. Her voice, so soft in his ear.
Her laboured breaths.
Her pained face.
It all came rushing back.
The memory of each infinite second of yesterday.
And so did the panic.
I… I… I…
I had nearly lost her. I had nearly lost her. I had nearly lost her.
Had I lost her?
Was I alone again?
He swayed, would have keeled over if he had not been gripping the doorhandle. He felt like he was back aboard Milton’s ship, thrown off-balance with no steady ground beneath him, his body revolting against the lack of stability, his stomach in a knot and heavy with the urge to bend over and vomit – even if he had not eaten in hours. His chest was tightening, hot flashes singeing him from within.
And then, there was all the blood.
Smeared over his memories. Dripped over Paris.
Knit into his clothes.
Cedric had washed his hands and face yesterday, but he had not changed his clothes. He was not wearing his glasses and had not bothered to open the curtains on his way to the door, leaving the room dark. But he didn’t need glasses or light to know how much of her blood clung to him.
He had felt it after all, how it had seeped through her makeshift bandages and drenched him, as he had carried her through streets and over roofs.
Another wave of nausea hit him, and he breathed in sharply, tears rising to his eyes.
If he stayed inside this room, never opened the door, he could forever imagine that she had survived the night. That she was fine; that she would be fine.
But he would never know for certain.
The news of her death would take a hammer to his soul, shatter it in a moment, but leave it broken forever. But the worry, the uncertainty, would take him bit by bit. Eat him up until there was nothing left anymore.
And I…
And I did not know…
Could I survive this once more?
“You’re so silly,” Cloudia had said to him yesterday on the roof. “You’re so silly,” the memory of her now spoke to him in his head.
Of course, he was being silly. Cloudia Phantomhive would not die so easily. Not Cloudia who had held onto Cedric with impossible strength until Newman had lifted her out of his arms. Not Cloudia who was now in the hands of her brother who would never allow her to die like that.
Still, these reassurances only soothed his nerves a little. Strength and determination alone did not necessarily result in survival.
I only knew that all too well.
He leaned his head against the door and took a deep, shaky breath before he stepped back, letting go of the doorknob. He went to open the heavy curtains, finally letting in the harsh sunlight. Raising an arm to protect his eyes from the light, Cedric gazed down at himself. He looked even more terrifying than he had the day before. He lifted his head and turned to the bed. It did not look like someone had been murdered in it, though it certainly appeared as if a corpse had been dragged through it: All the pillows and blankets were in disarray and sprayed across the room, even the fitted sheet had sprung free from the mattress. Dirt and flakes of dried blood had been rubbed everywhere.
Blood and dirt that clung to him tenfold.
Despite the silly, silly worry clinging to his heart, despite the everlasting panic whispering into his ear…
… that she was dying…
… that she was dead…
… that he would never hear her laugh again, see her smile again – that the memory of her warm hand in his would fade and vanish...
Despite panic’s persistence shaking through his body and fuelling the dreadful guilt that made his heart heavy and ache and persuaded him to stay prisoner in this room, every fibre of his being ached for her too.
He had to see her, no matter if she was dead or alive.
Hold her again; hold her for the last time.
He knew that he would feel infinitely worse if he didn’t.
But he could not possibly see her like he was now, worn out and steeped in her blood.
Just as Cedric pulled open a drawer to shuffle through, the door opened with a soft creak. A second later, Newman stepped into the room, carrying a set of clean, pressed clothes in his hands and concern in his eyes.
Cedric was by him in a heartbeat. “Alfred!” he pressed out, his voice strange in his own ears, and took hold of Newman’s arm. He opened his mouth to continue, only his heart was beating too quickly, too loudly, and his body felt momentarily too heavy, too small, too warm. Every centimetre of him was torn between wanting to know now and delaying any answer.
In the end, it was Newman who chose for him.
“Lady Cloudia is alive and well,” he said softly and patted Cedric’s hand. “She is well and getting some rest.” He mustered him briefly. “Let me prepare a bath for you, Your Grace, so that you can find some rest too.”
***
It took a while for a tub to be filled with water and heated up. Cedric had waited in the bedroom he had slept in, sitting restlessly on the maltreated bed, while Newman had prepared him a bath in the same bathroom where Cedric had partly washed himself yesterday. He had not even realised that these rooms were so close together.
Now, Newman was gone, and Cedric was standing in the bathroom, staring at the warm, scented water, his thoughts full of nothing but an echo of Newman’s words from earlier. “She is well and getting some rest.”
She is well. She is well. She is well.
Cloudia is alive and well.
The words sent Cedric’s heart aflutter, and the sight of the water twisted his stomach into knots. His torso was bisected, his organs at war. Joy and dread, coming together like oil and water within him.
In the end, rationality triumphed. It could not disperse either feeling; it could merely force Cedric to get into the water before it turned cold. Still, he hesitated before he stepped into the bath.
His head was spinning with a choice, a ridiculous one to anyone else in similarly dirty circumstances, but not one to him.
He made his decision. With remaining hesitation, Cedric ran his fingers through his long hair, untangling it a bit.
Despite common belief – or, rather, Cloudia’s – that he never washed his hair, he did. Just not as often as he should. Cedric did not lie when he said washing hair that was as long as his was tiresome, but the length of his hair was not the only reason for his infrequent washing.
Taking a deep breath, Cedric tilted his head, let his hair fall into the bathtub and let it be drenched in the water. Then, he began to scrub it. It took a few rounds of soaping and rinsing until his hair was fully clean from the poultice, and by the time he was done, his neck ached, and far too much time had passed. At least, no one had come to knock and enquire what was taking so long.
Cedric wrapped his hair in a towel and straightened up. He dried his hair and combed it before he grabbed the ribbon Newman had left him and put his hair up into a bundle atop his head. It must look like a mess, but it was only for a short while anyway. Then, he took off his clothes, discarded them carelessly on the ground, and got into the now lukewarm water. His muscles first hissed when they touched the water before they relaxed. He cleaned every centimetre of his body, watched the water grow darker and muddier.
When he stepped out of the tub again, he was dripping wet and still felt lighter than before.
Cedric rubbed himself dry with the towel, slipped into clean clothes, loosened the ribbon so that his hair fell past his shoulders and along his back again. Newman had brought him his glasses too; Cedric did not pick them up before he stepped to the washbasin, gripping its edges and hoisting himself up a little to bring his face closer to the mirror above it.
From this distance, he could see his face clearly, every line and every part of it, just like he could take in every strand of the shimmering silver hair that framed it.
He barely recognised himself like this; he had grown too used to seeing his hair being dull and grey from the poultice.
Just like he had grown too used to his chartreuse eyes which gleamed bright and clear, from any distance, at any time, with or without spectacles. Lights in the dark, eternal reminders of what he had done to himself.
The only bit of him that had outwardly changed that day. His eyesight and eye colour stolen, replaced, lost.
He could not even remember what it was, his original eye colour. Could only remember that it had been, like his face and his hair, his mother’s before it had ever been his. It had been ages since he had last looked into a mirror and thought of her when he saw himself. The wrong-coloured eyes, the dulled hair, and time wearing at him having done their best to make her face unrecognisable in his.
His mother and his past self, erased just like that.
Cedric let himself sink down, his face blurring again but his eyes, his chartreuse eyes, forever clear and bright.
He did not want to; nonetheless, he grabbed his glasses and put them on before he left the bathroom.
***
Stepping into the corridor felt like stepping into another world. Harsh, bright light broke through the windows, making Cedric squint and cover his eyes with his hand. He had walked the few metres between bed- and bathroom earlier, of course, but his mind had been elsewhere completely, his surroundings shut off by his circular thoughts and the dread within him.
His thoughts were still clouded; Newman’s assurances still circling within his mind.
The dread was still there too, though it had gone from piercing, hammering pain to numb stinging.
Now, at least, he could see the light shining in. Hear faint voices downstairs. The sounds of steps and chairs scraping softly over carpets and the clink of porcelain. Feel warmth on his skin and smell the faint fragrance of perfume and flowers.
Cloudia was alive, and the world had kept on moving.
Cedric, however, remained in front of the closed bathroom door for a moment, wondering where to go and what to do. He had walked through these floors yesterday, albeit in a trance-like state, and he could not remember where which room was. And Newman had told him that he could not see Cloudia just yet anyway.
“I will fetch you later,” Newman had told him, and now, Cedric was left wondering what to do until later arrived.
After another minute, Cedric finally set himself in motion, wandering through the corridors and heading downstairs with open eyes. Lisa passed him on the staircase, glanced at him sideways but did not glare or speak a word, before she vanished upstairs. She had looked exhausted. Downstairs, Cedric walked to the back of the house until he re-discovered the drawing room in which Oscar had put Milton yesterday.
Or, perhaps, rather than arriving here by random, my subconsciousness had led me here on purpose, to the last place I had known Milton to be.
Milton, who should be awake by now.
Milton, the only person I could talk to right now in this house.
Milton, whose soothing presence I needed so desperately.
Just when Cedric was about to enter the room, he was taken aback by the sight within, blinking and remaining on the doorsill.
It seemed as if time had not reached this room here either.
Oscar was still sitting on the ground, leaning against the ottoman and holding a piece of wood in one hand and a small knife in the other.
And Milton was still sleeping on the sofa opposite him.
The room seemed to sway when Cedric finally rushed inside.
It’s been nearly a day! Why is he still sleeping? What is going on? Milton, Milton, it surged through his mind. Nonetheless, he did not dash to Milton just yet; instead, Cedric went straight to Oscar, bellowing, “What is going on? Did Milton wake up in the night?”
“Keep your voice down,” Oscar replied, his voice and gaze dark. For the first time, it did not make Cedric falter though.
He grabbed Oscar by the collar. “It’s been nearly a day! Milton should have long woken up!” He pulled him closer to him. “What did you do, Livingstone?” Cedric hissed.
Oscar met his angry gaze with calm scrutiny. “It is not unheard of, to sleep so long.”
“If you fall asleep normally, maybe, but not when you faint! He should have woken up a long time ago. He should not be unconscious for that long!”
“I can merely reiterate what I told you yesterday, and what I told you just now,” Oscar said, and his calmness made Cedric boil inside. “And add that the Lady sometimes sleeps for long periods herself.”
The sudden mention of Cloudia made Cedric flinch.
Oscar mustered him. “Further,” he continued, his voice softening ever so slightly, “if you are so concerned, you might want to request Greene to take a look at the boy.” Then, Oscar suddenly grabbed Cedric’s hand, pushed him away and himself to his feet. His tone remained calm, but his pale eyes were full of ice as he continued, “Instead of causing such a ruckus that could wake him up when he needs the rest.”
Cedric rushed out of the drawing room like he had entered it, as if his body was moving on its own. He had seen Lisa go upstairs earlier, and that was where his body was now leading him with sure, hurried steps.
Milton had lain on the sofa so peacefully still. Nevertheless, before he had left, Cedric had quickly checked Milton’s pulse again – and sighed in relief to have found one. Milton’s chest had been rising and falling too at a calm, steady pace.
Milton was alive but not awake when he should have been.
And though all of Cedric was high-strung on Cloudia, Milton’s unconscious state was a welcome distraction, faintly redirecting strands of his worry.
However, was it a true distraction, a true emergency, or was I merely thinking of the situation as one so that I could have something to distract myself with?
Cedric shook his head clear of the thought. No. Fainting for so long was cause for concern, and Milton’s case was not comparable to Cloudia’s strange attacks in his eyes. He should have got – would have got – someone to examine Milton yesterday if he had been of a clearer mind. If everyone had not been needed at Cloudia’s side.
Cedric passed by the kitchen and halted abruptly, the suddenness making him stagger a bit. From the corner of his eye, he had espied a messy, blond head and been momentarily confused until his mind had finally caught up with his eyes.
“Kamden!” Cedric exclaimed and stepped into the kitchen. “Good to have found you he…”
The words died in his throat when Kamden turned to him. Lisa had merely looked exhausted earlier; Kamden looked as if he, too, had nearly died and survived. His clothes were clean – changed – but rumpled, his pallor frighteningly pale, and the rings under his eyes terrifyingly dark.
“…if I wasn’t so astonished that the Bookstore Boy’s hunch has been right,” Cecelia had said yesterday. “He dropped a plate all of a sudden and began to prepare a room as if possessed.”
God, Kamden.
I had barely even registered Cecelia’s words yesterday. He had known. Somehow, he had known that something was wrong. Must have felt that something had happened to Cloudia.
Nausea rose within me, as sudden and as unruly as a flood. My own pain and worry were eating on me and were so difficult to bear already, as much now as then. I could not even fathom what it must be like for Kamden. For Kamden who had known when I had not that day, so long ago.
“Kamden,” Cedric blurted out. “Kamden, are you…”
Again, he could not finish what he wanted to say. His words were ripped apart and vanished into the air unspoken when Kamden rushed to him, grabbed his collar, shoved him back into the corridor and against the wall.
The air was pushed out of Cedric’s lungs from the shock of the collision. Pain bloomed across his back. Something hard and cold was pressed against his throat. It was an odd-looking contraption Cedric had not seen before; it looked like a nightmarish pair of scissors, with a weird handle to which three longer metal pieces had been attached. Whereas the one in the middle was dull and square-shaped, the ones to the left and right were slightly curved and had a pointed tip. From the way they looked, and the way the light reflected off them, Cedric was certain they were blades. He gulped. He had not even noticed Kamden getting that thing out.
“You had one job!” Kamden shouted, his voice steady with rage and his eyes dark with fury. “Why did you even go with her if you let this happen! How could you let this happen!” He thrust the strange object deeper into Cedric’s throat, nearly drawing blood and making him gasp. “Do you even know how much blood she has lost? I could stitch the wound closed. I could stop the bleeding. But she had already lost so much blood, by the time…” Kamden’s breathing quickened. “There’s nothing I can do about the blood loss! Nothing! I cannot make a blood transfusion here! I don’t have the right equipment, don’t have any blood. And even then, they are such big risks. Do you know how many people have died from them? Do you? It’s the only thing I could do, but it's so goddamn dangerous… damned if I do, damned if I don’t…”
The metal object rammed against his throat forced Cedric to stare right at Kamden as he spoke. Each of his words was worsened by the fact that Kamden was staring at Cedric with her eyes, speaking with her mouth, making him look at her face as he did.
It could as well have been Cloudia, telling him all this.
“Kam…” Cedric tried to get out, there was so much he could say and could not, but Kamden cut him off immediately.
“Do you even know how close to dying Cloudia was?” he said, and Cedric felt as if Kamden had thrown him into an icy lake with these words. “She’s alive. She’s holding on. But for how long? There’s nothing I can do to definitely help her. All I can do is wait and hope that she will be fine and…” His eyes narrowed. “And it’s all your fault! You were there! And she still got shot and…”
Tears began to well up in Kamden’s eyes. “I have a grandmother, but she lives far away and seldom writes back because she’s tired of caring; it is as if she does not exist at all. Even Cloudie does not know that she is all I have left in the world. And I almost lost her too. I could lose her still.
“She survived last night, but what guarantee do I have, does she have, that she survives this day too? This night too? And the following ones as well? None. She doesn’t have one. I don’t have one. And it’s all because you were so useless and even let it get so far.” Kamden’s grip on Cedric loosened slightly, and he let his head sink. “Of course, I knew that she would get seriously hurt one day. The Watchdog does not, cannot, live peacefully after all. Only I didn’t think it would happen when she was with you.” When Kamden raised his head again, his eyes were red-rimmed, though no tears had broken out yet; his face was still dry. “You had one job, and you failed, and now my sister is on the verge of death. All because of you!”
Kamden shoved Cedric harder into the wall again before he abruptly let go, taking a step back. Cedric nearly fell over, but barely caught himself in time. He gasped for air, refilling his lungs with oxygen while Kamden buried his face in his hands, the weird, sharp object still hanging from his fingers.
For one moment, I did not see him but myself, as if I had been a bystander, not right there, that day kneeling by her corpse, my face in my hands.
And then I blinked, and the strange overlap was gone.
“Kamden,” Cedric said hoarsely. “I know it does not make anything better, but I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never…”
Kamden’s head flew up. “You’re right,” he snapped. “It does not make anything better, so don’t even bother.” He rubbed his eyes, and with this motion, he almost looked like the Kamden Cedric knew again, only more fragile. Despite his fury, or maybe because of it, he still seemed so brittle.
I almost wanted to reach out. Put my hand on his shoulder and say, “I understand. I understand.”
But I knew too that he would not be receptive to this, definitely not now, maybe never.
“Barrington,” Cedric blurted out, suddenly remembering him. “You are Barrington’s adoptive son, are you not? You won’t be alone; the Countess will live, and you also have him. You should not forget that.”
Kamden let his hand sink and then looked at Cedric with such a hard, icy gaze that he could not help himself but flinch. “I didn’t forget him,” Kamden said dryly. “What did you even want from me, Underwood?”
Cedric blinked at him, puzzled by the exchange and the change of topic. “What do you mean?”
“When you came into the kitchen, you were about to say, ‘Good to have found you here.’ Why were you searching for me? Just to talk? If yes, I’m leaving now.”
“No, Kamden, wait!” said Cedric and took a step towards him. Kamden took one away from him. “I wasn’t looking for you just to talk. I was looking for you because I wanted to ask if you could take a look at Milton.”
Now, it was Kamden’s turn to flinch. “Milton?” he exclaimed, sounding and looking like himself again – but only for a moment. “What’s with him?” he then asked curtly.
“He still hasn’t woken up. I suspect something’s wrong with him,” Cedric replied. “But, Kamden, if you don’t…”
“Where is he?”
Cedric sighed. “In the drawing room in the back. I’ll lead you there. Come.” He began to trace his path back to the parlour, Kamden following him a few steps behind.
“What’s this thing anyway?” Cedric enquired when he turned to check that Kamden was still behind him. He pointed at the strange object that Kamden had pressed against his throat earlier and that was still in his hand.
“Arrow remover,” said Kamden nonchalantly and shoved it into his pocket. Then, he sped up and walked past Cedric to get to the drawing room.
Oscar got up from the ground when Cedric and Kamden entered the parlour. Whereas Cedric glared at him, Kamden did not even seem to register Oscar; he just headed straight to Milton. Outside, albeit farther away, the city continued to be swept with chaos. Fires were raging, people were dying, the air was filled with smoke and black powder, and the streets were flecked with blood. Inside, tension and exhaustion were hanging in the air, thick and heavy. A night had passed, still everyone was tired from all the ordeals that had paved their way here, from their worry for Cloudia who was in a room upstairs fighting for her life.
Solely Milton, usually the most restless of them all, was sleeping serenely on the sofa, golden hair fanning out on the pillow like a halo.
“If you two would mind turning around,” said Kamden and drew the blanket back, “I need to examine whether Milton got hurt without anyone noticing, and I have to unbutton and remove bits of his clothes for this. I’m sure Milton would not want you staring at him while he is not fully dressed.”
Oscar quietly picked up the blanket before he turned around.
“Why don’t you wake him up first?” Cedric asked.
Kamden shot him a dark look. “Because, if he were truly only exhausted, I wouldn’t want to interrupt his peaceful, needed sleep. If he were hurt, shaking him or whatnot to wake him might only worsen his condition. Now, turn around and let me work, Underwood.”
Cedric did as he was told. Beside him, Oscar folded the blanket neatly before he draped it over his arms.
“You’re awfully calm for someone who will get found out now,” remarked Cedric.
“There is nothing wrong with the boy,” Oscar replied without even glancing at Cedric. “Sainteclare will merely confirm what I have already told you.”
Cedric scowled at him but did not say anything in response. They stood there in silence, in the middle of the drawing room with half a metre between them, until Kamden announced that he was done, and they could turn around again.
“Milton is perfectly fine,” Kamden told them. “No external wounds besides the cut on his right hand which he got on the train and which I’ve already bandaged. He was injured by Cloudia’s dagger, was he not? Then, it most definitely was not poisoned. I doubt someone would have found the time to lace someone else’s dagger with poison on that chaotic train.
“There are no internal injuries either. There is no internal bleeding. There are no signs that suggest that Milton hit his head. He’s breathing steadily, his pulse is normal. He was stirring and softly groaning a little while I was examining him. He’s perfectly well.” Kamden paused. “The only other potential cause I can think of for why he is sleeping so long is his heart illness, but he assured me and everyone else that it has not been a problem for him since he was a child. Thus, I doubt that’s it either. And even if it was… even if it was, I would not be able to help him then,” he continued, his voice lowering towards the end. “Just like if he had been bleeding internally. There would be nothing I could do.”
Kamden exhaled and then fixed his dark eyes on Cedric. “Milton’s merely exhausted which is, after all we have gone through and considering what we know he was doing in the background all along, not inconceivable. I could, of course, shake him awake or go and fetch my smelling salt, but what good would it do? Now, if you will excuse me, Underwood, I need to check on the actual patient in this house, so stop wasting my time.”
With these words and another glare, Kamden stormed out of the drawing room.
“That’s why I told you to ask Greene, not Greene or Sainteclare,” Oscar said, looking after Kamden with an expression Cedric could not quite place. “It takes a great toll on a person not to know whether their loved one will live or die after all.”
Cedric glared at him.
“I know why you are behaving as you are,” continued Oscar while placing the blanket over Milton again, with the same care and gentleness as he had the day before. “You told it to me yourself, if you remember. You want the boy to wake up because you want to talk to him as you hope for him to ease your worry. You are so upset that he is still asleep because you do not want to wait and cannot accept that he is unavailable for normal reasons. And you suspect me of wrongdoings because you dislike me.” Milton stirred a little, faint distress momentarily hushing over his face. Oscar ran his fingers over his head, his touch feather-light, soothing him back. “But you need to know,” Oscar said softly, “that you need to find another remedy for your affliction; he is not your cure-all.”
***
Cedric wandered through the ground floor in search of anyone, of anything, to distract himself with. However, the townhouse was not particularly large, and he was merely sanding the carpets and wooden boards with his restless steps. Eventually, he went to sit on the staircase’s lowest step, burying his face in his hands. His thoughts were in a spin, rotating through hope and certainty that Cloudia would be fine, through guilt for having been unable to save her, and through worry that she might not make it.
She was strong and determined, but even the Watchdog was nothing but a human, and human life was so impossibly frail.
I had seen it so often in my line of work. An inconspicuous cut, an accidentally mixed-up ingredient, a wrong word. One unfortunate slip, and it was all over. One bad decision. One good decision. Fate and death seldom worked grandly, but always harshly.
I had known that before too, of course.
He pressed his eyes closed and pressed his hands against his ears to try to block out the faint sounds of the house – the creaks, the voices, the steps – in an attempt to force her out of his mind, his memory, and conjure her next to him on the staircase.
Like last night, she was silent.
Cecelia, however, was not.
“Not-Kristopher, get off my stairs,” she said. Cedric flinched and raised his head, turning until he found Cecelia standing on a few steps above him, arms crossed in front of her chest. As always, she was in mourning clothes, and the sight of them made Cedric’s stomach churn.
“What else am I meant to do then?” he retorted.
Cecelia rolled her eyes. “Sitting elsewhere, of course. You are blocking the way.”
Cedric rose to his feet and glared at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cecelia lifted one hand and cut him off before he could even get one word out. “Don’t,” she said. She rubbed her temples, and Cedric suddenly noticed that her face, too, was lined with exhaustion.
“Usually, I always have a great time in Paris,” said Cecelia. “Of course, nothing ever stays as it should, and this, unfortunately, applies more often to the good than to the bad. What a pity that is, is it not?”
Cedric went quiet.
Without another word, Cecelia headed back upstairs and disappeared around the corner, leaving Cedric all alone on the steps, just as lost and lonely as he had been before.
Just as lost and lonely as I had been before…
My hand reached into my pocket to touch the lockets, tightened around one of them, the metal digging into my skin.
If only I had known that Kamden had placed so much faith in me, then I could have told him that it had never worked that way.
I had never been there, for any of them.
I had only ever been there after the fact.
Cedric remained there on the staircase, not knowing where to go, not knowing what to do, his mind too cluttered and too busy for him to think.
And then, Newman arrived at the top of the stairs. Their positioning made him appear even grander than he was, and Cedric seem just as small as he was feeling.
“Your Grace,” Newman said, making Cedric’s heart clench in joy and in fear, “Lady Cloudia would like to see you.”
There was a storm brewing within Cedric while Newman walked him to the room where Cloudia was resting. It tossed about everything within him, making his stomach flip, his heart race, his thoughts even more tangled. It summoned coldness through his body, numbing it, though it electrified him too, sending shocks through him, forcing him awake and alert again.
I was so excited, I was so afraid, to see her again.
“Mr Sainteclare is currently asleep,” Newman explained on the way. Cedric heard his words as if they were underwater, full and hammering against his head. “He categorically refused to rest throughout the entire night and disallowed the implementation of rotating shifts. Lisa had to lace his tea so that he would sleep at last.
“With nothing harmful, of course,” Newman added after a pause.
Cedric nodded numbly.
A moment later, they had already arrived. Newman knocked softly before he opened the door. Cedric’s heartbeat quickened. Newman said something he didn’t hear, and Lisa left the room right afterwards. She glanced at Cedric sideways before she walked down the corridor.
“You can go in now,” said Newman gently, gesturing inside the room.
The door behind him closed.
Cedric had seen Cloudia in a sickbed before, of course. Last year, not even a week after they had met, and almost two months ago. Both times, they had been on a mission – to the Salisbury Villa and the Witch’s Castle. Both times, he had had to carry her unconscious body out.
The first time, he had retrieved her from the debris after the Salisbury Villa had been destroyed. Mere days into their partnership, Cedric had not felt much when he had discovered her fainted form in the rubble besides relief that their adventures had not ended before they had truly begun. The second time, he had been panicked, rushing after her to the Witch’s Castle, not knowing how he would find her, and then discovering her driving her father’s dagger into a man’s chest with the last of her strength.
Both times, Cloudia had not been severely injured though. She had barely been wounded when the villa crumbled; she had only been unconscious for a few days thereafter. Cloudia had been worse for wear in the Witch’s Castle; however, the crux of Cedric’s worry had not stemmed from the wounds she had suffered in that place but from her strange attack that had made her faint and sleep in agony for days afterwards. And both times when Cedric had visited her after she had woken up, she had only been tired, but not too exhausted that she could not point a gun at him or do some light work in her anteroom.
Cloudia hadn’t looked like death as she did now.
The bed had been crafted of dark wood and elaborately carved and engraved. The blankets and pillows were in rich jewel tones, deep greens and purples, and embroidered with intricate flower patterns. The entire room was rich in colours, from the carpet and wallpapers to the furniture and décor.
Only Cloudia was devoid of any, as if all colours had bled out of her with her blood: Her dark hair had dulled, and it clung like dried ink to the pillows. Her skin was impossibly pale, almost translucent. Her eyes, usually a brilliant blue, now seemed black. Her presence was normally so sharp, so hard; now, her contours seemed to have been smudged, and she nearly faded into the pillows behind and the blankets above her.
It was such a surreal sight. To see his strong, lively Cloudia lying in that bed, looking so small, so pale, so endlessly fragile and frail.
Cedric hesitated at the door; he only dared to move when she lifted her right arm, beckoning him to her. He sat down on the chair placed at her side, clasped her right hand in his left one. Something inside him cooled, cracked, shattered when he felt how cold she was, when he noticed how small her hand seemed within his.
But, at the same time, I was overcome with warmth and joy, that I could hold her, be with her, still.
Cedric wanted to speak but both his mouth and the well in his mind within which words lay had dried out suddenly, so it was Cloudia who broke the silence first, not him.
“Am I dead yet?” she asked, the thinness of her voice and her chosen words sending a jolt through his body.
“No, you are alive, Countess,” Cedric replied, swallowing the “still” that tried to find its way into his speech.
“Then I must be dreaming,” Cloudia continued, and a small smile appeared on her lips. “Your hair looks clean.”
For a moment, Cedric was too stunned to speak. Then, he broke out into laughter. It was such a raw laugh, easing most of his mind at once, pushing the unease he had felt all night, all day long away with one fell swoop. Like sunshine after rain, or a flower blooming between cobblestones.
Cedric carefully squeezed her hand. “It looks clean because it is clean. I washed it thoroughly today, Countess.”
“To spook me?”
“No, to show you how it is meant to look.” With his free hand, he tugged on his ponytail, now shining silver, not dull grey. “Because I never did before, and I wanted you to know.”
Slight unease prickled in the back of his neck, and Cedric gently circled his thumb over Cloudia’s hand to soothe both him and her. “Countess, I am so…”
“Don’t,” Cloudia said quietly but firmly. Immediately, his sentence broke apart. “Don’t tell me that. Tell me instead: Why did you want me to know? About your hair?”
“Because you’ve told me so much of yourself, but I have never told you of me.”
“Because I’ve never told anyone, and I cannot imagine telling anyone but you.”
“Because I could not bear to lose you before I had found the strength to lay myself bare to you.”
The words were lying heavily on my tongue, but they all tasted wrong. Not like me, not like us.
Instead, I said…
“Countess, do you want to hear a fairy tale?”
Cloudia tilted her head slightly to the side, mustered him through dark eyes. She squeezed his hand. “Yes,” she said, and he began to speak.
***
Somewhere, England, Kingdom of Great Britain – March 1731
“It has been so long, but I still remember every detail of that day.
“The greyness of the sky, typical for England in spring. A grey, clear sky and meadows shining green and purple and yellow because the crocuses and daffodils were coming out, replacing the snowdrops of February.
“And I was sitting in such a field, on a little stool with an uneven leg, weaving basket after basket.”
Cedric Rossdale hated nothing more in life than braiding baskets, except sitting in front of a potter’s wheel, trying to form something worthwhile out of the clay and mostly dirtying and often ruining his clothes in the process. And having to sit in the marketplace all day. And standing next to his mother when they were out, and she was talking for “only one minute, only for one more minute” with an acquaintance.
However, out of all things, he hated seeing his parents put their heads together and whisper to each other, attempting to be secretive but being unable to fully conceal their concerned expressions and rushed voices, the most. Thus, Cedric kept on making basket after basket with a grumpy expression on his face.
The air was cool, and wind swept over the meadow, brushing against the blossoming flowers and his baskets, the assembled ones and the ones still in pieces. Cedric did not like doing this work while wearing gloves – they irritated him as he could not braid the willow rods precisely enough with them; and even if they wouldn’t hinder his work, he had worn through his last pair this past winter anyway. The snow had been so thick this time around; it had been an impossibility to stay inside. Cedric had not even minded the loss much then; after all, the beginning of spring was around the corner, and the first flowers had already popped out of the ground. It would grow warm, and gloves wouldn’t be necessary anymore. Now, as if to spite him personally, the air was so icy Cedric actually wished for once to wear gloves while weaving wicker baskets.
Annoying weather was one of the things he hated too. As was boredom. He had been sitting here alone for about an hour now. The braiding of baskets was a necessary activity, yes, but a painfully boring one too. Unless he had to figure out a solution because he had accidentally made a mistake and only noticed several rows too late, it was a mostly mindless activity after all.
Just as Cedric finished another basket, he heard the steps for which he had waited all along. He looked up, saw her running and waving, her short silver braid freeing itself from her bonnet as she dashed across the field.
“I had barely anyone to talk to those days. I played with other children my age when I encountered them on fields, courtyards, and marketplaces, though I did not really consider any of them my friends. My parents were a little wary of us interacting with others and wanted us to keep a certain distance from people, so it was mostly just my father, my mother, me…
“… and my older sister Cesca.”
***
Cloudia pressed Cedric’s hand once more. He smiled thinly at her before he continued.
***
“Cesca was my senior by three years. She was always dreaming, her mind drifting away to worlds of her own imagination and her body making her wander through all the fields of the area to see whether they were not true after all. It was difficult to catch her once she was outside. But no matter how far she ventured, how unknown the terrain, she would always find her way back home. Her clothes dirtier and her hair more windblown than when she left, but still smiling, always smiling.
“It was as if the outside was tugging on my sister, beckoning her to it. This usually meant that she would avoid her responsibilities to follow this call.”
“Ced! Ced!” Cesca yelled, her smile particularly bright against the backdrop of the grey sky. “There you are! I was looking for you!”
“Cesca,” Cedric said when she finally reached him, breathing heavily but still beaming. “Your braid has come loose.”
Cesca blinked in surprise and reached up, touching the now-loose curls that brushed against her shoulders and running her fingers through them. “I think I lost my hair ribbon,” she said. “Well, it can’t be helped then…”
Cedric procured a piece of string from his pocket and held it out to her. “Here, you go, Ces.”
Cesca looked at it for a moment before she took it with a sigh.
“Cesca took after our father – same face shape, same nose, same brown eyes, same beauty mark beneath the left one – while I took after our mother. Our hair, however, we both inherited from Mother; it was the only feature we shared, and my sister’s favourite physical trait of hers.
“‘We have hair like moonlight,’ she would often say in a dreamy voice. ‘Like out of a fairy tale.’
“If our mother hadn’t been so against it, she would wear it long and loose like other girls her age all the time. It pained her that she could not, but she understood why – not that it always prevented her from trying to break this rule.”
Cesca took off her bonnet and handed it to Cedric before she straightened her tousled hair with her fingers, the silver strands glinting even in the pale, weak light, and swiftly plaited it. Then, she put her bonnet back on again and shoved the braid into it.
With another sigh, Cesca let herself fall into the grass. Cedric nudged some of the willow rods towards her.
“I’m sorry for not helping out earlier,” she began and grabbed some of the rods and one of Cedric’s finished bases. “I saw a few white feathers earlier and... Do you remember the ‘Singing, Springing Lark,’ Ced? The feathers reminded me of that tale, and I could not help myself but to follow that trail – and then, it suddenly got so late! At least, I always find you so quickly; I could get to you in no time afterwards at least, but I am still terribly sorry. Were you terribly bored, Ceddie?”
Before Cedric could say anything, Cesca’s eyes fell to his hands. Suddenly, she sat up straighter with a jolt and started to search in her pockets, turning them inside out. “Aha!” Cesca exclaimed when she discovered a pair of threadbare gloves. With a smile on her face, she leaned forward and slipped the gloves on her little brother’s hands.
“It’s awfully cold today, is it not?” she asked, still smiling, and took Cedric’s hands in hers, rubbing them. “But that is England, I’m afraid. I heard there are places where it’s warm, really, truly warm, in March already, and places where it is warm all the time. I wonder how these places might be like; they sound like a dream, but dreams can be strange, can’t they? I had the weirdest one last night, I’m sure, but I barely remember it now. It’s such a pity, I would have loved to tell you all about it, Cedric.”
Cesca patted Cedric’s hands. “Now, they should be all warm again. Where were we?”
Cedric hesitated. “I’m sorry, Ces,” he said, doing his best to sound sheepish and embarrassed. “I forgot the ‘Singing, Springing Lark.’”
She chuckled. “That’s okay! I just tell it to you again.” Cesca then began to weave a basket and the story at once, beginning with “Once upon a time, there was a man who was about to set forth on a long journey…”
“There was little I hated more than basketry, and there was little I loved more than to hear my sister’s laughter while she told me one of her beloved fairy tales.”
***
“Together, and with Cesca’s fairy tales keeping the boredom at bay, we were soon finished. It was a bit of a struggle to carry all the baskets home, but I didn’t mind. Every time, one of the baskets slipped from our hands, I couldn’t even find the time to be annoyed because Cesca would immediately laugh and pick it up again.”
“When we arrived home, we stored the wicker baskets away, washed up, and went to prepare dinner.”
Cooking was a pain in every way. Peeling, washing, chopping, lighting a fire… it was all so very tedious, and yet another activity Cedric disliked, though he, of course, knew the necessity and importance of it all. Sometimes, necessary things are very, very annoying, Cedric thought as he chopped up some carrots for the stew. At least, they were inside now where it was wonderfully warm and not windy at all. Cesca had set up a fire while he had been washing up, and it was now crackling in the background.
Soon, all ingredients were prepared and put into a pot to be hung over the fire, and the aroma of stew began to fill the air. And as if they had been able to smell it, Cedric and Cesca’s parents returned home not long afterwards.
“My parents’ names were Cordelia and Jem. Father was a musician, owning a violin that had been passed down his family for a few generations. It was old but lovingly preserved and still sounded heavenly. He would play in town squares, fill-in for absent orchestra members, and provide music for small theatrical plays; once, he had even played for a nobleman and his wife. Still, he liked it best to play at home for his family. He did it that day; he finished his meal first and then fetched his violin to play us a song while we ate.
“Mother made all sorts of things to sell at the marketplace: baskets and ceramics, jam and clothing, depending on availability and feasibility. She would also occasionally help out as a kitchen maid at the manor of the rich merchant that lived up on the hill. She was allowed to take some of the leftovers home, not because the merchant was kind but because he was not, and his wife wanted to exert little acts of revenge and rebellion. Sometimes, the food my mother brought home could not be described as ‘leftovers’ anymore; last Christmas, the merchant’s wife handed out entire roasted chickens to the staff until she ran out of them. That day, Mother had been up on the hill again and returned with half a cake which was one of the rarest, most coveted leftovers she could get.
“Except for the grey sky and the cold temperature outside, it had been a perfect day.”
“Until the knock came, at least.”
Cesca had only just made her song request, “Lavender’s Blue,” when they heard a rapping at the door. They rarely received visitors and especially not so late in the evening which made the knock a very odd occurrence indeed. Cedric instinctively turned to look at his sister; just as he had thought, her brown eyes were sparkling with anticipation. She must be spinning through some possibilities in her head about who their late visitor could be and why they had come too.
Jem and Cordelia exchanged a brief glance before he set his violin carefully into its case and went to open the door and go outside to speak with their visitor there. Cedric’s mother was definitely straining to listen to what was being said. Cedric was doing that too; he could not make out any of the words though. Abruptly, Cordelia rose from the table and signalled Cesca to take Cedric and retreat to their room. Cedric knew that Cesca would have loved nothing more than to remain and find out what was going on, but he also knew that she knew that this particular order had to be followed without any questions and without protest.
Cedric had already moved towards their room on his own when Cesca reached him; still, she clasped her hand in his and pulled him the rest of the way, quietly and carefully closing the door behind them.
It was a small room; it provided just enough space for two beds and one commode that held their belongings and atop which rested a bowl with water. They crawled beneath Cesca’s bed, went so far back until their feet touched the wall. There, they stayed in silence, muffled voices reaching them through the thin walls.
Cedric soon began to shiver. Their bedroom was not heated unlike the main room, and the floor was cool, its coldness pressing against and reaching through the worn fabric of his clothes. But it was not the cold alone that made him shiver.
“Like Cesca, my mother wore her hair shoulder-long, braided it, and tucked it carefully under her bonnet or cap. 18 years before, my mother had left her home with nothing connecting her to it besides her silver, moonlit hair and a ring she kept on a string and wore close to her heart.”
“The day my parents were wed was an odd one, particularly because they had been complete strangers then. Nevertheless, whenever they would tell my sister and me that story, they would take each other’s hands and smile fondly at each other.”
