#Continental Drift-Quick Look

[bixels]

Do you have any idea for what the rest of the Pie family will be (prolly minors I guess and geologist for Maud (who may be trying to prove Wegener's theory on continental drift lmao), but I still want to know if you have other plans and what their names may be, as Pinkie is Hispanic now)?

I originally really wanted to keep them as Fundie Amish folks cuz the show already set that up so well, but obviously I'm letting that go. Pinkie's father is a miner in a mining town. Both parents will look pretty different. Maud is indeed a geologist (I'm resisting changing her name, even though it's white European). I maaay do quick designs of them cuz I have ideas, but probably won't.

[multipleoccupancy]

@brassandblue continued from X 

“Indeed,” Arthur replied, his eyes and thoughts drifted toward some unseen distance. Despite his apparent youth, his eyes and furrowed brow spoke of a far greater age; the sort of look only someone who has lived long years can have.

“Perhaps this whole war might have been avoided if governance were given more thought over self-interest. Speaking in the hypothetical of course, Sir,” Arthur added with a glance toward the kind Major.

Arthur liked the man already. He was quiet and stoic and hospitable and there was a sincerity to his patriotism of Britannia that Arthur found both quaint and refreshing.

He was, for a time, to await orders in Setauket before continuing on to the continental interior. It was a cozy little town, a little too buttoned up for Arthur’s liking but he passed the blame for that onto the all too frequent Puritannical influence one might find in these particular British colonies. It all left him restless though, and wishing he had not volunteered to find his American counterpart—he wanted to be in a ship, not stuck there on land. It all made him feel dreadfully useless!

Edmund spent a moment considering Arthur’s words, by his brief meeting with him he had decided that the man was intelligent beyond his years and that their conversation could venture into philosophy or the less obvious but so much more important aspects of the war. He had of course not wanted to be there either, needs must though. 

He ran his fingers over the soft feathers of his quill while he thought, taking great care not to dot his uniform nor fingers with any residue ink as he stole a quick glance to where Arthur had cast his gaze off to, no, nothing he could see, just deep thought and maybe some melancholy over the war dragging its heels or maybe something more personal. 

“Since we are speaking hypothetically, were opportunity to arise are men more likely to act selfishly or thoughtfully? If a man seeks power it is not always likely that he does so with the intention of anything but personal gain.” He said quite thoughtfully, his lips pursing slightly as he considered if he should continue, oh, but he did so enjoy having the chance to speak some sense in such a war. “There are of course exceptions, but then forcing a man into power will make him unhappy and would an unhappy man do a better job at governance than one who aimed and landed in a position he wanted?” 

He knew he had enough headaches in his garrison alone, let alone trying to keep the innocent of Setaucket safe from the Continental Army, he could not imagine the pressure of a higher rank and all that came with it. How some lusted over such things he would never understand. 

[6extinction]

The book Continental Drift by Jim Robinson is a book series which is providing now-a-days for us easily with lots of description. This book content material is very effective which gives us a immense pleasure to hear these all the stories.

[stevelastnamespecs]

Steve x Reader

You are a healer’s apprentice in the emperor’s coven. One night, a coven scout you recognize knocks on your door, injured.

—

You’re almost asleep when a knock comes at the door. You sit upright. The rooms set aside in the emperor’s castle for healer’s apprentices like you aren’t big enough for two people so it can’t be a roomate, and you’ve never had anyone come looking for you before, especially not this late at night.

The knock comes again.

This time you get up and nervously open the door.

Standing on the other side is one of the coven scout trainees. Steve, his name was; you were talking to him the other day. He’s clutching his side, and you realize he’s bleeding.

“Hey,” he says, his voice strained, “can I came in?”

You automatically step aside and he stumbles past you to the single chair you have against the wall. His face is streaked with sweat.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, airless helplessly. It seems a bit obvious but you aren’t sure what else to do.

“”Got hurt, he grunts. “Didn’t want to go to the healers for… reasons.”

“Right.” You pull a spare healing kit out from under your bed. As you do you reflect that you must be more tired than you thought if you’re going along with some guy stumbling into your room this easily. “You’re hurt on your side?”

“Yeah. A cut.”

You nod. Healing training is taking over now. “Take off your shirt.”

“What?”

You blush. “I need to see the wound, idiot.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Steve pulls off his shirt. Underneath, he’s soaked in sweat. He must’ve been doing something really active when he got hurt. You wouldn’t be surprised, you’ve heard stories about the training scouts go through.

Before you can check his wound though, your eyes are trapped by his muscles.

Steve’s chest is magnetic, or perhaps gravitational in its pull. His pecs are muscled globes—atlases on which beads of sweat are glistening continents. Your eyes can’t pull away.

“Are those real?” You blurt out. You realize instantly it’s a stupid question but something about those glistening hunks of flesh turns your brain off.

Steve just snorts. “Oh yeah babe, no illusions here.”

He flexes his pecs; a cataclysmic earthquake for those awesome globes. The continental sweat droplets bounce off in a mass extinction event, but somehow, the destruction is almost seductive in the way it sucks in your gaze.

A pained wince from the bearer of those twin beefy worlds snaps your gaze back up to his face. “I, uh… am still bleeding though.”

“Right!” Your face heats up and you pick up bandages from the box at your feet.

Your well-practiced healer’s hands make quick work of wrapping up the wound in his side. As you place the healing patch over the site of the cut and begin pouring magic into it, your eyes drift to his abs.

You keep one hand on the healing patch and run the other over the sharp ridges of his stomach muscles poking out from above the bandages. It reminds you of the pattern on the washboard you use to scrub the blood out of old wrappings. He has them clenched tight against the pain, you realize.

“Wondering if those are real too?” Steve jokes.

“Eh— I, no, you, you’re clenching your muscles,” you sputter. “You need to relax or they won’t heal as well.”

“Oh, sure.” He winces again, but you feel his stomach soften under your hand.

You try to put a little extra magic into the healing patch to soothe more of the pain.

“You know, you remind me of my brother,” Steve says absently. “He was always hanging off of me, admiring my muscles and talking about how he wanted to be like me when he grew up…”

“Oh,” you take your hand back from his abs, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Actually, he was the one I was sneaking out to try and see tonight.”

“That’s how you got hurt? You know you’re not supposed to see anyone on the outside!”

“Yeah, true.” He smiles fondly, looking off past you. “But I could never leave that kid alone for long. He looks up to me too much, I couldn’t do that to him.”

“Oh…”

You take back your other hand, hesitate a moment.

Then you pull Steve into a hug.

He stiffens, then awkwardly puts one arm around you.

“I’ll help you,” you say. “I can’t have you getting hurt again if you’ve got someone waiting for you.”

“Oh.” He softens into the hug. “Thank you. Really.”

[houseofhurricane]

Rules for Spies: Chapter Six

Summary: While Azriel and Gwyn work to free Koschei’s captives, attraction turns into something more.

Chapter Word Count: 5,437

Warnings: This chapter has mentions of torture, and this fic includes mature consensual sexual situations, references to past assault, and torture.

Art & Banner: cosmikla

All chapters are available on Archive of Our Own. All previous chapters linked here.

Azriel had stayed up too late wondering if Gwyn might knock on his bedroom door. She’d sat next to him at dinner, dressed like Nesta in a large sweater and leggings, and by dessert, her feet in their thick knit socks were twined around his ankles. The shadows had moved between them as if there were a tether connecting their two bodies, perching on Gwyn’s shoulder or circling her wrist as she lifted her fork to her mouth. He’s never seen them so blatantly encircle anyone aside from himself.

Cassian had given him a look across the table, but Azriel had only reached for Gwyn’s hand when it dipped under the table.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her mouth on his hand, kissing him in spite of his scars. In spite of everything she knows about him.

After dinner, Gwyn and Nesta had gone to sit with Emerie, and Cassian only looked at Azriel, the questioning stare his brother rarely uses, because he knows Azriel will so rarely answer.

“I’m going to try very hard not to hurt her,” he’d said, and Cassian only nodded and drank his wine, the conversation moving to the solstice and Cassian’s ongoing project to find a gift for his mate, before he pointed out all the ways that he could have won the stealth contest against Gwyn, if he’d really wanted to.

Azriel had fallen asleep telling himself that of course he should not have expected her to appear in his bedroom, but in the morning, at breakfast, she gives him a bright grin while she drinks her tea and says that she’ll be staying with Emerie during training, since Nesta and Cassian need to work on their stealth as much as possible.

“I thought Mor would be coming with Anahit,” Cassian says, and Azriel can feel his eyes, the question he knew would come, the question Rhys asked last solstice: what of Mor?

“I’m glad she’s done with her work in Valhallan,” Azriel says, his voice carefully easy, the way a person would talk about a friend. “She seems happier here.” He cannot say here, in front of Gwyn and Nesta, that his old love for Mor was the shield he hid himself behind. That he is glad for the new fondness between them, even for its moments of awkwardness. That now they are both a little freer.

“She says it’s a court full of pricks,” Cassian says, and maybe he sees the answer to his unasked question, because it’s a real smile on his face now. “But at least she’s convinced them to ally with us.”

That development had been a fucking relief. A major alliance with a continental power strengthens Rhys’ argument for a united Prythian, will make the other High Lords think twice about allying with Beron and Koschei.

“It looks as if you’re stuck coming to training,” Nesta is saying to Gwyn, interrupting Azriel’s contemplation, and he’s glad when he sees the challenge on Gwyn’s face.

“Be careful what you wish for, Archeron,” she says, and when she looks at Azriel, he doesn’t hold back his answering smile.

He’s enjoying these stealth training sessions, but when he teaches the group, he finds himself seeking out Gwyn’s face, making sure she understands, that she’s not bored when he has to review certain concepts. He forces himself to take note of the other priestesses, of Nesta, but his eyes always drift back to Gwyn. She’s the one with the mission, the one who will most likely need to master the fundamentals, the silent steps and the controlled breaths and the swift, secret glances that lead to a quick analysis and a quicker plan.

Even so, Koschei managed to infiltrate the library, and much as he wants to give the session over to Cassian and focus wholly on Gwyn, Azriel knows he has to provide a comprehensive overview of each technique, to give everyone plenty of feedback when they practice. Though everyone else struggled on the course in the darkness, they catch on quickly, to the point where Azriel starts to think, if they were ever willing, that Anake and Lina might have potential in spycraft. And for all they’ve teased her over the past few days, Nesta herself is determined and improving considerably. Spying is not her calling and she likely knows it, but that doesn’t stop her from relentless pursuit of mastery. Still, it’s Gwyn who continues to shine, her natural talent and her focus making each of the fundamentals perfect. Azriel isn’t the only one whose eyes rest on her. The priestesses sometimes stop to watch her when they’re confused or out of breath, but Gwyn gives no indication that she’s aware of their regard. She only works through each repetition, fully surrendered to the exercise.

When practice is over, and the priestesses have left for the library, Gwyn approaches him, one hand clasped over the other. Her fingers are red from the cold and he reaches out his hand. Without looking to see who might be lingering, she steps closer and takes it, a bright smile on her face. His own lips mirror it.

“Are you ready for training with Rhys?”

“I’m worried that I’ll harm the High Lord,” she says, biting her lip. “But I’m ready, I think, to see what my powers could do.”

What if I could help? She’d asked as if she’d known what the question meant. The weight and the horror she’d be transferring to herself. And still she’d offered, drawn closer.

“You’ll both come out of this mostly unscathed,” he says. “Rhys can handle your powers.”

She nods, still unconvinced, but the smile returns to her face bit by bit.

“Am I allowed to know what you’re doing this afternoon, or is it another classified mission?”

“I’m visiting Merrill.”

The story on her face, the smile that becomes fear and concern, which is willed back into a convincing placidity, is one Azriel watches with a knot in his stomach. Not only because he’ll have to train those visible responses out of her, or because his shadows cluster around her, sensing her alarm, but because, he realizes, he wants to never inspire anything but happiness and calm on her face.

For five centuries, he’s been a spy for the Night Court, and he’s managed to avoid even flirtation with his contacts and partners, the spies who work alongside him and the spies who report to him. There is too much at stake to risk heightened emotion, let alone romance.

Now, though, he chooses his words carefully, knowing he cannot lie. Not to her.

“I’m going to see if her captivity has made her more receptive to providing information,” he says.

“You promised not to harm her.” Her voice is too calm, a fabrication.

“I won’t.” Despite all the commands he has issued in his life, it is an effort to keep the words from becoming a plea.

Gwyn considers him, her face gradually relaxing.

“What do you think she knows?” she asks, in the curious voice he knows well.

“Likely more than she thinks, based on what Vassa and Lucien have told us about Koschei’s control. She may not even have a conscious idea of his reason for sending her to Velaris.” Though it wouldn’t be out of the question for Koschei to want a set of eyes in the secret City of Starlight, a set of hands ready to do his bidding. He wouldn’t have to provide Merrill with the full scope of his desires, given his control over her.

“If she doesn’t tell you,” Gwyn says, her fingers tightening in his, “I should be able to get the answers from her soon.”

“We’ll find a solution,” he tells her, because maybe his legacy is more than pain and shadows. Let Rhys break his way into Merrill’s mind with his own power, let them work with Vassa and let Merrill rot away for the rest of her miserable existence.

For the space of a long moment, Gwyn’s hand in his, her teal eyes hopeful and sparkling, Azriel thinks that something better is not only possible but likely.

But when he reaches Merrill, locked behind the barred door of the Hewn City’s smallest torture chamber, the set of the priestess’s chin seems to laugh in the face of his extravagant hopes.

“Your prison is terrifying, Illyrian.” Merrill sneers through each word, and though her hands and feet are bound to the chair, exactly as he’d requested when he’d made arrangements with the Hewn City, there’s a sense of repose in her body.

“You’re not as creative with your insults as you seem to think,” he says, unlocking the barred door to the cell and slamming it shut behind him in a smooth gesture, faster than most Fae can blink.

“I’ll have to ask your little acolyte for suggestions. After all, she has the power to wound you, does she not?”

Azriel knows it is a tactic, mentioning Gwyn in an attempt to throw him. His hackles rise, the shadows filling the room, but he schools his features into stillness and does not break Merrill’s scathing gaze.

“She’s not here to ask for your salvation, priestess. And I’m going to need a convincing reason not to cause you pain.” Merrill does not need to know that he promised otherwise. The anticipation of harm, often worse inside their own minds than any actual torture, has driven fae mad. Almost drove Azriel, as a child, to abandon his senses completely.

So it’s with intention that he looks around the cell, cataloguing the weapons and instruments of torture. Each blade is gleaming and sharp, the gears of each machine oiled so that the only sounds that will emerge are the screams of the victim, their eventual confession. Azriel keeps a small staff solely for this purpose, paying them extravagantly, and he’s grateful for their work when he watches Merrill consider the mace and the rack, her russet skin growing pale even in the gloom.

“There is so little I’m allowed to tell you,” she says, soft and scared, and his hackles rise.

The change in direction is too sudden and her tone is too contrite. But he decides to let her play out her little tableau, determine whether there’s any valuable intelligence amidst what he’s certain will be lies.

“What has Koschei offered Beron?”

Merrill’s eyes widen in panic.

“You think he’d give me that kind of information?”

Azriel draws closer to her, so that his face looms over her in the darkness, his shadows closing in to make the picture more frightening.

“I think he holds you in higher regard than you’d like me to believe,” he says, lowering his voice. “And I think he’s more than willing to sacrifice you for his own ends.”

There’s a shift in the air, like a vortex has opened where Merrill sits and removed all the magic.

“Hello, little spy,” a new voice says through Merrill’s lips.

Azriel has heard Koschei speak when he and Cassian went after Eris months ago, but that deep slithering voice still makes his skin crawl.

“Are you watching through the eyes of all your captives?”

“Like you, I have eyes watching and lips whispering in every corner of this world,” the death-god says, “only mine will do anything I ask. They are beautiful as swans, but they’ll bite, spymaster.”

“What are you after?”

Koschei laughs, and a chill goes down Azriel’s spine. He wishes that Rhys were here, with all his quick wit. Azriel’s speciality is watching from the shadows, forming his strategy from a distance.

“Surely you could not begrudge an old creature who wants a respite from his miserable containment.”

“I know the histories where you feature.”