“My mother was born Cordelia Larissa Towers, the younger child of a duke. She was born into a family of great wealth and power, never having to fear or need for anything. She wore the finest clothes, ate the most luscious dishes, saw the most dazzling places, danced at Queen Anne’s court… Cesca liked listening to Mother’s stories from her previous life even though Mother was mostly reluctant to part with any. She would always say that these stories were too old and felt strange as they did not quite belong to her anymore; they belonged to a version of her that could never be restored.
“She had an older brother, Kristopher. They grew up very close although he was six years older than her. They were each other’s best friends and support through boring social gatherings and dark, tearful nights alike.
“And then he died, suddenly and horribly, a week before his scheduled wedding day.”
“It had been a terrible accident; my mother’s brother, my uncle, had died trying to save another, and his death threw my mother’s family into great grief and disarray. For a few years, my grandfather had not been doing well financially. Kristopher’s wedding had been arranged with a rich heiress to save the family from ruin. His untimely death shattered these plans, and in its aftermath, my grandfather became obsessed with trying to find a wealthy match for my mother as well.
“Only she was still mourning her brother and had no mind for marriage then. Her father tried to be kind by allowing her to choose from a set of suitors he had hand-selected, but she rejected them all and behaved so badly in their vicinity that they did not want her anymore either. With every rejection, my grandfather became angrier and angrier until, in his rage and his grief, he decided that if his daughter did not wish to be married well by ‘choice,’ she should be married poorly by force.”
***
“Your grandfather was a bastard,” Cloudia said, making Cedric smile. “Did you ever have to meet him?”
“No, I never did, and I’m glad for it.”
***
“My father had passed their manor by chance that day. And when my grandfather heard him play his violin, he invited him inside and made him marry my mother. My father went along with it because he was threatened and because he had realised that it might be better for my mother to be away from home, if home was like that. They were wed under duress, and my mother was kicked out of the only home and life she had ever known.
“Together, my parents returned to my father’s hometown where he explained to her that they did not have to remain married. Just because they were married against their will, they did not have to stay together against it as well. Divorce was an expensive impossibility, so they could merely go their separate ways, hiding the fact that they were ever wed. However, because my mother’s entire life had just been upturned, and she had no one but this stranger, she asked if she could stay with him for now. My father agreed, and they lived as married housemates for a while.”
“During that time, my mother tried to reach out to her friends, or to the people she believed to have been that. As she was now a poor fiddler’s wife, they ignored her. Only her Italian friend after whom my mother eventually named my sister answered her letters and offered support. She would update Mother about her father who had since understood the gravity of his actions and tried to get his daughter back. My mother, however, refused. While living together as mere housemates, my parents had fallen in love with each other and got married again on their terms. They moved away to get away from my grandfather; solely my mother’s best friend knew about their location, and she never handed it out to anyone.”
“My grandfather died when I was a baby. He had been able to regain his wealth in the years between; still, he had died as a broken and sad creature all alone.
“From her friend, Mother had heard of her father’s passing – and of his will too. He had left everything to her. The properties, the money, the title too. My mother never went to claim any of it, but she did not renounce it either. She also knew from her friend that her distant cousins were looking for her to convince her to return and give them the chance to get their hands on the family inheritance, either by forcing her to renounce her claim or by marriage. Hence, we kept on moving, kept mostly to ourselves, and kept our hair colour – the trait that revealed us as members of the ducal Towers family – hidden.”
Cesca took her brother’s hand, breaking him out of his anxious reverie. “Do you want to hear a fairy tale?” she whispered.
Cedric blinked at her and nodded.
“Once upon a time,” Cesca began, keeping her voice low and her grip tight. Cedric closed his eyes. “Once upon a time, there was a man and a woman who wished for nothing else as dearly as they wished for a child, and when their wish was finally fulfilled, they were overcome with joy. The pair lived across a witch who possessed a garden where she grew the most beautiful flowers and herbs…”
Eventually, they fell asleep under the bed, telling and listening to stories. It was still dark outside when their parents entered their room, gently pulled them out of their hiding place and woke them up. Or, rather, they had to wake Cedric up who always slept deeper than his sister and was not as animated by curiosity; Cesca, on the other hand, had woken up the instant Cordelia and Jem had come in. Thus, it was her, not Cedric, who asked, “Who was that at the door? What’s going on?” when they had all returned to the kitchen table.
Jem and Cordelia exchanged a quick glance before he began to speak, and she pressed her lips into a thin line.
“As it turned out, my mother was not the only one of my parents with noble lineage. My father had never known his father and had solely been raised by his mother. He, we, did not even bear his father’s surname.
“My father had been born as James Brennan. When my parents had decided to marry properly, they had also chosen to discard their surnames – Towers and Brennan – for another so that it would be harder for my mother’s relatives to find them. At the same time, they did not want to pick a completely unrelated surname. In the end, they settled on ‘Rossdale’ which came from my maternal grandmother’s maiden name ‘Rosendale.’”
“The man at the door had come to tell Father about his father: He had been a gentleman of the gentry and had died nearly a year before. Although he had had three legitimate sons, they had all predeceased them. Thus, he had to acknowledge in his will that he had had a son out of wedlock with Willa Morgan, a scullery maid, who would inherit everything and become his successor. Because Father had changed his surname, the man, the executor of my grandfather’s will, had only been able to find us now, with great strain and effort.
“Cesca’s eyes had grown wider with every word, whereas I had only grown more worried with each one. Our parents told us they did not know what to do yet; they wanted to verify the correctness of the information that was given to them first. Father would search through the belongings his mother had left behind for anything that could support this claim, and they would meet with the executor to check the will too.”
“We went to bed long past midnight. When my mother tugged me in and kissed my forehead, all I could focus on was the worry and reluctance that were etched into her face and eyes and that she had failed to hide.
“I thought about that still when my eyes grew heavy and I drifted into sleep, with my sister’s excited whispers in my ear.”
***
“In the end, it all turned out to be true. My father’s father had been part of the gentry and had indeed willed him everything. My parents had seen the written will and been briefly to the manor; apparently, a painting hung there of my grandfather, and his resemblance to my father was uncanny enough to confirm the blood relation. Father had also discovered an old diary of my grandmother’s; while she had never written down my grandfather’s name or occupation, the vague details and the given timeline fit with everything the executor of the will provided.
“Afterwards, my parents sat down and talked long and thoroughly about what to do next. Their whispers reached through the thin walls of our home, allowing Cesca to listen a little and preventing me from sleeping. In the end, it was decided not to accept the inheritance. We were doing well enough without it, and my mother had her reservations about re-entering that world, even if it was a significantly lower “tier” than she had been born into. Cesca was sad but understanding at the news, but I knew that she was hoping that our parents would change their minds.
“The executor was hoping the same. He did not allow Father to sign away his inheritance and kept pestering us.”
***
Somewhere, England, Kingdom of Great Britain – May 1731
“Nevertheless, the king had not been content yet. Thus, he brought the miller’s daughter to an even larger room filled to the brim with straw and told her that she must, yet again, spin all that straw into gold throughout the night; if she does, he will take her as his wife and queen, but if she does not, he will take her life, like he had threatened her that very first night.
“That night, the girl wept again, though harder than before as she had not nothing to offer to the little man anymore if he were to arrive and help her out again. This night, she thought, will be my last one. When the little man appeared once more, offering to spin the straw in the room into gold, the miller’s daughter told him that she had nothing to give him in exchange. To her surprise, he did not leave but said, ‘Then promise me, after you are queen, that you will give me your first child.’ The miller’s daughter agreed, both because she was afraid of death and because one could never know what life might bring her; she might never bear a child at all…”
Cesca’s words wove through the air as Cedric and his sister were sitting in the field braiding wicker baskets again. The sky had lost its greyness today and shone in a brilliant, clear blue. The sun was hanging high; its light warm enough that Cedric and Cesca did not need gloves or even jackets today. With their fingers warmed by sunshine and fairy tales keeping them company, they went through the willow in record time.
When they were done, they picked up all their freshly made baskets and brought them home. This time, Cedric only dropped one basket on the way; Cesca still laughed and picked it up immediately as she always did.
Their mother was already home when they returned. The merchant and his wife were not in residence; they rarely were in May and in the months afterwards because of the Season that drew the nobility and gentry away from the countryside to London like birds of passage. This meant that the great manor up the hill was largely empty for these months and did not require any extra hands. It also meant no extra food or rare slices of cake which saddened and upset Cedric, though he did his best not to let this show. After all, ever since the day his grandfather’s, the gentry gentleman’s, executor had knocked on their door, the air at their home had shifted. That man did not want to leave them alone, and no one could understand why. Cedric’s parents were currently considering moving which saddened and upset Cedric too. After all, they had been here for nearly three years, the longest they had ever stayed in one place.
“Lunch isn’t ready yet,” said Cordelia after giving each of her children a kiss on the head. “You can go outside and play until it is; only don’t go too far away, please, my loves.”
Cedric and Cesca nodded before they rushed out of the door. They headed to the back of their little house. They did not have a garden – there was no one who had the time to tend to it – but there was lots of open space that was fantastic for running around and playing. On one of her expeditions a few days ago, Cesca had found a ball and brought it home. It was a bit worn but still intact, and after a quick clean, it looked almost new.
Cesca and Cedric kicked the ball around, threw it to each other, let it bounce on the ground which did not work well because of the ball’s material and the ground’s unevenness; nonetheless, it was fun to try. Cedric’s sister giggled throughout it all.
“Ced! Catch this!” Cesca called and kicked the ball, albeit a little too hard. It flew up high and far, and Cedric and Cesca watched its trajectory with stunned faces. The ball had been impossible to catch, of course. When it finally reached the ground, it kept on rolling, and Cedric ran after it to retrieve it. He closed the distance between himself and the ball fairly quickly and he was only one, two steps away from getting it…
… when the ground beneath him gave away.
For a moment, time stood still, and he was hovering in the air. Then, time and gravity returned, pulling Cedric down harshly. He hit walls and walls as he descended, rotated a little too as he did. Only when he reached the ground and stopped falling, he could even try to figure out what had just happened to him and where he was.
Cedric looked up; even this simple movement brought about great pain. He must have cuts and bruises all over his body, agony was radiating from his right leg and his left arm, and his head was spinning. He had been so focused on the ball that he had not seen the hole in front of him and promptly fallen in.
“Ced, Ceddie – Cedric!” He heard his sister’s panicked voice mere moments before he saw her face. Wide-eyed and pale-faced, Cesca gazed down at him, the bright May sun making her silver hair shine; she must have lost her bonnet in the hurry to get to him.
“Cedric!” Cesca exclaimed. “Are you okay?”
“I–” Cedric shifted a little and winced. “I’m alive, but…”
“Don’t worry! I need to leave you alone for a moment, please don’t panic, will you, Ced? Ced – I am sorry… I am so sorry… I… I will only leave for a moment to go and get Mama and…” Without finishing her sentence, Cesca vanished from the hole above, leaving Cedric all alone below.
“It took hours and the help of several villagers to get me out of the hole safely because I had been too hurt to grab a rope and climb up and because the pit was too narrow and too deep for anyone to pull me up or to come down to help me. They had to carefully dig their way to me, digging around the hole to make it larger without collapsing it by accident and burying me alive.
“It was a great victory, and nothing short of a miracle, for everyone involved when I was finally out of the hole. I was bombarded with hugs and met with many tears. My rescue could not be immediately celebrated though: I had broken my right leg and my left arm in the fall, and our physician was in the next village over and unable to return just yet. I was bandaged up by others as best as they could and put in my bed. My parents stayed at my side all night long; my sister had too until sleep had overtaken her.”
“The next day, by noon, the physician returned to our village and came to see me. However, he was neither a bone-setter nor a surgeon, and my ailment was out of his expertise. My father, who was well-connected because of his occupation, asked around until he found a bone-setter – but he was asking for a sum so high we could not afford it. Meanwhile, I had developed a fever and was getting worse with every day.”
“Thus, when my grandfather’s executor of will knocked on our door again, my parents decided to make a deal with the devil.”
***
Cedric closed his eyes, the fear and the anger and the guilt from all these years ago hitting him like a tidal wave. It was as if it had happened yesterday, not when he was eleven years old: the broken bones, the scalding fever, being lifted into a carriage that would take him away from the little house that had been his home to a manor that was too big, too cold, too far away…
Cloudia squeezed his hand, pulling the wave back ever so slightly. He opened his eyes again, looked into hers that were so dark and without shine but, nonetheless, full of steadfast reassurance. After one more moment of silence, Cedric took up the thread again and continued.
***
“I could not tell you how much time had passed between the knock and the breaking of my fever. I only knew that I had been in my own bed when I went to sleep and found myself in a stranger’s when I awoke.
“Cesca had been at my side when I did. She had jumped up and down at the sight of me and called for someone to go fetch our parents and the doctor before she had burst into tears and told me all, though I could barely make out any of her words between her sobbing and my drowsy state.
“My mother later explained everything to me in detail, in a calm and clear voice, but with her hand tightly clutching my uninjured one: Father had taken up his inheritance so that we could afford to get a good surgeon for me. The executor of the will had been overjoyed and recommended one with glowing praise, praise that had not been misplaced, to all of our fortune. The surgeon who came from a long line of surgeons had treated me exceptionally well.
“Mother must have sensed my dread too because she added, looking right into my eyes and kissing my head, that this was a choice that had come naturally to them, one they would make a thousand times over as long as it guaranteed my, and my sister’s, safety.”
“Even after I had beat the fever, I was bed-bound for six weeks. Mother would read to me, and Father would play songs on his violin to cheer me up when they found the time. Cesca went in and out of my room all the time; she was exploring the manor and its immediate surroundings and reporting back to me in detail, her recounting of her days and descriptions of each room replacing her fairy tale recitations. And when my bones had healed and I could move again, Cesca wasted no time taking my hand and pulling me from room to room, telling me everything she had told me before but with more pointing and demonstrating. It took a few months longer until she dragged me outside to show me everything there too.”
***
Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – August 1731
Basketry and pottery had been tasks of importance; Cedric had done them not because he took great joy in the process but because he gained great relief with the result. Still, he would have never imagined that he would, one day, genuinely miss these activities, but this was exactly what he did as he stared down at the table setting in front of him.
A lot had changed in the last few months. Accepting an inheritance like Jem’s was not done and over so easily; one could not take the money and the importance and lean back and do nothing at all for the rest of their life. No, being lord of an estate meant governing it too, not just live off it. Everything had to be organised neatly and run smoothly, or everything would go off-balance and not only damage one’s standing with their vassals but jeopardise their and one’s own entire likelihood. Cedric’s father who had, obviously, never been taught how to run an estate had to learn everything rapidly and was, therefore, rarely seen by his children these days. Cordelia too had turned into a ghost who would only be seen in the morning at the breakfast table and felt at night when one was almost embraced by sleep. No matter how busy she was, she would never miss giving her children a kiss goodnight. And she was tremendously busy indeed: Because Jem did not know how to run everything yet, most of the work fell to his wife. While she had never been formally instructed in these matters either, Cordelia had grown up in these circles, had always listened intently whenever her brother had spoken about any administrative matter to her, and sometimes even snuck to read the documents herself. However, because Cordelia did not want her lineage to become public in any way – for the executor, the instructors, and the staff, she was nothing but a mere commoner who had “made a lucky marriage” – she had to hide her input and her work which was tiresome work in itself too.
And though Cedric could not understand the fuss about all these different types of cutlery – would one knife, one spoon, one fork not be enough? Why the many variations? –, he still did his best to study the setting. It did not bring him any personal joy, but like making pots and weaving baskets, it relieved his parents which was enough motivation for him. This was a difficult time of change for them all; Cedric could not be the only one who would be left behind or even contribute to making this time even more difficult than it already was.
Thus, when the teacher asked about which piece of cutlery was used for what, Cedric rattled everything down what he had learned. Having been bedridden for weeks had been useful for one thing at least. Cesca had brought him new reading material whenever he had finished his last, and Cedric had been stunned that the well of books would not dry up; the books came and came without end. What place is this that holds so many books? he had wondered. There must be more books here than in our entire old village. And so many books on etiquette alone.
Reading had never been one of Cedric’s great favourite activities either; reading etiquette books in particular was a special kind of boring, but it was, yet again, another task of importance and necessity. Therefore, he did it without complaint. Cesca, on the other hand, had not even finished one of those books.
She was sitting opposite Cedric on this long table, with an identical table setting spread out in front of her. The teacher asked her questions too, though Cesca strained to answer half of them and found none at all for the other half. Her eyes kept flickering to the grand windows, to the outside that must be beckoning her. Cedric wished he could help her, whisper the correct answers to her; he would have done so if they had not been seated so far apart. In a classroom of two, cheating was already difficult enough.
Eventually, the teacher let them go with a sigh and a scolding for Cesca to brush up on her studies. Cesca smiled brightly at him before she jumped out of her chair – this resulted in yet another sigh and scolding – and went to take Cedric’s hand, dragging him out of the room and out of the manor and into the sunshine.
“I don’t know what the fuss is about,” Cesca said when they sat down under a big tree in their even bigger garden. Cedric still could not believe that this grand place was all theirs. He and Cesca kept stumbling over nooks and crannies they had not seen before in the three-story manor, and Cedric knew that his sister hadn’t left the perimeter of their garden yet – possibly for the same reason too. Exploring the orchard alone had eaten an entire afternoon. Cedric did not even dare to fathom how large the rest of their estate was when their personal home was already so vast.
“It’s just cutlery. Mama said we would not attend any dinner parties anytime soon too. I would be more eager to learn if we were invited to one, but well… What does it all matter if it is just us?” Cesca ran her fingers through her hair, untangling some knots in the process.
“Our hair had undergone a great change as well. Because we were not living as commoners in a small village anymore, we had to follow the rules of propriety more closely. I could not wear my hair shaved close to my head anymore, and my mother and sister could not wear theirs barely shoulder-long too. And because my sister was 14, she had not quite reached the age to pin her hair up and hide it as well.
“Growing out her hair and wearing it loose, even if it was only for a few months or a year at most, had greatly excited Cesca. It had been her dream for so long, to wear her moonlit hair as she wanted. Mother, of course, did not approve. Our silver hair betrayed our Towers lineage after all; Mother’s father had not been dead nor the duchy inactive long enough for anyone to have forgotten us. Therefore, we three had to apply a poultice to our hair that dulled the moonlight silver to a shineless grey. Cesca had been upset, of course, while I had not minded. I was only a little annoyed that the poultice was difficult to wash out and apply, and I was caught off-guard every time I passed a mirror or saw my mother and sister, as we now looked so differently to before.”
“We are mannerly enough; Mama taught us well,” Cesca continued and let herself fall into the grass. Cedric was sure that he could hear some exasperated gasps from maids in the distance. “We do not burp. We do not eat with our feet. We know to hold our food in honour, to not waste any and eat well and gratefully. Isn’t that what is important? I’m sure plenty of people do not know what a fish fork looks like and they still do perfectly well…”
Cedric nodded. “I know, but that just seems to be the way things are done here.”
“I know but it is a stupid way nonetheless.” Cesca sighed and sat up again. She glanced back at the house where the dance instructor was looming menacingly in the doorway. “I think it is time for our next lesson, Ced,” Cesca said and jumped up. She took her brother’s hand, pulled him up, but did not let go just yet; instead, their hands remained folded together all the way back to the manor and up to the dance room.
“I am so glad,” Cesca said on the way, holding her brother’s hand tight, “that we have each other at least.”
***
“The days passed slowly and mechanically: Cesca and I had set times for everything – getting up, eating, lessons, going to sleep, even free time was pre-planned and scheduled. If Cesca had not been so hell-bound to protest this, turning every five-minute pause into a brief run outside, joking throughout lessons, slipping into my room and bed at night to tell me the stories she could not tell anymore at daytime, every day would have been the exact same.
“Summer changed into autumn. And with the fall of the leaves, something inside our home seemed to fall too.”
“The shift came gradually. I did not notice that anything was amiss right away; I was too absorbed in my studies to recognise that something had changed – was changing.”
***
Cloudia snorted.
***
“I only noticed that something must be painfully wrong at the Christmas party. It was the first social event that we would be hosting, and my parents poured their all into making it a success. The news of the party ignited something within my sister. From one day to the other, she was as studious as she had said she would be on that August day. Cesca would give her input on colours and décor too, and Mother would listen to what she said, vetoing some suggestions and implementing others.
“Our house was bustling with activity in the weeks leading up to the party. Cesca’s and my schedules were amended for it too, extending some lessons and temporarily dropping others.”
“The day of the party, we greeted the guests. They had been selected with the help of our head butler who had served my grandfather for decades and knew all these people well. Cesca and I could stay for dinner, showing off our good manners and our good conversational skills, but had to retreat to our rooms for the rest of the evening. Naturally, my sister grabbed my hand, and we hid on the mezzanine all evening, observing the guests and the happenings.
“At first glance, everything was normal. The party seemed just like one described in the countless etiquette books. Whereas my sister was focused on the guests and what they wore and did, my focus was on our parents. It was my father’s first big social event, and my mother’s first one after so long; they must be as nervous as I felt, I was sure of it. I could not read any of that on their faces though, not at first at least. Eventually, I saw shadows briefly hushing over their faces, their body language shifting ever so slightly, all while they kept on smiling and talking as if nothing was wrong.
“But I knew that something was. And that this something was not simply mere nerves, though I could not classify what it was exactly just then.”
***
Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – February 1732
After the Christmas party, everything returned to its previous rhythm. What had been their “new” normality barely a year ago had turned into normality: Getting up early in the morning to be dressed and fed for the day which was filled to the brim with lessons, some of which Cedric had with Cesca (dance, manners, history, music), others which they took separately, i.a. embroidery (Cesca) and kingcraft and hunting (Cedric). Life was strictly clocked, and eventually the events of the Christmas party – what Cedric had observed there in particular – were worn away by the mechanics of life.
Cedric threw himself into his studies and spent more time in the library than in his own room, all while something withered away within him.
He missed his sister so much, more than he had missed anything else before.
Cedric did not miss her physical presence; he saw her every day after all: She was still here, in this manor, and her room was still right next to his. Cedric missed her: He missed Cesca making grimaces at him when their teacher turned their back on them. He missed her bright smile and her jokes. He missed sitting under trees with her and running through the shrubbery in their fine clothes.
Cesca had turned 15 last month. Not only her wardrobe and her hair – from loose down to braided up – had undergone shifts – she had too. Not from one day to the next, but gradually. Her smiles and jokes grew more infrequent with every day. The outside did not seem to call to her like it used to. Cesca had changed; she had not become hard, only different in a way Cedric did not like, but knew was necessary. She was not a child anymore; some of their teachers even began speaking of her social debut.
This was how things were – should be, had to be.
At least, despite it all, Cesca was still there. She did not make him laugh anymore, but her hand was in his whenever it was possible. She did not tell him fairy tales anymore, but she still slipped into his bed at night.
Unless they got dressed or had separate lessons, they were always together.
While Cedric was not happy about the rest of the changes, he was glad about this. Like she had said all those months ago, at least they had each other.
These days, this had become even more important, for they barely saw their parents now.
At the breakfast table, it was now only just Cedric and Cesca. At night, Cedric struggled staying awake, just in case Cordelia appeared to give him a goodnight kiss, though she never did anymore. In-between, they passed each other in the passageways, exchanged quick words, small smiles. It was almost as if their parents were not living here at all.
Without Cesca’s laughter and Jem’s music drifting through the air, without all of them coming together to eat and talk and be with one another, every day was grey and bleak.
There must be a reason for this, Cedric kept telling himself. Mother and Father’s aloofness must be a necessity too, for one reason or another. They would never do this to us if it was not necessary.
With this thought circulating in his head again and playing with the ring around his neck, Cedric wandered through the manor to the library.
The ring was gold set with a see-through stone and too big on him. It had been his mother’s, and Cordelia had worn it on a cord around her neck for nearly twenty years until she had given it to Cedric on New Year’s Eve. Because the Christmas holidays had been overtaken with the party, they had decided to celebrate the holidays late but intimately on their own on December 31 instead. The New Year’s days had been the last ones on which they had all come together: They had eaten in the smallest drawing room instead of in the grand dining hall. They had exchanged gifts and stories and played games. Jem had taken out the violin which he hadn’t been able to play in months. Cesca had played it a little too so that their parents could dance as well. It had almost been as if they were back in their little village house.
Towards the end of the night, right before it was time to head to bed, Cordelia had called her son to him
“I wanted to wait until you’re older to give it to you,” she had said, “but so much has changed, and this moment is better than no other.” Cordelia had taken out the ring, polished and shining as if it were brand new. The gemstone was clear, but the lock of hair within shimmered silver. “It used to be my brother’s,” she had explained, and Cedric had perked up his ears because his mother talked so seldom about his uncle. “Albeit only very briefly. Father gave it to him a month before his wedding as he wanted to give it to him early and under joyous circumstances; it is our family ring and would have otherwise and appropriately become my brother’s upon our father’s death after all.”
Cordelia had held the ring out to Cedric then. “Now, I want to give it to you, as my son and heir, under joyous circumstances too.”
Cedric let the ring vanish under his clothes when he noticed a movement. He sighed in relief upon noticing that it was only Cesca who was coming with a rapid speed from the East Wing. Cedric frowned. She should be coming from the West Wing as she just had embroidery lessons there; what had she been doing in the East Wing? When their eyes met, Cesca slowed, and something in her face told him that this was not the first time she had done whatever she had done. Then, she had dashed away, leaving him behind, alone and confused.
A butler passed by a moment later, and when he noticed Cedric standing perplexed in the middle of the corridor, he asked, “Mr Cedric, are you all right? Pardon me, but you look a little pale – shall I prepare some tea for you?”
Cedric nodded slowly. “Yes, please, thank you. Do you mind bringing it to the library? I was on my way there.”
“I do not mind anything, Mr Cedric,” said the butler and bowed. “I will go and prepare the tea at once.”
Indeed, the butler arrived in the library not long after Cedric did. His thoughts had been so tangled, he had got a little lost inside the building for the first time in months. Cedric thanked the butler for the tea and the biscuits and dismissed him before he flipped open a book and began to read.
Cesca was waiting in the doorsill when Cedric left the library an hour later, and the rest of the day, she stuck to his side like she always did. Cedric wanted to ask what she had been up to but never voiced the question out loud. If Ces wanted me to know, he thought, she would tell me.
That evening, right after Cedric got ready for bed and the butler had vanished into the corridor, Cesca slipped into his room. They huddled together on his bed, and he put his head on her lap.
“Ceddie,” Cesca said in her soothing, melodic voice and ran her fingers gently through his hair, “do you know the fairy tale of the prince who sought immortality?”
The question, once so familiar and common, now startled Cedric. He welcomed it nevertheless as he had missed it so, his sister’s storytelling.
“I don’t,” Cedric replied, and this time it had not been a lie to make her continue. He genuinely did not know that fairy tale.
“Truly? It is my favourite, but if you don’t know it, I will tell it to you, of course, Ced,” Cesca said. Cedric closed his eyes. “There was once a prince who feared nothing more than death, and for that reason, he embarked on a journey to find immortality. He wandered through all the lands and met the king of the eagles, the bald-headed king, and the Blue Kingdom’s queen. They and their relatives were all meant to live for hundreds, even a thousand years and offered the prince to marry into their families to become as long-living as them. However, the prince only wanted true, eternal immortality and continued his journey without faltering until he found the Land of Immortality. He stayed for a thousand years which felt, to him, like mere six months.
“Then, he went to the Queen of Immortality and told her he wanted to visit his parents; he had forgotten the true passage and strength of time. Still, he insisted to go. The Queen let him go and gifted him with two flasks for his journey. The first one contained water which will bring death to anyone, whereas the second one was filled with water that will bring life to anyone. With the two flasks around his neck – silver for death, and gold for life – the prince thanked the Queen of the Immortals and went on his journey home.
“The king of the eagles, the bald-headed king, and the Blue Queen had all been cursed with longevity, but with a clear deadline: The eagle king and his family members would only be immortal until he could uproot a great tree which would take him 600 years. The bald-headed king and his family could only die in 800 years when he had managed to dig away a whole mountain, and the Queen of the Blue Kingdom, the mist-veiled queen, had to wear away a pair of needles for her and her relatives to be able to perish – a task that would take her a thousand years.
“Now, with a thousand years having passed since the prince had visited them all, they – the eagle king, the bald-headed king, and the mist-veiled queen – were now all dead. One by one, the prince revisited his old friends. One by one, he revived them with the water from the well of life, and each of them thanked him profusely for waking them up and promised to repay him one day.
“At last, the prince arrived in the kingdom where he had been born, but not only were his parents long dead, his castle was gone as well, replaced with a great sulphur lake. Saddened, the prince turned to leave – and ran into Death who had searched for him for a thousand years, but the prince was still not willing to die. Using a gift he had received on his journey to the Immortal Lands, he summoned the bald-headed king, the king of the eagles, and the mist-veiled queen of the Blue Kingdom who arrived instantaneously and seized Death.
“They were able to hold him back until the prince was almost back in the Land of Immortality. Just as he set one foot into it, Death appeared behind him and grasped his other leg. With one foot in the land of the living and the dying and the other in the land of the eternal and, thus, belonging equally in both, the Queen of Immortality and Death made a wager: She would throw the prince into the air. If he landed on her side, he would be hers forever and continue living for eternity, and if he landed on Death’s side, he would perish like he had been meant to be.
“The Queen of Immortality then flung the prince high into the air. When he descended, it seemed as if he would fall into the Land of Immortality, but then a light wind came that swayed him towards the wall. Just when the prince was about to fall over the wall and into Death’s land, the Queen grabbed him and threw him into her castle. With the prince secured, the Queen instructed her servants to cast Death out of her land; they complied and banished him with such hard blows that Death never dared to show his face again in the Land of the Immortals.”
Right after Cesca had finished talking and right before Cedric fell asleep, there was a knock at the bedroom door. Cesca gently shook her brother so that he would not sleep just now and told whoever was outside to come in. It was a maid who was bringing them some evening tea. “For good sleep,” she said as she handed out the cups with the hot brown liquid.
Cedric, his head dulled from sleepiness, nodded thankfully and received the cup with half-open eyes. He drank his tea and then rested his head on his pillow. He did not know what was with Cesca, whether she had left his room or stayed, for he soon drifted away into dreams filled with princes, queens, and death.
***
When Cedric woke up, he was not in his bed anymore. Nor in his room or in the manor, or even inside. He opened his eyes and saw the crowns of trees, brilliant green and thick with leaves in summer, now thin and skeletal against a grey, dark sky.
With a start, Cedric sat up. He had lain on a thick blanket, with another draped on him, and someone had changed him out of his night attire and into outdoor clothing. He patted his face in disbelief, pinched his side but felt pain. No, this was not a dream. He had indeed fallen asleep in his warm bed in the grand manor and awoken in the middle of a forest.
“Good, you’re awake.”
Cedric nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the voice even though he had instantly recognised it. He craned his head and spotted his sister leaning against a tree. She was dressed in thick, warm clothes as he was, and only when Cedric saw Cesca, did he notice that there was another set of blankets next to his. Cesca knelt on the discarded pile, her brown eyes as serious as he had never seen before as she stared into his. Cedric almost backed away from the intensity with which she regarded him.
“Mama and Papa brought us here,” Cesca said softly but firmly. “They put something in the tea to make us fall asleep so deeply that we would not wake up when they redressed us and carried us here.”
“But why?” asked Cedric, clutching his blanket. “Why would they do this?”
Cesca paused. “I am not sure,” she said at last. She turned her head, nodded behind them. “They left us here, close to the edge of the forest. I briefly went to check where we were, and there seems to be a village close-by.”
“Then, we should go there and enquire how to get home.”
“We don’t need to do this.” Cesca looked into Cedric’s eyes again. “I know the way back.”
Cedric stared at his sister. His wild sister who had always been drawn to the outside, to nature. His sister who had always found her way back home, no matter where she had run off to. Cedric had great faith in his sister, but she had changed since their harmonious, wandering days and had not been able to explore the area as much as she had desired in the months before. Cesca must have read the doubt in his eyes as she then opened her hand to reveal a couple of small, polished white stones.
“I collected and cleaned them beforehand,” Cesca admitted quietly. “I put them in a little pouch which I took with me when I came to your room. I hid it under a pillow, and when they were done changing my clothes and shifted their focus on you, I sneakily took the pouch and stuffed it into my pocket.”
Cedric blinked in puzzlement. “But you said the tea…”
“… was laced, yes.” Cesca looked down. “I knew beforehand and only pretended to drink it. I spit it out into a pot when the maid left the room.”
“But how did you…”
Cesca lifted her head again, and the expression in her eyes silenced Cedric at once. And at once, he understood: The faint strangeness of the Christmas party; Cesca must have noticed it too, must have noticed more than he ever did. Her change in behaviour, her increased need to be at his side.
Cesca had known this would happen one day.
That their parents would abandon them.
Cold and bile rose within Cedric, and he tightened his grip on the blanket.
Cesca leaned forward, wrapped her arms around her little brother. “It will be fine,” she whispered into his ear. “It will be fine. We will return to the manor and to our parents. It will be fine. We will be fine, Ced.”
Cedric returned the embrace, hugged his sister tight. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew that this too had to be a necessity for one reason or another.
Because any other thought, any other explanation, was too cruel to bear.
Hand in hand, Cedric and Cesca wandered through the forest, following the path of shining white stones Cesca had left behind. They did not exchange any words. There was nothing to say, nothing that could be said to make this situation more endurable. They had each other, held tight to each other. That was all the soothing they had left.
They walked and walked. Cedric could not tell for how long or how far they went. Neither the slate grey sky nor the hollowness in his stomach ever changed; they remained as unchanged as if time had ceased to move.
They passed glades and streams, heard animals rush through the woods and over the dead, frozen leaves. At no point did they ever stop, to eat, to drink, to rest. They were too anxious to do anything else but to keep moving forward.
Forward and forward and forward until…
… they reached the manor house.
And when they did, they halted at once. Stared and stared. Tightened their grip on each other.
For there was no grand manor there at all anymore.
Before them were nothing but its burned ruins.
***
Paris, Seine, France – June 1848
They held each other’s hand in silence for a while. And it was all they needed, all they wanted, all they could do, and though it seemed so little, it was more than enough.
Then, the door flew open.
As if they had been caught doing something more, Cedric quickly slipped his hand out of Cloudia’s as Kamden stepped to his sister’s side. Apart from the hair tousled from sleep, he looked the same as the last time Cedric had seen him today.
“Clou-Cloudie,” Kamden said, his voice cracking a little. “How are you?”
“Just a little tired,” Cloudia answered and glanced at Cedric. It seemed as if she wanted to say something; unfortunately, Kamden followed her gaze.
“I think it would be best if you could leave now and allow her to rest,” he said. Kamden kept the ice out of his voice but not out of his eyes.
“I will go then,” Cedric replied and got up. He reached out but ultimately refrained from patting Cloudia’s hand. “See you later, Countess,” he said, and she gave him a small, crooked smile before her eyes fluttered shut.
The door shut behind him, and Cedric was alone in the corridor again. This time, however, he felt lighter than before.
Circling his left palm with his thumb, he walked back to the bedroom he had spent the night in. He did not know if there had been any official room assignment, but that room was “his” by his own definition.
And if Cecelia was unhappy about this, she could complain to me about it.
“Not-Kristopher, do you have a moment?”
Cedric flinched before he turned to look into Cecelia’s amused, quizzical face. She was standing on the threshold to a room whose door had been closed before. Beckoning him to follow her with a wave of her hand, Cecelia vanished into the room. Cedric followed her a second later with a sigh.
He found himself in yet another drawing room, only this one was significantly larger and grander than the one downstairs.
Oscar was still there though, as was Barrington who was glaring at him from the opposite end of the parlour.
Cecelia sat down on a heavily embroidered chaise longue and clapped her hands together. “Perfect! Now, that we are all here, what did you have to say, Barrington?”
While Barrington cleared his throat, Cedric let himself drop into an armchair. He didn’t wish to stay too long with them but knew that this conversation could potentially span hours. At least, this meeting did not seem to be about room designations.
“I hope you all recall the fact that Oscar is an officially dead criminal,” Barrington began.
“Of course, and how I wish for it to be actually true,” remarked Cecelia with a sorrowful sigh.
Cedric nodded. Oscar did not even bat an eye at his colleagues’ words.
“For that reason, he cannot be around outsiders,” Barrington continued. “No one but a select few can know that he is still alive. Right now, there are several outsiders in this building. Aurèle and Jacques Beauchene, the Salisbury boy, that engineer Thibault, and that gloomy clockmaker – what was his name again…”
“Florentin Chastain,” said Cedric.
“Ah, right, Chastain. Thank you,” replied Barrington with a nod. “The Salisbury boy is still knocked out, and Chastain has hidden himself somewhere in this house, but they will wake up and come out at some point. I caught Aurèle Beauchene suspiciously eying Oscar already, and the engineer has been trying to strike conversations with Oscar, though I cannot imagine why… It’s not as if Oscar has such an inviting, friendly aura to him. Nobody has introduced Oscar to anyone, and no one is supposed to, of course, but one of these five people could overhear something and put one and one together…
“We’ve only been here for roughly a day too. It’s better to nip this in the bud as soon as possible. Because of that, I want to leave this house, and Paris too, with Oscar and Townsend and that other man today.”
Cecelia clapped her hand together again, and her brown eyes glittered as she said, “Oh, Barrington! You didn’t have to call in a meeting for this! Of course, you and Oscar are welcome to leave my house and take those pesky other troublemakers with you too! This is the best idea you have ever had.”
“I want you to accompany us too,” Barrington added after a pause.
Cecelia stared blankly at him before she burst out, “Which sane person would consider going out during this pandemonium and why on earth should I join you in this idiotic endeavour? Aren’t you a promenader, animal whisperer, town’s jester, and whatnot and perfectly capable of conducting this nonsense on your own?”
“It’s ‘veteran, world traveller, monster fighter,’ Cecelia, and I need you to come with us because you have already been to the château and are familiar with the way.”
“You have the address, you can figure it out, Mr World Traveller.”
“Why do you even want to take this unnecessary detour, Weaselton?” asked Oscar, and everyone’s attention shifted to him. “If we manage to leave Paris, we could simply head back to England immediately afterwards.”
A shudder ran through Cecelia. “I loathe to admit it, but I agree with Oscar. Why would you even want to go to the château, Barrington? If you want to take Oscar away because he should not be amongst outsiders, why bring him somewhere with even more outsiders? The Duponts are far from ordinary, but even they are not included in the meagre circle of people who are allowed to interact with Mr Yard Ripper here. Has too much promenading eroded your brain?”
Barrington scowled at her. “I would prefer to pack Oscar in a box and send him back to England by post. Unfortunately, this would only spook the post officers and the unfortunate individual who would get to open the package at Phantomhive Manor. I also cannot leave him alone here or elsewhere, and the Marquis has, even more unfortunately, very kindly asked me, his darling nephew’s best friend, to visit if I am already in France. I cannot just return to England with Oscar and Townsend and that other man without seeing him. The Marquis might be a hundred years old, but he is terrifying, and I doubt I would live to see the next week if I turned down his very kindly asked request.”
“I propose to do both: We send Oscar by post, and you return to England immediately with Townsend and his accomplice. Oscar suffocates in the box, you get lynched by an ancient Frenchman, and I finally get my peace. This sounds like a plan.” Cecelia turned to Cedric, smiling. “What is your stance, Not-Kristopher?”
“It would be nice if you all were to leave,” he said, the words falling out of him unbound.
Cecelia’s smile slipped from her face. Barrington laughed. “See, Cecelia? It’s best if we all…” He frowned. “Wait, wait. Kristopher, are you implying that you don’t like us? I can understand Cecelia and most definitely Oscar, but why me? What did I do? Why don’t you like me?”
Cecelia chuckled. “I do not appreciate you wanting to throw me out of my own house, Not-Kristopher,” she said, “but I will let it slide this time only because you have upset Barrington so deliciously.” She smoothed her skirt. “I still won’t go though.”
“Cecelia…” Barrington began.
“I also agree,” Oscar said suddenly, cutting him off and looking right at Cecelia, “for you to accompany us, Williams, even if to spare us all a headache. You should be well-aware that Weaselton will whine about this for the next few hours if you do not agree to come at once.”
“I don’t whine,” Barrington mumbled.
Cecelia held Oscar’s gaze for a moment before she sighed. “I feel so dirty to have to agree with you twice within minutes. I will take a quick bath first before we leave.” She rose from her seat. “If you impose this nonsense journey on us all, then the task of preparing a carriage should fall on you, Barrington,” Cecelia said with a glare. “You can find the carriages and horses in the back, and do not damage the carriage Michael’s great-great-great-great-grandaunt’s first husband gifted her for their third anniversary which was their last one before he was run over by that exact carriage.”
Without another word, Cecelia strode out of the drawing room.
“And how on earth am I meant to know which one is that carriage?” Barrington asked into the room.
Cedric shrugged, whereas Oscar walked past them both in silence and left the room too.
“I’ll then make my leave as well…” Cedric said and heaved himself out of the armchair.
“Wait a moment, Kristopher,” Barrington then said and walked towards him. He mustered him from the top to the bottom and back. “How are you doing? You have seen Dia, right?”
“Do you even know how close to dying Cloudia was?” Kamden’s angry voice suddenly boomed in his head, and Cedric could not help himself but tense up. “She survived last night, but what guarantee do I have, does she have, that she survives this day too? This night too? And the following ones as well?”
“Are you sure you’re fine?” Barrington enquired with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t…”
“I am,” Cedric replied firmly. “I am fine enough. The Countess is alive; that is what counts.”
Barrington pressed his lips into a grim line. “Very well, Kristopher,” he said slowly. “Isn’t there something else you want to tell me?”
Cedric blinked at him. “About what I said earlier? That I would be glad if you were all gone?”
Barrington frowned. “What? No…” He paused. “Maybe, but not now. Is there nothing else apart from that you want to say? Ask? Anything?”
“No, why?”
“‘No’? I highly…” Barrington’s eyes suddenly widened, and he ran a hand over his face. “I suppose that was too close to your departure,” he said dryly. “We will talk at a later date. Now, I suppose, I must ready a carriage and try not to damage another… Oh, and if you see Kam, do you mind telling him to come and see me immediately? I haven’t been able to check on him yet, or even see him, and I worry about that boy.”
With that, Barrington left too. Cedric stared after him for a moment, wondering what he had been talking about – maybe Barrington’s nerves were terribly frayed too? – before he stepped into the passageway himself. Newman nodded at Cedric before he disappeared into Cloudia’s room with a tray holding a teapot and cups. From somewhere, he could faintly hear Aurèle sharpening his knives, and Jacques’ little jittery voice rattling on about birds. Elsewhere, Florentin was hiding from everyone, and Quentin was apparently still here too.
There were many ways and places to get a fresh headache, whereas there was only one to avoid one.
On other days, Cedric might have turned left and headed to his room, just like he had intended from the start.
Today, he turned right and climbed the stairs down to the ground floor.
For the third time today, Cedric walked to the small drawing room at the back of the townhouse. However, when he entered the last corridor that led to it, he made himself unseen and unheard to the world around him. With his presence and the sounds of his steps swallowed, Cedric planted himself right by the threshold to the small parlour and looked inside.
Milton was still asleep, resting serenely on the sofa. It would have made a peaceful picture if Oscar had not been hovering at his side. He looked like a spectre, a wraith, as he stood there, tall and dark, gazing down at Milton with an expressionless face. When Oscar then lifted his hand, Cedric almost thought that he would place it on Milton’s head, run it through his golden hair, but Oscar only adjusted his blanket as part of it had slid down; Milton must have moved in his slumber.
Cedric retreated into the corridor, swiftly turning himself visible and hearable again, when Oscar turned to leave the room a moment later. To Cedric’s surprise, Oscar stopped in front of him and did not just quietly pass by.
“Let him sleep awhile longer. It’s still too early for him to awaken,” Oscar said with an oddly soft voice before he left him behind in the hall.
***
~Cloudia~
Pain radiated from the wound on my abdomen through my entire body when I woke up. It pulsed through it, filling each blink with lead, each gasp with shards, and each of my veins with ice.
I was so cold. I was so tired.
I did not immediately realise that the room was filled with silver light trailing softly through the windows. It took so long for my eyes to adjust and for my brain to register what I was seeing.
It took a moment longer until I realised that my hand was warm, and another until I understood that someone was holding it.
I strained to crane my head sideways.
Kam was sitting beside my bed, his head rolled to the side, a blanket covering his body, and his hand covering mine.
There was someone, something, at the top of my bed too.
It was hard to see, hard to think, when the room was so bright with moonlight and one’s body was made of ice and lead.
I felt so light. I felt so heavy.
It was hard to keep my eyes open and to see…
… hair, white in this light.
… eyes, green so bright.
I wanted to speak but could not.
My tongue was too heavy. My body too weak.
I hated this. I hated this.
I felt so cold.
So, so cold.
Something was pressed against my mouth. A flask with glittering liquid.
“Do not worry,” said the voice. “All will be well.”
There was a clock in this room. He could not tell where it was; all he knew was that its ticking reverberated through the entire room, echoing through the walls, the furniture, the ground, and pulsing through the air.
The clock hands were moving, gliding over the clock face with every second, every minute, every hour with a soft, deafening tick, tick, tick.
All while his time had frozen still.
He could not move; he could not think. His limbs were lead; his mind congealed.
He could not tell whether he was holding her hand or whether she was holding his. Was he anchoring her, or was she anchoring him? He only knew that their hands were clutched together, that she wasn’t answering him, that her chest was weakly moving up and down, and that the tick, tick, tick was engulfing everything, even eclipsing the havoc outside.
And that he did not know what to do.
She was bleeding out on a table, and he had no idea what to do.
A scream broke through the unrelenting ticking; it did not come from outside, but from within, beckoning him to do something do something do something…
But he was frozen still. They were in an empty café who-knew-where in Paris. There were no medical kits. There was no help. He didn’t know the way to anywhere. And his mind was blank besides the scream, the scream that was getting louder and louder, but there was nothing here that could help…
Except…
Except…
Cedric tightened his grip on Cloudia’s hand as the ice shattered around, reached for her pocket as the world came back.
The receiver.
Cloudia had never returned the receiver and had only retrieved Yvette’s transmitter, not Townsend’s. It must still be on his body – which was now being taken to Cecelia’s house.
Cedric held his breath as he let the screen flare to life and only exhaled when he saw the blinking stationary dot – and the blinking moving one.
Milton had said that the range of his transmitters and his receiver was not much, even with the supplementary stations Quentin had set up, and Cedric and Cloudia had separated from the others so long ago. Still, one dot was dancing over the screen, in a messy zigzag but clearly visible, clearly there. And showing them the way to safety, to help.
“Countess,” Cedric said and squeezed Cloudia’s hand, energy floating back into his body. “Please hang on. I will get you to help; I only need you to hang on.”
She stirred softly in response, and his heart ached at the sight. The pain deepened when Cedric let go of her hand, the loss of her touch sending a cold shock through his system even though their hands could not have been clasped together for that long. With newfound strength, Cedric shuffled hastily through the cabinets and drawers again, procuring some towels at least. He held one of them beneath the tap but an image of blood running, running, running into water blurred his vision momentarily when he reached for the handle. He pulled his hand back instead, turned to Cloudia, pressed the dry towel to her wound, and wrapped others around her. They made poor makeshift bandages, especially on a gaping wound, but it was better than nothing.
Cedric glanced at the receiver beside Cloudia. Townsend’s dot still hadn’t disappeared from the screen, but there was no time to waste; it was only a question of time until it did – just like it was a question of time until Cloudia…
Cedric shook his head free of the thought.
No, no, no.
With the receiver showing me the way, I would get Cloudia to safety.
Today was not the day she would die; not when I had any say in it.
Cedric gently lifted Cloudia into his arms. When her head rolled against his chest, he resisted the urge to drop a kiss on it and whisper into her hair that everything would be all right. He thought it instead, again and again and again, as he stepped outside, back into the riot-filled streets of Paris, even if he couldn’t touch the skull pendant necklace now and he knew that none of his thoughts could reach Cloudia. They were more for him, he supposed, the reassurances that he strung in his mind like pearls along a thread while he followed the way the receiver drew out for him. Still, part of him hoped that they did somehow reach Cloudia; and when she began to mumble softly, too softly for him to make out any words in the noise around and with his heart beating as rapidly as it did, Cedric considered it a sign that they had.
It was difficult to follow the blinking dot at times. The chaos was not ebbing away, only increasing, and it became harder and harder to navigate the streets. It did not help that Cedric did not know them and found himself now and then face-to-face with a dead end, or that there were people everywhere – fighting, running, building barricades. Every new road, every rounded corner offered a new challenge; it had been like that earlier too, only now Cedric could not let anyone get too close to Cloudia, lest someone grazed her, stumbled against her – made her injury worse than it already was.
He wished he could jump over the roofs again, but he did not dare to try.
But what was worse? Losing the signal and any way to find Cecelia’s house or a potentially minor worsening of Cloudia’s wound?
Cedric clenched his teeth together as he navigated the dense streets, dodged flying objects, and manoeuvred around people, all while holding tight to Cloudia and gripping the receiver so hard his knuckles came out white. Sweat was running into Cedric’s eyes. He had no hand free to wipe it away. The dot was skimming the edge of the screen, almost fading out of it. And there were so many people, so many dead ends, so many unfamiliar turns and streets. And so, so much blood seeping out of Cloudia.
“Hold on tight,” Cedric whispered to Cloudia and jumped. The breeze cooled his sweat slightly, and the higher he got, jumping from balcony to balcony, the more at ease he felt. The air was permeated with gunpowder, smoke, blood, and tears, even so high above; still, it felt fresher to him than below on the crowded street.
Cloudia groaned softly when Cedric reached the roof. “Are you okay, Countess?” he asked, his voice full of worry and his mind ready to scold himself for undertaking this reckless behaviour, but her mumbling response stopped the tirage because, this time, he could hear her: “I am,” she said. Tears welled in his eyes to hear her speak clearly, albeit weakly; it hadn’t been too long ago that Cedric had feared he might never hear her voice at all anymore.
“You’re so silly,” Cloudia murmured then.
Cedric chuckled. “I am, aren’t I?” He squeezed her gently before he moved along the roof and hopped to the next to catch up with the dot. It was quickly accomplished, and part of Cedric basked in the relief, but the rest of him urged him not to become careless now: Just because he had brought the dot of Townsend’s transmitter firmly into the screen again did not mean it would stay there.
And, indeed, when Cedric reached the river and saw the masses of people on and around the bridge, his heart dropped momentarily. He had to get on the other side to follow the transmitter, and he could not do it jumping from roof to roof.
“Hold tight, Countess,” Cedric said. This time, Cloudia grabbed his shirt. Her breathing was laboured, and her face was marked with pain, but her grip was still surprisingly strong.
“I’ll be careful; don’t worry,” he told her, though her action did not make him doubt his abilities at all; it only lit him up with hope and determination that everything would be fine – that she would be fine. Taking a deep breath, Cedric descended back to the streets. If someone had noticed them coming from the rooftops, no one cared enough in this turmoil to stare or enquire.
Holding Cloudia tightly, and she holding tightly to him, Cedric charged for the bridge. It was packed with people who were bound southward, either to try to escape the chaos north or let the fire expand. In the streets, one could be squished or trampled to death by the crowds; here, one could be pushed off the bridge, right into the Seine whose water horribly resembled the Thames’.
And there was it again; that image from earlier.
Drops, drops, drops of blood in the water.
Running longer and longer.
Colouring the river red and redder and…
Cedric pushed the image away, letting it dissolve in the stream of his memory. Forwards. He had to move forwards, not backwards. Towards the blinking dot on the screen, through the crowds of people, to the other side of this river.
It was a tight fit, with a few close calls when someone got too close to Cloudia, when Cedric ended up too close to the balustrade, but while he might not know how to treat a wound, how to save a life, he knew how to navigate places like this, situations like this. And he was so much more agile than he had been then.
Dodging people and objects; vision blurring because of the hectic movements all around; ears ringing because of the noise, the shouts, the shots, the screams and the cries. In the end, guards were trying to keep the people away and shepherd them back. Cedric swiftly evaded them too.
The bridge first led onto a small island in the Seine, and he had to take its second half to get to the other side of the river proper. The process for the second part was the same as the first. Cedric pushed through, and then he and Cloudia were fully across the bridge.
Euphoria rose in his chest. He would have jumped in joy if he hadn’t been carrying Cloudia. He would have raised a fist to the sky if his hands hadn’t been occupied. He would have, at least, let out one triumphant squeak if his euphoria hadn’t extinguished as quickly as it had risen.
Their dot was still blinking.
The second one was gone.
Cloudia mumbled a question that sounded vaguely like “what is wrong?” but the blood rushed into Cedric’s ears, and he could not be sure. He went, half-tumbled, to a side street that seemed refreshingly quiet. Leaned against a wall, took deep, gasping breaths.
The dot was gone.
It had been there only a moment ago. I knew it had been there only a moment ago. I had glanced at the screen right after passing the guards, and it had been there, blinking, beckoning – not at the edge of the screen even, but firmer in the middle.
And now it was gone. Vanished without a trace. What had happened?
Had something happened to Townsend? To the transmitter? To Milton’s towers? Was the receiver malfunctioning? Had Oscar and Barrington ventured to an area with no towers, with no signal? Had they boarded a carriage and rushed out of range?
But what did it matter what had happened to the signal. It was gone – and with it any chance of me finding Cecelia’s house and getting to the others.
Laughter sprung out of Cedric. It was not the joyous kind that came out whenever he was with Cloudia; it was darker, harsher – one that rattled both his body and his nerves. Cloudia tightened her grip on his shirt, dug her fingers into his flesh as strongly as she could; he paid it no mind as bitter, hysteric laughter took over him.
He felt so stupid.
He felt so useless.
He felt so lost.
Not much had changed then. It was still the same – I was still the same.
“What on earth happened?”
The question in plain, horrified English threw him out of his trance – and the voice made Cedric snap his head up.
Barrington Weaselton stared at them with wide, worried eyes. Cedric had never been so happy to see him.
“Oh, good Lord, Dia.” Barrington stepped to them, raised his hand to touch Cloudia’s face, maybe brush a lock of hair away, though he let it hover instead.
“She got shot,” Cedric pressed out. Hearing this fact out loud, saying this out loud, sent a punch to his stomach. “I’m so sorry.”
“How could you…” Barrington began but then shook his head. With this simple motion, he seemed to sharpen. His presence was always so loud already, but Cedric never quite understood how nebulous Barrington’s edges actually were until he laid down his usual coat for the one befitting a former knight and senior Aristocrat of Evil.
“Hand her to me, Kristopher,” Barrington demanded with the same force and authority as when he had spoken to Cedric at Phantomhive Manor a few months ago.
Cedric shook his head. “No.”
“Be reasonable. We have little time; Dia is bleeding out as we speak, and you can barely stand.”
“No.” Cedric held Cloudia tighter. “I can still carry her. I’ve carried her so far already, and I can get her to Cecelia’s house. Just show me where to go.”
Barrington mustered him. “If you falter once,” he said insistently, staring right into his eyes, “you will hand her over with no protest, do you understand me?”
Cedric tightened his grip and nodded his head. Barrington held the gaze for one moment longer before he turned, unsheathed his sword, and beckoned Cedric to follow.
The fighting hadn’t quite reached this part of the city yet. They had left the epicentre of it all when they had crossed the bridge, but bits and pieces of the chaos flared up here too before they vanished entirely when the buildings became grander and nicer.
Cedric asked his question earlier though, a mere two steps after they had left the quiet little side street.
“Where are Milton, Oscar, and Townsend?”
“We split up,” Barrington said matter-of-factly.
Cedric nearly stopped in his tracks, only his subconsciousness telling him that it might hurt Cloudia to stop so suddenly urged him forward. “You did what?”
“Oscar suggested that I turn around and try to get you. After all, you don’t know Paris and might get lost.” Barrington rammed the handle of his sword against the temple of a man who came too close to them and reeked of trouble. It was an eerily casual move, and it unnerved Cedric how it did not seem to faze Barrington at all. “I hate to admit it, but Oscar was correct in his assessment.” Barrington glanced at Cedric. “I cannot believe I am glad to have listened to him.”
“But how could you leave Milton with…”
Barrington silenced Cedric with one glare. “This is not the time to care for the Salisbury boy. Just be quiet and follow me. We must be quick.”
Cedric pressed his lips together. Cloudia murmured something he couldn’t make out. That she was making a noise let a little smile appear on Barrington’s face before he shoved some people away and led them down a few more streets until the sounds of fighting and rioting turned into mere background noise. The sudden change, the dissonance between this part of the city and the one they had left behind, was so stark that it left Cedric momentarily disoriented.
A few men and women in fine clothes traversed through the roads, and some polished carriages rattled through the streets here. People stared at Cedric, Barrington, and Cloudia, taking in their battered appearances, and turned to whisper amongst themselves. Barrington had sheathed his sword again, and when a man approached them clearly to try to send them away, Barrington merely placed a hand on the hilt, straightened his back, and stared at him. Without a word, the man turned around and quickly moved away.
Barrington then guided Cedric into the side streets, and they walked through its web until, finally, they arrived at the back entrance of the Williams family’s Paris townhouse. Cedric briefly looked at it but took nothing in; all his attention was on Cloudia and getting up the stairs without falling. How pathetic it would be to drop her now, mere metres before their destination.
Barrington knocked against the door – short, long, long, short –, and it immediately flew open at the last knock. Newman stepped before Cedric and tried to take Cloudia out of his arms. However, because Newman’s appearance had been so sudden, Cedric stiffened for a moment and didn’t let go. Only when Newman assured him that she would be fine, Cedric let go. He nearly tipped over when Newman lifted Cloudia out of his arms. The balance was off now; it was as if someone had ripped a limb from his body. He felt so hollow, and everything felt so strange and wrong that Cedric could only hover before the door. Barrington gently pushed him into the house.
The door closed behind them.
The lock was turned.
And exhaustion and pain crashed upon Cedric.
He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. His knees nearly buckled; he staggered against the door.
I was here. I had made it to Cecelia’s house. We had made it to Cecelia’s house. Cloudia. Cloudia.
Cedric shot out his arm, caught the end of Barrington’s jacket before he could leave. Barrington turned around, and though Cedric had no energy to speak anymore and could only huff, his sight must have been ghastly enough for Barrington’s edges to soften again. “It’s been a long day,” he said softly. “Kam will take care of Dia – and you should get yourself cleaned up and get some rest.” He let his gaze wander over Cedric and grimaced. “Really, you should get yourself cleaned up before Cecelia comes here and lectures you on ruining Michael’s great-great-great grandfather’s Persian rug or something.”
“It’s his great-grandfather’s Persian rug, not his great-great-great-grandfather’s. Don’t you ever listen?” Cecelia said as she appeared by the back door. “And I would indeed lecture you about that, Not-Kristopher, if I wasn’t so astonished that the Bookstore Boy’s hunch has been right.” She folded her arms in front of her chest with a grim expression on her face. “He dropped a plate all of a sudden and began to prepare a room as if possessed. Didn’t even pick up the porcelain pieces, and it was part of Michael’s great-great-aunt’s good tea service too.”
“That’s good to hear. The part with Kamden and his preparations, not the part with the plate,” remarked Barrington and patted Cedric’s hand that still held on to his jacket. “Kam was even ready beforehand; there is no need to worry, Kristopher.”
“Regarding this…” Cecelia glanced at Cedric before she shifted her eyes back to Barrington. “As Cloudia was severely injured, there are some things that need to be discussed, Barrington…”
Cedric tore his hand free from Barrington’s jacket at her words and stormed away before he could hear another piece of their conversation.
Cedric didn’t clean himself up, not properly at least. Wandering unsteadily, aimlessly through the stately house, he did eventually find a bathroom. However, when Cedric had turned on the tap, his intestines had made a flip, and he had had to turn it right off again. He had rubbed his hands and face with a dry cloth, though it helped little to scrub out the blood. Cloudia’s blood. Cedric dropped his face in his hands.
It had barely been ten minutes since Newman had taken her from him, but he missed her already, missed her scent, her warmth, her weight against his body.
But she should be with Kamden now. It was better if she was with him than with me. He could patch her up after all.
I only got her shot.
I should have been there. I should have been there. Instead, I had lost my damn glasses and let her go after Yvette alone.
Cedric ripped his spectacles off his face, flung them away. They rattled against the ground or the wall or a cupboard, he did not care, just as he sunk to the cold bathroom tiles. He drew his legs in, hugged them to his body, and rested his forehead on his knees. He hadn’t dared to look into the mirror, knowing that it would be a frightful sight. His body was sore, every bit of it howling in agony and strain from all the fighting and all the running. He had lost his hair tie on the train, and his long hair must now be tangled and dirty. He reeked of sweat and blood, and his clothes were sticky with it.
And most of that blood was Cloudia’s.
Cedric’s heart tightened in his chest. She will be fine, she will be fine, he kept repeating in his mind and hugged his legs even tighter. Before he had turned on the tap, he had put the receiver into his pocket, and it was now poking him in the side, nudging him to remember its existence.
With a jolt that let him cry out in pain, Cedric lifted his head and fumbled the receiver, Milton’s receiver, out of his pocket.
Barrington had split up from Oscar, Milton, and Townsend earlier, but had they returned too by now?
Cedric turned on the receiver. He held it close to his face to read the screen as it lit up. The dot for the transmitter in Cloudia’s pocket did too. Milton and, or Quentin must have set up towers in this area as well.
Then, where was the second dot? The one for Townsend’s transmitter?
Awkwardly, Cedric got to his feet, pulling himself up on the washbasin. He cursed as he felt around for his damn glasses for a second time that day. He wished he could move around this house at least without them, only he had never been there, and he doubted anyone would want to function as his eyes and guide him around – and he himself did not want this either. Eventually, Cedric found his spectacles again and put them back on; they were still intact, and he wondered for a second how much of a beating they could take until they shattered before he pushed the thought aside and stepped out of the bathroom.
He wandered around a bit. Everything about this house’s interior screamed exquisite, from the floors and walls to the decorative pieces filling up the rooms and corridors. Cedric, with his bloody, torn clothes, must look painfully out of place here. He did not care for it, however; the only person who might care was Cecelia, and he was not looking for her.
He was looking for Oscar and Milton, and when he couldn’t find them anywhere, he sought out Barrington.
“Didn’t you say Oscar went ahead with Milton and Townsend?” Cedric asked when he found Barrington in a small sitting room.
“Didn’t I also say you should clean up, change, and get some rest?” replied Barrington and put down his sword; he had been sharpening it until now.
“Milton, Oscar, and Townsend are still not here yet,” Cedric continued, ignoring Barrington’s response.
Barrington frowned. “Are you sure? We weren’t far from here when he separated.”
“Didn’t you check if they were here?” Cedric asked, panic and anger flashing within him.
“I cannot say that Oscar and the Salisbury boy are my favourite people in the world. And with…” He glanced at Cedric. “… everything going on right now, they slipped my mind.” Barrington was silent for a moment. “You don’t believe Oscar ran off, do you? Discarded Townsend and Salisbury somewhere and escaped? Oscar practically begged to be on this mission, yes, but I doubt he did that so that he could flee and not live as a convict anymore.”
“Maybe. But what if…” Cedric ran a hand through his hair until it got stuck in a tangled knot.
The signal.
The second blinking dot had vanished after Cloudia and I had crossed the river – and not long before Barrington had stumbled across us. Could it have disappeared right after they had gone their separate ways?
“What… what if Oscar kidnapped Milton and Townsend?” asked Cedric, feeling sick at the possibility. “What if he wanted to come along so badly because he also wanted to get his hands on the Queen’s box?”
Barrington blinked at him. “What would Oscar even want with it? He doesn’t even have it; Dia does, or you do, don’t you?”
“The Countess has it, yes, but Oscar now has the person who managed to find and steal it and someone who could open it and…” Cedric stared at the object in his hand, the receiver that should not exist – yet. Cold washed over him. The Salisbury Trading Company was known for its state-of-the-art machinery and swift deliveries; it was not beyond the realm of possibilities that someone might figure out that their machines were beyond contemporary. Just like Townsend had. And even if Oscar hadn’t figured it out beforehand, Townsend might have told him in an effort to wager for his freedom. Point at the unconscious man in their midst, spill his secrets, hope that it would entice Oscar to reconsider his orders.
But Barrington was right. Why would Oscar do something like that? I doubted a man like Oscar would do anything for money alone; one could easily become rich with Milton’s works – just as easily as one could wreak great havoc with them. And what else was there besides fast ships, radar technology, and prototypes of protective gear?
What else was there that could bring danger and chaos?
And for what?
I didn’t think it would be havoc for havoc’s reason.
“It is troubling and worrisome that they haven’t arrived yet,” Barrington said slowly while keeping his eyes fixed on Cedric. “And I have the lowest opinion of Oscar Livingstone; out of all people in this building, I’ve known him the longest too. You could ask every stone in Great Britain, and each of them would know how much I despise that man, but why on earth would he kidnap the Salisbury boy and Townsend? Or try to get his hands on the Queen’s puzzle box? It makes very little sense to me, I’m afraid, Kristopher. Oscar was also carrying Salisbury like an egg; he is taking the word he gave Dia very seriously, and I doubt he ran off with him for whatever reason or dumped him in the Seine.”
Cedric lifted the receiver. “This is a machine Milton made; it’s used to track certain objects. One of them is now with the Countess, and the other one is with Townsend – should be with Townsend. I used the apparatus to track him; that’s why I managed to get as far as I did. However, after I crossed the bridge, Townsend’s signal suddenly vanished. That would have been not long after you split up from Oscar and the others.”
Barrington mustered the object with a raised eyebrow. “This is concerning timing, yes, but are you sure that this thing isn’t just malfunctioning? I knew a tinkerer-type person, and his inventions tended to explode or not function as they should all the time. One of them even blew up a building’s entire west wing. There wasn’t an explosion of this calibre in this area, as far as I know, though that doesn’t mean that this thing didn’t just break. It could have broken down differently. Quietly. Or maybe it’s not whatever you’re holding that’s broken; maybe it’s whatever that is with Townsend.” Slowly, Barrington stood up and walked up to Cedric. “It’s been a long day,” he said and put his hand on Cedric’s arm. “You’re tired and worried; I understand it. I’m worried sick for Dia too, but you won’t help anyone if you don’t go and get some rest and lose yourself in wild theories instead.”
Cedric ripped his arm free. “I’m not making up stuff because my nerves are frayed and I’m tired,” he bellowed. “Why aren’t you taking this seriously? If anything happens to Milton too, it’s your fault!” With that, Cedric turned around and stormed out of the sitting room. Barrington followed him. He tried to grab him, but Cedric’s anger at Barrington’s inaction gave him enough strength to push his tired body to dodge each of his attempts.
Barrington swore under his breath and mumbled that he couldn’t believe he was doing this as he chased Cedric to the back door. “Kristopher, you need to lie down and get some sleep,” he called after him. Cedric ignored him and simply kept on going. He rushed down the stairs, and…
It knocked at the door before he arrived there.
Short. Long. Long. Short.
It made Cedric halt, his surroundings growing still for a moment while everything within him was in turmoil; his heart was beating too quickly, all fibres of his muscles ached, and his mind was scrambled.
After a pause, the knocking began again, in the same sequence as before. This time, it shook Cedric awake, made him hasten forward, unlock the door and pull it open and…
Oscar Livingstone stood before him. His clothes were slightly more battered than they had been before, though he was still carefully cradling an unconscious Milton in his arms while somehow simultaneously dragging Townsend and a man Cedric had never seen before after him.
Cedric blinked at Oscar in bewilderment. Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Could you let me inside?” he asked right before Barrington arrived and pulled Cedric out of the way.
“He’s… he’s a bit out of it,” Barrington explained and hushed Oscar forward. “He’s very tired and… there’s been a situation with Dia.”
“What’s the purpose of dancing around this situation?” enquired Oscar as he stepped inside.
“She got shot in the abdomen,” replied Barrington and closed the door. The instant the lock clicked shut, Oscar kicked Townsend and the other man to the ground. They were both tied up and gagged and wiggled around in vain to get back up.
“Why not say that from the beginning?” Oscar said. “I suppose Sainteclare is looking after her as we speak.” Without even waiting until Barrington had affirmed or negated his words, Oscar continued calmly, “I will lay down the boy; bring those two somewhere secure for detainment.”
Without another word, Oscar vanished into the corridor, carrying Milton with him. It was quiet for a moment by the back door; for a second, the men on the ground even ceased groaning.
“He’s back,” Cedric said in astonishment, having re-found his voice at last.
“Yes, he’s back, and the Salisbury boy seemed perfectly fine,” replied Barrington with a sigh. “I will get Townsend and the other one to the basement. And, Kristopher, please get some rest, you hear me?”
Cedric didn’t get any rest. Instead, he followed Oscar to a drawing room and watched him lay down Milton on a sofa. He took off his jacket and shoes, struggled with the weird utility belt before he managed to open it. He put every item away neatly, searched the room for a blanket, and draped it over Milton. Cedric was mesmerised by the scene in front of him. Oscar did everything with such gentleness, such care that he could not fathom that this was the same man who had sent him and Cloudia to the Witch’s Castle.
“Should I treat him like a ragdoll?” asked Oscar abruptly, startling Cedric.
“No, of course not,” Cedric was quick to say. “I’m just… surprised.”
Oscar looked at him for a moment. “I gave my word that I would keep him safe,” he said at last.
“I didn’t know your word had any weight.”
“I will quickly get washed,” said Oscar, ignoring Cedric’s words. “Do not wake him.”
Oscar left the room. Cedric fell into the armchair next to the sofa, stared at Milton lying on it, watched the soft rise and fall of his chest, and searched with his eyes for any additional injury on his body but discovered none.
I should be more relieved than I was to see him well. To have him here, a living, breathing proof that I had been wrong. Oscar had never kidnapped him at all; Oscar had never been a danger to him at all.
But still.
But still…
“Milton has been unconscious for quite a long time,” remarked Cedric when Oscar returned.
Oscar gently lifted Milton’s left hand and felt his pulse. “His heartbeat is steady, and he has no major external injuries, nor any internal ones from what I can tell. He must simply be exhausted; he will be fine,” Oscar stated and put down Milton’s hand as carefully as if he believed Milton to be a porcelain doll. And lying there looking perfectly serene with his gold-blond hair fanned out over the cream pillow and his skin as pale as ever, Milton did look like one.
Sleeping Beauty, Cedric thought in spite of himself and immediately pushed the thought away.
“Why should I take any of your words at face value?” Cedric challenged Oscar.
“You can come here and check his pulse yourself,” retorted Oscar and fussed with Milton’s blanket. “He’s alive and well. You engaged in a long chase through a city under siege. He must have crashed from sheer exhaustion. You look like you are on the verge of it too, Underwood.”
“Milton wasn’t that tired beforehand,” Cedric protested. “Yes, sure, we ran through the woods, the train, and Paris in short succession, getting chased and chasing, and I cannot remember if he got any rest before our five-hour-long ride to Creil. At any rate, Milton was holding himself together surprisingly well. Though his nerves had begun to fray when we arrived in Paris…”
Oscar turned to look at him, and Cedric sighed. “Yes, okay, okay, it’s a miracle that he didn’t crash earlier. Nonetheless, I think it’s concerning that he hasn’t woken up yet, even if only for a brief moment.” He narrowed his eyes at Oscar. “It doesn’t help that he was with you.”
“As I said, I gave my word to keep him safe,” Oscar replied dryly. A moment later, Barrington burst into the room. “Oscar,” he exclaimed, “who is that other man, and why were you so…”
Oscar glared at him with an intensity Cedric had not seen before, and he had been on the receiving side of Oscar’s death glares multiple times before. Barrington stopped talking instantaneously.
“Weaselton, I believed that you would have at least the decency to speak quietly when someone is asleep,” Oscar said in a lowered voice, but he could have just as well been yelling. “I suppose I have been too lenient with you.”
“Oh, you are…” Barrington began just as loud as before. Oscar glared at him, and Barrington continued quieter: “…not someone who should lecture others on decency, Yard Ripper.”
“Nevertheless, I seem to be more knowledgeable about common etiquette than you, so I am indeed qualified to lecture you,” Oscar replied. “And now please say what you want to say. I want you to leave before you wake him.”
Barrington glowered at Oscar before he cleared his throat. “Who is that other man you brought with you, and why were you so late, Oscar?” asked Barrington, keeping his voice low.
“He is most likely one of Townsend’s comrades,” Oscar answered. “After we split up, that man suddenly attacked me and tried to free Townsend. It was a hassle to capture him while making sure that Townsend didn’t run away, and that the boy would not get hurt. The operation took a while; that’s why I was late. I suppose Townsend must have had his base of operations close by, and that’s why I could and did run into one of his men.”
“See, Kristopher?” said Barrington and patted his hand. “A perfectly logical explanation for why Oscar was tardy. Now, you can sleep peacefully. Please do; please rest peacefully, you look horrendous.”
Cedric scowled at him, and Oscar tilted his head but did not say a word.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Kristopher,” Barrington said. “You had a delirious fit earlier. You look like you’ve been run over by a train or a squirrel that barely survived an encounter with a speedy carriage. I’m sorry but ‘horrendous’ is a mild descriptor in this case.”
“I’m not going to sleep,” replied Cedric intently. “Not before I know the Countess is well.”
Barrington groaned. “You stubborn idiot, can’t you understand…”
Milton stirred a little at Barrington’s raised voice. Immediately, Oscar patted his arm to ease him back to sleep. He then delivered a glare so fatal at Barrington that he fled the room without protesting before Oscar had even followed it with a “Leave” that was hissed with such force that a shudder ran through Cedric’s body despite its ill-treated state.
Thereafter, Oscar slightly adjusted Milton’s blanket and then sat down on the ground, leaning against the ottoman opposite the sofa Milton was lying on. He pulled out a piece of wood and a small knife out of his pocket. For a while, Oscar and Cedric sat in silence, with the only sounds permeating the room being metal on wood, Milton’s soft breathing, and the faint ticking of a grandfather clock. Cedric tensed at the latter sound.
Tick, tock, tick, tock…
The grandfather clock’s ticking mixed with the ticking of the café’s clock, pulsing within my head in canon.
Cold sweat broke out over my body. My breathing was uneven. My heart beating too quickly.
Tick, tick, tick… tick, tock, tick, tock…
So much could happen from one second to the next.
I didn’t know how Cloudia was doing.
I had stumbled across her room while searching for Milton and Oscar. Newman had been staying sentinel and taking and bringing objects from and to the room. I hadn’t asked. I couldn’t ask. I had simply turned on my heel and resumed my search.
Tick, tick, tick… tick, tock, tick, tock…
My clothes were so heavy on me, her blood on them pulling me down.
It was… it was so hard to breathe…
“You should rest, by the way,” Oscar said. His words came out of nowhere; he did not even look up when he said them. Still, they made Cedric flinch and pushed him back to the here and now. It took him a moment longer to realise that Oscar had said those words with an oddly soft edge to them. His tone made Cedric’s ears ring as Oscar continued with the same softness, “There is no reason for you to sit in this room. Your presence here helps no one. You can just go and find a room to sleep in.”
“I’m here because I can’t leave you alone with Milton,” replied Cedric, irritation rising within him.
“And why is that so?” Oscar finally took his eyes off his handiwork and fixed them on Cedric. “He is soundly asleep, and I have no reason to harm him. If I had any intention to do anything to the boy, I would have done it already, after I had told Weaselton to find you and the Lady. Why would and should I try anything now? In a house with so many people around when I had the perfect opportunity to do him harm earlier?” He tilted his head slightly, and the look in his pale blue eyes made Cedric squirm. “But you know that already, don’t you?” said Oscar softly. Cedric stiffened. “You are not here because you want to guard him.”
Cedric pressed his lips together, set not to reply, but the barrier slipped quickly. He had no energy to keep it up, and something about Oscar’s tone pulled at Cedric’s words, dragging them to the surface. “He is a very fidgety person,” Cedric said, at last, the words breaking out of him. “He’s always fumbling on his sleeves or pulling on them. I sometimes wonder if he’s constantly afraid of something with how he seems like he cannot find any rest.” He glanced at Milton’s still form, and his stomach churned at the sight. “Seeing him now, it feels so wrong because he’s just too calm. But, at the same time, it fits so well because Milton is also a very calm person and has an oddly soothing presence. How does that make any sense? I have no idea but that’s just how it is.”
Grunting, Cedric lifted himself out of the armchair and pushed himself to the sofa, made himself take Milton’s hand – the injured left one, not the right one as he didn’t like being touched there, and Cedric didn’t want to upset him even if he was currently fast sleep. Cedric checked Milton’s pulse. It beat steadily beneath his fingers, made his own heart follow its tune and stabilise and calm itself too from the sheer relief that Oscar hadn’t lied. “I suppose,” Cedric added quietly. “I want him to wake up because I just want to talk to him. But I won’t shake him awake for that, don’t worry.”
Oscar mustered him with an unreadable, blank expression on his face. “Now that you’ve reassured yourself that he is here and well,” he said, “you should go and rest yourself. He will wake up later than sooner, and you need to get yourself together before she wakes up.”
***
Everything afterwards passed as a blur. Putting Milton’s hand down, tucking him in properly. Leaving the drawing room. Wandering through the house like a ghost. Up and down, left and right. Moving without being able to feel my body; moving as if something or someone else was steering me. Like a wind-up doll one sets down to wander free and aimlessly.
Alfred found me eventually. I closed my eyes as he guided me gently to an empty room. He left quickly, apologising that he could not even fetch me some tea. But I was not upset. I knew that he was needed.
He smelled of her blood after all.
I opened my eyes again when I lay down on the bed. It was large and lush, and I felt out of place and small on top of it. I must be ruining the bedding, but the thought and worry did not take hold in my mind.
My mind was blank, and my heart was aching.
Somewhere in this house, Cloudia was lying and wrestling for her life.