“No doubt your chosen acolyte has done her research well. My Merrill has revealed her to me. I don’t see how you stay away from her, with that delicious power coursing through her veins. When I have the chance…”

The shadows converge on Merrill’s eyes, thick and furious, and Azriel uses this temporary blindness to take a deep breath. He reminds himself that with any luck, Gwyn will be able to use her power against Koschei, whether to attack or to escape. Still, even knowing that she’s with Rhys and therefore safe, he wants to step into the shadows and appear at her side, ready to shield her from the world. He clenches his fingers and focuses on the tension in those small muscles, releases it, breathes in and out. Revealing any of this will only turn Gwyn into a pawn.

All too soon, Koschei once again looks at him, the shadows dissipating of their own will or through his magic. They cluster around Azriel’s fingers now, waiting for his command.

“I always thought of you as a loyal bat,” the death-lord says.

“I’m surprised you ever thought of me,” Azriel parries. If Merrill is his only plant in the Night Court, he knows only what the priestesses have said about him.

“And I’m wondering what it would take to claim your loyalty.”

“You’re trapped next to a lake, sorcerer. You have nothing to offer. In this place, you answer to me.”

“My Merrill seems to think otherwise.” Koschei lets out a snarling laugh, perhaps the way he shows his amusement or his dominance, and then that magic of absence vanishes from the room, replaced by Merrill’s considerable but more ordinary power.

“Is it always like that?” he asks, seizing on the moment where Merrill’s eyes are disoriented.

“Next you’re going to offer to free me.” Again that indulgent smile, as if she is only held captive in a torture chamber because she deigned to linger there.

“If you wanted to be free, you would have begged the High Lord to break the connection. So what does he offer you?”

“You think your High Lord is so mighty, but you’ve barely seen a fraction of what the death-god can accomplish with his powers.”

“After all the hospitality you’ve been shown.” He means the library but he spreads his hands to the weapons on the wall, twisting the pleasantry into a threat. His smile is little more than bared teeth. “Tell me this, then: how does it feel when he controls you?”

“Like I’m not alone.” Though she manages to keep a smile on her face, as if she’s placating him, he’d swear these were the first genuine words she’s spoken in days. And maybe he can follow that one kernel of truth into the information he needs.

“What happens when you’re alone, Merrill?”

She takes a deep breath, and then another, almost shuddering, and just when Azriel thinks that she’s going to say something, her mouth twists into the smile of a wolf.

“I don’t think you’re going to lay a hand on me.”

He flexes his fingers, the scars aching as they stretch, and dearly wishes he could reach for Truth-Teller. He knows just how he would wield the blade, the thin cuts on the skin of Merrill’s fingers, leaving her in agony every time her hand so much as twitched. Then he’d move to the soles of her feet, making walking an impossibility. The beasts would go wild at the scent of her blood, and she’d be trapped in this chamber, blood pooling around her, wondering if perhaps they could escape and tear her apart. Of course, she’d heal within hours, but in the meantime she would hurt and fear enough to wonder whether Koschei could ever punish her so thoroughly.

His blade is only inches from his hand. It would be so easy.

Instead he turns away from her and walks to the door. When he’s at the threshold, he turns to the priestess, and when he finds her expression unchanged, he says, “It doesn’t have to be today, Merrill.”

He is every horrible thing he’s ever claimed, but he made a promise to Gwyn. Today, at least, nobody will be harmed by his hands.

.

.

.

.

.

When Azriel leaves her at the High Lord’s river estate, Gwyn realizes she has no idea what to say to Rhysand. She was perfectly happy smiling and nodding at the edges of his conversation with Azriel, studying the large room with its cream-colored walls and deep teal furniture and exquisite tables of dark wood. Hung on the walls are paintings of the High Lord’s family, Azriel captured inside one of the frames, alive in a way that is totally unlike his real existence. Everything is beautiful and comfortable, a room that will not be ruined by its use, and while Rhysand and Azriel bluster on about a snowball fight that surely must be made up, Gwyn lets herself listen and enjoy the space. But once Azriel disappears into the shadows, the silence between them quickly lengthens.

“I’m afraid I’m going to break you,” she says, finally, and he smiles.

“I think you’ll find it’s hard to access my mind. But by all means, do your worst.”

It’s the arrogance in his voice that makes Gwyn delve deep inside herself in search of her power. When her feelings are strong, it is easy to find, rising up like a tide inside her, but at times like this, when she’s merely feeling awkward, it’s more like a hidden gold thread in a complex tapestry, almost impossible to locate. When she finally locates it, she pulls hard, summoning the resonance that makes her power into something real, which makes it possible for her to locate the note that will bring the High Lord of the Night Court under her command.

For a moment, she examines her power, listening to its contours, the way it reacts to Rhysand, and then she summons the note from the air.

Those violet eyes show no change.

“Walk towards me,” she says, testing the power of her command.

He only shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, I would prefer not to.

She’s confused. Her power, once located and channelled, always works. Often, it’s been too effective.

“Is that all you’ve got in your arsenal, Gwyn?” He slips his hands into his pockets, as if her magic is only a breeze in the room. All those years she spent, living in fear of her great and terrible power, and now it’s revealed to be weak.

Frustrated, she digs deeper, following the thread to its source, the glow and the resonance, the power and precision of the notes which will bring her magic forth. Perhaps she wasn’t listening well enough and chose the wrong note.

She lets awareness flood her, drops the habitual blocks on her senses, and listens for the High Lord’s signature: the sounds his being makes, the song of his power. Every person has a countermelody that allows her access to their wills, she has learned, though most people can be beckoned and commanded by a few similar notes. But she’s never tried her powers on a High Lord.

So, note by note, she creates her melody, weaving in and out of Rhysand’s power and his very self. She opens her mouth and lets the notes emerge, their resonance held in the room by her magic.

When she looks at him, the High Lord’s eyes are glassy and pleading. He leans toward her, as if awaiting her command. The sight of him this way is a bolt to Gwyn’s heart, but she knows she has to test her hold on him.

“Walk forward on one leg only, until I tell you to stop.”

Instantly he begins to hop toward her, one foot suspended in the air. His shoe slips off and he does not bend to retrieve it, so wholly is he focused on her command.

When he nears her, Gwyn holds up her hand.

“Stop,” she says, and his motion ceases. He wobbles slightly but does not fall.

Gwyn heaves a sigh and lets go of her power.

Instantly, the room goes quiet and Rhysand’s eyes return to normal. His shoeless foot drops to the floor.

“Good,” he says. “You have an impressive grasp of the technique for someone who was never properly trained.”

“I learned music theory. The power works along similar lines. Only certain notes can follow one another, and only certain notes harmonize. It’s like creating a counterpoint for a hymn, only I could’ve killed you.”

He shakes his head, just slightly, and in the High Lord’s eyes there is a tenderness, as if he sees the precise contours of her fear.

“I left my mind open to you,” he says.

“You let me command you?” She’s not sure if she’s more horrified or offended, that he would lay himself bare to her power.

“Try again now,” he says, smirking.

Gwyn lets her irritation and horror rise and catches the cresting wave of magic, but when she sings the melody, she finds that it echoes strangely, as if the notes bounce against a barrier. Quickly, her magic gutters.

“What did you do?”

“I shielded my mind.”

“It’s that easy to block me out?”

“I’m very good at shielding, and I trained with a powerful siren to improve the ability. But you can learn to get around it.”

“How?”

He smiles, and it reminds her of Clotho, how she responds when Gwyn asks a rapid-fire series of questions, or bursts into her office asking for the location of some obscure manuscript.

“There are many ways to think about the way magic is structured,” he says, “and often these metaphysics only matter if they help you conceptualize your magic more successfully. But in your case, Gwyn, the very essence of your magic is based on certain frequencies of sound. So it will help you to think of all magic in that way.”

“My other powers don’t work that way.” She’s never been bothered by her more ordinary magic, the kind that lets her summon things from across a room, or shelve books without lifting her hands. For all that it’s useful, it is not an exceptional gift. Most of the temple children had similar magic.

“In most cases I’ve heard of, the sirenic powers overwhelm the ordinary High Fae magic. But this gift is generally the realm of nymphs.”

“I’m a quarter nymph,” she says, and though her voice is calm, internally she’s daring him to look down on her, so that she doesn’t feel so badly when she has to overwhelm his mind again.

“Which might explain your powers. Now, this time, try to visualize what is blocking your access as a series of frequencies.”