Kamden could stitch up the wound, but he could not make it heal. He could wash away the blood, but he could not return it.
She was a fighter, but she had lost so, so much blood. And human life was so, so fragile.
A rattle startled me. It took me a moment to realise that I had instinctively reached for my chain of lockets. I pulled it out of my pocket, let it dangle in front of my face like a mobile. I hadn’t even told Cloudia about them yet, about the lockets that I had been carrying with me for nearly a hundred years.
Five lockets on a chain for five lives lost.
A friend, a child, a stranger, a partner, a…
I clasped the charm in the middle, held it against my chest. My eyes fluttered closed. I could feel her fingers on my head, could feel them running through my hair. I waited for her to speak, waited for her soothing voice to lull me to sleep.
But this time, Cesca had no fairy tale to offer, and I plunged into dark, dreamless sleep all alone.
***
London, England, United Kingdom – March 1846
The last tendrils of the sun had followed Cloudia on the way back home, and when she arrived at the Phantomhive townhouse, the sun had set, and the streetlamps had taken its place to illuminate the world. They were brought to life one by one by lamplighters and shone dimly but steadily, ready to keep the shadows at bay. By the time Cloudia passed through the townhouse’s gates, her street was lined by lights. And like the streetlamps, Cloudia felt set alight too.
She had been frustrated for weeks, and while she did not get any answers to her questions, a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders today, and she felt so light and alive. Thus, though she had walked for so long and so much, Cloudia felt oddly energetic all the way to the townhouse. Her exhaustion only caught up with her when she stepped over the doorsill and into the building. Her legs nearly buckled; her muscles cried out in tense agony. Because of her disguise, Cloudia had discreetly entered through a side door, and there was no Newman to help her. She stabilised herself on a small side table and then slowly and awkwardly made her way to the library as it was the closest room with places to sit and rest.
Cloudia immediately threw herself on a plush chaise longue as soon as she spotted it. She pressed her face into a soft pillow and groaned into it. Her body might have given up the instant she had crossed the threshold into the house, but she was still alight inside.
Today hadn’t gone as planned. I had been caught, arrested; I hadn’t been able to say anything I had intended to say, paralysed as I had been.
But all had gone well anyway.
I hadn’t scared Milton away; he had offered to meet me alone. We hadn’t talked much, but he had invited me to write to him.
I hadn’t been given anything to organise my thoughts or pinpoint the oddness I felt but a chance. And I nearly burst in eagerness to write to him now, as pathetic as it may sound, but my body, my aching, knackered body, gave me a firm “no” and a broad hint to get myself to bed.
If only I could get up this chaise longue.
“I haven’t seen you all day.”
Oscar’s voice sent a jolt through Cloudia’s body; she was sure that she had jumped in a lying position a few centimetres upwards too. With great effort, she rolled to her side and squinted. At the other side of this section, a small lamp had been lit, and Oscar was sitting by it, immersed in a book. He was so far away; still, Cloudia could discern from how he was handling the book that it was Paradise Lost again. Oscar had been in a particularly melancholic mood in the last few months and had been reading the poem with great intensity and frequency. Cloudia couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him reading anything else.
“It’s a childhood favourite,” Oscar had answered her a few years back, though Cloudia had never asked, only wondered about his love for that poem. “It brings me comfort to re-read it, even if I know it by heart.”
“A strange thing to say when you didn’t even look up to speak,” remarked Cloudia.
“That does not make my words any less true,” Oscar retorted. He flipped through a few more pages before he finally raised his head and fixed his eyes on her. They shone in the dim light like two pale dewdrops. “Did you do anything you wish to tell me?”
“No, but…” Cloudia considered him for a moment. She did not quite know if this was her exhaustion speaking or if she had been briefly possessed when she said, “You were married once, weren’t you, Oscar?”
Oscar straightened up in his seat. “Yes, I was. I am.”
“How did you figure out that you liked Trudy like that?”
The library was dead quiet for a few minutes before Oscar spoke at last. “I advise you to take all your questions to Williams, or one of your aunts and cousins.”
“I don’t want to talk to them about this,” Cloudia told him. “I’ve heard enough from Cecelia regarding this topic, and I would say that none of it was useful; it was mostly exasperating. I don’t feel comfortable speaking to my aunts about this, and I have talked to my cousins about this before – or, rather, I have listened to them converse about this. I also went to Kamden already. Nothing has helped me yet. I think I need more opinions on this because this is such an annoying state to exist in, and I suppose you’re better than nothing. After all, you have experienced love yourself.” As soon as the last sentence left her mouth, Cloudia wanted to take it back, take the entire conversation back and pretend she had never raised the topic, but then Oscar replied before she could.
“I am certain you can find someone else who is better equipped at this than me,” Oscar said and played with the edge of a book page. “My experience was, is, hardly considered normal.”
“Well, I don’t feel particularly normal about this either. So?”
He drew his fingers along the sides of his book but kept his eyes on Cloudia as he said quietly, “Because it was always only Trudy. I’ve never been in love with anyone before I met her, and I will never be again.”
Cloudia blinked at him. “What do you mean?” she asked and sat up quietly, settling herself properly into the chaise longue while she listened to Oscar.
“My mother gave her heart to my father, and it ate her from within,” Oscar continued haltingly. “I doubted I would ever experience anything like that myself, and I did not care that I would never. Growing up, I rarely had anything to do with children my age, but I would overhear conversations now and then. I never understood their infatuations, how they filled them with so much pain, and how people still couldn’t live without them.
“When I joined the army, I was surrounded by people my age and much older. I was often invited to go along with them to town, though I would always decline. I couldn’t grasp why they needed to be with people in this manner…” Oscar cleared his throat. “I certainly had no desire or understanding for it beyond the basics. I had never been drawn to anyone like that as they were.” He paused for a moment, and when he resumed to speak, his voice was soft and quiet even if his words only came out hesitantly. And while his gaze was directed at Cloudia, he was seeing someone else. “I was twenty-one years old when I first met Trudy, and it took a few more years until things changed. If I had never encountered her, I would have never got married, I would have never had any children. Meeting her was an anomaly that could never be repeated, a chance so small it was almost an impossibility. I loved her first, and I loved her last, and I will continue to love her even if she is not there anymore because she is the only one I can feel this way towards.”
Oscar gazed down at the book in his lap. “What I felt for her was so foreign that I could not tell from the start what it was. I told you before that her friend had to help me out. My experience was not like anyone else’s I knew, not like anyone else’s he knew either, but he could still identify it and make me realise that this was what it was. Just because my experience might have been… strange, it was not less correct than anyone else’s. There was one for me; there are many possibilities for others.
“Love, as I have come to understand, has existed since forever, and though its conceptualisation was transformed numerously with the changing times and societal evolution, it remained unexplainable and unbound at its core.” Oscar paused. “And I’ve done a lot of research back then, to understand.”
And then, before Cloudia could let his words sink in and say anything in response, Oscar abruptly closed his book and continued, “But I also know that one can be drawn to someone else for other reasons beyond physical and romantic ones, beyond familial and friendly ones too. I would investigate the source properly before acting upon anything thoughtlessly.”
“Well, that was my plan,” Cloudia said. She was too tired to consider what he said properly, though his words had made her head spin with thoughts that would have to be sorted out tomorrow. “I’ve been agonising about this matter for a few weeks now, and, thankfully, Milton is fine with me tal…” She clasped her hands over her mouth. Her eyes widened. She hadn’t meant to say his name, not with Cecelia’s threat still so present in her mind, and it made her heart race that she had.
Oscar looked up again, peered at her through his shining, unreadable blue eyes. “Milton, huh?”
“Trains have surpassed ships as the worst type of transportation after all.”
On the way to Paris, France – June 1848
~Cloudia~
June 23
About 10:40
With a hiss and a screech, the train rolled out of the station.
Blood pounded in my head; thoughts and plans swarmed through my mind.
The train would not stop until it reached Paris.
Yvette and Jacques were five wagons ahead.
But where were Townsend, Florentin, and Maxime? And how many of their accomplices were here too?
“Countess,” she heard Cedric’s voice next to her. Only when she turned to face him and saw the wide, worried look in his eyes, did Cloudia realise that he must have called her a few times before she had reacted. His hand was still on her arm, their shoulders brushing against each other in this cramped space.
“They are on this train.” Her heart was racing, she was out of breath, and the words tumbled out of her before she could dwell on them. “I saw Jacques and Yvette boarding the train.”
Cedric’s eyes went wide behind his glasses. Cloudia registered a movement behind him: Aurèle, who stood behind Cedric and Kamden and was folded into this small space by the door with the others, lifted his head at the mention of his brother.
A passenger shoved his suitcase into his cabin and raised an eyebrow at the odd lot by the door before he entered the compartment and closed the door behind him. With the corridor now empty, Cedric gently pulled Cloudia into it. As soon as they stepped into it, the bubble broke, and the others spaced out too. Lisa and Newman remained in the back, whereas Milton stepped a little bit forward, close to Kamden. It was still very cramped – two next to each other was an imposition, three was an impossibility. Now, at least, they weren’t packed like sardines in a can.
“Jacques and Yvette are on this train too. I spotted them entering the wagon five coaches ahead of ours,” Cloudia said. This time she was slightly louder. The thundering of her heart had ebbed into a flicker, waiting in anticipation to re-ignite.
“But didn’t they kidnap Jacques nearly a day ago?” asked Cedric in bewilderment. “And you said Yvette and Maxime left Nanteuil-la-Forêt at about one or two in the morning – how did they arrive in Creil only now?”
“The heavy rain must have slowed them down,” Cloudia mused. “And maybe they did not immediately leave the village after I saw them at the hospital. They could have gone somewhere else within Nanteuil-la-Forêt first and might have been affected by the fire too.”
“That would explain why Maxime and Yvette might have been late but Jacques?”
“My brother isn’t an idiot,” said Aurèle. Cloudia saw Cedric open his mouth before quickly closing it again. “He wouldn’t have led them right to the Clockmaker, even if he was afraid.”
“You mean he could have led them astray first?” Cloudia replied, and Aurèle nodded.
“Cloudie, did you see anyone besides Yvette and…” Kamden wanted to know but his question was cut off by a gunshot and the sound of glass shattering. Cedric yanked Cloudia to the side. She crashed against a compartment door right when the bullet flew past her by a hair’s breadth.
And hit flesh.
A scream tore through the carriage. Cloudia did not turn to check who was hurt. Instead, she swiftly stepped away from the door, her own gun ready in hand – but another shot rang through the air before she could move.
Followed by the sound of metal hitting metal.
And a scream and a curse. Before she turned and confirmed it, Cloudia knew that their assailant hadn’t fired that shot.
Milton lowered his pistol. Though he remained alert, his gaze softened, changed, when he sighed, from concentration to worry. She could see he was about to say something but did not wait for him to speak. Cold realisation having hit her, Cloudia rushed along the corridor to the door at the other end of the wagon.
The clang, the sound of metal clattering against metal.
Of course, Milton had only disarmed the attacker. His gun must have hit the connector bars and was likely now bedded somewhere in the shrubbery behind us.
Which meant that the gunman was still alive.
Glass shards cracked under her shoes as she reached the door. She stared through its broken window to the neighbouring coach, saw the other coach’s door flung wide open and the attacker hastening to the end of the wagon. Cloudia raised her gun, fired once, twice, thrice until she saw him topple over, dead or close.
Cloudia turned to the others, the morning wind from the shattered window cool on her skin. Kamden scrambled to his feet – he must have either thrown himself on the ground or been pushed down – to tend to Aurèle who held his right shoulder, his face a mask of agony. Lisa and Newman walked towards her from the end of the coach. Cedric was still by the compartment door. He jumped to the side and against the windowed wall when the door slightly opened, and a head peeked out. Newman told the woman to stay in the cabin, and she readily obliged.
“I’m sorry, Lady Cloudia, I-” began Milton, who was the only one who had not moved.
“No need to apologise, Milton,” Cloudia cut him off. “You reacted perfectly; I did not expect you to shoot at the man,” she continued. As the words left her mouth, it dawned on her that she had just killed someone right in front of him, and the realisation sent an odd feeling through her. Cloudia mustered his face, but all it reflected was sorrow, a silent apology, not fear, and she recalled his words from earlier. Strange how only hours had passed since; the memory seemed further away. And although she knew that Milton didn’t lie, it was still soothing to be certain that he was not afraid of her.
But…
A thought bloomed in her head, something dark and pointy. Cloudia pushed it away. Later, she told herself; there was no time for that right now.
A shriek vibrated through the air, mixing with the hammering of the open door against the carriage wall and the rattling of the train as it breezed over the tracks. Cloudia glanced back to the other coach and spotted some passengers leaving their cabins and hovering over the body, pointing to the open door.
“That man, that reckless idiot,” said Cloudia to the others, “may not have been able to contact Yvette and Townsend somehow, but the passengers certainly will if enough noticed the corpse and heard the shots. And we don’t know how many of their people are aboard too, and where Townsend, Maxime, or the Clockmaker are.” She reloaded her pistol and pocketed it. “I doubt we can just stay put and wait until we reach Paris to get to Jacques; I suppose we need to go now.”
Cloudia looked at Newman. “I am not sure if the corridors are too narrow for you to move fleetly in,” she said. “I would not mind if you stayed behind, Newman.”
“I understand your concern, Lady Cloudia. However, as a butler, I cannot stand by idly while my mistress brings herself in peril,” replied Newman. “And as the Phantomhive butler, nothing shall be impossible. I will follow you, even if I am slow.”
“Very well,” sighed Cloudia.
“I’ll come too,” Aurèle pressed out from between clenched teeth. “I need to get to my brother.”
“Definitely not,” said Kamden firmly. “The bullet got stuck in your arm. I need to get it out first.”
“You heard that, Aurèle? You’ll stay. Jacques also wouldn’t want you to strain yourself when you’re injured.” Aurèle’s expression darkened, though he did not retort anything to her surprise. Cloudia then levelled her gaze at Milton. “You stay back too, do you hear me? When I agreed to let you come with us, it did not entail this.”
Before she could hear any protests, Cloudia pushed the wagon door open. Keeping her eyes firmly on the wagon ahead of her, not on the tracks below or the world blurring around, she took a run-up and jumped.
***
~Cedric~
June 23
About 10:50
The question of how she meant to go to Yvette and Jacques when the train was moving turned into a horrified “oh” when Cloudia jumped to the other coach. Immediately, Cedric ran to the open door, glass crunching beneath him. He sighed in relief when he saw that Cloudia had landed well and safely on the other side. Without looking back, she walked down the corridor to the terrified passengers.
Cedric turned to the others. When he noticed the expression on Kamden’s face – the wide-eyed horror – he wondered if it was a mirror of his own countenance too. Then, Kamden took a deep breath and returned his attention to Aurèle who looked rather pale and miserable. Blood seeped out from behind his fingers.
“Could you please hold him still, Mr Newman?” asked Kamden, and Newman obliged with a nod. Kamden carefully pried Aurèle’s fingers away and stuffed a cloth into Aurèle’s mouth before he stuck his finger inside the wound without any warning. Cedric winced when he saw that. Aurèle squirmed and shoved Kamden and, miraculously, even Newman away, spitting out the cloth in the process and cursing at Kamden in French.
“I’m sorry but I need to look how deep the bullet lodged,” said Kamden, undeterred.
“But like that?!”
“Yes, it’s either the finger or the probe.”
Kamden opened his bag and before he could pull out the probe, Cedric cleared his throat. He was far too familiar with that infernal metal rod, and he feared Kamden might procure the forceps alongside it for good measure. “K… Emyr, maybe it would be best if you got into a cabin where there are still empty seats. It’s better if Aurèle could sit down, isn’t it?” Cedric said and opened the closest compartment door. A pale-faced woman and a man holding an umbrella in defence stared at him.
“Do you mind…” Cedric started before he remembered that, of course, the couple could not understand him.
“If you may allow me, Your Grace,” said Newman gently before he began talking to the couple who grew paler with every word. Cedric wondered if they would turn translucent, eventually.
“Your Uselessness,” Lisa chuckled as she squeezed past him.
“You don’t know French either, Miss Greene,” Cedric shot back.
Lisa did not react; without another word, she simply followed Cloudia to the neighbouring carriage. Next to him, Cedric heard a half-swallowed, horrified “Lisa,” and when Cedric turned, he saw Newman shaking his head. Nevertheless, when he noticed Cedric’s eyes on him, Newman said tersely, “It is only right for her to follow Lady Cloudia. She can do it more swiftly in this environment than me.”
Cedric nodded. Newman had finished his explanation, and the umbrella-wielding man and his wife now hurried to gather their belongings. They, apparently, did not want front-row seats for an amateur bullet removal. Cedric watched them briefly before he shifted away from the cabin and noticed that pieces of rope were now dangling from the ceiling in a line by the windows. He stared up at the ceiling and saw that part of it had opened, letting the ropes fall out. Bewildered, Cedric looked around to the others, an enquiry on his lips. He halted upon noticing Milton knock on a compartment door. The door tentatively opened, and he spoke a few words with the woman. Cedric could not understand anything besides the final “Merci” (he recognised the word from the chocolate brand) before the door was drawn shut again.
With whatever he had wanted to do done, Milton walked to the open door. Unlike Aurèle who had slowly made his way away from Kamden and his probe and was now uneasily mustering the space between the carriages, Milton seemed unfazed when he looked outside. Alarmed by the look in his eyes, Cedric called his name and hurried to him.
It was such a small space, only a few metres, a few steps, from one end of the wagon to the other but Cedric was still too late to stop Milton.
Thankfully, Aurèle wasn’t.
Just when Milton was about to take a run-up, Aurèle grabbed his arm and yanked him back and against a cabin with impressive force considering his injury.
“You,” Aurèle hissed at Milton when Cedric reached them, “are meant to stay behind. Didn’t you hear my cousin tell you that?”
“I heard Lady Cloudia,” replied Milton calmly. He held Aurèle’s gaze, meeting his eyes with an expression so oddly hard and intense it felt foreign on Milton’s face. “Only I have no intention to stay put. She had one condition for me accompanying you all and that was that I would stay safe. And I agreed. Lady Cloudia only told me to remain behind because she thinks it would be unsafe, but I assure you I will be perfectly fine. You should also not have done that; you are only worsening your injury.”
“Aurèle, let him go,” said Cedric before Aurèle could retort anything.
“Yes, Aurèle,” Kamden added, joining them by the door. “Let him go. They vacated the cabin; now come. The bullet shouldn’t be inside you for too long.”
Scowling and grumbling, Aurèle took a step back and followed Kamden into the compartment. When the door was closed behind them, Cedric said, “Milton, I hope you’re well-aware that the Countess’ current plan of action is to jump between coaches on a running train until she reaches a bunch of criminals. One slip-up between wagons and you’re dead.” As soon as those words had slipped out, they dragged Cedric to the truth he had been ignoring for the last few minutes, ever since Cloudia had left their wagon.
One slip-up, one fall, one push, and Cloudia was dead.
“Kristopher,” Milton said with such gentleness that Cedric knew that his face had betrayed his thoughts. “There is no time to argue, is there? And I promised her, as I will promise you and whoever else I must, that I will keep myself safe.”
Cedric glanced to the other carriage. Cold fingers traced his spine when he saw that Lisa and Cloudia had already headed to the next one. “Very well,” said Cedric with gritted teeth. “Let’s go, Milton.”
***
~Cloudia~
June 23
About 10:50
Reckless, brash, idiotic, it swirled through my mind while I was airborne.
A moment ago, there had been rattling but firm ground under my feet. Now, there was nothing at all. I had jumped out of windows and carriages before, had felt the wind catch me, tear at my hair and clothes, force me down or sideways before.
But none of those memories fit with the sensation that overcame me now, in this moment, this second, this blink in which I was flying.
From one coach to another; metal beasts shrieking through the landscape with dozens of kilometres per hour.
Over a space only two, three steps wide and still as large as a canyon’s divide.
And then my feet touched the platform, and the moment was gone.
Cloudia grabbed the metal bars; the train hissed in anger at this violation of locomotive etiquette. Adrenaline pumped through her when she let go of the metal railing to stand properly on the small platform. The platforms on each end of a wagon were connected to a small set of stairs and possessed a simple bannister with an open gap on the side that faced the next coach. As if, despite locomotive etiquette, one was meant to jump between coaches.
Without looking back – she did not need to turn to know that Kamden and the others must have horror written all over their faces – Cloudia entered the carriage. Inside, three passengers were standing by the corpse, blocking the entire narrow walkway, and talking to one another with increasingly disturbed, panicked voices. Four more passengers were hovering on the doorsills to their cabins, their faces ashen and shocked as they stared at the body.
Straightening her back and squaring her shoulders, Cloudia approached the three men by the body and asked them to step aside for a moment. Puzzlement bloomed across their faces, mixed with their panic; still, one of the men stepped halfway into a compartment, allowing Cloudia to kneel by the corpse.
“I would recommend returning to your cabins,” she implored the men in French. “Or you might end up like that man here.” Though Cloudia had directly looked at the onlookers while she had spoken and pointed at the corpse and the slowly growing bloodstain, they were rooted to the spot, watching her with wide, terrified eyes. Cloudia clenched her teeth.
This undertaking could only be a hassle with all these civilians around and no proper way to evacuate them. Couldn’t the gunman have stayed put?
Cloudia pushed down her irritation and glanced at the dead man. From his clothes, she could tell that he must have been a Nanteuillat. What can you tell me? she thought and was about to look quickly through his pockets when she heard a clang and a curse behind her. Cloudia lifted her head and saw Lisa holding onto the railing and trying to regain her balance, cursing under her breath.
“Not waiting for Newman?” asked Cloudia and rolled the dead man on his side to gain better access to his pockets.
“And miss out on some fun? Definitely not,” Lisa said. She glared at the onlookers until they stepped back a bit and then carefully squeezed past Cloudia and stepped over the body. “I also didn’t want to stay any longer with him,” she continued. Cloudia knew without Lisa needing to elaborate that she meant Milton. “His Gracelessness and Al got Mr Kamden and Mr Beauchene to sit in one of the cabins.”
“That’s good.” Cloudia pulled two knives and a train ticket from the corpse’s pockets; his cabin was the one right in the middle. Cloudia got to her feet and went inside the man’s cabin. It was empty. He had brought no luggage with him – understandable considering the situation. What truly brought Cloudia’s mind into motion was the fact that this villager had been given a ticket for a compartment for four people, even if he was left all alone. Had Yvette and Townsend travelled with an odd number? Or did the dead man have a partner? But if yes, where could they be?
There was no one hiding here, but they could be hiding in one of the other cabins, having threatened its actual passengers to remain silent. Or…
Cloudia left the compartment and looked down the corridor. The door at the end was closed. The platform was too small for anyone to get a proper run-up to be able to jump the distance between the coaches.
If the dead man’s partner had jumped to the next wagon, why would the dead man bother to close the door after them?
Cloudia retrieved her father’s dagger, holding it firmly in her hand as she slowly approached the exit door.
Why not leave it open?
Abruptly, Cloudia kicked the door open, catching the man behind off-guard and slamming it into his face. Surprised screams echoed through the air behind her. The man’s gun slid out of his fingers, tumbling one, two steps down. Before he could recover, Cloudia sliced his throat and pushed him down the stairs. She saw him hit the ground and watched him roll down the hill for only a moment – a moment in which the cabin door closest to her opened.
A man burst out of it, his gun raised. He fired, but Cloudia dodged, and the bullet collided with the railing. The metal vibrated behind her. She lifted the dagger, saw his finger about to pull the trigger again.
Before they could do anything, the man fell forward.
Cloudia fled to the narrow stairs, holding onto the bannister with one hand, as the man’s head hit the metal of the railing, then the platform’s.
“I should have waited for Newman, right?” said Lisa, bloody needle in hand.
Despite everything, a chuckle burst out of Cloudia. “Of course not.” She returned to the platform and kicked the corpse to the side before she glanced back to the corridor (squinting past the passengers who were now moving around like headless chickens, she could make out Cedric and Milton at the last carriage’s door). Then, she turned to the coach ahead.
And right into the face of a wide-eyed woman looking through the little window, having spectated everything unfold.
A passenger, maybe. Hopefully.
But then she didn’t scream, didn’t remain.
Instead, she tore herself free from her stasis and turned and ran to the end of the wagon, hammering on the cabin doors she passed.
“Damn,” Cloudia said and got ready to jump, “we need to get going.”
***
~Cedric~
June 23
About 11:00
With a sigh, Cedric held onto the bannister. The wagon rocked softly under his feet, and he needed a moment to compose himself after having jumped between coaches on a running train.
This was one of the most idiotic things I had ever done.
Nausea brushed its fingers against him when Cedric glanced into the chasm between the coaches, saw the tracks running and blurring beneath. He quickly tore his gaze away from the sight and shook his head. Letting go of the railing, he turned to walk into the corridor.
Milton had jumped first.
There had been no talk. He had simply gone first, and Cedric had felt odd when Milton landed on the next wagon’s platform, looking unfazed as he glanced back at him. The image clung to Cedric still as he watched Milton talk to the passengers. Although they were in uproar and hysteria, the soothing tone of Milton’s voice managed to reach Cedric; it was like a band of calmness weaving itself through the panic and trying to bring everything under control.
Cedric hovered by the door for a moment, mesmerised by Milton gently guiding passengers back to their cabins and easing their worries with a few, to him, unintelligible words. Then, Cedric shook himself free and elbowed his way through the screeching crowd and the narrow walkway, bumping against walls and shoulders and nearly tripping over a corpse before he finally got to Milton.
Cedric grabbed Milton’s arm, careful to avoid his wrist this time. “Milton! We need to go!” he said and tried to drag him along, but Milton would not budge.
“What are you doing?” yelled Cedric. “We need to continue to the next coach!”
“What about the passengers?” replied Milton, surprisingly steadfast although Cedric pulled on him again.
“We have no time to look after panicked passengers! They will manage.”
“No, you have no time for that,” Milton retorted. “You can go ahead without me, Kristopher. I will be fine on my own.”
“I cannot just leave you behind, Milton,” said Cedric, getting even more irritated that he had to move a bit sideways to let a man push through. This space was far too cramped for his liking.
“Of course, you can. I’m sorry; that might be your way, but it is not mine.” The serious expression Milton had worn in the burning cabin crawled back onto his face. He tried to pull away from Cedric’s grip; however, just like Milton had not budged, neither did Cedric, and he held on tight to him.
“Stop being so stubborn for once, Milton. You know I cannot leave you alone.”
“I am not a child that needs to be looked after,” replied Milton with an uncharacteristic cold edge to his words that startled Cedric, “and you are not my butler. I know you don’t even want to be with me right now, so just go ahead. Mr Newman will follow soon; I won’t even be alone for too long!”
“But…”
“Kristopher. We have little time for arguments. Can…” Milton faltered for a moment. Anguish briefly washed over his face as he continued, “Kristopher, can’t you trust me for once?”
Cedric flinched slightly. For a moment, a wing beat, they only stared wordlessly at each other. “Very well,” he said ultimately; his voice sounded distant even to his own ears. “Take care, Milton.”
Cedric let go of him and immediately turned to make his way through the crowd. Just as he reached the end of the carriage and was about to jump, he heard Milton’s voice, soft and quiet but still clear over the chaos, “You too.”
***
~Cloudia~
June 23
About 10:57
Cloudia landed on the platform with a loud clack that reverberated through the metal. Without stopping, she opened the door – and immediately someone ran into her. Instinctively, she grabbed his shoulders, shoved him back. “What are you doing,” she said. “There is nowhere for you to go.”
The man’s eyes widened at her sight, making Cloudia wonder if she had blood on her. Then, he yelled something that sounded like “murderer!” and turned and ran, right into someone else.
“What on earth,” Cloudia heard Lisa behind her.
“We were announced, apparently,” replied Cloudia dryly and ran into the wagon. The corridor was cramped. People were looking out of open compartments, wide-eyed; others were blocking the walkway. The damn woman from earlier had been quick to alert them all.
But she had not been quick enough to escape.
Cloudia thrust people aside. Some tried to grab her, but she kicked them away. The woman flung the door at the carriage end open. Behind Cloudia, Lisa cursed and then she heard a scream and a shout. No time to turn and look. Cloudia shoved someone away, quickened her pace.
The woman set out to jump. Cloudia lunged and grabbed her jacket. They both tumbled down to the ground. The woman yelled out when she hit the metal platform. Cloudia pulled out the dagger and was about to stab the woman in the leg when someone pulled on hers.
Caught off-guard, Cloudia let out a gasp but quickly composed herself and pushed herself off the ground and around, kicking at her assailant. He let her go, and Cloudia jumped to her feet. Unlike the men from the last wagon, she could not tell if he was a Nanteuillat or not. He could be with Townsend or a passenger who could not mind his business, believing that Cloudia was the villain here. All she knew was that the man was a nuisance and that behind her the woman must have regained her composure as well.
No time, no time.
Cloudia rammed the hilt of the dagger into the man’s jaw before she whirled around. The woman had just jumped off the platform. Fleetly, Cloudia switched from dagger to gun, raised it, took aim. The woman landed on the next coach’s platform. Cloudia’s finger curled around the trigger, pushed down.
Then, Cloudia was thrown against the windowed wall. The bullet was sent flying elsewhere. Passengers screamed.
A man pinned her to the wall, a hand clasped around her neck.
Goddammit, Cloudia thought and immediately raised her gun; thankfully, she had held tight to it. Before she could pull the trigger and shoot the man’s leg, he slammed it out of her hand. He tightened his grip around her neck, and she gasped for air that wouldn’t pass to her lungs. Cloudia tried to kick him, but she was beginning to see stars, and the man, so much taller and stronger than her, pressed a knee against her stomach.
Damn, damn, damn, echoed it through her mind as her lungs burned and her vision blurred. And then she remembered something Oscar had told her years ago.
With another wheeze, Cloudia stopped struggling, closed her eyes, and went limp in the man’s arms.
A moment later, he let go of her throat. She did her best not to gasp for air immediately. She let her body sack sideways. Before the man noticed that Cloudia was still breathing, she heard a familiar “Countess!” ring through the air followed by a grunt.
Not pinned against the wall anymore, Cloudia sank to the ground and now she allowed herself to take deeper breaths. She re-opened her eyes and peered right into Cedric’s concerned ones.
“Chartreuse eyes,” Cloudia managed to press out, her voice hoarse. “Am I dead?”
“Don’t joke about that,” said Cedric and helped her to her feet. “Are you okay, Countess?”
She rubbed her neck. “Yes,” Cloudia replied. She glanced at the man sprawled on the floor, unconscious. “I hope you didn’t kill him, Undertaker.”
“I just hit him with a knife handle. Maybe I should have killed him,” Cedric said darkly.
Cloudia immediately snapped her head around to him; a poor choice because she briefly saw stars again, though she did not care at this moment. “Don’t you joke about that. You know you cannot kill anyone.”
He looked at her. “But…”
“No ‘buts’. No killing for you.” Cloudia bent down to pick up her gun and quickly checked it. At the edge of her vision, she noticed the passengers staring at them. “Lisa should still be here somewhere.”
“I haven’t seen her. I…” Cedric quietened. Cloudia raised an eyebrow in question, though he did not continue.
With a shrug, Cloudia stepped through the crowd that, now shocked and terrified by what they had witnessed, parted like jittery ghosts for her. The carriage wasn’t big, so it was not difficult to find Lisa. Breathing heavily, she stood in a compartment. She clutched a bloody needle in her hands; her hair was half-pulled from her braid, and blood bloomed across her side. Still, Lisa looked better than the man lying in front of her on the bench, glassy-eyed and stabbed to death. Behind Lisa, a woman was hugging her two children to her chest and whimpered.
“Lisa!” Cloudia called, and her maid turned to look at her. “I hate this goddamn train,” Lisa said before her face crumpled in pain.
“Miss Greene! You’re hurt; what happened?” Cedric asked when he joined them.
“I hate you too,” hissed Lisa and sank into the seat next to the petrified little family, pressing her hand against her wound. “What do you think happened, you genius? This asshole pulled me into this cabin and yanked at my hair and stabbed my side. And I stabbed him many more times in return,” she finished with a wince.
Cloudia stepped to her. “Let me look at that.”
Lisa shook her head. “I assume that woman managed to get away? You need to follow her immediately.”
“I will after I quickly fix you up.”
Lisa glared at her. “I can bandage myself up just fine, Lady Cloudia. You know that I have practice. I’m only annoyed that I’m now out of action. Please avenge me by going after that woman and Yvette and whoever else is on this damn train.”
“Very well,” said Cloudia with a sigh. “Do you have what you need?”
Lisa rolled her eyes and dug out a roll of bandages from her pocket. “Yes. Now leave with His Gracelessness before I actually bleed to death in this miserable place.”
***
~Cedric~
June 23
About 11:05
The next wagon was mayhem too; only I barely registered any of it. As soon as I spotted Cloudia, my vision tunnelled and everything else went black, fell away. The passengers, the noise, even the coach itself.
The light only turned on again when I heard Cloudia’s laboured breaths.
After we found Miss Greene bloody and bleeding but alive and full of rage in a compartment, I slipped away, letting Cloudia argue with her alone. I glimpsed back at the carriage behind us and was stunned to see that it had cleared. Somehow, Milton had managed to coerce the passengers back into their cabins. He even seemed to have dragged the corpse elsewhere. Seeing the emptied, dirtied corridor, I could not help but feel bad that Milton had to move a dead body.
Even though he had not minded it at all to carry his dead employee.
I stumbled over that thought. Milton was standing on the side, and when he stepped away from the windows (what had he been doing?), our eyes met looking through the opened doors.
“Can’t you trust me for once?”
“Undertaker?”
Cloudia’s voice behind him made Cedric flinch. He quickly turned to face her, carefully obscuring her view to the door. She did not have to see that Milton was in the neighbouring wagon – at least not now as she would only get upset. Cloudia frowned at him. “Is everything fine?”
“Yes,” Cedric replied. “I was only looking around and didn’t notice you were done with Miss Greene.”
“I think saying that she is done with me is more fitting,” Cloudia said, sighing. “She insisted that I should go after that woman as she can very well fix herself up.”
“She can? That wound didn’t look good.”
“No worries; Lisa did that all the time before we met,” she told him and turned to jostle through the crowd. “Now, come. We do have to hurry and throttle some pests.”
***
~Cloudia~
June 23
About 11:15
Cloudia jumped first. Even before her feet touched the platform, she could hear the chaos in the wagon. She gritted her teeth together. That woman had turned out to be an absolute annoyance; she had even closed the door behind her. Cloudia went to the door and glanced through its small window but couldn’t spot her anywhere. With her hand on the handle, Cloudia craned her head to Cedric. He had still not jumped. Frowning, she watched him look back – did he look nervous or was she imagining it? – before he finally took a run-up and hopped from one carriage to the next.
“Is everything all right?” Cloudia asked. Cedric who was looking back to the previous wagon again snapped around to her.
“Yes, of course,” he said unconvincingly. “And you?” he added, his eyes drifting to her neck.
“Yes, perfectly,” Cloudia replied. She wanted to enquire further; only they had no time. Without another word, she pulled open the door and let them be engulfed with hysteria and hysterics.
A man thought it was the best moment to roll out his suitcase, blocking a good portion of the walkway. A couple started an argument with him about that. They pushed and pulled the suitcase, their faces red and their voices agitated. A mother tried to soothe her crying, screaming baby, and yelled at others around to calm down. A young man asked the other passengers what was going on, his voice becoming shriller and squeakier every time he asked. A moustached man tried squeezing through the crowd while holding a large, open bottle of water.
Pandemonium was a tin of confused and distraught passengers; Cloudia did not look forward to making her way through it.
“Please excuse us and let us through; this is an emergency,” Cloudia tried. However, when the majority neither budged nor listened, Cloudia decided to drop the courtesy and thrust people away left and right; Cedric was right behind her. She kicked the damn suitcase back into the cabin, kicked its owner for good measure, shooed away the jittery young man, and accidentally elbowed the moustached man’s face. He grabbed her jacket as he stumbled back, pulling her with him; water slopped out of his bottle. Cloudia tumbled back too but managed to find her footing back quickly.
Cloudia sighed in relief when she and Cedric finally reached the exit and could feel the fresh, cold air on their skin again. At least, there had been no incident in that wagon.
They lost no time getting to the next one. When Cloudia landed on the platform, her heart began to beat a bit faster. They entered the wagon, hurried through the passageway as best as they could. More and more electricity and excitement pulsed through Cloudia with every step she took, with every step that brought her farther and closer to the end of the coach.
One wagon.
Jacques and Yvette were only one wagon ahead of us now.
The tension, the anticipation, tried to pry her attention away, exchange it for tunnel vision and only make her focus ahead – in vain. Despite her excitement, Cloudia did not allow herself to let her attention drift away. She was hyperaware of everything – the passengers, the open and closed doors of the compartments, Cedric right behind her, assuring like a safety net – as she nudged people aside. Again, there were no incidents as Cloudia made her way forward to this wagon’s door.
And then to the next.
With a clack, Cloudia jumped on the platform five carriages ahead of the one where she had boarded the train. The platform of the wagon where Yvette and Jacques were. Cedric arrived right behind her.
I couldn’t wait to cut Yvette’s throat and get Jacques back. I was so close now but…
Cloudia put her hand on the door handle, dragged it open.
But…
A wave of foreboding hit Cloudia. She was just quick enough to turn to Cedric and grab him.
“Coun–” he began, the address torn in two when she yanked him to the stairs. Reacting swiftly, instinctively, he pulled her to him right as a bullet soared through the air.
Blood rushed through her ears. Cloudia’s hand reached for the dagger before she realised it. With cold terror did she notice its absence. It was not attached to her side anymore; she had no idea when she had lost it or where. Part of her wanted to cry but she pulled herself together and procured a knife instead. When another bullet followed the previous one, and a body followed the bullet through the door, Cloudia was there. Her knife was already raised, his gun still held low.
Cloudia slit the man’s throat.
And then the platform vibrated, and time slowed.
Again, Cedric called out to her. Again, the word was split apart.
One of Townsend’s people had been in the previous coach after all.
Another loud, panicked “Coun–” was shouted into the air when Cedric rushed between Cloudia and the new arrival…
… and trailed into nothingness when Cedric was thrown off the train.
***
June 23
About 11:30
“Cedric!”
She didn’t register the shout escaping her throat.
She was aware of nothing but the sight, the memory, the shock of seeing Cedric be shoved and – vanish.
All the rest was a blur. Cloudia was only pulled back into the now when she heard a loud clang.
She was panting, her grip iron-clad on the bloody knife. Something wet was running down the side of her head. She could not care less about that or the body on the small metal staircase. Her body forced her to put one hand on the bannister and go down the stairs to see and check.
The train was rattling through the landscape, endless fields of green and specks of houses and colour passing by.
But there was no grey, no black, no chartreuse.
Breathe in, breathe out. Deeply, steadily.
Collecting her strength, Cloudia went upstairs, ripped her hand from the railing. The rush had ebbed away, leaving her body full of ice. Fascination overcame her that she was not crumbling or breaking apart when she raised her hand to her throat, yanked the necklace free from beneath her clothes, cradled the pendant in her fist.
Undertaker, she sent to him, waited.
One second, two seconds.
A sharp inhale.
Undertaker, she tried again. Thoughts had no volume; still, she pressed as much force and insistence into that one word as she could.
One second, two seconds.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
There was no voice at the end of the line.
But as she concentrated, she could feel, faintly but surely, that there was an end of the line still.
That invisible thread, pulled taunt, vibrating like the heart beating in her chest.
As long as the pendants were intact, as long as the thread and its strangeness were running strong, she could find him.
And don’t be ridiculous, Cloudia thought to herself as she let the pendant vanish behind her clothes. She stepped away from the bannister while wiping the blood from her face.
I might not know what could kill Death and if it could be done at all.
Cloudia kicked the corpse from the stairs, though refrained from watching it go.
But it couldn’t be done like that.
I was certain of it.
The skull pendant was warm against her chest when she strode into the carriage.
***
~Cedric~
June 23
About 11:35
The skull pendant was warm against his chest, its heat coaxing him awake.
For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, wondered whether he was dreaming. His head hurt, his body felt sore and cold, the world around him spun…
… no, it ran past him, the train and its speed smearing all colours to a blur.
The train.
Cloudia.
Cedric heaved himself to his feet, reached out to the railing to steady himself.
The memories flowed back to me. I had followed Cloudia through the coaches until someone had shot at us and someone else had jumped from the previous wagon to ours. When he had charged at Cloudia, I had jumped between – only to get pushed off the platform.
If I hadn’t teleported at the last moment, I would lie in shambles a few kilometres back in the grass.
The thought made me shudder.
But where exactly was I now instead?
Cedric looked around, the wind tearing at his hair. At some point, his ponytail had come loose, and the band had flown away. He brushed some wayward strands from his face and adjusted his glasses.
He was still on the correct train; his impromptu teleport had not taken him elsewhere entirely, that he knew. Only, on which wagon was he right now? He had not landed at the very back at least (Cedric didn’t know how he could have explained himself that he was back there, in case Aurèle and Kamden decided to look out of their compartment at this very moment). If this was the fifth wagon from the back, it would be ideal. He could easily catch up with Cloudia then. He would not mind if it was the fourth wagon either.
Cloudia. Her name rang through my mind with such heaviness.
I knew she was fine; of course, she was. Nonetheless, the image from earlier clung to me, seeing her limp in that man’s arms.
Cedric reached to retrieve the pendant – and halted when he saw something odd from the corner of his eye: Something was attached to the carriage wall behind him.
He turned to figure out what it was and realised with horror that no, it was not something that clung to the train.
It was someone.
His heart dropped when he registered that he knew who it was.
“Milton!” Cedric cried out, just as Milton rammed through the window.
***
~Cloudia~
June 23
About 11:35
The annoying woman had been in this wagon too. This time, of course, not only she had alerted the passengers and beckoned them out of their cabins; the gunshots and the fight had as well. They had, however, also frozen the civilians with fear. Now, instead of wandering around, wondering, crying, arguing, they stood still in the corridor and doorsills, staring at her anxiously.
In the last few coaches, Cloudia might have welcomed the change, even if it had come at the price of such a horrific scare. Here, the sight only made cold tendrils curl up her spine.
After all, Yvette and Jacques were meant to be in this wagon.
***
~Cedric~
June 23
About 11:38
It took Cedric a moment until he could move again. His mind had momentarily blanked upon the sight of Milton vanishing in a shower of glass inside the wagon.
Now, his mind replayed the memory while Cedric hastily jumped to the carriage behind him. No matter how often it ran through his head, he could not understand why on earth this idiot would do something so absurdly reckless – hadn’t they left all doors open when they passed through the train?
And if the door had somehow closed in the meantime, couldn’t he have simply opened it again?
“I will keep myself safe,” my ass, Cedric thought as he landed on the platform, took the one, two steps to the door. Anger mixed with horror and worry. He could not wait to chew out Milton for his behaviour. But when he laid his hand on the door handle and pushed it down, it did not budge.
And when he looked up and through the door’s small, broken window, he froze again.
How could that be?
***
~Cloudia~
June 23
About 11:38
Cloudia hurried to search the compartments, one by one.
They were not here; they were not there.
And when she reached the last cabin, she tightened the grip on her blade, drew the door open…
… and gazed at people she had never seen before.
***
~Cedric~
June 23
About 11:39
The scene in front of him was nothing if not surreal.
In bafflement, in puzzlement, Cedric watched everything unfold; his brain tried its best to comprehend the strange sequence that played before him.
Yvette was backing away, inching closer to the door behind which Cedric stood. He could not see her face; still, he knew that she must be looking terrified. After all, he could see the tension in her body.
And the horrifying look on Milton’s face as he charged at her, knife in hand.
His oddly calm expression. The bloodcurdling blank fury in his eyes.
Blink; Milton turned the knife in his hand. Cedric hadn’t even registered that he had been holding it oddly, had been grasping its blade before.
Blink; the space between them was conquered.
Blink; the knife was raised.
Blink – and Milton was pulled back.
The moment was broken, the tense seconds shattered as Newman grabbed Milton’s arm and yanked him back.
Yvette, unhurt, stumbled back, and lost something in her haste to get away.
It tumbled out of her pocket, that rectangular little object, and rolled right to Milton’s feet.
Cedric inhaled sharply when he saw Milton snatch it and the look in his eyes shift.
Milton might be standing on the other end of the walkway. Still, Cedric could make out his expression as clear as day.
It was a familiar one, after all. One he had got to know only days before.
***
~Cloudia~
June 23
About 11:39
I cursed under my breath.
I had not excluded the possibility, of course, that Yvette or Townsend or Maxime might move between the wagons too. I had only anticipated that the probability would be rather small as they would have to jump with hostages in tow, one of which was little Jacques.
But with all that commotion, they must have seen no other way.
They could only hope for their own sakes’ that they had not decided to simply discard Jacques on the way.
Cloudia stepped away from the cabin and briefly glanced back before she opened the door and jumped to the carriage ahead.
***
~Cedric~
June 23
About 11:40
“I wondered if it were you. It is such a pleasure to finally meet you, Baron Salisbury,” said Yvette and straightened up. Cedric could hear the smile in her voice. He would have broken open the lock, bolted through the door, and torn it right off her face if Maxime hadn’t come out of a cabin at that moment, a blade pressed against Jacques’ throat. He was followed by a man Cedric didn’t know who levelled a pistol at Milton and Newman.
Damn, damn, damn.
Yvette, Jacques, and Maxime were here, in a completely different coach than we had anticipated. Cloudia was ahead, trying to find them. Newman and Milton were with them – and my hands were bound.
If I made myself noticed, at best, Maxime and Yvette would threaten to cut Jacques’ throat if I did not stay back. At worst, they might kill him immediately, the suddenness of me breaking the door or whatnot possibly spooking them enough to draw the knife across his neck.
I could not even teleport myself behind Yvette, Maxime, and the gunman and knock them out in secret because of Milton and Newman.
I had to find another way, another opportunity, to get inside. For now, all I could do was turn myself invisible, in case Yvette, the gunman, or Maxime spotted me through the window, and listen to their conversation with my teeth clenched.
Goddammit, Milton; couldn’t you have a better poker face?
“Townsend told me about your company,” Yvette continued, delight dripping into her voice. “How Salisbury Trading, already successful, thrived with you as its head, Mylord, and established itself as one of the quickest transportation companies that exists, if not as the quickest one. And how secretive you are. However, Townsend still managed to take a glimpse at some machine blueprints while he ‘worked’ for you. His father used to work on machines in a factory and told him a lot about his job, did you know that? Townsend himself was never adept with technology; nevertheless, he knew from the moment he saw those blueprints that they were unlike anything he had seen before.
“When he told me all that, all I could think was what a waste it is to hide machinery like that. You could become richer than you already are; you could become more known than you already are. Instead, you keep everything away and yourself too. Not a singular picture of you in any newspaper! There was only some hearsay about golden hair.” The delight in Yvette’s voice darkened to something bitter. “You could have everything, but you hide yourself because of ‘humbleness.’ I could laugh! Selfishness is all that is. I even viewed you as tyrannical for withholding those blueprints and the people behind them. At the same time, I could not help but wonder if Salisbury Trading’s prodigious accomplishments are truly coming from its employees or actually from its elusive director.”
Yvette made a step towards Milton. Cedric tensed when she reached into her pocket, but she only procured a pair of handcuffs, not a weapon. He still did not like it at all what Yvette must want with it.
“Mylord,” Yvette said, boasting with confidence. “I have a proposal for you. I will hand over Jacques to your companion. In exchange, you will remove your weaponry, return the Queen’s box to me, put on these handcuffs” – she lifted them – “and come with me, Maxime, and Stevens with no protest. We would also lock Jacques and your companion in one of the cabins. It’s not long until Paris anymore. When we arrive, I’m sure Miss Watchdog or someone else in her entourage will free Jacques and your companion. By that time, we will be long gone and traversing the city until we find a nice, quiet place for you to open the box. Of course, if you refuse, Maxime will slit Jacques’ throat.” On cue, Maxime tightened his grip on the boy, and Jacques whimpered. Cedric clenched his jaw. “And if your friend there tries anything, Stevens will, of course, shoot you both.”
Yvette held the handcuffs out to Milton. “What do you say, Mylord?”
“Do you not have the Clockmaker in your grip? Why would you require another to solve the box?”
To everyone’s surprise, it was not Milton who responded but Newman. Cedric sucked in the air when he heard his friend’s voice and wished he had a better view of him and Milton. Yvette, Maxime, Jacques, and Stevens the gunman were in the way, and Cedric could only vaguely make out that Milton turned to Newman. Cedric pictured him looking aghast and was sure that Milton must be saying something in protest to Newman, though he could not hear it.
“Of course, we have that disagreeable Clockmaker in our grip,” replied Yvette. For once, Cedric was happy that Florentin was like he was; he must have made the journey to Creil rather unenjoyable for Yvette and Townsend.
He should not have let himself be taken though. Even if they had held Jacques hostage.
“I simply like having options,” Yvette continued. “And as you can see, the box is a unique oddity – just like the Baron’s machinery. The Clockmaker seems to work with the old, the Baron with the new. Between the two, they should be able to open the puzzle box. Now, what do you say, Baron Salisbury?”
“Yes, of course,” Milton said with shocking immediacy.
“Baron Milton,” gasped Newman in a mirror of Cedric’s thoughts.
“What other decision is there for me to make, Mr Newman?” Milton said before he addressed Yvette. “I will put on the handcuffs, and then you will hand over Jacques at the same time as Mr Newman will surrender me and the box to you.”
“And then, you will remain with Maxime until Jacques and Mr Newman have let themselves be locked up,” added Yvette.
“Exactly.”
“Lord Milton, don’t!” cried Jacques. Maxime tightened his grip on him anew, and he whimpered again. Cedric could hear the tears in his voice as Jacques still strained to continue, “You can’t let them have the box! It doesn’t matter what happens to me!”
“Don’t say something like that, Jacques,” Milton replied softly. “This is just a box, and what kind of queen would place a keepsake above the life of a child?” Yvette shifted a bit to the side, allowing Cedric to see Milton pass the knife he had still been holding in his left hand to Newman. Only then did Cedric notice its familiar glint.
How did Cloudia’s father’s dagger end up with Milton?
Milton proceeded to remove his odd utility belt and gave it to Newman too. Just when he took the handcuffs, Jacques cried out again. “They won’t let you go, Lord Milton! No matter if you cannot open it or if you can!”
“That is fine,” Milton said with an odd voice. The handcuffs clicked loudly into their locks when he bound himself. “There is nothing they can do to me that is new.”
With that, Milton stepped forward. “The box for the boy, me for their survival.”
“Yes, of course, Mylord.” Yvette beckoned Maxime to her. He dragged Jacques forward, keeping the knife pressed to his neck, until they were standing next to Milton in this narrow space. Newman was behind Milton, Yvette stood behind Maxime, and Stevens remained where he was and pointed his weapon at Milton.
“Lord Milton,” sobbed Jacques.
“Do not be afraid and go to Mr Newman as fast as you can when you’re released,” Milton replied and held the box out to Yvette. Now that Milton was closer, Cedric could see the serene expression on his face better and the engravings on the box. “Miss Guilloux?”
“Flattered that you know my name, Baron Salisbury,” said Yvette and grabbed the black box in his hand, though she only lifted it from his palm the moment Maxime let the knife sink.
Then, everything happened in short succession.
Maxime nudged Jacques to Newman. Newman pulled the boy behind himself. Yvette took Milton’s arm, dragged him to her.
With a glance over her head, Milton turned and rammed his shoulder into Yvette, thrusting her back into Stevens.
A bullet was released. A scream was heard.
Stevens was pressed against the door. Cedric broke the lock and threw the door open.
Stevens stumbled backwards. Although he didn’t fall through the open door, Cedric was still there to catch him and yank him to the side. He fought against the itch to shove him down the stairs and dodged when Stevens fired at him, the bullet flying half-heartedly past his leg.
Cedric hastened to take the pistol away from him but was suddenly overpowered and pushed too. For a moment, his stomach fluttered as he feared to be kicked off the train again. Instead, his back hit the cold metal railing, the bars digging into his clothes. He clenched his teeth, and when Stevens raised the gun to his head, Cedric slapped it away, sent it flying into the landscape.
Cedric had just taken hold of Stevens’ wrist and twisted it until it broke – a body injured was no life taken after all – when he noticed someone rushing past them, escaping to the next wagon.
Yvette.
Cedric’s curses mixed with Stevens’ wails of pain. He punched him in the face, knocking him out, before he turned, ready to follow her. But she had already vanished in the carriage, making her way through it – and getting closer to Cloudia.
Go, Cloudia! Get her!
With a smile, Cedric dropped the unconscious man on the platform and quickly checked if this had not accidentally killed him and cost him his job and existence before he hurried inside. Adrenaline and worry pumped through him. There had been a gunshot, and he had no idea if the bullet had hit anything, anyone, and Maxime had been right behind Milton with a knife too.
The instant Cedric stepped into the wagon, he realised that his worry had been unfounded. Newman stood protectively before a shaky Jacques, and Milton stood above an unconscious Maxime. He was still handcuffed and although he was a bit dishevelled, Milton seemed perfectly fine when he turned to Cedric and said, “Kristopher! Are you all right?”
Cedric pressed his lips into a grim line and grabbed Milton by the shoulders. “What are you doing, you idiot!” he yelled and shook Milton. “I saw you climb around outside a moving train! Break through a window! Pawn yourself off and take a gamble tackling someone with a gun! What happened to keeping yourself safe?!”
He stopped shaking Milton and took a deep breath. Every conversation he had had with Anaïs and Aurèle about faeries, death, and Milton returned to him now. The possibility that Milton might be on the verge of death, his candle about to be blown out, the “complete” stamp pressed to his Dispatch file. A possibility that was both strengthened by all the nonsense Milton had done and weakened because he was still alive.
And in it all, all I could think of was Cloudia’s reaction to everything – his carelessness, his potential death.
When Cedric looked up at Milton, remorse was written all over Milton’s face. “I’m sorry, Kristopher. I didn’t mean to worry or upset you. I wouldn’t have done any of that if I hadn’t known I would be fine.”
“Have you gone mad? How on earth would you have known…” began Cedric but was cut off by Jacques wailing and hugging Milton from behind.
“Lord Milton! I’m so sorry!” he pressed out between sobs. “You got hurt because of me!” Abruptly, Jacques shrieked and jumped back. “Oh no! I got carried away! I’m so sorry, did I hurt you? Maxime stabbed you in the back after all… And the bullet must have hit you too…”
Cedric’s eyes widened. “What?” it slipped out of his mouth. “Why didn’t anyone say anything before I shook him like a rattle?” He swiftly turned Milton around to inspect the wound.
Only to find nothing. Solely his jacket was a bit chafed.
“I said I’m okay,” said Milton. Cedric could have sworn he sounded embarrassed. “I was stabbed, yes, but I am fine.”
Milton turned around, and Cedric stared at him. “The jacket,” Cedric said, dumbfounded. “I wondered why you chose to wear a suit jacket of all things for the journey. I thought you were maybe being a bit silly or forgot to pack enough practical stuff but that’s protective clothing?”
Milton smiled sheepishly. “A prototype. The test run has gone well, I suppose.”
“The test run? You chose to do a test run on a prototype now?”
“Well, it’s not the first test run…”
“And that should pacify me?!”
“… just the first one with the new amendments. It’s good to know it works well for stabs and cuts and if you’re grazed by a bullet. If I had been hit with it, the jacket wouldn’t have done anything; it’s not that far yet…”
Cedric ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “You have gone mad, most certainly. A test run! Don’t use an actual criminal hunt as a test run! And why would you even need to trial protective clothing in the first place?!”
“Your Grace,” said Newman and stepped forward. “Please calm down. Excessive shouting is detrimental to your health, and you are spooking young Mr Beauchene.” Cedric opened his mouth to protest only to close it again. Newman nodded at him before he turned to Milton. He gently lifted Milton’s hands, rattling the handcuffs. “This was a particularly reckless endeavour, Mylord,” Newman stated and rummaged in his pocket. “In my life, I have only observed my dear mistress acting in such a manner, equal parts brave and imprudent.” He procured a skeleton key and began to try opening the handcuffs.
“I am sorry, Mr Newman,” Milton said quietly, sounding oddly young. “Are you fine? Have you got hurt?”
“Not at all, Mylord. I apologise; I was unable to thank you before for endangering yourself for my sake.”
“You do not have to thank me for that, Mr Newman.” Milton’s voice was almost a whisper.
Confused, Cedric looked between the two. “What happened?”
“Baron Milton broke through the window because I failed to secure my back, and the door was jammed,” explained Newman. “You even suffered an injury for my sake; I deeply apologise for that.” He took the now-open handcuffs from Milton’s wrists. However, when he tried to turn Milton’s bloody left hand for inspection, Milton hastily pulled it back.
“It is only a shallow cut,” Milton insisted. “The blood crusted already. I am fine. And you really don’t need to apologise to me or thank me, or please, least of all, don’t feel guilty, Mr Newman. It was my own choice and doing. Now, could you give me the handcuffs?”
Wordlessly, Newman handed them over alongside the utility belt; the dagger he kept. Milton took the items, put on his belt, and knelt to Maxime. Cedric had completely forgotten that they were standing around his fainted body. He glanced around a bit then and discovered another body unconscious on the ground on the other end of the walkway; Newman’s large frame had hidden it from view before. Some passengers peeked out of their compartments, and Cedric recognised the agitated couple and the moustached man from before. That explained why a portion of the ground was wet.
Milton quickly let the handcuffs snap around Maxime’s wrists and stood up again. He shrugged off his suit jacket and placed it over Jacques’ shoulders. The boy’s eyes, red and poufy from crying, widened; his glasses made them appear even larger. “But, Lord Milton! I can’t take this!”
“Of course, you can,” said Milton gently. “It will help to keep you safe until we have all returned to the château. I will be fine without it too.” He smiled at Jacques. “Mr Newman? Would you be so kind and deliver Jacques to his brother or simply remain here until we have arrived in Paris?”
Newman bowed his head. Milton went to the windowed side of the corridor, stretched, and did something Cedric could not see that culminated in a flap clicking open and a row of short ropes falling out. “And if the right time comes, could you pull on these ropes?” said Milton to Newman. “Please pass this information on to the passengers here, thanks.”
With that, Milton strode to the door. Cedric, seeing red and realising that he was gradually losing his patience with him, shot out his arm and grabbed Milton’s. “I don’t think you should continue after the stunts you have just pulled and after Yvette found out that you could open the box. It’s best if you stay very far away from Yvette and Townsend, Milton.”
“I told you that I have to go on, Kristopher,” replied Milton adamantly. “There is no reason to repeat that argument; I will not budge. Regarding the box…” He was quiet for a moment. “They aren’t even sure if I can open it. And they only nearly had me because I freely handed myself over. I’ve never been kidnapped before.”
“This might be the worst situation for firsts, Milton.”
“It won’t happen.”
“Unless you’re clairvoyant, I doubt you can know for sure.” Cedric sighed. “You’re giving me a headache, Milton.”
“I’m sorry. We do have no time to argue though. It’s not long until we arrive in Paris now.”
Cedric sighed anew and glanced at Newman. “Please take care of Jacques, Al. It seems I need to take this one here through the train.”
***
~Cloudia~
June 23
About 11:41
Commotion, commotion, commotion.
The next wagon was a chaotic wreck too. Cloudia was tired of jostling her way through the masses and narrow corridors. Thus, when she finally spotted the woman who had caused all that, Cloudia wished she still had the dagger and didn’t have to cut her throat with an ordinary knife.
At least, when the woman spotted her, she turned in panic and tried to run – only to be held back by passengers.
She just reached the door when Cloudia slammed her against it, holding the cold blade against her neck. “Interesting, isn’t it? How things can turn out to be,” whispered Cloudia into her ear, first in French, then in English for good measure, before she slid the knife across her throat like a violinist drew a bow along the strings of their instrument. Instead of a melody, her action only coaxed gasps and screams out of the passengers who tried to pry her off the woman.
“Murderer, murderer, murderer,” they called her. Cloudia simply yanked herself free from their grips and wiped the knife on her clothes. Again, there was no sight of Yvette and Jacques. She wondered about them as she moved on to the next wagon, the last one before the locomotive.
***
~Cedric~
June 23
About 12:00
“Are you done here, Milton?” Cedric asked. Since they had left Jacques and Newman behind, they had managed to cross a wagon and were about to jump to their third. After that, there was only one carriage left between them and the locomotive which meant they had nearly caught up with Cloudia.
“Yes,” said Milton and stepped away from the windowed wall. Yet again, it was lined with the short ropes; this time, Cedric had managed to glimpse Milton plunging an odd, bi-coloured key into a small hole and turning it though.
Milton glanced at the passengers, and Cedric sighed. They had had to forgo easing the civilians back into their compartments in the last coach which had visibly pained Milton even if he understood.
“Milton, we don’t have much time. If we don’t catch them before the train enters the station, they will run off wherever,” Cedric reminded him.
Milton nodded, looking a bit absentminded. “Yes. Give me a moment, Kristopher,” he said and turned to some of the passengers to say something to them in French. He had done that in the previous wagon too, had done that throughout the entire train. Cedric had initially thought he was simply reassuring them that everything would be fine; now, he knew better.
“And if the right time comes, could you pull on these ropes?” Milton had told Newman. Cedric knew next to nothing about trains; before he met Cloudia, he had barely ridden on them before. There had not been any trains yet before he became a Grim Reaper, only wagonways. Afterwards, there had been little need for Cedric to take a train as he could transport himself wherever he liked on his own. Still, whatever Milton was doing unnerved Cedric, and he searched his memory, in vain, if he had ever seen such ropes in trains before.
Cedric wanted to ask. His body itched with the question; nevertheless, he kept his mouth closed. Something told him that Milton would either avoid answering if needed, or fall into rambling and mumbling, and Cedric really had no time to pry a proper answer from him.
“I’m done,” announced Milton and gave him a little smile.
This little gesture, so innocent and normal, paired with his earlier thoughts sent an unexpected shudder down Cedric’s spine. He had never wanted to admit it before, not to Cecelia, not even to himself. Only, with all the events of the last ten hours, it was becoming harder and harder to ignore the indescribable unease that made its home within him whenever he was with Milton and write it off as mere jealousy.
***
~Cloudia~
June 23
About 11:46
Her heart beat faster when she arrived in the last coach before the locomotive.
Townsend and the others had to be here, or in the cab after all.
This wagon, unlike the previous ones, was quiet. No one stood in the passageways, wide-eyed and panicked and wondering what was going on. While Cloudia had only seen one very shoddy daguerreotype of Townsend, she could easily pick Yvette and Jacques out in a crowd. She was also confident that she could identify Florentin. The striking colour of his eyes might be dampened by his glasses, but Cedric had described them with as great care as he could.
It would be so easy to open each compartment until she found Townsend or Yvette so that she could drag them out and beat them up. It would be greatly satisfactory, though would certainly lead to yet another commotion, and Cloudia had no way of telling whether some of Townsend’s companions were here too. They might have decided for Townsend and Florentin to board alone so as not to deviate any attention to them, or for many others to board with him as to keep them safer.
However, if she stood here and waited for them to arrive in Paris, the civilians would file out of the cabins too, making it difficult to locate and reach Townsend and Florentin, Yvette and Jacques.
Cloudia clenched her teeth and turned the knife in her hand.
Beating them up would not do. She was not a barbarian but a lady after all. A clean cut would suffice, or a well-placed stab through ribs or guts.
And because Yvette must be here already, Townsend must be awaiting Cloudia. A commotion was inevitable anyway.
Cloudia was about to open the first cabin door when she saw a movement from the corner of her eye and whirled around to see.
A man had stepped onto the platform of the locomotive. He wore practical but pristine clothes, from what she could tell from afar. An easy smile decorated his face, and the midday sun kissed his gold-blond hair as he waved at her. Cloudia frowned; she had thought he had darker hair.
“Yvette Guilloux told me all about you,” said Nicodemus Townsend so loudly that his words were still clear across the howling wind and through the closed carriage door. “Miss Watchdog.”
Cloudia tightened her grip on her weapon but did not move. Every fibre of her screamed trap, the scream vibrating through her body with each heartbeat.
Thus, when a compartment door ahead opened and a gunman stepped out, she was ready. Charging forward, knife raised before he could even aim. Cloudia had intended to pierce his chest, but he had moved away at the last moment, and she cut his side instead.
He yelled out and fired, unwavering. Cloudia dodged, her heart racing and adrenaline singing through her veins. Blood dripped from Cloudia’s blade to the floor, splattered a bit through the air as she lunged again. The man blocked her knife with the pistol, thrust her back a bit. She stumbled back a step but quickly found her footing again and sent the knife flying. The gunman stepped aside, the blade grazing his cheek and lodging in the cabin door behind. Cloudia used this small window in which he was surprised, distracted, to procure one of the knives she had taken from the first assailant, the one who had shot at them and set the ball rolling.
She charged ahead. And when the man raised his gun, she stabbed him through the hand before he could pull the trigger. Cloudia ripped out the knife, coaxing a cry out of him. His body staggered back just as another rammed into her from behind.
The air was knocked out of Cloudia’s lungs. Before she could recover, strong arms took hold of her and crushed her against the ground. The wagon shook from the impact. Pain blossomed across her chest, even with the corset partially absorbing the shock. The knife clattered out of her hands, and she could hear it being kicked away.
Cloudia strained against the grip. Her attacker held on tight, holding her hands and keeping a leg pressed against her back.
“I would refrain from doing anything rash,” Townsend said, entering the wagon. He must have jumped when Cloudia was attacked from behind. He smiled again; up close, she could see it was a politician’s smile, wide and pretty but it did not quite reach his eyes. “You would not want anything to happen to the poor, innocent passengers on this train, do you?”
The gunman scowled at Cloudia, holding his injured side with his injured hand. He now held his pistol with his left hand, not with his right one, and waved it towards the row of compartment doors before levelling it at her head. Cloudia gritted her teeth together.
“I knew the Queen would send her rumoured Watchdog after me, of course,” Townsend continued. “Never in a million years, I anticipated that it would be a woman, and was stunned to hear Miss Guilloux’s report from Nanteuil-la-Forêt. Who would have thought! The underworld’s watchdog, a woman! Such a beautiful one too. An unheard thing, but then, we are undergoing times of change, times of revolution.” His smile widened; it made Cloudia’s blood boil. “Revolution brought us two together too, and I will bring revolution to the kingdom.” Swiftly, Townsend retrieved a box from his jacket. Cloudia stiffened momentarily at the sight.
The Queen’s box. Glossy black, engraved with eerie furrows that stretched across it. The object for which Cloudia had taken this long, long journey. And now, it was right before her, in the enemy’s hand.
“Oh, an object of legends! I still cannot fathom that I could behold it with my eyes, let alone with my hands.” Townsend turned the black box in his hand and his eyes lit up. “Two myths, two rumours in one train wagon. The Queen’s puzzle box containing something of national importance, and Her Majesty’s Watchdog. What a marvellous day it is, don’t you agree, Miss Watchdog?” He tilted his head. “Calling you exclusively ‘Miss Watchdog’ like unrefined French village girls do is rather rude, is it not? You know my name; am I not entitled to know yours too?”
“It’s hilarious that you care not to be perceived as rude as if one of your men wasn’t pressing me against the ground and another wasn’t pointing a gun at me,” returned Cloudia.
Townsend laughed. “The woman talks, how lovely! And it’s all very well for you to talk too. Have you not come to me with the objective of vicious murder?
“You will not believe it, but I do not blame you for that. You are merely a victim of the system, after all. Though not for long when the Clockmaker opens the box for me.” Townsend sighed. “All that could have been avoided if they had not kept rejecting our petitions. It is not our fault that we were driven to take such drastic measures.
“What did we demand? Secret ballots, that all men above twenty-one should be able to vote, that everyone should be able to become a member of the parliament, frequent changes of parliament, equal electoral districts, and payments for members of parliament! They even rejected the last point. We have done our best to make ourselves be heard peacefully. See? Our demands were not even outlandish; we did not want to see Queen Victoria dethroned and beheaded. We only wanted to be heard.” A grin spread across his face, and he gently ran his hand over the box. “And heard we will be.” He pocketed the box and put his arms behind him. “Do not worry, Miss Watchdog. We do not wish any harm; we only want things to be better.”
“Yes, and for that, you kill innocent workers and villagers,” said Cloudia bitterly.
“They died for a higher cause. If you killed me now and took the box from me, wouldn’t their sacrifices have been in vain? This, my dear, is true villainy.”
Cloudia heard the clack of someone landing on the metal platform and cursed under her breath when it was not immediately followed by a shout or a gunshot or anything. Where was Cedric?
“Oh, my, there we meet again, Miss Watchdog,” Yvette said as she squeezed around Cloudia to stand before her.
“Where is Jacques?” Cloudia demanded to know.
“Ah, did you assume I fled to the front? I took little Jacques with me and went towards the back of the train after Maxime noticed you in the train station. It was a pain to make Jacques jump; thankfully, Maxime was with us too.
“Your friends are just as obnoxious as you are, do you know that? They got Jacques back, and if it had not been for Maxime, they would have caught me.” Yvette bent down to Cloudia and grinned. “All the more satisfying to see you caught.”
Yvette stood up again. “A few minutes until Paris now. They will crawl out from everywhere to chase us then; we need to be vigilant and escape on time.”
“Yes, of course,” replied Townsend. “Let’s head to the locomotive, Miss Guilloux,” he continued and something about the way he said that and Yvette’s smile in response bothered Cloudia. Yvette jumped first, and Townsend waved at Cloudia again before he followed her.
His henchmen, of course, stayed behind.
Cloudia was beginning to feel sore in this position. She knew she would be covered in bruises despite Wilbur’s special corset.
“Do you think Townsend would mind it if we blew holes into her pretty head?” enquired the gunman and bent down to press the barrel against Cloudia’s head. “It’s not as if he has any use for her, right?”
“A waste of such a pretty thing,” replied the man holding her down. “But she is only trouble. It’s better if she’s dead.”
The gunman grinned and moved the pistol down to her side. “Dirty girl stabbed me in the side; maybe, I should return the favour in the same area,” he mused.
Now that the gun was away from her head, Cloudia was about to try freeing herself, driven by the need to knock out his teeth, when she heard a godly, lovely clack.
The gunman yelled out in agony, his pistol flying out of his hand, just as the other man was pulled off her. Cloudia jumped to her feet, glimpsed Milton ahead of her by the end of the wagon, and fleetly rammed her knee into the gunman’s face. He was knocked out instantaneously, and she was maybe a bit too giddy to see that he had indeed lost a tooth or two.
Cloudia then looked around and saw Cedric uppercutting the other man into unconsciousness. She smiled watching him hastily check his pulse and place him on the ground with a sigh. She wanted to speak to him, to him and Milton both, but there was no time for that yet.
Unholstering her gun, Cloudia ran along the walkway to the front.
She was about to jump – and staggered back right before.
Townsend and Yvette had decoupled the locomotive from the rest of the train.
Yvette stood in the cab, happily waving at Cloudia as the gap between them widened.
Taking a deep breath, Cloudia took a run-up, bracing herself to make a longer jump than she had to do before when, suddenly, an arm was slung around her waist, pulling her back into the carriage. She yelled out, protested. The door was kicked shut. A terrible sound rang through the train. Milton shouted, “Kristopher! Pull on the ropes!”
Everything rattled and tilted – the wagon, the ground, Cloudia herself. If she had not been held, she might have fallen. The wheels shrieked like banshees, piercing her ears, echoing terribly through her skull.
And then the train came to a halt.
Right before an explosion sounded in the distance.
***
June 23
About 12:07
What on earth? Cloudia thought breathlessly as her mind and body slowly adjusted to the world calming down.
The hand on her waist was pulled away. In her periphery, Cloudia noticed Milton gazing through the door’s window. Her ears were still ringing from that hellish sound and the shrill wheels. Cedric appeared next to her. He said something that she could not make out. A brief wave of dizziness washed over her. Nonetheless, Cloudia forced herself to stumble to the window too and see for herself.
Their wagon and the rest of the train were standing still. The locomotive was several metres ahead of them and giving off unusual amounts of smoke.
What on earth? Cloudia thought anew and rubbed her ears awake.
“Are you all right, Countess?” she finally heard Cedric say. This time, she knew to nod. Passengers came out of the cabins, their voices hammers that punched against her bruised ears.
Someone emerged from the cloud of smoke outside too, running away.
“Countess?” said Cedric behind her just as she kicked open the wagon door, jumped out, and ran.
***
London, England, United Kingdom – May 1843
~Cloudia~
After the tense conversation in her father’s office, Barrington had insisted that he would remain in the Phantomhive townhouse. Cloudia did not exactly mind having him around even if he could be a handful; only the circumstances and the length of his stay made her stomach churn.
Barrington was rooting himself in her townhouse to keep an eye on Oscar, and he would only dislodge when Oscar was gone again. This did not refer to Oscar eventually passing away (Barrington would have preferred if it did, particularly if Oscar died in the foreseeable future; Cloudia would rather kill them both than live with them for decades) but to Oscar’s moving date. The Queen had provided him with a secret house because Oscar could not stay with Cloudia forever after all.
Cloudia might need to watch over him, but his constant presence in her homes would prevent her from receiving visitors and fulfilling any of her societal duties. In the brief time Cloudia had known Oscar, she was rather sure she could tell him to stay in a room with an adjourning bathroom and not come out, and he would obey with no protest or difficulty. He would likely survive being locked up like that. It felt horrendous though, to retrieve Oscar from a cell and throw him in another. His movements were limited now already, restricting them even more to a single room seemed too much.
But then, as Barrington had drilled into her, Oscar was a serial murderer who did not deserve anything at all.
The day had stretched itself long and thin due to all the hostility Barrington had brought with him. They had taken lunch all together; throughout it, Barrington had been on the verge of cutting Oscar’s throat with a steak knife. For dinner, Cloudia had simply sent Oscar to eat alone in his room.
Now, although Cloudia had done nothing all day as she was still recovering from her last attack, she was exhausted. When they had all retreated to bed for the night, Cloudia had been surprised that Barrington had not insisted on chaining himself to Oscar (with a chain long enough that they did not have to sleep in the same room, of course).
The Queen had said the house would be ready after a probation period of a month for Oscar. If this was what the first day of living with him and Barrington was like, I wished I could hibernate for the next few weeks. Perhaps, I could temporarily move in with Kamden.
Right after Cloudia finished a chapter of her book, Oscar knocked softly on her door before letting himself in. “You looked like you wanted to talk to me all day,” he explained. “I hope it is not too late.”
“No, I don’t think I could have fallen asleep with all these questions on my mind,” Cloudia said and put her book on the bedside cabinet. “You can sit down by the desk or vanity if you like.”
Oscar shook his head. “I prefer to keep standing. What do you want to know after you spoke to Weaselton?”
“Did you ever do anything personal to Barrington? He hates you so much; it makes me wonder whether you spit into his tea once.”
“No, not at all,” Oscar replied and went to stand by the window. The drapes had been pulled across it, blocking out the world beyond. “Weaselton has always disliked me for the same reasons as everyone else does. It’s unsurprising that this dislike intensified into hate. I did murder plenty of people after all, though I never spit into anyone’s tea, no matter how annoying they were. Trudy’s best friend tended to be rather bothersome, and my old partner knew very little about personal space. I have become quite accustomed to this type of person because of them. I suppose I did not mind Simon’s company because he was the opposite.”
“I see.” Cloudia dug her fingers into her blanket. “Barrington does not trust you.”
“This is very obvious to everyone, yes.”
“His distrust is not baseless though.”
“Of course. Now you are asking yourself if you can trust me?”
“Yes,” said Cloudia firmly.
Oscar leaned against the windowsill and crossed his arms. “This is something you have to decide for yourself,” he said. “I cannot make you trust me. Any plea of mine will fall on deaf ears if even a part of you simply does not want to place any confidence in me. I have no desire to make any plea though; I do not care if you believe in me or not.
“However, I remind you that this current situation is of your own doing. You do not need to trust me for us to work together, but you must figure out if the distrust you harbour for me impedes our cooperation and makes you lose confidence in your own choice. I can only say that I have neither any desire nor incentive to betray you.”
“And do you have no desire to kill anyone too?” Cloudia enquired Her heart raced at the question.
“I have no desire to kill anyone unless I must.”
“Really? Was it like that with your victims too?”
Oscar looked blankly at her. “Yes,” he said, making her shiver. “I hope you are well aware that I cannot impart any details of my crime to you.”
“Yes, of course.” Cloudia hesitated before she asked, “Do you think you must kill the person that opened your basement door?”
Oscar did not flinch, did not stiffen; he only became very, very still, and it was more than enough of a sign that Cloudia had caught him off-guard. She could not believe she had managed to do that. The implication of it, however, prevented her from rejoicing internally. She only tightened her grip on the blanket, her blood running cold.
“No,” Oscar said ultimately. “I have never had the desire or even the thought to kill or harm that person.”
Cloudia blinked at him. “Truly? Barrington was certain that you plotted to take revenge since you were imprisoned and would now wait for the perfect opportunity to strike.”
“Weaselton has nothing but a lively imagination. As I said, killing that person has never crossed my thoughts and it never will.” Oscar looked at her. “You do not need to worry about the wellbeing of a person you do not know and likely never will. If you do not take my word for this, I’m afraid I can only offer Rowan’s as well.” Like the last time, he had mentioned the police commissioner, a shadow crossed Oscar’s face. “There are not many who know about that person’s identity and know that I would not do what Weaselton is theorising.”
“Only Rowan? Not Mayne too?” Cloudia wanted to know.
“Yes. They may be joint police commissioners, but Rowan has always handled everything connected to me. Although Mayne surely knows some things about my crimes and imprisonment, the details are only privy to Rowan within the Metropolitan Police.”