“That’s how I’ll find the notes to get to your mind?”

“Only if you’re very good at this,” he says, and though Gwyn suspects that he smirks at her just to rile her, it has the intended effect.

This time, it’s noticeably easier to call up her power, to center herself in the resonance.

She considers the High Lord as she did before, trying to focus on what is different now that his mind is shielded. Sure enough, when she listens closely, there’s a place where the melody is dampened.

Perhaps if she created melody and countermelody, a song entire, that would be enough to slip past his defenses. She opens her mouth, but only the melody sounds, a key with no lock to slip inside.

“How do I get both out at the same time?”

“I know it’s possible,” Rhysand says, and she realizes there’s pride in his eyes, that she’s gotten this far, “but I don’t know the technique. But you may be able to get past my defenses still.”

She tries the melody, feels something in the High Lord’s essence answer, but the countermelody does not allow her access. When she commands him to walk towards her, he makes a big show of taking one step, but she knows this is a performance for her benefit and only rolls her eyes.

“That’s your assignment for the next lesson,” he says. “Figure out a way to get past my shield. You’ll come again tomorrow.”

Gwyn opens her mouth to protest that a day isn’t enough time, and she needs to go to the library at some point because there is probably a priestess in need of her assistance, when she hears footsteps, the almost-understandable babble of a child.

“Still a prick in training, I see,” the High Lady says as she enters the room with her son on her hip, aiming a smile at her mate, which deflates even the hint of an insult in her words.

“I thought you were in meetings,” he says, his whole aspect changing as he looks at her.

Gwyn feels her power rising in her and she realizes that what she’s feeling is jealousy, at the love and warmth between the High Lord and High Lady, the bond between them evident in every gesture. She thinks, only for a second, that it could be so easy to have that devotion. Only a simple command and Azriel might look at her in that way.

As soon as she realizes the implications of her thought, her stomach drops and she forces the magic deep inside of herself. Her power might never cause a moment of physical pain or leave a scar, but it would be an act of violence, to command his love or devotion. It would be torture.

“You’ve scared Gwyn,” the High Lord says, reaching out for his son.

“No, it’s not that!” Gwyn says, holding out her hand, trying to think of an explanation that won’t get her thrown out of this lovely place. “It’s only -- I try to keep a tight leash on my power, but sometimes it just rises up inside of me and I have to get it under control.”

“What happens if you don’t?” The High Lady’s voice is curious and gentle, her blue-gray eyes searching Gwyn’s face. Although their features are similar, Gwyn is always struck by how different she looks from Nesta, and still, perhaps there is some deeper family trait that links them, because Gwyn likes her instantly.

“My sister once spent two hours rubbing my back before I figured out I had accidentally hummed a melody that would command her.”

“That’s not a convincing example,” the High Lord says, glancing at his mate even as his son reaches for his ear.

“Isn’t that kind of reaction a result of not using your magic enough?” The High Lady has turned her attention fully on Gwyn, letting Rhysand disentangle his collar from the baby’s clutching fingers.

“The priestesses in the temple where I grew up,” because it still hurts sometimes, to mention Sangravah by name, and she cannot break down here, “found that it was all right if I let a little of the magic surface when I sang at morning and evening services. Clotho has allowed me to continue that practice since I came to the library.”

“What happens to the priestesses?”

“A trickle of my power is more like a convincing suggestion than an all-out command. They leave services feeling newly devoted to the Mother.”

“And it doesn’t seem wrong to you, to force their piety?”

Gwyn didn’t anticipate this verbal trap, not with the High Lady’s gentle mien, her wide-eyed gaze, and she blushes while she tries to collect her thoughts.

“I know that my powers are terrible,” she says, her eyes on the High Lady’s feet, covered in silk slippers of an exquisite blue, the color of Azriel’s Siphons, “but I think that this is the least harm that I can do, to help others believe in the faith to which they’ve committed their lives. Though I’m willing to use my power in other ways, if I can be useful.”

She expects another rebuke, but the High Lady only asks, “And have you learned how to shield your mind?”

“I had to learn the basics as a child. If someone had gotten control over my power…” She tries not to ever think of the possibility, though it sometimes presents itself in her nightmares.

“I can help you make a better shield. Yours might not survive against Koschei.” When Gwyn looks up, the High Lady is studying her a bit too carefully, as if she can see inside Gwyn’s skull.

“I wouldn’t want to break you, High Lady,” she says, bowing her head, and she’s surprised when there are fingers on her chin, callused in the same places as Gwyn’s are, from carrying a sword.

“I’m Feyre,” the High Lady says, a smile on her lips, “and I’ve found that it’s difficult to break me. We’ll start tomorrow, before Rhys has a chance to wear you down.”

“I’d appreciate that, then.”

Before Rhysand and Feyre and their son leave for whatever else their day contains, the High Lord gives her instructions on what to practice, tells her she can have the room as long as she likes, and in the hour before Azriel appears, Gwyn thinks she’s managed to conjure a hint of a harmony, two notes sounding as one. But she still cannot capture two interwoven melodies, not the way she’d need to get inside a guarded mind.

“Did you manage to command Rhys to leave you alone?” Azriel asks, and she whirls toward him, silencing her magic. There is no blood on him. She hopes that means he hasn’t harmed Merrill, and mostly, selfishly, she wants to believe that her trust in him isn’t foolish.

“No,” she says, walking past the low table and the sofa to get closer to him, “he gave me an assignment and left me alone to figure it out before our next session tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you’ve figured it out already.”

She lets her mouth gape open, feigning shock. “When did you develop this kind of confidence in me, shadowsinger?”

“A second before you sliced the ribbon.”

He’s flirting with her. She can hear it in his voice, a combination of laughter and desire, and she lets herself savor it for a moment.

“I have no idea how to solve this problem,” she finally sighs.

“Explain it to me,” Azriel says, and although he’s listened to her talk for hours about Koschei, and he always seems interested in even the most obscure facts about the Valkyries, Gwyn still marvels over the fact that in the twenty minutes she spends describing her powers, the process of raising them, and the challenge of Rhys’ mind, his focus is total.

“How quickly can you get from encounter to command?”

“It usually takes me a few minutes. Usually I’m not in a rush. And with Merrill, I think my powers were building as soon as I felt Koschei’s magic.”

He nods, storing this information away for when it is needed.

“If Rhys caused such a problem for you, don’t you think that Koschei would have protected Merrill’s mind?”

She swallows, thinking.

“I was so angry,” she says, her only explanation. “Maybe my magic burned past her shields.”

“It’s possible. But I’m worried Koschei baited a trap to get a glimpse of your magic.”

“That only means I need to figure out how to get inside Rhysand’s mind.” She says the words brightly, like she’ll have some grand epiphanic moment if only she wills it into being. But Azriel reaches for her, his fingers carefully wrapping around her wrist.

“He could be hunting you.”

“He can’t leave the lake.”

“We don’t know whose minds he occupies.”

“Then I’ll carry a dagger and keep training my powers.” She turns her hand so that her fingers are tight around his own wrist, the muscles she can feel despite his gauntlets and his Siphons. “I’m part of this mission. If he’s hunting me, then he’s also hunting you.”

“I know,” he says, his eyes skittering away from hers, the shadows drawing so close that the lines of his body are blurred.

“What happened with Merrill?”

“Koschei appeared. He knows who you are.”

“He’s known who I am since we met with Vassa.” She does not say, he mentioned me to hurt you because it seems almost delusional, that she could be that person for Azriel. There are stories, centuries old, about his love for Morrigan. “What else?”

“There was a moment after Koschei left her mind, when she wasn’t fully herself. She said that when he’s there, then she’s not alone. Maybe she doesn’t mind his control.”

For a second, she is held down on that kitchen table in Sangravah, pain ripping through her.

“No,” she says, and Azriel’s grip tightens at whatever he hears in her voice. “What she minds, I think, is being left alone with the memory of all he’s done.”

Notes: In spite of the dark themes that run through this chapter, it was a really fun one to write. Getting to let loose with slightly evil Azriel was a blast. And, fun fact, I went to music school instead of regular college (where, in addition to my bassoon performance major, I also managed to get an English major and rarely sleep), so writing Gwyn's powers had me thinking of operas and the sensation of sitting in the middle of an orchestra during a symphony, in addition to making a lot of early morning music theory classes feel suddenly useful.

Incidentally, the way Gwyn and Azriel are holding each other's wrists at the end of this chapter? It's called a rescue grip.

If you're wishing that this slow burn would get steamier, I have good news for you: I wrote a smutty solstice Gwynriel one-shot, and I'm posting it tomorrow.

For more theories, thoughts, and occasional sneak peeks, follow me on Instagram at house.of.hurricane or TikTok at houseofhurricane.

Thank you so much for reading! 🧡

Taglist: @almosttenaciousmoon, @azrielbedara, @azrielsdarling13, @books0lover, @brown-and-weird, @camreadsum, @cozycomfyliving08, @drinkbleach0, @girlbossenergy, @glemiessa, @gwynrielsupremacy, @imsointobooks, @katekatpattywack, @lightwood-bane13, @livelyblu, @lola-lightwood, @meher-sumedha, @moonbeammadness, @mystical-blaise, @nansr, @nervousninjasuit, @onemorenightdreamer, @rubyriveraqueen, @ruthieluvsbooks, @sanniegirl1214, @saramoonbeam, @secretlovelybeauty, @shisingh, @soffiiione, @thenerdywriter, @the-stars-eternal, @trashforazriel, @valkyriesbooks, @vassien-supremacy6, @vikingmagic33, @whoever-you-choose-to-love, @witching-by-the-willow, @zanywolffriendhairdo

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[earthstellar]

TFP Concept Essay: What if the bots had come to Earth and landed in Russia?

Almost a year ago, I posted about a jokey mental image of Ratchet having to wear a giant ushanka if they had landed in Russia because he’s an old bot and would be more prone to cold metal fatigue, but it got me thinking: 

What if the Cybertronians had made contact on Earth in Russia, and not the USA? 

Why Russia? 

Both continents would be appealing from a landing standpoint; The USA and Russia both cover a massive amount of land, so even without knowledge of human national borders, it’s safe to assume that the areas on the globe that would look the most appealing may very well be: 

-North American Continent

-Russia/Eastern Europe

-African Continent 

Now, without knowledge of human national borders, many other parts of Europe, South America, etc. may have also seemed like good options at first, Brazil and Mexico come to mind, but we need to establish what Cybertronians would be looking at in terms of terrain and population risk. 

We can assume that Cybertronians didn’t have prior information on the actual life, society, and general human construction on Earth because the bots (while they have been on Earth long enough to have at least cursory knowledge of humans) still act as though humanity is a bit novel to them.

 A lot of information would not have been available to them outside of Earth’s orbit or atmosphere, and by the time they were in atmosphere, a decision would have to be made quickly based on relative proximity and what data they could scan for within that possibly very limited amount of time.

Nevada, USA likely seemed appealing because it has mountainous and flat terrain in large swathes, with few largely inhabited areas especially near old nuclear testing sites (some radiation may have appeared on any scans they were capable of performing once in-atmosphere and that ambient radiation may have obscured the radiation that they themselves generate as we know sparks emit radioisotopes), making it a good option if they happened to wind up over North America and had to make a quick call. 

(All of this assumes that they had some control over where they landed; It may have been the situation that their ship was damaged enough that they just had to end up wherever they ended up, in which case, they just as easily could have wound up making contact in Russia anyway.) 

This isn’t to ignore the suggestion that Cybertronians had prior, ancient involvement with Earth in some capacity. In fact, that’s a big part of why I think Russia is a reasonable place for them to go. 

-We know Unicron’s energy was deposited into or directly forms the core of Earth. This is explained, albeit quickly, that at some point in Earth’s early history, when Unicron was expelled from Cybertron, his life force ended up on Earth. 

-Would Earth have still been Pangea at that time? What did the continental layout of Earth look like when Unicron’s energy nestled into the planet? 

-Assuming Unicron’s impact with Earth was not the meteor that killed the dinosaurs, which in the TFP universe it may well have been given the timeline of Cybertron relative to Earth, let’s instead assume continental drift had already occurred. 

-Russia is well known for perma-frost and preserved biological life in layers going back centuries. I have a great visual concept of Unicron’s dark energon appearing as purple or black layers of ice, settled unseen and unnoticed under the ground. 

-We also know energon is naturally occuring, in a crystalline, mineral like form. Just like Nevada, USA, many parts of Russia have a similar history of mineral mines and crystal mines, so the actual potential for energon crystals to grow is definitely equal if not arguably better in Russia as there is far more variety of geological conditions across Russia as a nation than there is across Nevada as a state. 

-To better explain the above idea, Czech could also be an energon deposit area, as we know Czech crystal and mineral mines are very successful which is why they are able to produce so much garnet, and even garnet of different varieties. Red garnet and the rarer black garnet. We can assume energon and dark energon would form crystals similar, but not exactly the same, and we know that Central and Eastern Europe have very good geological conditions for this already in real life! 

Compare red garnet with energon, and black garnet with dark energon; Similar structures but very different end results: 

Notice also how energon crystals seem to form in clusters like plain quartz, which is the second most abundant mineral in Earth’s crust: 

We can assume that because the crystal structures of quartz and energon are so similar, that energon may have the geological ability to thrive and be harvested from most areas on Earth in a similar fashion, so this doesn’t necessarily rule out other appealing continents/areas, either! 

But it’s not unreasonable to believe that when coming into atmosphere, the Cybertronian ship tech would likely pick up recognisable energy signatures before managing to process other purely Earth-native data. In doing so, they may notice concentrations of energon and dark energon in Central and Eastern Europe, or perhaps contaminated dark energon from Unicron’s initial contact with Earth within the terrain or perma-frost areas (where applicable), and decide to head towards those regions as fuel will be easier to find and closer to any base they might be able to establish. 

What if Decepticons land first? 

The above section also assumes the Autobots are the first to reach Earth; If the Decepticons were to arrive first, I have no doubt that they would head for any concentrations of dark energon as commanded by Megatron. Countries with larger land mass and older long-lived terrain may have a higher concentration than other areas.

For example, Florida would be a bad place for them to look for energon or dark energon deposits in the USA as the state isn’t that far above seawater and erosion is a huge problem, so there is likely very little dark energon concentrated in the actual land. No significant deposits would be found as there isn’t enough actual ground to contain all that much, compared to other places that may have mountains, hills, ice, valleys, etc. that may accumulate such materials over time significantly better and with higher concentration/overall quantity. This is why other peninsulas, islands, or coastal/water heavy areas like the Mediterranean or Holland may not be as appealing to the Decepticons.

Back to searching for the right spot...

Looking for a place to land, Central Europe, although with good crystal potential, may not look like as good of an option, due to population density that would become evident once better scans were available. Rural areas in a lot of Central European countries are still relatively small in comparison to slightly more north on the map, where rural Russian areas may afford larger spaces to work with, proximity to a wider range of supplies, afford a degree of secrecy, and there may be complexes or materials that could be easily stripped or repurposed that wouldn’t impact on native human life or communities/wouldn’t draw much attention. 

And remember what I said about radiated areas possibly affording cover for their own naturally emitted radioisotopes which may otherwise be detected by human instrumentation; Russia has a similar history of radiological site contamination to that in Nevada, USA-- And not just Chernobyl, which also irradiated Belarus as well as Ukraine, but there’s also Mayak/Kyshtym/Lake Karachay and the surrounding East Urals irradiation, among a few other sites. It might be an appealing factor for them to consider when choosing somewhere to land. 

(I don’t want to skim over the fact that people do live in the these affected areas; I highly suggest you research into this if you’re reading this and have never heard of those sites. There used to be a fundraiser for people living in and around Mayak as well as an awareness effort, but I’m unsure of where that link/website has gone. If I find it again, I will link it. For now, here is a documentary/interview series with local people; Please be aware it may be upsetting, but their voices deserve to be heard if you think you can handle it.) 

Once landed, they could also survey more, and consider their options. Russia has a lot of rural space in some areas, and plenty of very appealing abandoned sites that could possibly be converted into functional bases when supplemented with metal and other materials collected from other similar abandoned industry areas or factories etc., which would spare them the need to actually make their own; They could just re-use the raw material, whatever’s usable, and if necessary look for better cover. 