“I’ve been wondering,” said Cloudia, “why you don’t seem to like Rowan. Not because I believe he is someone so pleasant it would be shocking if someone did not like him but because I know you have known him since your military days. He recruited you to Scotland Yard too. I assumed you, at least, tolerated each other until your imprisonment and was surprised to notice that you cannot even say his name without looking like you’re about to vomit.”
“Well observed,” Oscar said dryly. “You are right. I’ve known Rowan since I was fifteen years old because we were both part of the 52nd Oxfordshire Regiment of Foot. At first, he was the regiment’s second-in-command, and he became my commanding officer when we were sent to Ireland years later. As such, Rowan became one of the few people I ever told about Trudy as I had to ask him for permission to get married. I wish we had delayed our wedding a little because he retired from the military not long afterwards. Things might have turned out very differently if Rowan had never known about Trudy, and Trudy had never known about him.”
“What… what do you mean?”
Oscar’s eyes darkened. “We have spoken about trust. Harm lies in both baseless distrust and misplaced faith. I told you what Trudy was like. She was the most wonderful, intelligent person with a heart full of trust, though she never gave away her trust freely. However, because Rowan was the person who had, in her words, ‘looked after me’ since I was a teen and I had no family left, she reached out to him to give him a chance. He attended our wedding; he knew about my children.”
Even though Oscar grew quiet, Cloudia could see that he could barely restrain his feelings. She might not have known him for too long but, to her, Oscar was someone who was mostly calm and collected; someone who did their utmost to conceal their emotions, or who had difficulties expressing them plainly and openly. Most of the time, he seemed oddly subdued, and it was very difficult, albeit not completely impossible, to read him. His mask had cracked before though. Unbound feelings had broken through his surface when Oscar had spoken about his family in that inn after Cloudia had retrieved him from the asylum and in the parlour a few days earlier.
The gentleness and plain love that had found their ways in the tone of his voice and the lines of his face had startled her then; now, the pure loath that seeped through with every word Oscar spoke as he went on did too.
“I do not care for my own life, Lady Phantomhive. I am not thankful that you saved it; you will, however, have my deepest gratitude for preventing my execution and making Rowan seethe. He must have counted down the days until I was finally dead, and he could wash himself free of me. Only he could not have foreseen what you had planned. Now I am still alive, and Rowan cannot do anything about that unless he can prove that I violated the terms of our contract, Mylady.
“I’ve known Rowan for most of my life and, still, I have not realised until recently how despicable a man he is, and it brings me great joy to know that my existence continues to haunt him and that I can now work for you, his despised Queen’s Watchdog, and against him.”
Countryside, England, United Kingdom – February 1846
~Cloudia~
Cloudia opened her eyes and saw the slate grey sky high above and gnarly treetops at the edges of her vision. It took her a moment to recall how had she ended up here: the hunt, the frightened horse, the fall.
Alarmed, Cloudia sat up and inspected her head. She had landed hard on the ground but she felt fine; the sudden movement had neither made her dizzy nor did she even have a headache. And when she touched the back of her head, her fingers came away wet, not from blood but from water. Cloudia stared at her hand.
I had expected a broken bone, maybe two, or, at least, a concussion or sprain, but I was thrown off a horse and my greatest misfortune was falling into a puddle – not even face-first! It must be my lucky day.
“How do you feel, Lady Phantomhive?” asked an oddly familiar voice, and Cloudia froze. She had not noticed that someone else was with her. She looked up from her hand and stared at Milton Salisbury. He was dressed all in black, and the colour washed him out and gave him a deathly pallor; he looked as if he was here to lead her to the underworld. There was no need, of course, and Milton simply knelt next to her, worry etched into his hazel eyes and a bag next to him on the ground. Still, she could not stop that image from appearing in her mind.
“I’m fine. Thanks,” Cloudia said.
Milton smiled and although it was only a faint smile, it was full of warmth, and Cloudia relaxed a little when she saw it. He was certainly not Death despite his appearance. “I’m glad to hear that,” Milton said softly. “I saw Domino without you, and I quickly restrained him and went to look for you. He never dismounts people without a reason and is not easily spooked; I feared something terrible must have occurred. Can you remember what happened?”
“Yes, but I don’t know what happened exactly. He got frightened by something and then threw me off. I didn’t see what scared him. I…” Cloudia replied before she halted and her eyes widened. “Did you call me ‘Lady Phantomhive’?”
Milton’s smile became strained, and he gazed bashfully down while Cloudia checked her hair. The wig was still in place at least. As her brain worked to find out how he had figured it out, she remembered the odd, lingering look he had given her in the parlour right after spotting her. “You knew all along who I am, didn’t you?” asked Cloudia.
Milton took a deep breath and raised his head. “I did.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How?”
“I’ve met you and your cousin at the Layton Gallery’s reception,” Milton said, his voice still soft and sincere. “And I never forget a face.” He clutched his hands together. “It is a wonderful disguise, I have to say, Lady Phantomhive. You played the part well too. Most would be fooled. However, your and your cousin’s faces are very distinct to me. You don’t even have the exact same eyes; yours are very faintly green. The green is barely noticeable because the blue is so dark and vivid but it is there.”
Cloudia frowned. “I didn’t even notice the flecks of green until I was staring very intently at my face one day.”
Milton blushed. “The light must have caught your eyes in the right angle at the gallery, and my mind always latches on other people’s faces…” He exhaled and tightened the grip on his hands. “Most of the time, I don’t even consciously notice such details at first. You and your cousin stood next to each other at the reception; I suppose it was easier for me to register the difference like that. When I saw you inside, it took me a second to understand why I instantly knew you were you and not your cousin.”
“It is fine,” Cloudia reassured him and then considered him with a raised eyebrow. Something had felt off about Milton ever since she had first met him; even now, she could not quite place what exactly was “off” about him, but she was determined to find out. “If you knew I’m not Keegan, why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“Why should I?” Milton replied, surprising her. “I may have unintentionally uncovered your secret, Lady Phantomhive, but it is still yours. My knowledge of it does not give me the right to tell it to others and expose you. Another person’s secret is not mine to share.”
Cloudia smiled at him. From what she knew about secrets from Cecelia, they were best wielded like knives, not quietly kept. “You don’t even want to know why?”
“I don’t want to pry,” said Milton. “From what I know about Keegan Morrow, however, I suppose he did not want to come, and you went in his stead.”
Cloudia chuckled. “That’s it, exactly. It really is that obvious when you know, isn’t it?” She shook her head and then grabbed a strand of the false red-blond hair. “I guess, I could have come as myself, but men become so stiff and annoying when a female hunter rides amongst them even if it is not something extraordinary. Also, Bentley specifically invited Keegan because of his tracking skills, not because you needed another member for the hunting party. I doubt they would have been welcoming if they had known about the change from the start.”
Cloudia looked at Milton, waited for him to reply, but he had suddenly become very quiet; she wondered what she had said wrong. When it became clear that he did not want to say anything right now, Cloudia stood up and brushed the dirt off her clothes. She flexed her joints and checked once again if she was bruised somewhere or had sprained something by running her hands over her body but she was perfectly fine.
That had truly been a lucky fall.
Cloudia gazed back up and saw Milton taking his jacket from the ground and shaking it out. She hadn’t even noticed that he had folded it up and used it as a cushion for her. The fall might not have rattled her body but it had certainly shaken up her mind so that she kept overlooking such obvious things.
“Is the hunt over yet?” Cloudia asked.
Milton shook his head.
She put her hands on her hips. “Well, as I’m all right, would you mind leading me to Domino? I have a hunt to win after all.”
“If that’s what you want, I will help you,” Milton said and stood up but did not put on his jacket yet; instead, he let it hang loosely from his left hand and picked up his bag. “Domino is quite a bit away. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring him here.”
“It’s not your fault animals don’t like you,” Cloudia assured him. “That you managed to bind him to a tree is already enough.”
The ghost of a smile flickered over Milton’s face right before he turned to go; Cloudia almost missed it. She was about to follow him when he suddenly halted and looked around. A moment later, she heard wood cracking and steps in the distance. If it had been anyone from the Disaster Trio, he would have had his horse with him, but the steps were not accompanied by the sounds of hooves.
“Mary Louise has seen the bandits vanish into the direction where the Beaumont and Croft estates are.”
Could it be…?
Cloudia hurried towards Milton. “We should go,” she said and reached for his right hand. Her fingers only brushed the wet hem of his shirt though because Milton flinched and recoiled as soon as she came too close. With her hand still hovering in the empty space where his had been a second ago, Cloudia blinked at him.
“I’m sorry, Lady Phantomhive. I…” Milton breathed while he shrugged on his jacket and wrapped his arms around himself. He held his bag tight. “I must have startled you.”
“Not at all,” Cloudia said and let her hand sink. “It’s my fault for taking your hand without asking first. I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. In his black clothes and with his arms around himself, Milton looked so very frail and vulnerable like a child lost in an unknown place, and Cloudia wondered yet again why he was here. Bentley, Beaumont, and Flanagan were seemingly his friends – though she wondered how they knew one another as they were not even the same age; Milton looked several years younger than them – and Milton experienced in hunts, but a hunt did not appear to be the right place for him to be right now. Cloudia opened her mouth to ask him that question when she spotted a shadow between the trees – right behind where Milton was standing.
“Milton,” Cloudia called out and reached for his arm – damned it was; this was an emergency – right when a shot rang through the air.
***
Nanteuil-la-Forêt, Marne, France – June 1848
~Cedric~
June 22
Just after midnight
Cedric thought, while he was getting dragged through the château, that if he were to die now of hunger, exhaustion, and sleep-deprivation, he would not mind much. His last death had been thoroughly unpleasant, he had been all alone, and –
He quickly banished that memory to the deepest corners of his mind before the biting cold of that day could run out of the recollection and take hold of him again, drag him back down into the dark. Now, Cedric was warm and he was not alone. He squeezed Cloudia’s hand and he was thankful that she walked ahead of him and could not see him smiling.
A while later, they arrived in the kitchen. Cedric could not tell how long it had taken them but he knew that the time had undoubtedly been too short when Cloudia sat him down on a chair and let go of his hand to rummage in the cupboards. He curled his hand, the feeling of her skin still lingered on his, and he forced himself to stay awake and watch her. Cloudia was doing something, and he wanted to spectate; she intended to say something, and he wanted to listen. She was here, and he wanted to be awake to have the most of her.
And this very thought startled me awake.
Like pushing my head into icy water but pulling myself back. A mind once clouded, now clear.
My heart beat faster in my chest with knowledge and with fear.
Cloudia found a kettle, filled it with water, and put it on a stove. While the water boiled, she procured a chopping board, some bread, and various other food items: lettuce and tomatoes, cheese and cucumbers. “I’m going to make you some tea and sandwiches. I’m sorry; we don’t have time for anything more,” said Cloudia and began to slice the bread. Cedric nodded blissfully.
“How was meeting the Clockmaker?” she asked and went on to cut the tomatoes. She was frighteningly fast at this.
“Good. Jacques is the worst walking partner and Florentin irritating but it was… good,” Cedric replied, doing his best to make his voice sound normal and not deranged.
“His name is Florentin?” She had now moved on to the cucumbers.
“Yes. Florentin Chastain.”
“Did you warn him? Do you think he will be able to keep himself safe from Townsend?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because he is like me.”
The knife got stuck in the board, and the kettle cried in the back. Cloudia hurried to take it off the stove and then stared at Cedric. “He is like you? Do you mean the Clockmaker is a…?”
“A Grim Reaper, yes,” said Cedric. Talking normally and getting the right words out instead of the wrong, damning ones was surprisingly easy even though he was currently running on wistful adrenaline and would likely fold in on himself the instant it faded away. Apparently, he still had enough sense of self-preservation. “I was very surprised too,” continued Cedric. The words flowed out of him. “He is a very old Grim Reaper who left the Dispatch a long time ago. Florentin said some people have a special ‘affinity’ to us, and the Marquis is one of them. One day, he found him, and Florentin begrudgingly became his friend.”
Cloudia nodded at his words while finishing the tea and handing him a cup and the first-finished sandwich. Cedric gratefully took both, though a little jolt ran through him when their hands briefly touched. It seemed he didn’t have this part fully under control yet. At least, she didn’t seem to have noticed.
“I talked to Aurèle about Anaïs and her faeries,” Cloudia told him and assembled the next sandwich. Cedric bit into the first one and nearly cried when he sunk his teeth into the soft bread, felt the crunch of the lettuce and cucumbers, tasted the juiciness of the tomatoes and the savouriness of the cheese. Never had a sandwich tasted better; Cedric didn’t know if it was because he had barely eaten anything yesterday or because Cloudia had made it.
“He said that the Marquis can see ‘invisible things’ too,” Cloudia resumed and then hesitated. “Anaïs calls Milton a ‘faerie,’” she said slowly. “For the Marquis, the ‘invisible things’ he sees are apparently Grim Reapers, but Milton is most definitely human – what if while Anaïs sees ‘invisible things’ too, she can see something else than what the Marquis does? It does not necessarily have to be actual faeries. Undertaker, did you notice anything ‘strange’ about Milton? Did he feel in any way ‘odd’ to you?”
Cedric shook his head. “He’s human,” he said and took the second sandwich Cloudia handed him. He had already obliterated the first. “But…” Cedric grimaced. “But my conversation with Florentin showed me that there are many things about my own world that I don’t know.” He hesitated before he continued. “How about you, Countess? Did you ever notice anything ‘odd’ about Milton?’
Cloudia craned her head to Cedric and frowned. “Why should I have noticed anything otherworldly about Milton?”
“Because… because Florentin told me the Phantomhives also have this affinity ‘to a certain extent.’ You’ve known Milton for years; did you never detect any supernatural strangeness coming from him?”
She turned back to the chopping board. “No,” Cloudia said after a while. “From the moment I met him, I did feel something was off about Milton, but it’s something mundane as I found out.”
Cedric blinked at her. He wished she would continue, wished he could see her face. However, she simply continued with the third sandwich, and he decided to let the matter go – for now. One day Cloudia would tell him about her history with Milton; he was sure of it. He only needed to be patient.
“We could try to get Milton to the workshop,” suggested Cedric. “He would love it there and I doubt we could ever get Florentin to the château. That man is a hermit.”
“We could try that,” said Cloudia, and Cedric beamed. “We need to talk more about this later when we have the time. Now we need to focus on the Nanteuil-la-Forêt murders.”
“Right, you said you’ve solved the mystery,” Cedric replied and took another bite of his sandwich. It was so heavenly; if he had to choose a food to eat for the rest of his life, he would choose Cloudia’s sandwiches.
Cloudia glanced at him and grinned. Cedric ate his sandwich a bit faster. “I did solve it,” she declared proudly. “I’m not going to tell you the solution immediately because I need to check some things first.” She put the third and fourth finished sandwiches on a plate before she quickly put everything back and cleaned the knife and the board.
“I will tell you one thing though – and ask you something too,” Cloudia said when she was done. She leaned against the counter and looked at Cedric who was finishing his third sandwich. “Nothing that happened is a coincidence,” Cloudia began. “And if you despaired or longed until you nearly broke apart and still no one in the light answered, what would you do if someone from the dark were to come to you and promise you everything you have been wishing for? Would you agree, no matter the cost?”
Cedric’s eyes widened. “Countess, you cannot mean someone in that village made a deal with a devil…”
“Oh, I do.” Cloudia pushed herself away from the counter and walked to the door.
Cedric stood up and stared at her. “Countess, I would have noticed if there was a devil in Nanteuil-la-Forêt…”
She turned to him and smiled. “No, you are mistaken, Undertaker. ‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.’ Now, pack up the last sandwich and come – we need to prevent a murder.”
***
~Cloudia~
June 22
About 1:00
Cloudia bound the horse to a tree. Like when she had come to Nanteuil-la-Forêt with Kamden, she had got a horse and a wagon in which Cedric could rest. He had been strangely cheerful during the entire ride while eating his sandwich, but then, Cedric was always happy when he got to eat something, and he must have been starving considering how quickly he had eaten the previous ones in the kitchen. Now, Cedric was standing by the wagon and looking around in every direction but hers.
“I’m done, let’s go,” Cloudia announced, and his attention snapped back to her. Cedric lingered a bit by the wagon, and she could not make out his expression in the dark. Sighing, Cloudia turned around and started walking. “If you’re too tired,” she said, “you can sleep a bit in the wagon and I will get you later.”
“No, I’m fine,” Cedric replied firmly and trotted after her.
“We need to hurry, are you sure?”
“Yes,” he said even firmer, and it sounded so silly it made her chuckle. “Also, how do you plan to prevent the next murder, Countess?”
“I know who the next victim will be,” said Cloudia and walked faster. She heard Cedric trying to catch up with her.
“And who?” Cedric asked between two heavy breaths.
“Corentin Tonnelier.”
“I have absolutely no idea who that is.”
“The farmer.”
“That doesn’t make this better! Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?”
“Because I currently only have a theory,” Cloudia told him. “A water-tight theory but I want it to be iron-clad. And for that, we need to check something first.”
“And before that, we need to try and prevent that murder,” replied Cedric.
“Exactly.”
Cloudia hurried ahead, but when she stopped hearing Cedric’s steps behind her, she frowned and turned around, wondering whether he had needed a pause and didn’t have the energy to tell or had even collapsed. She wanted to call out to him when she heard Cedric’s voice in her head.
I sense a Grim Reaper nearby.
Cloudia’s eyes widened and she touched her skull pendant necklace. This means I was too late.
This means he was fated to die today. You could not have done anything to save him. Nobody could have, Cedric answered.
Where are you? Cloudia asked.
Hiding behind some trees. I’ve seen that Grim Reaper when Jacques and I went to Florentin, and she might have seen me then too. I will stay behind until I am sure she is gone and then slowly head to the village. If I do not sense or see her in the forest or the village, I will come to you. If something happens, please call me to you.
She frowned at his words. They needed to have an in-depth talk about his journey to the Clockmaker later. Very well.
Do I need to find the farm? Where will I be able to find you? Cedric wanted to know.
The location is hard to determine as I don’t know anyone. I will tell you when I get there. Take care.
Take care came the answer, and Cloudia let go of the necklace and ran to Nanteuil-la-Forêt.
***
~Cedric~
June 22
About 1:15
Cedric slumped against a tree after ending his conversation with Cloudia. He hated, hated, hated the fact that he had to leave her alone even if he knew he had no choice. The female Grim Reaper could not find him, not alone and most definitely not with Cloudia.
Cedric sighed. The next moment he was tackled to the ground.
He struggled against his assailant but their grip on his shoulders was firm, and when he looked up and into their face, he stopped, sucking in his breath.
Long black hair in a braid. Tanned skin.
Dark-rimmed glasses.
Chartreuse eyes.
It was her, the female Grim Reaper.
She smiled broadly and said “hello” and something else in French.
“I’m sorry but I have no idea what you’re saying,” Cedric replied. He kicked against her with both his feet and all his remaining strength. She lost her grip on him and staggered back, yelling out in surprise. Cedric was about to stand up when he spotted what he assumed to be her Death Scythe on the ground. She went to take it, and he kicked her back again. He quickly grabbed the Scythe, jumped to his feet, and brought some distance between them.
“What do you want from me?” Cedric asked, holding the Death Scythe in front of him like a shield. “And is this a leaf blower? How can you even cut anything with that?”
“It is a blower vac,” the woman replied annoyed in accented English. “Leaf blowers simply propel air out of a nozzle; blower vacs can also suck in air and have metal blades inside them. My Death Scythe sucks in Cinematic Records and cuts them with the blade inside.”
Cedric stared at her. “This thing shreds Cinematic Records? What did Cinematic Records do to you? How was this approved?” He shook his head. “No, before you become horrifically bureaucratic in your retelling of how you managed to get your Scythe modified like that, you need to answer my first question: What do you want from me?”
“I want to find out why some foreign Reaper has been wandering around this forest,” the woman said and narrowed her eyes. “I noticed you yesterday when you were close to my glade, and now here you are again.”
Damn. When I had put so much effort into my glade phobia lie.
“You could have approached me normally and asked!” Cedric replied. “There was no need to tackle me. Do you have no manners? What is your name?”
She crossed her arms and raised her chin. “Anastasie Faucher,” she said. “What is yours?”
“Edmund Oxley,” Cedric said without thinking. Before he and Cloudia had left the house, they had got changed – especially in his case, this had been essential. Cloudia had also quickly braided and pinned up his hair so that he could conceal it under a cap. Cedric had given his best not to grin like an idiot while she had run her fingers through his hair – just like he was doing his best not to grin at the memory now. The cap had thankfully not fallen off when Anastasie had attacked him, and with his conspicuous hair covered, Cedric hoped the lie would not fall apart that easily. “I was sent here for a special mission.”
“And this mission entails…?” asked Anastasie.
“It is a special and highly classified mission,” Cedric added. “Unless you manage to get special clearance from both your branch and mine, I cannot tell you anything about it.”
She tilted her head slightly and studied him through narrowed eyes. “Things have been weird in this forest and the village. This place has never seen such a string of murders, and the Nanteuillats’ behaviour is also out of the ordinary – some of them have been lurking in the forest doing something with several crates. I can see how all this could warrant a specialised investigation, but why was it entrusted to you? Someone from the British branch?”
Cedric shrugged. “I apologise, Miss Faucher, but if I were to tell you anything the brass would eat me alive. How do you think they like their steaks? I hope they eat me well-done.”
Anastasie stared at him. “What kind of an idiot are you?”
“One with special clearance.” Cedric waved the blower vac about. “Now, I will return your highly questionable Death Scythe and we will part ways. I wish you the best, Miss Faucher,” he said and handed her the Scythe.
Anastasie took it and held it tight. “Good luck on your… special mission, Mr Oxley,” she said and then vanished, presumably to her tent on the glade.
Cedric sighed and rubbed his forehead. What a bothersome ordeal this had been, though Anastasie had given him a very interesting piece of information; he could not wait to tell Cloudia. As if on cue, Cloudia spoke to him through the skull necklace: Find me by the townhall. Cedric straightened up when he heard her message. He was about to blindly walk to Nanteuil-la-Forêt when he got his senses back.
He looked around. He could neither see nor sense Anastasie anywhere, but he was not sure if she believed his story or not; she could watch him from somewhere outside his radius. Cedric inspected his surroundings one more time before he teleported.
***
~Cloudia~
June 22
About 1:30
The village was quiet when Cloudia arrived, but somewhere there was a dead body to be found. If it had not been found already. She had figured out how the victims were chosen. However, as Cloudia had told Cedric, it was not easy to determine the location of the crime. Where could Corentin be? She had not even had the chance to interrogate him about Ruben’s death, and all she knew about him from Aurèle was that he was a farmer and apparently very grumpy.
Corentin also liked to complain. Did he only complain about his inept employee or did he complain a lot in general?
It was time to make a guess and hope for the best.
Cloudia took a deep breath and then hurried into the direction of the townhall. The streets were eerily quiet as she ran along them. The houses were dark, not a single candle on a windowsill in sight. No soul to be seen outside. It felt like walking through a ghost town.
But the windows of the townhall were brightly lit.
Cloudia grinned when she skittered to a halt one street away from the townhall. She straightened her clothes and walked in only a slight hurry to the building. The door had been left ajar, and when Cloudia looked inside, there was no one to be seen. She rounded the townhall and eventually found Yvette, Alain, and Mathieu behind it; a frightened-looking Hector was with them. Cloudia let her gaze wander over the scene from afar. Corentin had, apparently, not been hanged from the roof like Dominique or been nailed to the façade. The others must be standing right around his corpse.
“There you are,” Cloudia said when she approached them, and everyone looked up and craned their heads to her; Hector flinched. “I decided to patrol the village and when I saw the townhall alight, I came here.”
Mathieu nodded and narrowed his eyes. His head was slowly adopting the same colour as the flame in Alain’s lantern. “Where is the detective? This is the sixth corpse already!”
Cloudia wanted to grind her teeth together but smiled instead. “He is on his way, though he has been delayed. Vidocq sent me ahead, so please treat me as if I were him.” She knelt and scrutinised the body – middle-aged and wearing dirty farmer’s clothes; it must be Corentin Tonnelier, indeed. The victim’s eyes and mouth were wide open as if he had screamed or attempted to before he was killed. There had been no sign on the others having even tried to make a sound.
Corentin’s attempt had been futile though. Not because no one had heard him and come to his rescue but because the culprit had ripped out his oesophagus.
Cloudia put on gloves as she asked, “Who is that? Who found him and when?”
“The victim’s name is Corentin Tonnelier,” said Alain, and Cloudia grinned internally. “He works as a farmer. Élève Officier Monteil” – Hector flinched and quickly straightened again when he heard his name – “found his body about thirty minutes ago when he was patrolling the village. He immediately informed us at the townhall. Mayor Guilloux, his daughter, and I have been staying there since the beginning of the murders, and we quickly followed Élève Officier Monteil to the garden. Then you arrived.”
Cloudia nodded and did a brief cursory search of Corentin before she pocketed her gloves again and stood up. “I wished I had been a bit earlier,” she remarked. “I came as fast as I could and it was still not enough; I apologise for that.” Cloudia touched her necklace, and she hoped it looked like a sorrowful gesture. Find me by the townhall, she told Cedric and then let her hand fall to the side. She turned to Alain. “Please be so kind and get the body transported to the hospital, M Descombes. Détective Vidocq will arrive soon, and we would like to examine not only M Tonnelier’s body in the deadhouse but all the other victims as well. Although I and my colleague Grégoire Fouille sent Vidocq detailed reports, he still wants to see the bodies himself too.”
Alain bowed his head. “I will arrange this at once,” he said and went inside the building. Cloudia turned to Mathieu and Yvette. “Again, I want to apologise that we have not come far yet, though we do our best. Please retreat for the night; we will call for you if we need your help.”
Mathieu harrumphed. “Very well, M Gauthier. Yvette, let us go and leave them to do their work for once,” he said and walked to the townhall with no other word. Yvette followed him with a moment’s hesitation; if her father had said nothing, she likely would have wanted to stay. For the first time, Cloudia was thankful to Mathieu. At the same time as father and daughter entered the townhall, Alain and two other clerks emerged from it. They brought something to carry the body on. Carefully, they lifted Corentin on the cloth and then moved him to the hospital. Cloudia gazed after them for a while before she directed her attention to Hector.
“Élève Officier Monteil,” she said, and Hector flinched again. “You seem very upset, and I do not want to bother you for long but what can you tell me about when you discovered the body?”
Hector swallowed and then nodded. “I will tell you all I know,” he replied, his voice shaking. “But it’s not much. I… I’ve been patrolling Nanteuil-la-Forêt all alone. I started with the curfew’s beginning at ten o’clock and then slowly walked through the village. I found M Tonnelier at the end of my first round. He’s the only… person I have seen all night. I informed everyone at the townhall straightaway. That’s all. I’ve been with the corpse all the time expect for the one or two minutes when I knocked on the door and waited for someone to answer.”
“You only had to wait about two minutes?”
Hector nodded again. “Yes. I looked at my pocket watch and to where the body was lying while I waited.”
Cloudia smiled. “Thank you, Officier Monteil.” Right afterwards, she spotted a figure hurrying towards them. Even from afar and in the dim moonlight, Cloudia could see Cedric’s striking chartreuse eyes and the light glinting on his glasses.
Breathing heavily, Cedric arrived by her side. He put his hands on his thighs and gasped for air. “Officier Monteil,” said Cloudia. “This is Détective Vidocq. He is currently unable to talk to you but there is no need anyway. Please return to the barracks and if they are too far and you cannot go there yet in your state, stay in the townhall. We will take care of everything. Do not fret.”
Hector nodded stiffly. “Good luck – and thanks,” he said before he went to the townhall. Cloudia touched Cedric’s arm and stepped a bit closer to whisper to him in English: “It’s time for us to go to the deadhouse.”
***
June 22
About 2:10
Cedric slumped with a sigh into one of the chairs. Laurent and his colleagues had finally brought in all six bodies to the deadhouse, placed them in order, provided two chairs, and left them alone in the deadhouse. The six tables in a row had filled the capacity of the room, and there were only very narrow passages between them. One more body and nobody could walk in the deadhouse anymore. Corentin was the last one though; Cloudia would make sure of it.
“Countess,” Cedric cried. “My feet and legs are killing me. Please be quick: Why are we squeezed into this dinghy room with a bunch of corpses?”
“They are the victims in this case,” explained Cloudia and glanced over the six bodies which were all covered by white clothes. “Nadia Allemand, Dominique Duhamel, Gustave Beaubois, Marius Beaubois, Ruben Fournier, and Corentin Tonnelier. I told you Corentin would be the next one and I was right.”
“Good for you, Countess, but you still haven’t told me how you knew he would be the next one. Is it finally ‘later’?”
“Yes.”
“Or do I…” Cedric stared at her. “Did you say yes?”
“Yes, my tired Reaper, I did,” Cloudia said, smiling. “But I need you to confirm my theory first.” She took a deep breath. “It is time for your method, Undertaker.”
She wouldn’t have thought it possible but his eyes widened a bit more. “But, Countess, you hate my method! You say it’s ‘lazy.’”
“Yes, I do, but we have spent far too much time in this place, and there is no other way of finding evidence for confirmation and we need to wrap up this matter now,” replied Cloudia. “We are in a hurry and I don’t like what’s happening here. This has to end now; Corentin needs to be the last. Please could you check the victims’ Cinematic Records for me? Only the part when they were killed.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to tell me before I look into their Cinematic Records what your theory is?” asked Cedric. “I don’t know what to look for otherwise after all.”
She shook her head. “No, when you view their Records, you will instantly know what I’m looking for. Trust me.”
Cedric took a deep breath and stood up. “Very well, Countess. I don’t ever want to hear a single negative word about my method again though. It is a very good method and saves us a lot of time and energy.”
“We could start using it for emergencies only,” she said. “As we do now. I’m not going to become lenient because we are overusing your method.”
“It would take a lot more effort than using my method a few times to turn you lenient, Countess,” retorted Cedric with a smile and then retrieved his Death Scythe. It was always a wondrous sight: The Scythe came out of nowhere, slipping through a crack between worlds and space right into his hand with a flourish. Even in the narrow deadhouse with the pallid light, Cloudia could not help but stare in awe as the Death Scythe appeared and the blade and the skeleton’s bones reflected the light.
Cloudia kept her eyes on Cedric and the Scythe as he approached Nadia’s corpse. Carefully, he cut the body and looked at something she could not see. He had explained to her once that when he cut people with his Death Scythe, their lives would emerge from them in the form of film strips. They were like a long row of daguerreotypes, Cedric had told her, but Cloudia still wondered what they looked like exactly. She wished she could see Cinematic Records; at least she could see Cedric’s reactions to them, and right before he finished with Nadia and went to Dominique, he frowned. The frown deepened with every body and when he was done with all six, Cedric gazed at her, his eyes wide with confusion, and Cloudia knew she had been right.
With a grin on her face, she began to explain.
***
June 22
About 3:20
The sun was slowly creeping out of its sleeping chamber and into the sky as Cloudia and Cedric drove on the horse-driven wagon back to the château. Cloudia yawned and dug her fingernails into her palms to keep herself awake. Only a little bit more and she could return to her room and fall into her bed. After she had told Cedric her deduction, they quickly ended their “inspection” of the bodies and said their goodbyes. It had been a long day and night for both of them, and though Cedric did his best to report to Cloudia about his wandering with Jacques and the attack by and fantastic escape from a wild boar trying to protect her offspring, every other word was slurred by sleep and fatigue. While Cloudia wanted nothing more than to wrap up the case now, storm into a building and announce her findings, she knew it was an impossibility in their current state.
When Cloudia and Cedric finally arrived at the château, the building lit up by the mild morning sun, there were no servants who could help them with the wagon and the horse. With the last of their strengths, Cloudia and Cedric sorted out everything on their own and lead-footedly heaved themselves to their rooms. They were close together, and when it was time for them to part ways, Cloudia wished Cedric a good sleep. She wanted to turn around but he surprisingly took her arm. She looked at him, scrutinised him through tired eyes. Her mind was too exhausted to make anything out of his behaviour or the expression on his face.
“Countess,” Cedric began. Despite his exhaustion, he still said the word definitely and firmly. “I… I…”
Cloudia smiled weakly and patted his arm. “Undertaker,” she whispered. “It can…”
“It can wait until later, I know,” he said and sighed. “I hate this.”
She wanted to close her eyes but knew she might fall asleep here and now if she did. “I know.”
Cedric sighed again before he let go of her arm. Instead, he took her hand and looked at her, his green eyes steady and awake despite the dark rings under them. “Sleep well, Countess,” he whispered and squeezed her hand.
“Sleep well, Undertaker,” Cloudia returned and squeezed his hand too.
They stood there for a moment longer, hand in hand, looking at each other, before they finally separated and went to bed.
***
~Cedric~
June 22
About 11:15
I slept without dreaming. When I woke up hours later, I was rested but it did not feel like any time had passed at all. In one moment, I had fallen into my bed still dressed as “Alexandre Vidocq”; in the next, the bright midday sun was pushing against the thick curtains. I had even woken up in the exact same position I had fallen asleep in. I usually moved around a lot in my sleep. This time, I must have been too exhausted.
Today was to be the last day we would occupy ourselves with the Nanteuil-la-Forêt murders. After everything was wrapped up, we would finally hunt down Nicodemus Townsend. Cloudia had said that when we were in the deadhouse.
Cloudia.
With a jolt, I sat up straight and stared ahead.
My heart beat loudly in my chest as everything came back to me: Her and me in the kitchen. The relief, joy, and longing I had felt watching her – and the realisation that had come with it.
That I was in love with Cloudia Phantomhive.
I leaned my head against the headboard, looked up into the canopy of my bed.
How strange it was to think that – “I was in love with Cloudia Phantomhive.” Odd words in my mind, but every word felt true and right.
How and when had this happened? I searched in my memories and I wished I could look into my own Cinematic Record to help me pinpoint a moment – even though I knew there could not have been a single one; there had not been a single one. There had been no flood, just small steady waves that shaped the shore without my knowledge. A change buried in my consciousness until the constant separation and distance had worn me thin and I could finally see the treacherous sea and what it had created.
With a groan, Cedric let himself fall into his bed and buried himself in the sheets.
What was I doing?
I had a long day ahead. Cloudia had to wrap up her investigation, and I had to help her. I could not stay here and hide forever.
And I could certainly not admit to her what I had finally admitted to myself. Not now because it would only take away part of her focus. Not later because what right did I have when I had been so dishonest?
To her, to me, to everyone.
After all, the reason “why” had never truly been a mystery to me; I had only wished it to be.
There was a knock on the door. Cedric tried to wrestle himself free but the blankets were too tangled and he could not get out. Defeated, he called out to whoever was outside to come in. If it was Cloudia, he could at least die of mortification here and now and his problem would be solved. Instead of Cloudia, Newman entered though.
“Duke Kristopher,” he said. Cedric could hear him hurry to his bed; his heavy steps were still loud and clear despite Cedric’s cocooned state. “Give me a moment, Your Grace. I will free you forthwith.”
Newman pulled skilfully on the blankets and sheets. The movements made Cedric roll around a bit and before he could protest, he was already free and staring up at the butler’s friendly face. “Thank you, Alfred,” said Cedric and sat himself up while Newman provisionally folded the sheets and blankets and placed them to the side.
“You are welcome, Your Grace,” Newman replied and briefly bowed his head. “Lady Cloudia sent me to ready you for luncheon.”
Hearing her name made his heartbeat quicken, and Cedric dug his fingers into the mattress as he said, “Then, we should hurry. She does not like to be kept waiting.”
***
June 22
About 11:50
While washing myself and getting dressed, I prepared myself again and again to face Cloudia. I rinsed my hair and told myself it would be fine to see her despite my realisation. I talked to Alfred and told myself that I could converse like that with Cloudia too: normally, casually like we always did. Cloudia never had to know and everything would be fine.
I told myself all that, and by the time I said goodbye to Alfred and left my room, I believed I was ready. Nothing could go wrong; nothing would give me away.
I had been wrong.
Right when I turned around after closing the door behind me, I saw her waiting for me – and seeing her knocked the air out of my lungs. Cloudia was wearing a simple but beautiful deep blue dress that matched her eyes and made them stand out. Her hair was braided and wound like a wreath around her head. She usually wore her hair like that; she was often dressed in blue. Still, I could not help but think that she had never looked more beautiful. If I had any poems in my repertoire or if I could remember the nonsense Romeo told Juliet, I feared I would even start reciting literature.
I had no idea I was staring at Cloudia until she raised an eyebrow and told me to come, lunch was waiting for us. I nodded and followed her to the dining room. Despite the fog in my head, I knew that this would not be easy at all.
***
June 22
About 12:30
I proved myself right, to my embarrassment. Cloudia kept trying to talk to me throughout lunch, and I could only nod as I was unable to hear a single word she said; I focused all my attention on preventing myself from staring at her. It was difficult to avoid looking at her without seeming suspicious. At least, I could stuff myself with food to excuse why I was not speaking. How convenient the torture of barely having eaten anything lately had become.
Somehow, I managed to get through lunch like that, and afterwards, we went to the kitchen to fetch some biscuits and tea which we would have while we formulated a plan. Cloudia stood by the doorsill while I – I had insisted to do this on my own, and I was rather proud of myself that I had been able to do so – rummaged through the shelves and boiled water to make tea. She continued to talk to me, and I nodded here and there because I was incapable of anything else. I wanted to hear what she was saying; I wanted to memorise all her words, but, alas, my idiotic brain could only focus on how lovely her voice sounded and not on what she was saying.
And when we finally headed to Cloudia’s room – to her room where I had been numerous times before; now the thought of going there made me feel oddly warm and nervous – I was still useless as a conversationalist.
Having arrived in the room, Cedric set up the table. The nervosity made his movements shaky, and if he did not do everything slowly and carefully, he feared making a horrible mess. It did not help that Cloudia had already sat down and was now watching him; her gaze buried itself in him and weighed him down. When Cedric was finished, he settled into the armchair that was the farthest away from Cloudia’s seat. He took a biscuit and slowly began to eat it.
For a while, neither of them spoke a single word which made Cedric nervous but he could not do anything but take absurdly small bites of his biscuit and stare at the wall behind Cloudia.
The wall bore a pretty wallpaper, wine red with a floral pattern. Leaves and blossoms alternated on the paper, were tangled in one another. If Jacques were here, he could explain in excruciating detail which plants were depicted; on his own, Cedric could not identify a single flower, though this might also be because of the fog in his head. He was not that hopeless when it came to botany but, apparently, he had become hopeless when it came to speaking to Cloudia.
Behind him, a grandfather clock ticked steadily. The sound was usually faint, a background noise easily filtered out, but now it was loud and reverberated through the room. While Cedric listened to the clock’s steady tick tack, he remembered the grandfather clock at Florentin’s workshop and how, lately, he had come to dislike these machines…
“What is going on with you?” Cloudia asked suddenly, making Cedric jump in his seat.
“Hm?” he replied and kept nibbling on his biscuit.