Russia has tons of biomes/terrain types: 

So they have options. We know in TFP that extreme cold does impact Cybertronians, so tundra and more northern arctic territory would be ruled out, but I can easily see them going for a rural abandoned industrial site in a forested area, which would provide significant visual cover, likely areas already cleared out by previous industry in a given area, and minimal chance of discovery by humans depending on specifically where they end up. 

How would Cybertronian-Human alliances go down? 

A big difference in approach to setting up a base would be the Russian government/forces, and the reaction to the Autobot arrival. 

In TFP, the bots work directly with the USA Air Force/Army, and the base seems to be primarily US Army operated. Their existence and the operations at their base may well be hidden from the wider USA Federal government for the most part at least, possibly using the already secretive clustered Nevada sites as a cover and making the Autobots something of an internal local operation or “quiet site”, which would fit what we see on screen generally speaking. We don’t really get a lot of clarification on this part of things.

But what would the reaction of the Russian government/Army be to discovering the Autobots? 

We know that Russian national forces are very, very capable of defending their air space. It’s unlikely if not impossible that a Cybertronian ship would go undetected or unnoticed, if not immediately then at least within. Seismic data is often monitored and reported as well, so the actual impact of landing may trigger an alert record to be sent to the relevant people, who can escalate those reports. 

Think about Japanese tsunami/earthquakes or West Coast USA earthquakes, and how quickly public alerts and operations are put underway, even before physical effects are felt. Most nations have at least some similar system in place, sometimes to detect earthquakes, others to detect suspected weapons impacts.

We can safely assume that even if they were remote and under as much cover as possible, it wouldn’t be long before Russian forces were involved, and therefore the Russian government. 

I won’t comment on the politics of other nations, although I am very open to hearing from Russian people about their take on this, but it is very possible that the initial engagement would go one of two ways: 

1) Defensive Conflict

2) Attempted Diplomatic Resolution 

I don’t believe conflict would be immediate, because of the sheer physical intimidation and surprise factors. Nobody expects to find giant robot aliens, and there may be immediate challenges surrounding basics like verbal communication (have the Autobots learned human language, in this case Russian, by the time of their discovery?) and so on. This may complicate first contact, as it would anywhere.  

I don’t know if resolution would be reached, as I think it’s likely that the Russian govt would like to weaponize or manipulate the Autobots, use them to intimidate other nations (”look, we have giant robot aliens”), or upon learning of the Russian government or after becoming more aware of the political/social mood amongst Russian citizens if they encounter any communities and perform low key intelligence gathering for a better idea of the local humans, seeing material conditions in some of these more rural areas, after obtaining historical or current socio-political data, etc., Optimus or others may simply decide they don’t wish to work with the government and attempt to peacefully decline, thus issuing diplomatic ultimatums (similar to the back and forth that occurs when trying to establish treaty agreements).

I’d like to note here that I think the Autobots likely had to have a similar discussion with the USA govt, as I think the US Army would have initially had a very similar thought process. I get the feeling Optimus made it clear he wouldn’t be manipulated and wouldn’t be caught up in other conflict(s)/fight human battles.

However, this would be their first experience with human government, as this would be their first contact. They may well assume that this is representative of how things work on Earth until they have the chance to learn otherwise, and in an attempt to be diplomatic, Optimus might cooperate until it becomes clear that it isn’t a good fit, and how the Russian government would handle the subsequent conversation would be anyone’s guess. (Again, Russian people, please tell me what you think!) 

Ultimately, either USA or Russian governments would likely want to at least not ruin diplomatic relations with a space-faring, seemingly extremely powerful alien species. Sometimes that’s what it comes down to, and that would be enough, although conflict could arise here and there, like when we see Agent Fowler have to defend the Autobots to his superiors. 

Episode / Scene Concepts

I have an excellent image of further down the line, however, where things are smoothed over or at least tenuously managed with the Russian govt (perhaps an allotted small autonomous zone for the bots to create their base in with minimal interference, under certain conditions)... There could be so much potential for some great episodes with human interaction with the bots. 

-A great episode of just creating the base, figuring out what’s around, gives us a look at where they are in Russia and who’s nearby, we could see some pretty beautiful shots of abandoned Soviet tech and sites being repurposed and revitalised (with Russian designs remaining evident in the final base construction, just with Cybertronian flair). Maybe within the Autobot Autonomous Zone we would even see locals engaging with the process after the initial shock...

I have an image of Ratchet arguing with an old Russian engineer, and it goes on for a while until the engineer explains to Ratchet that working with scarce resources in less than ideal conditions isn’t exactly new to them, and they might have some valuable tips for working under such conditions. Ratchet comes to respect the engineer after they work together to create a functional power network made from old factory components, a few turbines from an old textile workshop, power generators from abandoned Soviet sites, and power poles made from disused radar systems. 

They relate to each other after they get to talking while cleaning up the rest of the work, and it turns out both of them have similar concerns about the futures of their respective peoples, and have some degree of depression over what they feel they may have lost forever to political games and wars beyond their control, sharing some memories with each other. The engineer is their first local human ally. 

-Russian kids stumbling upon the bots! I’d love to see parallels to the American TFP kids. Miko from Yakutia would be the best, and I believe I talked about that with someone on here months ago. I still love the idea.

-Who would the Agent Fowler character be? He’s listed as being a US Army Ranger, and I’m not sure what the equivalent rank would be in the Russian Army. Google tells me that the equivalent would be a Spetsnaz role, but I am unfamiliar with Russian Army structure, or how personnel might be allocated to the proposed Autobot Autonomous Zone or “secret city” realistically. 

It would be good to get an episode where the Agent or equivalent character first meets the Autobots, and how expectations differ from reality. Maybe over time we see a crisis of conscious with this character, where they initially start out as keeping an eye on things for the government, but slowly become friends with the Autobots and wish to engage more genuinely with them and the other humans who may be involved. 

-An episode where Optimus realises they need to learn more about these humans to work with them more effectively, and sets everyone on tasks related to cultural reconnaissance. 

Optimus studies the literature and history of Russia, and has perhaps some spicy takes. Arcee goes on a drive and has fun going up and down hills in Vladivostok, then races a Trans-Siberian Railway train back and takes note of what the people inside the train are doing. Bulkhead explores cultural identity with Yakutian!Miko. 

Ratchet looks into human medicine and is fascinated by Russian folk medicine and goes on a rant about Soviet spa/sanitorium treatment programs. Ultra Magnus delves into Russian law and almost burns out his processor. Wheeljack explores some industrial sites and studies the detonation techniques of Russian construction workers, comparing their casual conversations to those between him and fellow Wreckers. 

Bumblebee finds an old radio station and uncovers some extremely good bops. Smokescreen discovers Russian dash cam videos and gets pulled over for trying to recreate one. 

Phew! Initial post done! 

There might be more in the future as I love this idea, but I’d equally love to hear from Russian TFP fans: What do you think? What episodes or scenes do you think would be fun or interesting? Is there anything you’d like to add or change? 

Please add whatever you’d like, and if anything I said above comes across as uninformed, I encourage you to correct me or pitch other ideas if you would be so kind as to take the time to do so. :) 

[petite-ely]

Afraid // JJ Maybank

three - family heirloom

Pairing: JJ Maybank x fem routledge! reader

Warnings: cursing and other sorts of bad language, mention of a dead body, underage drinking, idk if there’s something else besides some typos

Description: a fun trip to a thrashy motel leads to many discoveries for the pogues (buckle up buckaroos this one’s a bit long) (also I’m very sorry for not putting a read more thingy but I really don’t know how, sorry :(

Previously next

Afraid Masterlist

Song recommendation:

gif found on pinterest all credits to owner

When John B fell into the the water, the anchor held against his chest, y/n didn’t expect him to come back with anything valuable. Maybe something that would have revealed the identity of whoever owned this boat, but nothing really big. So she was very surprised when he came back with a motel key in his hand. It was not much, as expected but the pogues knew what to do.

The little group had tried to report their findings to the authorities, in hope of receiving some kind of reward. Unfortunately, the plan had failed. Because of the hurricane, the coasts guards were so busy they couldn’t even spare one minute for them.

Instead, they all agreed to go investigate the hotel room. Y/n had been reluctant at first, but her curiosity took the lead, so she agreed. How could she not?

“I thought the château looked bad.”

“This place is a shitshow.”

“Motel or meth lab?”