Narrowing her eyes, Cloudia stood up and strode to him. “You’ve been behaving very oddly since lunch and you’re going to tell me why,” she said, grabbing his biscuit with one hand and pushing away the plate with the other. “I’m not going to sit around and tolerate this nonsense. Not on any other day, and definitely not today.” Cloudia crossed her arms and scowled down at Cedric. “Please enlighten me: Why are you so quiet and dismissive?”
Having her stare at me like that, with fury and with question, it hit me what an idiot I was. My brain must have corroded with my self-admission. What was I even doing? Staring at her like a lovesick fool and ignoring her? This was Cloudia. Beautiful, lovely, intelligent Cloudia who I had been aching to spend some time with for days because I could not imagine any better pastime than to be with her. I had felt the same for her yesterday as I did today, as I would tomorrow and forever. Nothing had changed in its fundaments.
How could even part of me dare to upset everything? To upset her?
And with a pang, I realised the same must have happened to her before. I did not know what had happened two years ago but from what Cecelia had told me, Cloudia and Milton must have been friends until he proposed to her without making sure that it would not deteriorate their existing relationship. It had, and now, while they were cordial, a certain awkwardness always hung between them. One wrong step and nothing had been the same again.
I had no right to confess; I would not do what he had done.
But I had started to withdraw.
Just like he had.
How could I make her go through that again?
Cedric looked up at Cloudia, keeping his gaze steady on hers. “I’m sorry,” he said firmly. “I shouldn’t have ignored you. It is just that I… that I am a bit embarrassed about something and I didn’t know how to tell you about it.”
Cloudia raised an eyebrow. “Embarrassed about what?”
“Yesterday…” he started before he caught himself. “This morning, when we went down to Nanteuil-la-Forêt, I told you there’s another Grim Reaper nearby and we separated.” Cedric gulped; he hoped covering one mortifying fact with another would ensure that Cloudia wouldn’t suspect there to be more to the matter. “I hid but she did not only see me, she even approached me, and I was too tired to get away on time.”
Cloudia also did not have to know that Anastasie had been able to tackle me to the ground with no effort at all.
Cloudia’s eyes widened in alarm. “What did she want from you? What did you tell her?”
“She wanted to know what I’m doing here as she noticed me before too. I thought I was able to avoid her without getting noticed myself but I was wrong,” Cedric said. “I told her I was on a secret mission and unable to share any details. I also gave her a false name – but not too false. If she asks around, she will find an ‘Edmund Oxley’ in the British branch. Thankfully, my hair was hidden under my cap, or my masquerade would be blown very quickly. While it’s known that I dislike Edmund, I am certainly not the only one who does. If you met him, Countess, you would know what I’m talking about; he’s a rather unpleasant fellow.”
Cloudia sighed and let her arms fall loose to her sides. “This is not ideal but as long as she does not look too closely at everything, this should do. My hands are bound in these matters anyway. I hope you knew what you were doing; you could get compromised, Undertaker,” she said. Cedric’s ears perked up a little at how she had said his name. It might be the butterflies soaring through his body but had her voice sounded a fraction softer when she had landed on his name?
No, it must be the cerebral corrosion.
“I did,” Cedric replied. “I promise, Countess, all will be well.”
“I hope you are right,” she said with another sigh. “I feared there would be a Grim Reaper here – how could there not be one with all those bodies? Still, I never anticipated she would find and even talk to you.”
“Rest assured, Countess, it’s going to be all right,” he repeated. “And there’s one good thing that came out of the French Reaper speaking to me.”
“And that is?”
Cedric grinned. “She was stunned that a British Grim Reaper had been sent on a secret mission but not that one had been sent at all. Apparently, the villagers have been doing something with ‘several crates’ in the forest.”
Cloudia stared at him, and Cedric could see the gears rattling in her brain. “Crates you say?” she said more to herself than to him. It took a load off Cedric’s mind to see her like that, quizzing out a solution to a problem. She was back to normal, and he hated himself for having shaken her up earlier. “We will look into this later,” Cloudia stated and turned to walk back to her seat, putting the half-eaten biscuit onto the table. Right before taking the first step towards the sofa, she craned her head back to Cedric though, and his heart started to beat faster in his chest. “This encounter with the female Grim Reaper is the only thing that was bothering you, right?”
Cedric wanted to simply nod, but he feared she would interpret his silent confirmation as him being distrustful of his own voice – and she would be correct. “Yes,” he forced himself to say, keeping his voice normal and steady. “This was everything.”
Cloudia’s eyes lingered on him for a bit longer before she walked back to her seat. “Very well. Let us start planning then.”
***
~Cloudia~
June 22
About 15:00
The barracks where the gendarmes stayed were at the edge of Nanteuil-la-Forêt. An odd choice if someone asked Cloudia. After all, wouldn’t a more central position be more beneficial? The officers would need about the same time to get to any corner of Nanteuil-la-Foret if their headquarters were in the village’s heart. But then, the village likely never had any major incidents that required fast responses until now.
Cloudia still thought the barracks’ placement to be poor; at least, this made it easier to talk to Hector without anyone noticing them – if Hector was there.
Cedric and I had decided to seek out Hector first. From what we had gathered, he was not involved in the murders. Although Hector was not a very competent officer, he was nevertheless one – and we would need any help we could get to dismantle what was happening in the village.
As we walked to the barracks, I glanced at Cedric. He had behaved very oddly after waking up, and while he had later explained himself, become normal again, and reassured me the incident with the female Grim Reaper was all that had bothered him, I still had the feeling that he was not telling me everything.
They had walked through the forest to get to the barracks and when they finally came in sight, Cloudia stopped Cedric by taking his arm and instructed him to become invisible and quickly survey the area. They needed to be sure that Hector was there and that no one else was around who could listen to their conversation. Cedric nodded, and Cloudia noted that the movement was a little stiff, before he vanished before her eyes and presumably walked to the barracks. She looked through the woods at the barracks and the path Cedric was likely taking.
Perhaps, saying that Cedric had become “normal” again was too generous. He had “normalised” his behaviour but flecks of strangeness still clung at the edge of all his words and movements. What could have occurred? Had something graver happened when he faced the French Grim Reaper? Or was something else entirely the cause for Cedric’s odd behaviour? I could not think of anything and it bothered me. Right now, the Cedric who was around me was not quite the one I knew and it unsettled me. The him that was not quite him. Anaïs might have called him a “changeling” if she had noticed anything off about him.
I wanted to confront Cedric about his behaviour and its cause again but he had already given me an answer. An incomplete one, but an answer nonetheless. I feared Cedric might avoid answering, avoid me, if I enquired for more. It must be rather serious that it had shaken him up so much and that he did not want to tell me.
I gritted my teeth. Whatever it was, I hoped it would pass completely soon. This was too bothersome for my liking.
Cedric came into her view again a metre away from her. Cloudia bit back a remark; the Cedric she knew would have appeared behind her to spook her.
“Hector’s all alone in the barracks and no one else is around,” Cedric said. “We should hurry before someone comes. Hector also looks like he is about to lose it.”
Cloudia nodded. “Let’s go then.”
Five minutes later, Cloudia and Cedric were standing in front of the barracks. Inside the forest, it had been relatively cool; now, the sun was shining brightly and intensely on Cloudia. She was glad to be wearing a cap with a rim wide enough to shield her eyes; beneath it, her hair was sticking damply to her scalp though. Cloudia knocked and heard a muffled shriek before Hector opened the door.
“Détective Vidocq, M Gauthier, how can I help you?” asked Hector. Cedric was right, he did look rather frayed. He had already looked dreadful at the townhall standing next to Corentin’s corpse; he did not seem to fare any better now: There were dark rings under Hector’s eyes which kept darting around restlessly. However, considering that neither his uniform nor his hair was dishevelled, he still seemed devoted to doing his job, even if it brought him to his limits.
Cloudia smiled. “Officier Monteil, could we come in? The detective and I have something urgent to discuss with you.”
***
June 22
About 15:45
After discussing everything with Hector, Cloudia and Cedric discreetly returned to the forest. When Cloudia thought they were far away enough from the village, she took Cedric’s arm. She was about to tell him to teleport them back to the château –
Cloudia dropped her hand and whirled around when she heard footsteps.
“Who is there?” Cloudia demanded, ready to pull out her gun if necessary.
“It’s just me, M Gauthier!” she heard a familiar voice. A moment later, Enzo Chauveau stumbled out from between some trees, his hands raised high. His eyes widened when he spotted Cedric. “And you must be Détective Vidocq! I’m so very pleased to finally meet you! I can’t believe that I met both of you here!”
Cloudia forced a smile onto her face. The “cursed house” was quite a bit away from the barracks but also at the edge of Nanteuil-la-Forêt. Apparently, Enzo and Gaspard did not only like to explore the area around their hideout but also around all of the village. An idea prickled at the back of her head, and Cloudia’s smile turned from a forced one into a genuine one. “Hello, M Chauveau,” she said politely. “I apologise for my partner not saying anything…”
“His voice! I know!” replied Enzo, grinning brightly. “I know all about you two. Well, at least, all about you the rest of the village knows too. I’ve been asking around.”
What a surprise that Enzo had not been eliminated yet.
Enzo turned to Cedric. “Détective Vidocq, I respect and understand why you dislike talking in front of people. And I do not need to hear your voice to know your greatness; I feel honoured enough by simply standing near you,” he told him, and Cedric nodded slowly. Cloudia was glad that he could not understand what Enzo was saying.
“The detective and I are on a secret mission. No one can know we are here,” whispered Cloudia and Enzo’s eyes began to glitter. “Could you be a little quieter?”
“Of course,” Enzo murmured back.
Cloudia smiled. “Thank you. M Chauveau, if I remember correctly, our interview was cut short yesterday.”
“Please call me ‘Enzo,’” he replied excitedly before he caught himself and added, “If you prefer that, M Gauthier.”
“Of course. Enzo, what can you tell me about your friend Dominique Duhamel?” asked Cloudia. It was not necessary anymore to enquire about this aspect of the case but she could never know what Enzo might know, and she also needed a natural start to their conversation.
“Dominique is, as you already know, the baker’s son,” said Enzo. “He, Gaspard, and I have been friends since we were little. Therefore, when he started behaving oddly before his death, I immediately noticed. Gaspard” – he rolled his eyes – “keeps telling me I imagined that but I did not! Sure, I want life to be a bit more exciting in Nanteuil-la-Forêt; however, I do not live my life making up lies and untruths in my mind! I want real mysteries, not false ones. Gaspard knows that; I don’t know why he insists that I’m wrong. I swear, detectives, I am right! Before his death, Dominique suddenly became very secretive with his notebook and nervous. He usually never shied away from showing others his notebook. He liked to create clothes and would pencil his designs into it and present them to Gaspard and me and anyone else. Dominique was very enthusiastic about clothes and proud of what he was doing. He would even make his own clothes and brag about them at any given opportunity. He was not shy or secretive in any way, M Gauthier, Détective Vidocq. Dominique only became that way shortly before he was murdered.”
“And do you have any idea why?”
Enzo shook his head. “I investigated a bit,” he said and then turned a bit red. “I know I should not have because Dominique is my friend but the situation was too odd and I could not help myself! Finally, a mystery to solve.” Enzo’s shoulders sagged. “Only I could not find out anything at all.”
“Could Dominique’s change in behaviour be related to his infatuation with Nicolette Royer?” prompted Cloudia, and Enzo shook his head again. “No. Dominique has been in love with her for years. It’s very obvious. He has also written a million poems about her which he never gave her.”
“Maybe he could have been fighting the courage to finally give her one?”
“He would…” Enzo stopped. “Nicolette’s father did begin to talk about slowly looking for someone who would marry his daughter right before Dominique’s behaviour changed. But his family has not much money, and Dominique was never interested in the family business and is, thus, unsuited to continue it. Dominique quit as Mme Allemand’s apprentice months ago and he had not bothered to find anything new afterwards. Dominique was always a bit lazy and the end of his apprenticeship greatly angered him. Alas, without money and a secure job, Dominique would have never been accepted by M l’Abbé.”
Cloudia nodded. “Thank you. This has been very insightful.” She looked around and glanced at Cedric staring blankly into the distance. “This is quite far away from the heart of the village,” Cloudia remarked. “And you and your friends’ hideout is at the village’s edge too. Am I right in my assumption that you like exploring the forest?”
Enzo nodded enthusiastically. “I do! I don’t go very far as my mother would turn part of me into a broom and chase the rest of me with it through the house but still. Forests are interesting places; I’ve found quite a lot of interesting things wandering around, though never a human skull. It would be marvellous if I stumbled over an ancient corpse.” He sighed. “My wish has not come true though. The only corpses here are too fresh and too familiar for my liking.”
Cloudia inched closer to him. She could see Cedric directing his attention to her and Enzo from the corner of her eye. “Enzo, by any chance, did you see any odd crates in the area?” she asked conspiratorially.
Enzo’s eyes lit up instantaneously. “From afar at night but only once. It was on the 14th. I snuck out at night – that was only a week ago; it is amazing how much can change in such a short period – and spotted a group of people in the dark walking into the forest. I discreetly followed them; I was so excited! I don’t think I ever went that deep into the woods and my heart beat so quickly and loudly that I feared they might hear it but they never did!” Enzo smiled triumphantly. “I saw crates too; they were taking out what was inside them but I don’t know what it was. I was too far away and it was too dark. I eventually went back home because I did not want them to notice me. I tried to find those crates the next day with Gaspard but they were all gone and the old sceptic did not want to believe me, of course. He said I was only dreaming. But it was not a dream! I swear, M Gauthier, Détective Vidocq! It was my dream to witness such happenings but it was not a dream I had asleep in my bed!”
“Calm down. Secret mission, Enzo,” said Cloudia, and he immediately quieted. “Could you make out who was there with the crates?”
“No,” Enzo whispered. “It was very dark and they were all mummed, had put on hats and wrapped scarfs around their faces. They must have been very hot.”
Cloudia exhaled. Of course, things could never be easy. “Thank you, Enzo. This was immensely helpful,” she said, and he beamed. “But this knowledge is also very dangerous. Especially considering that you told someone about what you saw. Gaspard Baudet might not believe you but if he tells someone about it who knows about that nightly escapade, your life will be threatened,” Cloudia continued gravely, and Enzo’s face fell. “However, do not worry: It is our duty to protect key witnesses and hinder murderers. Nothing will happen to you.”
***
June 22
About 16:50
Taking Enzo to the château might not be the best decision I had ever made but it was better than leaving him in Nanteuil-la-Forêt and allowing him to be killed. He was not next-in-line; still, an exception could be made in his case.
I explained to him that the Charbonneaus – Enzo did not have to know that the Duponts were currently staying in their home – were kindly housing “Vidocq” and me. His eyes turned large as plates when he heard that; apparently, he had never even seen the château up-close. Enzo bounced the rest of the way and even walked ahead of us.
I seized that moment and quickly explained everything to Cedric via the skull pendants. He had been looking very puzzled ever since I had invited Enzo to come with us. After I told him everything, Cedric still looked confused but at least not to the same degree.
When we arrived, I told some servants to please take Enzo inside and keep him in a guest room. It was important to keep him safe, though, for everyone’s sake, he should not be allowed to leave his room. The servants nodded understandingly, likely because they, as Dupont servants, were used to such strange demands. Enzo happily waved Cedric and me goodbye before he was whisked away.
Cloudia took a deep breath and took off her cap when she stepped over the château’s threshold. It was good to be back. Their short trip to Nanteuil-la-Forêt had been more exhausting than expected, and Cedric also sighed in relief next to her.
“I can finally taaaalk,” he said and ripped the cap off his head. “I do hate being ‘Alexandre Vidocq.’”
“We could have some language lessons,” suggested Cloudia and climbed the stairs.
“In French? Countess, we will end this nonsense today – half the nonsense at least – and then we will leave France,” replied Cedric and followed her. “Why should I bother to learn French now? It doesn’t matter anymore.”
She shrugged. “You can never know. We might have to have another adventure in France.”
Cedric groaned. “I hope not. Or if this happens again, I hope it’s not an adventure filled with annoying villagers and forest wanderings.”
“I will tell Her Majesty to only send me to cities from now on.”
“Finally a sensible suggestion.”
Cloudia smiled, both at his words and the fact that Cedric seemed to be better now. She wanted to reply something but cut herself off when Anaïs skittered along the corridor, Arnaud hurried right after her. “Try to catch me, Arnau–” called Anaïs, giggling, but halted in both speech and movement when she saw Cloudia and Cedric. “Claudette! Duke Kristopher!” she exclaimed. “You’re back!”
Arnaud came to a halt a few metres away from Anaïs. “Welcome back,” he said with a smile on his face.
“Well, thank you,” replied Cloudia. “You’re playing tag again? I haven’t been able to thank you yet: Seeing you play yesterday was the right ingredient to bring everything together. Thanks.
Anaïs’ eyes glowed. It was almost a pity that she and Enzo would not meet; they would get along very well. “You’re welcome, Claudette! I do not know what you are talking about but because Arnaud and I did help you…” She grinned impishly. “…you could tell us all about it?”
Cloudia chuckled. “Later, when I’m completely done with this case.”
Anaïs beamed. “Thank you, Claudette! I can’t wait.”
“Me too,” mumbled Cedric before he looked around and frowned. “Is it only you two playing?”
Arnaud nodded. “Yes. Gérard is taking a nap, and we can hardly ask Aurèle to play tag with us; he is too fast. We wanted to ask Jacques…”
“… but we couldn’t find him,” Anaïs finished. “I guess he’s still tired from yesterday and hid himself with a pile of books in the darkest, farthest corner of the library.”
“My brother often does that,” added Arnaud. “I assume Jacques saw a lot of interesting plants in the forest and became eager to look all of them up.”
Cedric put his hands on his face and groaned. “You cannot even fathom how many ‘interesting’ plants he saw.”
Arnaud smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, Duke Kristopher. He can easily get carried away.”
Cedric let his hands fall. “It is all right, Arnaud. You do not have to apologise for your older brother.”
Cloudia nodded. “He is right,” she said softly. “And now we won’t bother you any further. We will see you later.” The children briefly said goodbye to them before they ran off again. Cloudia and Cedric went up one more floor and then headed to Cloudia’s room.
She opened the door, and to her surprise, Kamden was waiting inside. He got up from his seat and walked towards her.
“Did something happen?” asked Cloudia.
Kamden shook his head, and she sighed in relief. “No,” he said. “I’ve simply been worried. You were not at breakfast and Miss Lisa said you were still sleeping deeply… and I only briefly saw you at lunch but I could not ask with the others around. And then you rushed away and…”
Cloudia took his hands and squeezed them. “Kam, I’m fine. We had a late night, the Duke and I, and needed to sleep longer as compensation. We still have another long day and night ahead of us.”
Kamden tightened his grip on her and took a deep breath before he gazed directly into her eyes. “Then, let me help.”
Cloudia opened her mouth to speak when someone said behind her, “Me too.” Startled, she craned her head and watched her cousin step in front of her and lean against the doorsill. “I have no idea what exactly is happening,” Aurèle continued. “However, if this concerns what is going on in Nanteuil-la-Forêt, you might need as many people as you can.” He scowled at Cedric. “I don’t doubt your… your abilities, Claudette, but two people might not be enough.” Kamden nodded firmly at his words.
Cloudia let go of Kamden and eased one of her loose hairstreaks back. “You are right,” she said. “I planned to ask Lisa and Newman but we might need even more people for this.” Her gaze hardened. “I’ll go to the servants’ tract. Duke, get the biscuits and the tea – we have more planning to do.”
***
June 22
About 20:00
Rendezvous had been at nineteen o’clock. Hector was an hour late.
Cloudia looked at the sun slowly setting in the distance. Earlier, she had told Hector to meet her at the edge of the village opposite where the barracks were. At nineteen sharp, Cloudia had arrived with Kamden, who had insisted to accompany her. They had waited for an hour to give Hector enough time to come; after all, there could have been delays on the road. But there was still no sight of Hector and they were running out of time.
“It seems like he won’t be coming anymore,” said Cloudia and began to walk back to the château. Kamden immediately followed her.
Cloudia cradled the skull pendant in her hand. They got Hector, she thought.
***
~Cedric~
June 22
About 19:00
With a sigh, Cedric fell into an armchair and fixed his eyes on the clock on the wall. Cloudia and Kamden must have arrived at the meeting point by now which meant that he could relax for the next hour.
And I did need that pause. Cloudia had questioned Enzo about the place where he had seen the crates and he had described it to her as best as he could – and then she had instructed me to go and search that area for clues. I had excused myself to the bathroom and teleported to the forest where I had spent the better part of the last hour combing through the area in question. I had stared at far too many trees and turned over far too many stones for my liking until I was sure that there was really nothing left except for places where the grass was flattened. They couldn’t have got rid of that like everything else, but this was enough: Enzo had not been dreaming and Anastasie had not lied to me as a test. The crates had been there.
The question now was: What had been inside them?
“There you are,” said Aurèle and diverted Cedric’s attention from the clock. Except for Arnaud maybe, Cedric could not say he was particularly fond of the Beauchene brothers, but at least it was not Jacques. He had seen and heard enough of him for a week. “I was waiting for you to come out of the bathroom,” Aurèle continued, and Cedric stiffened. “You took rather long. Do you have any… uhm, digestive problems?”
“I neither want to bother nor disgust you with any details,” replied Cedric dryly, and Aurèle nodded.
“Why were you searching for me?” Cedric asked.
“I wasn’t searching for you. I saw you go into the bathroom before Claudette and Bonham left the château; I only wanted to make sure you were not doing nothing while the rest of us were preparing for later.” Aurèle narrowed his eyes at Cedric, and Cedric forced himself not to let out a bitter chuckle.
“Don’t worry, Aurèle, the Countess gave me the least strenuous tasks because I only got to sleep eight hours today and not much in the last few days. I would be useless if I fell asleep in the middle of everything after all,” said Cedric. “Though, I suppose, it would make quite the picture. If this were to happen, I hope I would fall asleep in a perplexing position; that would be a marvellous distraction.”
Aurèle huffed. “You would be ‘dead weight’ if that’s the correct term.”
“It is.”
“If you got so little sleep, shouldn’t you be sleeping now?”
Cedric shook his head. “My current task is to wait an hour. If the Countess and Emyr have returned by then, I will take a nap immediately. If not, I will have to run an errand.” He nodded to the seats next to him. “Would you like to keep me company until then?”
Aurèle crossed his arms and was quiet for a while. Cedric partially wanted him to refuse, but he also did have a few questions for him. Aurèle eventually sat down on the sofa opposite Cedric and took out a cloth roll of knives and a sharpening stone. “I can do this here too,” he said and set everything up on the side table in front of him. “I also do not want you to fall asleep in the middle of waiting and cause Claudette unnecessary problems.”
“I didn’t know you were such a considerate person,” remarked Cedric, and Aurèle glared at him.
“The Countess told me you talked about Anaïs calling Milton a faerie,” he said when Aurèle took the first knife. “And I wondered if you could answer me a few questions.”
Aurèle looked up from the knife and narrowed his eyes. “And what do you want to know?”
“What do you think those ‘faeries’ she can see are?”
“I do not know,” answered Aurèle. “I told my cousin that faerie lore is very varying, and there are a lot of explanations for the origin of faeries. Anaïs could refer to actual faeries; Claudette thinks she might only call the Baron a faerie because he reminds her of one.”
“I wondered that too: whether Anaïs means actual faeries or whether she uses the word to refer to something else,” Cedric said. “What different kinds of explanations for the origin of faeries are there?”
“In Christianity, faeries are ‘demoted angels,’ angels that were between Heaven and Hell when God ordered for the gate to Heaven to be closed,” explained Aurèle while scraping the knife on the stone. “Or they were, uh, outcast angels who were neither ‘good enough’ for Heaven nor ‘bad enough’ for Hell. In the 17th century, due to Puritanism, the idea that faeries are demons became popular. Some people also believe faeries might be, uhm, demoted pagan deities or elementals that personify forces of nature; the latter idea has become popular lately. The belief that faeries are old and outcast deities or angels can also be found in other cultures. For example, the Persian peris are said to be unable to enter paradise due to their mischievousness although they are angelic beings. Most cultures, religions, and mythologies portray faeries as – how to say that? – entities that even if they are more benevolent than malicious are mischievous tricksters and hold morals foreign to humans. This contrasts with their outer appearance: Faeries are often strikingly beautiful. The, eh, humanoid ones, at least.” Aurèle put down the now-sharpened knife and took another. “Apart from the theories that faeries are angels, demons, deities, or other powerful entities, there is one which says that faeries are spirits of the dead.”
Cedric stared at Aurèle, a cold shudder ran down his spine. “Spirits of the dead?”
“Yes. Some believe that, like ghosts, faeries are the spirits of those who had ‘unfinished lives.’ Their natures differ, of course. Children who were unable to, uhm, ‘pass on’ after death and turned into ghosts are said to become ‘faerie-like’ over time.
“There are also many connections between faeries and death in general,” added Aurèle, “as the dead and faeries are believed to live in the same place: the underground kingdom. Faerie kings like the Irish Finvarra or the Welsh Arawn are, therefore, often referred to as ‘Kings or Lords of the Dead,’ or even gods of the dead or underworld. Faeries are also thought to be, uh, ‘harbingers of death’ or death omens. For example, if a Scottish bodach appears as a ‘dark, grey man’ in front of you, as a bodach glas, it’s a sign that something horrible will happen soon. Some think faeries can even summon the dead.”
Cedric wanted to reply something when Cloudia’s voice suddenly filled his head: They got Hector. In one fluid motion, Cedric stood up and glanced at the clock. It was just past eight; he had not realised an hour had passed already.
“I have to run my errand now,” Cedric told Aurèle. “I need to find Batteux and instruct him to go to a village and get the officers from Nanteuil-la-Forêt that are currently there.”
Aurèle frowned. “Should I come with you? You can’t speak French after all.”
Cedric shook his head and dug out a piece of paper from his pocket. “There is no need: The Countess wrote a note for Batteux that I have to deliver.” He waved it around as he left the room. “And you really are quite considerate, Aurèle!” he said right before he walked over the threshold and hurried away.
***
June 22
About 20:40
“I hope Hector wasn’t murdered,” said Cloudia when she entered her room, Cedric followed her. Batteux had left half an hour ago, and while Cedric could have gone to bed after delivering the note, he had decided to wait for Cloudia and Kamden’s return.
“The poor man does not deserve to have his life ended like that. I also don’t want any more unnecessary corpses,” Cloudia continued. She put her hat on a table and took out the pins that fastened her braid to her head, letting it fall to her shoulder. Cloudia went to her wardrobe and flung open its doors. “Batteux needs about two hours to get to the village. If everything goes well, he should return with Hector’s colleagues sometime after midnight. As planned, we will head to Nanteuil-la-Forêt at 22 o’clock.”
Cedric sat down on a sofa and watched Cloudia shuffle through her clothes. “You should go and sleep a little now,” she said and retrieved the bag with her special corset. Cloudia had told Cedric once that when she was twelve, she commissioned her tailor to create a unique corset for her that would double as underwear and protective gear; Wilbur had regularly re-made the corset in the years that followed.
“I will,” said Cedric. “But I wanted to talk to you about something first.”
Cloudia put the bag on a chair and continued to look through her wardrobe. “What is it?”
“I asked Aurèle about the origins and natures of faeries,” he told her. “There are many stories about where faeries come from and what they actually are. Some think they are demons or demoted angels. Others believe they are spirits of the air – or the spirits of the dead.”
Cloudia halted in her movement. “Milton is not a ghost, Undertaker,” she replied sharply.
“But what if Anaïs can both see the dead and the dying?”
Cloudia whirled around, and Cedric was taken aback by the sudden movement. “Milton is not dead,” she said firmly. “Milton is not dying.”
“Think about it, Countess. Milton is human; he is neither a Grim Reaper nor a ghost or a demon. Still, Anaïs calls him a ‘faerie,’ and she did make him wear those clothes that made him look like a ghost to her tea party. What if…” said Cedric but cut himself off when he saw the look in Cloudia’s eyes. She took a step towards him.
“Milton is not going to die anytime soon,” Cloudia declared. “He is safe in Paris with Wentworth doing paperwork. And unless Townsend somehow tracks him down there and figures out the one thing that could convince Milton to come with him, he will never get his hands on him by sheer force, do you understand me, Undertaker? I need no list, no record, to tell you that Milton is not going to die.”
Cedric looked at her. “Countess,” he said softly. “What if it is not Townsend? Are you sure Milton’s ‘phantom pain’ is only that?”
Cloudia closed her eyes. “He is not going to die, Undertaker.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because…” Cloudia pinched her nose. “Undertaker, I don’t want to have this conversation now. I cannot and will not entertain such thoughts now.” She opened her eyes and levelled her gaze at Cedric. Her eyes were steady and full of certainty but there was also something else that flickered in them for a mere second. Something that made Cedric’s heart ache and wish he had never addressed this topic – fear. “Milton is neither going to die nor is he dying,” stressed Cloudia. “You should go and take that nap now, Undertaker. I will see you in an hour.”
***
~Cloudia~
June 22
About 22:30
The sun had set hours ago; faint moonlight broke through the thin clouds and let the plaque reading “MAIRIE” shine eerily and kissed the clockhands with silver. The hot day had darkened to a warm night, and Cloudia welcomed the gentle, cooling breeze that rushed through the air and played with the rim of her cap and the hem of her jacket as she gazed up at the townhall. Cedric waited patiently beside her; Cloudia’s gaze lingered a moment longer on the building’s façade: the beige, spotty walls, the red bricks framing doors and windows and the clock that slowly but surely crept to midnight.
Hopefully, she would see this place for the last time tonight.
I had planned everything with great care. Aurèle and Kamden, Lisa and Newman must have arrived at their positions by now. Batteux was still on his way back, hopefully with the reinforcements that could clean everything up when I was done.
Everything was in its place; everything would go perfectly.
One did not need luck if one had certainty.
Cloudia squared her shoulders and straightened her back before she nodded at Cedric. He returned the nod and went to enter the townhall first; Cloudia closely followed him.
Earlier, she had asked Alain to collect everyone connected to the victims and the murders at the townhall. Solange and Basile, Aurore and Ferdinand (little Antoine had been left with Sylvie), Armelle, Xavier, Serge, Marcel, Violaine and Maxime, alongside Yvette, Mathieu, and Alain, were now gathered in the assembly hall. Cloudia had not asked for Gaspard as Enzo would have been searched for then too, and not for Marc as well as he was still so young and did not have to be present. However, she had requested Nicolette and noted with surprise that she had not come with her father. Marcel likely did not want his daughter to learn more of this business than she had to; Cloudia could not fault him for that.
“Thank you for coming,” Cloudia said and let her eyes travel over the crowd and saw a sea of worried, scared, pale faces but also expectant, neutral, and angry ones. She wanted to smile in excitement but chose not to; it was not mannerly to lay out deductions for a serial murder investigation while beaming like a lighthouse. “In the last week, Nanteuil-la-Forêt has been plagued by great tragedy and horror ever since a stranger came to the village. He arrived on the morning of June 16 and was nowhere to be found by the afternoon. Each night from that day on until now, someone has died: Nadia Allemand, Dominique Duhamel, Gustave Beaubois, Marius Beaubois, Ruben Fournier, and Corentin Tonnelier. Tonight, this chain will break because Détective Alexandre Vidocq solved the case.” Theatrically, Cloudia pointed at Cedric who slightly bowed his head to the gathered mass.
“This took you long enough,” grumbled Mathieu from the first row. “Now, where is the stranger? It does not matter how he killed everyone; it only matters that he is found and thrown into jail!”
“Patience is a virtue, Mayor Guilloux. All will become clear when I present the detective’s deduction,” Cloudia replied calmly. “First, let me briefly recount what we know:
“The first night, Mme Allemand was murdered in her tailor shop. She had been killed with a blow to the back of her head, and her killer also acupunctured her body with needles. The second night, Dominique was stabbed in the heart and hung on the church’s roof. The third night, Gustave was stabbed in the woods, and his brother Marius followed the next night: His head was smashed with a hammer and his corpse was left in the fountain. The fifth night, Ruben was stabbed and subsequently buried in the cemetery. Last night, M Tonnelier was found dead in the townhall’s garden.” Cloudia’s gaze hardened. “The places where they were found, how they were killed – none of them was without purpose. Dominique was hung on the church’s roof for a reason; Ruben was buried for a reason. The needles with which Mme Allemand’s skin was punctured were her own: She kept them securely in an old locked tea box. A mere stranger, a wanderer who has simply decided to go through Nanteuil-la-Forêt, could not have known about the needles, would not have killed those six people and arranged their bodies as they were.”
“Are you trying to tell us that the culprit is not a stranger but a villager?” asked Xavier, his eyes wide with horror. Armelle who sat next to him pressed her lips thinly together. Marcel paled, though he had already been pale from the beginning.
“Yes,” said Cloudia, and the room erupted in panic and protests. She raised a hand to silence them. “I know it is hard to imagine someone you have known all your life – a relative, a friend, a neighbour – could be a murderer but people are rarely what they seem to be on the surface.”
“Still it is unthinkable that one of us would commit such atrocious acts,” Alain remarked and looked around.
“One of you did not commit those atrocious acts,” corrected Cloudia. “Multiple did.”
Yet again, the assembly hall was filled with gasps and wild chatter, and Cloudia held up her hand anew and waited until it died down. “Rest assured though,” she said. “All but one is already dead.”
Just as she had finished her sentence, Mathieu bolted to the stage and watched her through narrowed eyes. “Speak! Who were the so-called murderers in our midst!” he demanded. Cloudia stared down at him with icy eyes, and he quieted and recoiled from the stage.
She then looked up and into the mass. “Nadia Allemand was killed by Dominique Duhamel,” Cloudia stated, her voice firm and clear. In the back, it seemed as if Solange was about to faint; Basile held on tight to his wife. “Dominique was stabbed by Gustave Beaubois, and Gustave was murdered by his brother Marius,” continued Cloudia. All colour left Aurore’s and Fernand’s faces at her words. “Ruben Fournier took Marius’ life.” Xavier sucked in the air. “Ruben fell victim to Corentin Tonnelier.”
Right on time, the backdoor swung open and Kamden entered, a bound and gagged but struggling man in tow. Kamden’s whole body was tense, though he relaxed a little when he saw Cloudia. With some effort, he hauled the man to the stage where he let him go and went to stand next to Cedric. The man immediately tried to run but Cloudia kicked him to the ground. A muffled groan slipped out of his mouth. “And this man, townhall clerk Philippe Passereau, killed M Tonnelier.” She glanced down at him. “He should truly be more grateful though,” Cloudia remarked. “After all, if we had not caught and bound him, someone would have murdered him tonight.”
Fernand jumped up from his chair, his throat red from anger; a startling contrast to the ghostly hue he had adopted only a moment ago. “What in the world is going on here?” he exclaimed. “What is the explanation for all this?”
“Right.” Still pale-faced but with a determination Cloudia had never seen on her before, Solange stood as well. “Why would Dominique murder Nadia? Why would any of them murder one another?”
“Each person killed the previous person in the chain for personal reasons and those reasons are reflected in the methods and places they chose,” explained Cloudia. “Dominique killed Mme Allemand and displayed her in her shop like a pincushion because of his failed apprenticeship. He upset the tailor shop to make it seem like a failed burglary, though he neglected to take anything to make the lie more believable. Gustave stabbed Dominique in the heart because they were in love with the same girl and hung him from the church because that girl was Nicolette Royer, the head priest’s daughter. Marius got rid of Gustave to get his hands on their family’s woodcutting business; that’s why he killed him in the woods. Gustave’s neck was twisted to make him look up empty-eyed, presumably to underline how Marius stole his brother’s future. To avenge his best friend, Ruben angrily smashed Marius’ head. He put him in the fountain because Marius was a known thief and used to steal the coin inside it; Marius had also taken the contents of Gustave’s pockets after killing him. M Tonnelier murdered Ruben because Ruben was a lousy apprentice who could never use the fertiliser correctly – Ruben was buried so that he would eventually become fertiliser himself.” Cloudia turned her gaze to Philippe on the ground; he had stopped squirming and was now glaring at her. “M Passereau killed M Tonnelier by the townhall and ripped out his oesophagus because the farmer would complain at any given time. As M Passereau works at the townhall, he was often the recipient of his tirades.”
I had deduced everyone’s motives after seeing Anaïs and Arnaud play – except for Philippe’s. There had been no time to look thoroughly into Corentin and find out who could hold a grudge against him. Cedric, when going through Corentin’s Cinematic Record, saw his killer though, and after describing him to Aurèle, he recognised him as Philippe Passereau and could tell us all about his hate for Corentin. Earlier, Aurèle and Kamden had paid him a short visit.
Cloudia returned her eyes to the assembled group. Because of the secretive nature of the Watchdog duty, she had never been able to present any of her deductions like that: grandly in front of the wronged crowd. She had only ever been able to tell them to the Queen in her drawing room, to the Police Commissioners of Scotland Yard in their dinghy office, or to Oscar, Cecelia, and Barrington in the Aristocrats’ Bureau – though this did not quite count; after all, they contributed to the solving as well. Now, although Cloudia was aware that the circumstances were horrifying, her skin still prickled with excitement and ecstasy as she continued, “Dominique, Gustave, Marius, Ruben, M Tonnelier, and M Passereau all had their reasons to kill. Still, none of them did until now: In a place as small as Nanteuil-la-Forêt, one cannot easily commit a crime as everyone knows everyone. It is nearly impossible to kill and hide forever undetected. However, what would happen if there was someone, a stranger who just arrived at the village, who could take all the blame for you?
“They all took this unique opportunity to get rid of a person they despised. The stranger’s arrival was only part of the ignitor though: M l’Abbé has begun looking for suitors for his daughter. Dominique knew he would only pick one who could provide for her. With his failed apprenticeship and lack of interest in the bakery, he was left with nothing. He wanted to propose but needed money. Ruben, while he undoubtedly hated Marius for killing Gustave, would have never blindly killed him – but Ruben’s aunt is terribly sick and his family cannot afford the surgery she needs. The six culprits have not come together by chance, each of them independently seizing the opportunity to kill as soon as a scapegoat arrived in the village. No, for that, the chain was too orderly, the deaths too orderly: None of the victims fought back. They all accepted to die even though such apathy was against their natures.
“All six culprits were approached by someone who organised the chain of murders, a mastermind who brought them all together by offering them what they desired: money and revenge, a future and a way to rid oneself of pent-up frustration. They only had to ‘win’ the game: After committing a murder, they would become the next victim. The next night they would have to outrun the next murderer, and when they were found they had to surrender without a fight and head to the location chosen for their death. I suppose they were threatened that their family would be eliminated if they tried to fight back. Or were they threatened with something else, Yvette Guilloux?”
A gasp ran through the crowd, and Mathieu was about to protest when Cloudia continued and cut everyone off. Her eyes were fixed on Yvette who still sat quietly and indifferently in the front row as she spoke, “It would have been easy for you as the ‘village’s princess’ to approach people for your plan and to convince others to stay quiet about what is happening in Nanteuil-la-Forêt, though some who were not let in on the secret have noticed a strangeness in the village. Because of your position, you could also accompany us to our investigations to ensure no one would say too much or even confess.