Y/n’s face scrunched up in a grossed out expression at the sight in front of her eyes, plugging her nose as she caught the horrible smell that went with it. The motel itself wasn’t that bad. Except maybe for the roof, and the window and probably also some kind of hygiene issue. The yard was the worst part. It was filled with debris brought by the storm and it was covered with a bunch of old mattresses. It was not a pretty sight to see.

“Y/n are you staying with me and Pope or..” kie wondered as they landed.

The Routledges exchanged a look. John B didn’t show it a lot, but he was very protective of his sister. He preferred to have her by his side at all times, where he could protect her and assure that she was always safe. It was his way of showing he cared.

“Nah,” she jumped off the boat, her feet joined together, “someone has to look after these two knuckleheads.”

JJ laughed at her words. “Knuckleheads, who even says that.” “Dude I was talking about you.”

“What.” She rolled her eyes.

“Hey,” Pope addressed the girl “don’t let him do anything stupid.” He pointed to JJ.

“Oh, we will.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

Kie handed the key to John B. “Be careful, okay. I mean it.” Y/n grinned at her friend’s words.

The trio then headed towards the direction of the room. Somehow y/n ended up taking the lead, with the two boys walking behind her. She felt a pair of eyes looking at her.

“JJ I know you’re looking at my ass, stop that right now,” she warned. “Dude!” John B slapped him on the chest.

“Um for your information I was looking at the bruise on your thigh.” “Yeah right.”

(He was actually really looking at the bruise. He hated to know she was hurt in any kind of way, it pained him)

“And even if I was, whatcha gonna do about it? Beat me up?” “Don’t underestimate me Maybank, I could easily take you down.” JJ scoffed. “Pfft as if.”

He left her side to go join John B, who had voluntarily distanced himself from their bickering. The blonde grasped his friend’s shoulder. “Just be so careful, John,” he said, imitating Kiara.

John B pushed him off. “God, you’re so weird.” “Dude, what the heck was that all about.” “I don’t know, I guess she wants us to be careful.”

Y/n now walked alone behind, kicking a small pebble whilst silently listening to the conversation.

“Since she heard you’re being threatened with exile, she’s just been like ‘oh! Be so careful John B’” “Get off” “just give me that John D already.”

“Like, when are you gonna swoop on that, man?”

y/n cringed at his words. “Ew, don’t sexualize her like that, it’s gross, j”

“Bro, you know the rule. No pogue on pogue macking.”

Stupid rule. It was the only reason why y/n had never admitted her feelings to JJ. That and her fear of being humiliated ( and the fact he would never feel the same way).

“Besides you’re the one always hitting on her.” Y/n scoffed.

“That doesn’t mean anything, JJ hits on every girl he ever sees.” JJ frowned at her words. “He would hit on a plant if it even slightly ressembled the body of a girl.”

“Hey, that’s not true,” he defended himself. “I don’t hit on you all the time.”

“Says the guys who was just looking at my ass five minutes ago.” “No, I wasn’t.” “You so were!”

“Hey guys, I hate to break up your little fight but uh,” he pointed the door in front of him “this is us. 29.”

JJ knocked on the door. “Housekeeping,” he said, his voice pitched way higher than normal, making both his friends laugh at his actions.

“Should we try it?” Questioned John B. “No power- no security camera. No one’s gonna know.”

The door opened with a small creaking noise. It was a small dark room with two beds. The trio looked around for clues. They still didn’t know who owned the boat nor what they were doing out in the middle of a hurricane. They were hoping for some answers.

“Check the bag, see if there’s a name on there.” “Gotta a jacket-“ “Denim slides-“ “No name on the jacket. It’s a nice jacket though.” “Definitely over 50 he’s got new balances.”

“Yo, dude come here.” JJ found some papers and books stacked on the night table between the two beds. He pointed to a map. “Maybe this is where they were fishing.” “ let me see.” “Right there.”

Y/n peeked over their shoulder, standing on the tip of her toes, to try to see what they were talking about. “Nah, that’s off the continental shelf. Big swell, no one fishes there.”

Abandoning her previous idea, she crouched down and flashed her light under the first bed. “Nothing over here.” She turned to the other bed. Her eyes caught a strange shape, on the opposite corner. “Wait.” She slipped underneath and crawled to the object. “Ah ha!”

“What? You found anything?”

Disappointment filled the girl’s mind as she noticed it was only a shirt, grey and smelly. “Uh, not really. I thought I did but it’s only a dirty shirt.”

“Ew there was a spider on it.” She brushed the bug away as she got up. She turned towards John B, noticing he had successfully opened the safe. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

The words left her mouth without her noticing. She was just too astonished. The safe was filled with multiple stacks of money and well, a gun. There was so much of it, it’s like she didn’t know where to look.

“Uh, JJ, you’re gonna wanna see this.”

JJ’s eyes doubled in size as he noticed the firearm in the safe. He immediately picked it up. “You grabbed the gun,” John B sighed.

“This is a SIG Sauer.” He was swinging it in the air, playing with it as though it was just a toy. “JJ put the fucking gun down, you’re gonna hurt someone,” y/n hissed at him.

“Put the gun back, JJ.” “This is a fucking spendy gatt, man, just.” He pretended to shoot someone in the distance. “Bam! Bam!”

“JJ, this is not a toy you can just play with, put it back!” Y/n’a voice was louder now, angrier and harsher too. “Just take a pic of me.”

“You want me to take a picture of you?” “Yeah dude, like-” JJ struck a pose, the gun in one hand, his flashlight in the other. “Make our own incriminating evidence is that what your talking about?”

Y/n’s attention drifted away as she heard the sound of something hitting the window. She spun around and drew the blinds open, only to find Kie and Pope jumping up down. “What?”

There were clearly trying to warn her about something but she couldn’t hear what they were saying through the thick glass that separated them. She lifted the window slightly. A single word left their mouth in a loud whisper. “Cops!”

“Fuck.”

“What is it?” Y/n turned her body to the two boys. She opened her mouth, about to reveal what danger would soon fall upon them when a knock came from the door.

“Kildare county, sheriff department,” a stern voice announced.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

The girl yanked the rest of the window open. By chance, there was a small step, a ledge, where they could stand and hide from the police officers.

Y/n’a hand flew to her neck, as she noticed the necklace she always wore wasn’t on her neck anymore. “Fuck!” It was very precious to her, leaving it there was not an option.

Her father had actually given it to her on her 14th birthday. It belonged to his mother and her mother before her. It was a family heirloom and the only thing she had left of her father. She always wore it, even to bed.

“Y/n, what the fuck are you doing?”

She scanned the room quickly, her stress level growing as she heard the door rattling. Her eyes finally landed on the shining necklace, tangled under the first bed.

“My necklace fell off!” she whispered-shout. “There’s no time!”

Luckily for her living on the cut had taught her to move quickly, without being seen. She swiftly slid under the bed, grabbed the golden chain and slipped out of the window, all before the door opened.

“That was close,” JJ whispered softly.

Y/n removed one of her hand from the wall to place her index finger against her lip motioning for JJ to stay silent. They both turned their attention back to the room, observing the cops as they entered.

There was two of them. Shoupe and a woman y/n didn’t know the name of. They were looking around for clues just as the three kids had done minutes earlier. Shoupe opened the door of the safe. Y/n’s eyes followed as he handed the other officer some evidences. He then handed her a stack of money, which she put in her pocket.

“The fuck?” the girl whispered, glancing at her brother on the other side. JB looked at her with wide eyes, he was just as shocked as she was.

She lost her balance for a quick second, her foot sliding down, making the loudest noise ever made. JJ’s hand caught her before she fell, bringing her body closer to his. She heard footsteps getting closer. She could feel and hear JJ’s breath getting heavier by the second, her heart pounding in her chest. She scooted even closer to him, her hand gripping at the back of his shirt so she wouldn’t fall once more.

“All right, let’s go. No one’s here.” Shoupe said from inside.

A heavy sigh left her lips as she heard the door close behind them. “That was so fucking close.”

“Jesus Christ, y/n what was that all about, you almost got us caught!” John B snapped.

“My necklace fell off, I couldn’t just leave it there. It’s the only thing I have left of dad! Plus they would’ve known I was there, it would’ve got us caught!”

John’s face fell slightly, she was right. Still he couldn’t help but worry at the thought of her getting caught. He was her brother, it was normal for him to want to protect her form getting hurt. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to yell at you, I was just, I was just worried okay? I don’t want to lose you too, y/n/n.”