“Of course, not only the culprits were involved in your plan: Maxime Guilbert and his wife were as well.” The atmosphere tensed further as the others glanced at the Guilberts. “I was at the hospital: Do you feel any remorse for locking away your best friend and denying her parents entry? Forcing them to pretend to run the local inn? Did you promise them to cover Marie-Claire’s medical costs like you did Ruben?”
Silence set in the assembly hall for a moment before it was punctured by a laugh. In one fluid motion, Yvette rose from her seat and took a step to the stage. With a smile on her face and crossed arms, she looked up at Cloudia. “Détective Vidocq, M Gauthier,” she said sweetly, “you have been correct in every aspect so far.”
Mathieu’s face turned red. “Yvette, why…”
“Why I would do such a thing?” asked Yvette coldly, cutting him off and craning her head to him. “Dear papa, because I could. When you would sit inside the townhall all day, I would be outside with the people. You have been the mayor and I have been the mayor’s daughter for over a decade.” She threw an amused smile to Cloudia. “I was the village’s princess for over a decade. No one knows this village and its citizens like I do. Not that you cared as you never cared for me at all, dear papa. You did not care about what I could do because you never let me do anything. Me, your useless only daughter. Only good to be married off to the next-best old fart,” Yvette spat out.
“Everyone got the opportunity to have their wish fulfilled,” Cloudia said. “And so did you, didn’t you, Yvette? Though this was not a matter of self-fulfilment; there has always been someone else with you in the background. The money you promised, in particular, could not possibly be your own – it belongs to the stranger you met lurking in the woods around Nanteuil-la-Forêt one day. A stranger may not have committed the murders but a stranger did come to the village. A stranger who offered you all you wanted and for whom you lured away the gendarmes and orchestrated this chain of murders to distract me from looking for him.” Swiftly, Cloudia took out her gun and levelled it at Yvette. “Now tell me, where is Nicodemus Townsend?”
Yvette smiled widely. “Townsend told me all about his mission: to advocate for justice, to gain power, to bring about a revolution,” she said with an eerie calmness. “And all he had to do to fulfil his goal was to steal a box and find someone to open it. Of course, because of the box’s importance and considering its owner, this could not be a simple endeavour. The British Queen, Townsend told me, sent her dog after him. He always said it was a man; he never even considered an alternative. But the day you arrived at the townhall, you and the detective, so proud and sharp, I knew – I knew. How I laughed afterwards!
“Aren’t men so very foolish, Miss Watchdog?” asked Yvette in perfect English.
Cloudia stared at Yvette and she noticed Cedric stiffen and Kamden flinch behind her. Yvette laughed. “Emmanuel Charbonneau is a simpleton,” she continued in English and rolled her eyes. “You smile and bat your eyes at the right times, and he gives you all you want. I only had to ask once and he agreed to teach me. ‘So that we would have our own secret language.’” She grimaced and then glanced at Cedric. “‘Embarrassing voice’? This could be true, but considering how blankly he has been staring holes into the air, I would say our Parisian detective does not speak a single word of French. This is truly embarrassing considering your disguise. But then you never planned to stay and use it for long, didn’t you? Frankly, I expected a bit more from the feared Queen’s Watchdog and her companions.”
“Frankly, I expected you capable of answering simple questions,” replied Cloudia, switching to English too. She was still firmly holding her gun, the barrel pointed at Yvette. “Where is Townsend?”
“Where Jacques Beauchene is, of course.”
A knife soared through the air and over the seated crowd. It missed Yvette by a hair’s breadth and landed clattering on the naked stone ground. A moment later, Aurèle stormed angrily into the assembly hall through the backdoor, another knife ready. “What did you do to my brother?”
Yvette smiled calmly. “It is good to see you, Aurèle. It has been so long. Why did you and your cousins not pay us a visit like you always do when you visit the Charbonneaus? Oh, right, you are not visiting; you are staying all alone in their château. When the Charbonneaus left two weeks ago, it was hardly surprising. But when someone spotted your brother in the woods a few days ago, it certainly was. Especially considering that you seem to be with Miss Watchdog!” Yvette clasped her hands over her chest theatrically. “Rest assured, Aurèle. Nothing will happen to Jacques. I simply met him earlier today in the forest and started a conversation. He was so very kind to agree to come with me; I took him to Townsend and now Jacques is taking him to the Clockmaker. Someone saw Jacques and faux Vidocq return to the château last night; it looked like they had gone on a lengthy trip. I was so curious to find out where they had gone, so I asked Jacques and arranged a repetition of that journey. Just a small trip amongst friends, nothing to worry about.”
“You –” started Aurèle and wound up throwing his knife when Maxime barged from the seated area to the passageway leading from the back to the stage. He lunged for Aurèle, and Cloudia shot the ground to Maxime’s feet before he could reach him. Maxime halted and so did Aurèle. “Don’t you dare touch him,” exclaimed Cloudia in French. “And now return to your seat, Guilbert, or –”
All of a sudden, all doors swung open and bullets flew through the air.
What on earth?
Screams came from the crowd and people flung themselves to the ground as the bullets rang through the air, got stuck in the walls, in the ground. Villagers streamed into the townhall, men and women Cloudia had not seen before, all holding with weapons: knives and iron bars, pistols and rifles. Cedric pulled back a stunned Kamden, and Cloudia whirled to Yvette who was still smiling. “A mere village’s princess, am I not?” she said amused – then, the villagers charged at them.
***
~Cedric~
June 23
About 0:30
What the hell? Cedric thought as he grabbed Kamden’s hand and dragged him across the stage. At the same time, Cloudia jumped off it and went after Yvette who had pushed aside her father and ran to the side entrance. The gathered crowd burst apart and hurried to the exits but the hall rapidly filled with new arrivals and blocked their paths. They swung their weapons around. A man with an iron bar in his hand lunged at Cedric. He quickly pushed back Kamden, dodged the attack, and kicked the man from the stage. Yelling, he fell onto two others. Cedric took hold of Kamden again. As he pulled him to the few stairs leading down, Cedric scanned the room for Aurèle and Cloudia. Coldness brushed his spine when he saw neither.
Where the hell did they get those weapons? Where did they get those guns?!
Kamden took out a dagger from his pocket and rammed the hilt into someone’s face when he tried to stab him. Cedric grabbed the knife from his hands as the man staggered back. Fighting one-handed was not a good tactic. Especially not in such circumstances. Still, Cedric only tightened his grip on Kamden as he elbowed, kicked, and pushed his way through the masses and to the exit.
He could not lose Kamden. Cloudia would never forgive him if anything happened to her brother. He himself also did not want him to be hurt in any way.
If only Cedric could properly attack anyone. The stolen knife was useless in his hand. No interfering with life and death. He could not stab and risk killing anyone. Anastasie would come to find him, her journal of deaths in hand. They would drag him to the brass’ representatives. He would be suspended. They would learn about Cloudia and the others too.
Gritting his teeth, Cedric elbowed a woman in the face. At the same time, a man brushed his arm with a knife, ripping the fabric and drawing shallow blood. Kamden stabbed the man in the thigh with his dagger. Cedric could not even stop and be surprised because the next second, Kamden drew out his blade, blood dripping from it. The man howled out in pain, and they had to continue their fight to the door.
This was a poor operation. Those people could barely fight. Their inexperience made them easy to defeat but this also meant they moved chaotically, frantically. They were no rhyme or reason to what they did. They only attacked and attacked as well as they could and with no pause. Their attacks missed but came aplenty. They were plenty while we were only four – six with Miss Greene and Alfred. Damn, did something happen on their end too?
A shot roared behind them as Cedric and Kamden finally rushed out of the townhall and into the warm night. The clouds from earlier had left, and the waning gibbous moon shone brightly against the uncovered blanket of darkness and stars. Outside, there was barely anyone but people were coming after them from the townhall. Cedric broke into a run to the gardens, not letting go of Kamden.
That shot earlier was the only one I had heard since their arrival. They must be saving their bullets. One good thing at least.
“Kristopher,” said Kamden, snapping back Cedric’s attention. “Let… let go of me. It wooon’t – won’t help to hold onto each other. I will keep up with you, I promise.”
Cedric glanced back at Kamden and was startled by how similar he looked to Cloudia in this moment, even with the dyed hair; in his eyes was a determination he had often seen in her. Without a protest, Cedric released Kamden and beckoned him around a corner. They pressed themselves against a high, thick bush, and Cedric carefully looked around. He heard voices from one side and steps from another.
“We need to find Aurèle,” Kamden whispered. “He… He was still close to the backdoor earlier, do you think he escaped?”
“Let’s hope he did,” replied Cedric and started to move again. Kamden followed him through the overgrown garden and to a side road.
At the end of it was a group of villagers, bars and knives in hand. Cedric cursed under his breath and broke into a sprint. At least, he had not seen someone with a gun. Blades and iron bars did nothing from afar after all. Still, he wished he could simply grab Kamden and teleport away with him, bringing him to safety before searching for Cloudia and Aurèle, Lisa and Newman.
From behind a fence jumped someone with a shovel. Kamden cried out and barely managed to dodge him. Cedric gripped his jacket and drew him away before he threw himself shoulder-first at their assailant. The man dug the shovel’s handle into Cedric’s side, making him gasp for a moment. Cedric took hold of the handle before the man could retreat and ripped the shovel out of his hands. He swung the shovel and hit him in the head. He fell down with a thud, unconscious.
“How likely is it for someone to die from a shovel-induced concussion?” asked Cedric when he and Kamden resumed their run.
“What?”
Cedric was about to ask again when a shot rang through the air and Kamden screamed. Cedric whirled around to him, his eyes wide. Kamden was holding his side, his face contorted by pain. Cedric opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by a resounding wail in the distance. A moment later, someone stepped out from between some trees. Cedric got ready to swing the shovel again but let it sink when he recognised Aurèle. His dark brown hair was tousled. There were a few cuts on his face and some holes and tears in his clothes. He did not seem to mind all this though. Fury gleamed in his eyes as he walked towards them, a bloody knife in his hand. “Where is my cousin?” Aurèle yelled.
“The Countess jump off the stage and ran after Yvette,” Cedric told him. “We haven’t seen her since.”
Aurèle scowled and cursed in French – something very foul judging from Kamden’s reaction – before he glanced to the road. The mob was getting closer, and Kamden, Cedric, and Aurèle set themselves in motion.
***
~Cloudia~
June 23
About 0:30
Cloudia jumped from the stage to bolt after Yvette but her familiar thick braid had already been swallowed by the crowd by the time her shoes touched the ground. Cloudia cursed and hit someone in the face with the back of her gun.
Where the hell was Batteux with the gendarmes?
Effortlessly, Cloudia dodged a woman’s poor attempt to stab her with a kitchen knife. She grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her against an incoming group. They all yelled as the woman collided with the others. Her knife clattered to the ground. In the distance, Cloudia heard Ferdinand shout and glimpsed him wrestle his way through, clutching Aurore tight. A man pulled at Cloudia’s jacket and dragged her back. Quickly, Cloudia drew her father’s dagger from its sheath with her left hand. She half-whirled around and stabbed the man in the side. He screamed when the blade pierced his flesh; he screamed louder when she ripped it out. She kicked him away and elbowed someone coming at her from the other side.
What a bothersome ordeal. Damn Yvette.
With a groan, Cloudia eventually emerged from the townhall. For a second, she considered kicking the door close and bolting it but then remembered her audience from earlier. The mob was after her and the others; they certainly would not target their fellow villagers, would they? Cloudia glanced into the assembly hall and saw someone charging out at her. Cursing, Cloudia turned and ran.
Sometime in the chaos, she had lost her cap, and the faint wind was now blowing a few loose strands into her face. Cloudia brushed them away. In the distance, she spotted a man with a gun. He raised his hand to aim at her but she was faster. With a yell, the man dropped to the ground, clutching his leg.
Hector had told them there were only a handful of firearms in Nanteuil-la-Forêt, some belonged to the police and others to a few hunters. Cloudia doubted he lied to her but where did all those guns come from, for heaven’s sake?
The crates. The bloody crates the French Reaper and Enzo talked about. There must have been firearms in those crates. But how had they ended up in Nanteuil-la-Forêt?
And how many had been inside them?
***
~Cedric~
June 23
About 1:00
Aurèle skilfully led Cedric and Kamden through the village, through side streets, small alleys, and private gardens until the mob lost sight of them, and they arrived at an old house nobody seemed to be living in. Cedric scrutinised the area to ensure nobody was around to see them enter the building before he ushered the others inside and closed the door behind him. Dim light entered through broken windows and cracks in the façade. They pressed themselves against the old walls and caught their breaths.
“Denis is waiting for us in the forest,” whispered Cedric when his lung did not burn so much anymore.
“I’m not leaving behind my cousin,” Aurèle shot back.
“And Miss Lisa and Mr Newman,” added Kamden.
“They will be fine,” said Cedric. “Especially the Countess. None of the villagers is capable of killing her. And Alfred and Miss Greene are at the hospital, far away from the townhall. Unless they anticipated we would send someone there, I doubt there would be a mass of people. Also, Alfred’s huge. His sheer stature will likely scare them away anyway.
“At any rate, they will be fine. The Countess is a Phantomhive; Miss Greene and Alfred are Phantomhive servants. That household is made of tough stuff; they even have some unofficial motto I can’t think of now.”
“A Phantomhive servant who cannot do that is not worth their salt,” Kamden said.
“Thank you. What I’m meaning to say is: This whole operation went poorly. While we expected a fight, we did not anticipate the number of people Yvette pulled into her boat, or that they would have guns. There are too few of us and too many of them. It’s also unimportant to fight against the mob. Our goal is to catch Yvette and find Nicodemus Townsend – and rescue Jacques.” Aurèle was silent next to Cedric. “We cannot do all that if those idiots with guns turn us into Swiss cheese, do you understand?”
Kamden nodded, and Aurèle did the same a moment later.
“Good,” said Cedric and nodded to himself. “The plan is to hurry to the forest and find the main road where Denis is waiting for us. We return to the château and adjust the rest of our plan when we have regrouped.”
Aurèle snorted. “Didn’t know you would make a decent leader.”
“Me neither. It must be the adrenaline.”
Kamden faintly shook his head. Cedric glanced at him and noticed he was still holding his side. “Damn, Kamden,” said Cedric and gently lifted his hand from the wound. “Let me see. Why didn’t you say something? We should have stopped sooner.”
“No! I’m fine,” Kamden replied but allowed Cedric to take his hand without protest. “The bullet grazed me. It only stings a bit. I’m all right.”
Cedric sighed in relief when he saw that Kamden was not lying. “Good. The Countess would have murdered me if something happened to you.”
Kamden locked his eyes with Cedric, the look in them surprisingly intense. “I will not let myself be harmed and worry Cloudie if I can help it.”
“Isn’t your name ‘Emyr’?” asked Aurèle, and Cedric and Kamden stiffened.
Goddammit.
“Kamden is Emyr’s first name,” Cedric said, and Kamden relaxed a bit. “He only allows a few people to call him by that name as he predominately goes by his middle name.”
Aurèle raised an eyebrow. “I see.”
Cedric dug through his pocket and retrieved the knife he had taken at the townhall. He held it out to Aurèle. “Do you still have enough knives? I stole this one earlier.”
Aurèle grimaced. “A shabby kitchen knife. You can keep that, and did you bring any weapons? Do you have anything else besides that and the rusty shovel?”
Yes, an interdimensionally-stored scythe, thought Cedric. “Yes, a dagger and a gun,” he said. Cloudia had given him both though she knew he could not use them without risking punishment. “In case of an emergency,” she had said. “And if you aim well, you will only injure, not kill. At any rate, it is always good to bring more weapons; if I run out of bullets, you can simply give me your gun.”
“Does that mean I’m just a glorified pack mule?” Cedric had replied.
“Oh no. I would not call you ‘glorified.’”
Cedric sighed at the memory. He wished Cloudia was here right now. “I’ll take a quick look around. If the coast is clear, we’ll leave and head to the forest; Aurèle will lead us there.” Kamden and Aurèle nodded, and Cedric slipped through the broken door and momentarily turned himself invisible. He rounded the house. There was no one here but he could hear animated voices in the distance and they were slowly getting louder. Cedric became visible again and rushed back into the house. He signalled Kamden and Aurèle to come out.
They filed out of the house and headed into the woods with their weapons ready. They walked behind one another: Aurèle was first, Cedric last, and Kamden secured in the middle.
They walked in hurry and with care. Aurèle guided Kamden and Cedric in a zig-zag through the mostly empty streets of the village’s outskirts. Cedric saw candles burning through windows and glimpsed at worried, horrified faces before curtains were drawn shut. So much terror for money and a chance for more.
The mob found them right before they could enter the forest. This time, some even had pitchforks.
Finally! I wondered when they would come out.
The group of villagers descended upon them with loud howls, and Cedric, Aurèle, and Kamden sprinted into the woods. They tried to lose them in the masses of trees but the villagers were everywhere. Swinging their pitchforks, lunging with their knives, trying to bash in their heads with their iron and wood rods.
Cedric pushed someone away with his shovel and was thrown against a tree the next moment. He groaned and quickly sank down when a fist came flying. He kicked away the attacker’s legs and hit him with the shovel. Cedric jumped to his feet and rammed his elbow into the next person’s face. He whirled around and scanned the woods for Kamden and Aurèle. Damn, where were they?
Cedric hurried through the forest and swung his shovel around until one woman managed to dodge his attack and the shovel collided with a tree. The collision sent a shock up Cedric’s arms and the shovel blade broke.
“Dammit,” pressed out Cedric between clenched teeth and let go of the handle. The woman lunged at him with a knife and he barely dodged her. He dug out the kitchen knife and sliced the back of her hand when she attacked again. She cried out, letting the knife fall in shock.
Cedric took this chance to run away.
***
~Cloudia~
June 23
About 1:15
Cloudia sent a knife flying through the air, pinning a woman by her sleeve on a tree. She threw another to pin her by her dress as well.
Killing them would be so much easier. Fighting back without having to take care about keeping the harm to a minimum. The villagers had been manipulated, likely persuaded by Yvette with lies that Cloudia, Cedric, and their companions were the culprits who had killed their fellow citizens and baited them with money and promises. The villagers were victims in their own way but they were so goddamn annoying. And they came in masses. Nanteuil-la-Forêt had about 350 residents and half of them were out for them tonight.
Cloudia punched someone in the face and ripped the knife from his hand as he stumbled back. She wanted to gut him here and there but decided against it. She knocked him out with the knife’s handle and kicked out the legs from under the next attacker. The female Grim Reaper might still be watching from afar. However, as long as no one died, she had no reason to come here – and this lowered the chance that she spotted Cedric in the chaos.
A woman levelled her pistol at Cloudia – she held it all wrong and her grip was shaking – and Cloudia hooked her arm around the next-best person’s throat. She pressed the knife against his throat and held him against her as a shield, daring the woman to shoot.
She wished it was not a random man but Yvette.
Damn Yvette who had run off in the beginning and was nowhere to be found since.
Cloudia gritted her teeth and walked backwards, not releasing the man until she was away from the woman with the gun. Then, she freed the man and knocked him unconscious. Cloudia ran across the small square and around the fountain where Marius’ corpse had lain. Her hair stuck to her scalp. She had lost her hairpins ages ago and her braid was hanging loosely and messily over her shoulder. Cloudia wondered what the villagers must have thought when they saw that “Jean Gauthier” had been a woman all along – if they had noticed at all.
A shot rang through the air and Cloudia whirled around. Another followed – and then she heard the sounds of hooves and shouts.
She grinned. Batteux and the police had finally arrived.
Riders filled the square and broke apart the crowds, pushing back the masses. Surprised, Cloudia counted more than the five other gendarmes who were usually stationed in Nanteuil-la-Forêt.
“Mylady!” someone called and Cloudia turned around to see Batteux running towards her.
“Thank you!” she replied. “You came just on time. The village dissolved into chaos – it’s good you thought to get extra officers.”
Batteux briefly bowed to her before ramming his gun in an assailant’s gut and pushing him back. “You’re welcome, Mylady.”
Cloudia looked around. Everything was still a mess but the police could handle that. “Batteux,” she said. “Stay safe and retreat to the château if you must. I’ll head to the hospital; I need to get to my maid and butler.”
***
~Cedric~
June 23
About 1:40
There were too many people in this damn forest and Cedric had lost sight of Kamden and Aurèle. He hoped they were at least together; Aurèle would be able to keep Kamden safe. Cedric’s lungs burned. The forest ground was soft with moss and leaves which made it hard to run on and he had not yet fully recovered from the last few days.
I was so tired. I was so tired.
Cedric rushed behind a large tree. The forest was full of villagers. He looked left and right – but none of them was in his line of vision.
And none of them could see him right now.
With a grin on his face, Cedric disappeared and appeared in another part of the forest. Jacques and he had been here yesterday, and it should not be too far from where he had vanished but still far away enough. Cedric scrutinised the area and perked up his ears. No villager seemed to be around yet.
Relieved, he sacked against a tree and caught his breath for a moment. When his breathing had normalised, Cedric started walking again. At some point, he had lost the kitchen knife and he now pulled out the dagger, holding it tightly in his hand while he ventured through the forest. It was the dead of night; the thick crowns of the trees held back most of the moonlight. Cedric strained himself not to run against a tree or trip. Or completely lose his orientation. He was sure he had already lost some of it. Every tree looked the same and he was not quite sure where the road leading up to the château was. Technically, Cedric did not need to find Denis. He could return to the château on his own. However, Kamden and Aurèle were still somewhere in the woods and it would look suspicious if Cedric arrived so quickly at the château without Denis driving him like a madman there.
Leaves crunched under his feet. A shudder ran over his spine as Cedric remembered his encounter with the wild boar. Right, he did not only have to be careful of humans in the forest.
And then he saw him. Just a few metres away from him.
Cedric halted – and so did he, craning his head to look at Cedric.
The moonlight repainted him. Lightened his hair to white, darkened his eyes, though let the green inside them glow.
He had never looked as translucent and otherworldly.
Had never looked more like a faerie than in this moment, an eerie beauty in the woods.
***
London, England, United Kingdom – May 1843
~Cloudia~
Cloudia woke up from her dreamless sleep before Clifford came to rouse her. She sat up and rubbed her eyes and when he arrived, she was wide awake and asked right after greeting the old butler, “Did he come?”
“He is downstairs, Mylady,” answered Clifford, and the tension that had lain on Cloudia’s shoulders the last five days fell away.
Clifford placed a tray with a cup of tea and today’s newspaper on her bedside cabinet. Cloudia sipped on the tea as she glanced over the title page while Clifford set out her clothes.
“Anything interesting, Young Lady?” Clifford asked.
“A corpse was retrieved from the Thames,” said Cloudia and set the empty teacup and the paper back on the cabinet. “They haven’t identified it yet,” she continued and peeled the blanket away from her. “If it’s a noble, I might be assigned to the case.”
With a nod, Clifford stepped out of the room and a maid took his place. She hastily helped Cloudia into her dress. It was striped periwinkle blue and white and had dark grey lace details; it had been a gift from Cathleen for her last birthday. The maid wove a blue band into Cloudia’s braid and after a cursory check that everything was in place, Cloudia thanked her and left her bedroom.
She quickened her pace on the stairs. She did not want to run and give away her excitement; still, she could not stop herself from being excited at all. Oscar Livingstone was a convicted criminal but Cloudia was nevertheless eager to see him again – after all, she had to ensure he had done nothing bad in his absence. She also really wanted to find out where he had been and who this person was he wanted her to meet. Clifford had not mentioned anyone else; why had Oscar come alone? Because he was unsure whether he could bring the other person to Cloudia’s townhouse so freely?
Cloudia arrived on the ground floor with a clack of her shoes. She forced herself not to grin like an idiot while she strode to the parlour. Clifford opened the door for her, and relief washed over Cloudia when she saw Oscar sitting at the table. She trusted Clifford, of course, but she liked confirming everything with her own eyes.
Oscar had kept his word. It had not been a mistake to trust him.
“Good morning, Lady,” said Oscar hoarsely, looking at her with his beautiful pale blue eyes. It was a startling sight as always; today, it made her frown though. Something was off about him.
“Good morning, Oscar,” Cloudia returned and sat down at the table. Clifford brought her a light breakfast, and she noted that he had not placed a plate in front of Oscar. Instead, his side of the table was covered by a book. Cloudia had seen it before while looking through the townhouse’s library. The solitary Paradise Regained with the strange string of letters in the front. She kept forgetting to purchase its partner, its prequel.
“I told Clifford I do not require breakfast,” Oscar answered Cloudia’s unspoken question. “I have no appetite.”
“It does feel odd eating in front of someone though when that someone is not eating himself,” said Cloudia.
“Please don’t mind me and simply enjoy your meal.”
Cloudia buttered a scone and scrutinised Oscar. He still looked thin and pale, his years in the asylum marked on his face and body, but there was something off about him. She scanned him as Cecelia had taught her: His words were more clipped than five days ago. His shoulders were very slightly sagged. The faintest dark rings under his eyes. An itch in his hands as he played absentmindedly with the edge of a page of Paradise Regained. There was an odd quietness to Oscar as well. He was the opposite he was five days ago when he smiled and thanked her.
The realisation hit Cloudia as she put marmalade on her scone.
“Whatever you meant to do, did it not go well?” she asked.
Oscar studied her. His face at least betrayed no emotion. “You are definitely Simon’s daughter,” he said as she bit into her scone. “And yes, it did not go well.”
Cloudia swallowed before she spoke, “What did you want to do?”
“See my family.”
She stared at him.
He had gone to see his family?
No, this could not be. I might not be Cecelia but I had done my research and I had done it thoroughly!
Oscar had been raised by his grandparents Isobel Henderson and Ewan Seumas Livingstone, both of which had died in 1818. His mother Ealasaid had been deemed unsuitable to raise her son, though she had lived with him at her parents’ estate. Ealasaid had passed away in 1812, and Oscar’s alleged father Ranald Livingstone had died in 1798 before Oscar had even been born. Oscar had no living relatives. No aunts or uncles or cousins. Nothing.
Unless Oscar spoke of his other potential father, Malcolm Fairbairn. Next to no records existed of him, and he could theoretically still be alive. However, if the rumours were true and Malcolm had abandoned Ealasaid when she was pregnant, I doubted Oscar would even want to see him. Let alone be in such a rush to meet him.
Cloudia put down her scone. “I didn’t know you even had a family,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You couldn’t have known,” Oscar replied. “My wife and children were and are my greatest secrets.”
Coldness went through Cloudia as his words reverberated in her mind. Oscar’s voice had sounded so gentle when he had said them. However, Cloudia’s thoughts were transfixed not on his tone but on one word: My wife and children were and are my greatest secrets.
“I never got to see and speak to my family after I was arrested,” Oscar told her. “And I never received a message from them. My wife was stopped from contacting me, I am sure of that. She would have demanded at least one conversation so that I could explain myself to her. I kept her in the dark about what I was doing, and I know she would have wanted to know why.” He was quiet for a moment and laid his hand on the book in front of him as if he was swearing on it as others swore on the Bible. “That’s why when you freed me from the asylum, it was my duty to find her and explain myself. I didn’t seek her forgiveness; I do not deserve it but I knew I owed her an explanation and an apology. It is the least she deserved after what I had done. But when I looked for her… all I could find was a grave.” Cloudia’s heart sank. “My wife was pregnant at the time of my arrest,” continued Oscar. “It was a girl, I heard. My wife died giving birth to her and my daughter died shortly afterwards.”
“I am so sorry,” said Cloudia even though she knew how weak of a response it was; still, it felt right.
Oscar did not reply anything, and they sat in stifling silence until Cloudia took a deep breath and said, “I want you not to take any offence, though I do have to remark you do not seem like someone who would marry and have children.”
“I agree,” said Oscar. “My wife… before I met her and even afterwards, I never imagined myself marrying and becoming a father, let alone marry and have children with her.”
“You say ‘children’ but you only mentioned one daughter. What about your other children? Are they still alive?”
“We had another daughter. She died when she was very young, many years before her sister.”
“I’m sorry,” it slipped out of Cloudia again. Oscar looked down at the book.
I could not imagine the pain of being locked away for years and emerging with the world changed and all you ever loved dead, with so much left unspoken between you and them.
“How…” Cloudia began hesitantly. “How did you and your wife meet? If you want to tell.”
Again, Oscar did not say anything for a while. Then, he raised his head and Cloudia stiffened a bit when he fixed his tired eyes on her. That was what had been off about them. Even when he had just left his asylum cell, his eyes had been sharp; now, a suffocating weariness was etched into them. “When my grandparents died, I was still in the military,” said Oscar. “As I was their only heir, the manor, their wealth, and their entire estate went to me. However, I was stationed in the Midlands, and my family’s estate is in Scotland. I was able to take leaves now and then to maintain everything, though I did most things remotely with the help of a secretary I employed. I have few fond memories of my childhood and joined the military because I wanted to get away. I saw no reason to return more often than I absolutely had to, even after the inheritance.
“A year after my grandparents died, Trudy Ashdown arrived in my home village. She was of high social standing and could have had the world; still, she had chosen to settle in that little place. There, she met her best friend. They shared a close bond, and he would do everything for her. I admit I oftentimes found him obnoxious – for example, he insisted to call me by an idiotic nickname…”
“What was it?” asked Cloudia, and Oscar shot her a dark look before he continued, “… but I would lie if I said he was not a good man. There were very few I can call a ‘friend,’ and he was one of them. Trudy’s best friend is also the reason why I met her.
“Trudy was an avid reader but there were very few places to acquire books in my home village and because of her move, her library was still mostly empty. I, however, possessed an extensive book collection. My grandparents had filled the manor with nothing but religious texts, and when I inherited everything, I decided to make the library more varied. I had collected quite a few books when I was in France and I sent those and all the acquisitions I made while in the Midlands to my manor. My secretary organised them all. It were well-known facts that I was rarely at my manor and that my library consisted of thousands of books. And when Trudy fell ill one day and complained about the lack of reading material, her friend decided to borrow some books from my house.
“He would sneak into my manor, take a few books and later carefully return them to where had taken them. Trudy’s sickness was rather severe and this went on for weeks. She had already recovered when he returned the last of my books – this time I was at the manor though. I caught him climbing through a window. I had noted by then that someone had been in my library because of the marks in the dust, but I never imagined I would find the culprit so quickly. Trudy got worried when her friend didn’t come back. Ever since I was a child, there was a rumour that a nefarious monster lived in the manor of the village’s lord. Trudy had heard that rumour as well but did not believe it to be true. Still, when her friend failed to reappear, she hurried to my manor and knocked on my door.
“Trudy had only got well very recently and her body was still weakened from the illness. But if I had never been told that, I would not have known. I opened the door and there she was: A young woman so much younger than me but with such fierceness and determination in her face and eyes that I rarely saw even in soldiers. Trudy stood in front of me, unwavering and unflinching, without taking her eyes off mine and requested to switch places with her friend. She believed I was holding him prisoner for breaking into my house and she wanted to take his place as she was the reason he had even trespassed and burgled, to begin with. Because of that, she thought the fault lay with her and she wanted to atone for what she did.” For a split second, a faint smile hushed over Oscar’s face. The moment had been so brief, Cloudia wondered if she had imagined it. “Of course, I was not holding her friend prisoner. I only made him help me clean my manor; I fully intended to let him go afterwards. I had no use for him after all. Trudy profusely apologised when I explained everything to her and insisted to help too. We were finished by the evening, and they left to return to their respective homes. I thought this was the last I would see of them but the next day, Trudy knocked again.
“This time, Trudy had a basket with her and her lady’s maid in tow for propriety. She said she felt awful for thinking I was a monster and believed that simply helping me dust was not enough of an apology. I thought she only wanted to leave the basket with me but Trudy invited me to have a picnic. She fell into the hole of believing some rumour because she did not know me and wanted to rectify it. I accepted.
“From then on, we would exchange letters when I was in the Midlands, and I would make an effort to come to my home village more often. Even when my regiment was sent to Ireland, this did not stop. Trudy was exceptionally intelligent and every conversation with her was a joy. At no point did I think she had any interest in me beyond our odd, mismatched companionship. And it was odd and mismatched.
“Trudy was the most beautiful woman I have seen, and I knew many admired her in the village. She was also unbelievably kind and gentle; if she had not been, I doubt she would have ever asked me to a picnic. She truly was an angel and my opposite in every way. Furthermore, Trudy was several years younger than me. Over two years after we met, her best friend told me that she was in…” Oscar broke himself off and cleared his throat. “Her friend must have become sick of the fact that neither Trudy nor me dared to admit that we secretly wished for more; thus, one day, he plainly told me to propose to her. After he reassured me that Trudy was indeed waiting for a proposal, I talked to her mother who told me to just ask her; she had no business dictating her daughter’s life and if Trudy wanted to marry me, she would say so if I asked.
“I pondered over the proposal for weeks. Trudy’s friend offered to help me but I refused. I wanted to do it myself. I eventually asked her on a picnic and proposed to her with a dagger.”
Cloudia stared at Oscar. “A dagger? You proposed to your wife with a dagger?”
“Yes,” he said nonchalantly. “I did not know her ring size and feared asking would give me away. I also did not know anything about jewellery and was unwilling to consult her friend or family about that; as I said, I wanted to handle the proposal on my own. Therefore, I had a dagger custom-made that was both beautiful and sharp. During the picnic, I took it out and asked her if she wanted to marry me. Trudy was rather taken aback by the dagger, not the question. When I explained myself, she laughed and accepted both the dagger and me. Her friend had been right: It was what she, we, had wanted.
“I intended to have a long engagement because Trudy was not even twenty and I was stationed in Ireland. However, Trudy persisted to marry me that same year. Not only did she not want to wait for long, but she also suspected I partially wanted a long engagement because I secretly hoped she could find someone ‘better’ than me. Our betrothal was never formally announced, and because Trudy did not wear a ring, no one in the village suspected anything. Trudy was correct of course. While… while I did want to marry her, I thought she could find someone more suitable for her. Someone less… like me and more like her. She assured me she could not do better and wanted to marry me as quickly as possible so that I could put my mind to peace and have a constant reminder of her with me in the military – my wedding band.
“We got engaged in spring and married in summer. Like before, our relationship was upheld by letters and visits. Trudy could not go to Ireland but she often travelled to Wales so that I could reach her easier. Seven years later, Charles Rowan approached me.” Oscar’s eyes momentarily darkened when he said his name. “We knew each other from my time in the 52nd regiment and got along well enough. Rowan had been chosen by Peel to helm the soon-to-be-founded Metropolitan Police Service alongside Richard Mayne, and Rowan wanted me to work with him. I agreed. I left the military and spent some months in Scotland with my family until Scotland Yard was formally formed in September. From then on, I worked as an inspector and my job often made me cross paths with your father. The first time I met Simon I did not work for Scotland Yard though.”
Cloudia’s eyes widened. “How did you meet my father then?”
“Because of Trudy,” Oscar told her. “In 1825, I was promoted to captain and Trudy wanted to celebrate this with a family portrait. Because no one knew I was married and had a family, we had to find a painter who would keep this commission a secret. Trudy asked an artist friend at Somerset House whether she knew a suitable person, and her friend referred her to Simon Phantomhive. Barely anyone knew he was a painter as he only painted for himself; he didn’t like to talk about his work and would have no reason to tell anyone about my secret family. Trudy promptly convinced and hired Simon.
“I went on leave, and Simon stayed with us for a few weeks to create the portrait. He also made numerous sketches. Every drawing in the sketchbook you brought with you to the asylum stems from that time.”
“That’s why you were in it! Then, the landscape and village drawings depict your home place?”
Oscar nodded. “Yes. Trudy and Simon remained in touch even after the portrait was done – it must still hang in the foyer of Livingstone Manor. I only found out that Simon was the Watchdog after I began working for the Metropolitan Police. Simon told Trudy then too. If… if I had found Trudy alive I would have asked her to come with me and meet you.”
“Because she was close to my father?”
“Because she was your godmother.”
For the third time today, I felt like the ground was crumbling under my feet.
I didn’t know Oscar had a family. Didn’t know he and my father had met years before the Met was created.
Didn’t know I had a godmother.
I thought back to my childhood and stiffened. No, not even my aunts and uncles had been able to help me.
Oscar mustered her. “Did no one ever tell you that you had a godmother at all? Her name might not have been mentioned but I thought her existence would have at least been made known to you.”
“No, no one ever did,” said Cloudia, her mouth dry as she spoke.
She expected him to say “I’m sorry” too; instead, he said, “How odd.” Cloudia blinked at Oscar as he continued, “Maybe, no one informed you because Trudy was not your godmother in the most commonly known sense because she could not provide you with any spiritual guidance. However, Trudy liked the thought of an ‘extra’ parent figure who would help a child throughout life and hold a claim to them if their parents passed away. When we had our first child, she made her best friend the ‘godfather.’ Simon asked me if I wanted to become your godfather in this sense too but I refused. I saw no advantage to binding you to me like that even if that bond was only faint.
“Trudy did consider becoming more involved in your life after Simon died though,” said Oscar.
Cloudia stared at him. “Why… why didn’t she? Or was she refused?”
“She was not refused. In the end, she decided against it. We were not doing well at that time ourselves and Simon had distanced himself from us a year earlier, though he never retracted Trudy’s status as your ‘godmother.’ Trudy still thought it would be better if she stayed away. You also have enough living relatives and your mother is alive too; she thought there was no need for her.”
Cloudia took a deep breath. “Why did my father distance himself from you?”
“I don’t know,” Oscar told her. “From one day to the other, he gradually ceased to work with me on cases and his letters to Trudy became less and less frequent. Neither my wife nor I did anything to offend or upset him, as far as we knew. I’m afraid I cannot help you with anything from that year.”
She looked down at her plate and the bitten-into scone. The tea must have long gone cold too. It did not matter anyway; Cloudia had lost her appetite by the time Oscar began talking about his family.
“I wanted to ask something,” said Oscar, and Cloudia looked up again. “Did Rowan give you any of my possessions? The objects I had with me when I was arrested?”
She shook her head. “No. He told me he got rid of everything. Was anything important amongst the items?”
“Yes, a drawing. One from Simon’s sketchbook.”
Cloudia frowned. “There is no page missing in it though.”
“Simon destroyed the book’s binding to retrieve it,” Oscar explained. “He wanted me to keep that drawing; he said he could simply get the book rebound.”
“What was on the page?”
“A portrait of Trudy. I always carried it with me.”
Dear lord, could this conversation become any sadder?
“I understand that Trudy and your daughters are dead but what about her mother? Your mother-in-law?” asked Cloudia. “It would be fine if some others knew that you’re alive and weren’t executed as long as they kept it a secret.”
“She died many years ago.”
“And Trudy’s best friend?”
“He is still alive but I do not want to bother him anymore. He lost enough because of me; it is better if he doesn’t find out I’m alive,” Oscar told her.
“I did also petition to free your imprisoned servants, and they should arrive in a few weeks,” Cloudia said, wanting to give him a bit of hope at least. “But apart from them, is there no one else who would want to see you?”
Oscar was quiet for a moment. “No,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “There is no one else.”