“I’m not going anywhere, bird.”

>>

After the little trip to the motel, and almost getting caught by the cops, the group had decided to head back to the château. Y/n let out a sigh of exasperation. She was, once again, seated on the dirty sofa on the porch. This time her head was hanging upside down, her shoeless feet rested against the window. She was exhausted. This day had been filled with nothing but surprises, following one another without getting a chance to take a breath. And the day wasn’t over yet.

First there was their discovery of the boat in the marsh, then John risking his life for a motel key (okay maybe risking his life was a bit of a stretch but yeah, y/n still thought it was dangerous). And then they tried to report the boat but failed, so they went to the motel and we’re almost caught by Shoupe (and saw him stealing money) and stupid JJ who stole the goddamn gun.

And that wasn’t even the most shocking surprise of the day. The body of Scooter Grubbs was also found (and y/n really wish she could erase that image out of her memory) and shocker, he was the owner of the Grady-White. So the marsh was closed until the authorities would find the boat.

“Ugh,” y/n rubbed her tired eyes, feeling a headache coming as the blood rushed to her head.

“You’re gonna get brain damage if you stay like that for too long,” John B said motioning to his sister’s position. “Can’t be worse than it already is,” she shrugged, moving herself so her head now rested on Kiara’s lap.

Pope came rushing, the screen door slamming behind him. “So, um we didn’t see anything, we don’t know anything.” He was still slightly panting, and he seemed very stressed, anxious even. “We need to have complete and total amnesia.”

“Actually, Pope’s right. For once.” y/n scooted closer to Kie to make room for Pope to sit and turned her head back to JJ who was getting up from his seat. “See I agree with you sometimes,” he pointed his index finger on each of his friends. “Deny, deny, deny.”

“Guys we can’t keep that money.” “Not all of us have unlimited data plans, Kiara.”

Y/n frowned at JJ’s words. That was low of him. The Carreras might hav been a lot richer than the average pogue, but they weren’t kook rich either. Business was hard for everyone and The Wreck wasn’t spared of the occasional struggle that went with it.

“Well I hate to be a party pooper but she’s right. It’s not our money, it wouldn’t be right for us to keep it.” declared the Routledge girl. “Yup, we have to pass that money off to Lana Grubbs. Otherwise it’s bad karma.”

“It bad karma to be implicated in a felony too,” added Pope. “We gotta go dark.” “If that means we get to keep the money then I agree.”

John B gave a small pat on JJ’s shoulder. “I don’t agree.” “What, why?”

“Just think about it, this is Scooter Grubbs we’re talking about,” he started. “Same dude that’s buying individual cigarettes at the porthole. Shit, one time I saw him begging for change in the save-a-lot parking lot because he needed gas. We’re talking about a dirtbag marina rat who’s never had more than 40 bucks in his pockets and all of the sudden he’s got a Grady-White? Just saying..”

John B was right. It was indeed kind of shady. Square groupers? Smuggling? Contraband? Y/n had no idea what she was getting herself into. It was a strange situation and she had no idea what to do about it, so she followed her friends ideas. They all agreed to lay low and act normal, which could only mean one thing. There was going to be a kick ass kegger on the boneyard. And y/n couldn’t be more glad.

Taglist:

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[notquitecanon]

With & Without // John Wick x Reader

This is very dramatic. It was gonna be a lot longer and fleshed out, but I kept it vague in case I wanna do a part two. 

Basically: Two idiots who don’t want to be apart but can’t admit that to each other.  break up fic ???? Should I have them make up???? 

John Wick had rules. He had rules because he loved you, worried over you, and worked so hard to keep you safe. Never go anywhere alone without telling him. If you think you’re being followed call him, and then find a public business. Memorize his phone number, the continental’s, and Aurelio’s, as well as all their addresses. Always keep a couple gold coins on you. Only use his name as leverage as a last resort, he’s not exactly popular. Stay out of the basement. In case of emergency, do what he says, no exceptions. And so many more, because he loved you. You knew that. You fell into the routine of looking over your shoulder and watching his back, because when you would turn back around John would be waiting with a soft smile (because he’d already checked your surroundings multiple times). You adapted to being more comfortable with the curtains pulled shut to avoid snipers, because in lieu of the sun John would wake you up with gentle kisses. You taught yourself to stop answering unknown calls and only post on social media after you’d left a place, but you were more than happy to live in the moment with John. It was so easy to slip into that lifestyle. Not so easy to slip back, for you at least. John was a man of pure determination and discipline, the moment he decided it was over he seemed absolutely resolved. Which left you with… completely unresolved emotions. 

Maybe that’s why you were sitting in his drive way, knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel so tight as rain hammered onto the windshield while your engine puttered away underneath you. You weren’t even sure if John was home, it wasn’t like he was really open with his schedule when you were together, you particularly hoped he was out. He’d been very clear that you should keep your distance, suggested that you change your name as well. You sniffled a bit, angrily swiping tears away before pressing your knuckles to your lips hoping to suppress anything more than stray tears. Surely it wasn’t too pathetic to get misty eyed at what was once your home. Sobbing was pathetic and you were NOT sobbing. Okay, maybe your throat was a little thick. Movement caught your eye, a certain gray pit bull trotting through the rain. Your eyebrows furrowed as you watched Dog sniff at the door before he looked directly back at you in your car. Those big eyes pulled at your already frazzled heart strings. Surely, John hadn’t left Dog out in the rain, and the large man wasn’t in the yard. Before you could think about it, you were out of your car. The pitbull’s tail started wagging as you approached, whining quietly when you spoke, "Dog, what are you doing out here? It’s wet." Your hair was already starting to plaster to your forehead as your fingers traced through wet fur, water soaking through the knees of your pants as soon as you kneeled down. The dog leaned into your touch before turning around to lick at your face. You couldn’t help but smile even if it only made you miss what was even more. You pressed a kiss to the wet fur before standing up, "Sorry, buddy, I can’t let you in." Dog whined again, resting a heavy chin on your knee. A sudden, crescendoing engine caught your attention as headlights blinded you. You heaved a sigh, so John hadn’t been home, and now you were kneeling on his doorstep. The gun metal mustang sidled to a stop beside your car, engine cutting off as a familiar form unfolded, “(Y/N), Is that you?” You didn’t answer because you knew he already knew it was you, rain wouldn’t obstruct those sharp eyes. John fruitlessly shielded himself from the onslaught of precipitation, “What are you doing here?” You thought about it for a moment, focussing your eyes on the canine as you bit your lip and hoped the falling rain would hide any traces of tears lingering on your face. John stopped just short, hovering over you, “(Y/N)?” He kneeled down beside you, intense gaze burning holes in the side of your face. “It’s freezing outside. Are you alright?” Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore and turned to meet those dark eyes. “Yes,” You sighed unconvincingly, ripping your gaze from his, but John always had a way of dragging things out of you, “…no, I don’t know, John.” Out of the corner of your eyes, you could see John hesitate- his hand hovering over your shoulder but in the end it fell back to his side. His voice was strained, drawing out your name, “(Y/N)….” His pity crumbled what little resilience you had left, anger chipping away at the walls you’d carefully put up, “How are you ok, John? Because I’m really struggling to figure out how you woke up one morning and changed your mind about me.” John only nodded in response to your outburst, taking the cutting words in stride, “I didn’t-“ “But you did, John. And I genuinely don’t know why, I keep wracking my brain for something I could have done. And whatever I did, I can’t figure out how it was so bad you flipped this switch overnight.” Your voice was thick as you forced yourself up, standing to your full height before trying to make a break for your car. John’s taller (and much firmer) form was quick to intercept you- if it wasn’t for the situation, it would’ve amusing how you bounced off his hard chest.  He held you at elbow’s distance, carefully observing you, there was something in his eyes that you couldn’t place, but you were done trying. With embarrassment heating your cheeks, you attempted to shrug his hold off, “I’ll get going, I’m sorry for bothering you.” “(Y/N), you didn’t do anything, I-“ John stopped himself quickly when he saw you shiver, shrugging off his leather jacket so he could drape it on your shoulders. He was always so in tune with your needs. The warmth was immediate, as was the scent of his cologne that drifted around you, “It’s easier this way.” You scoffed, clutching at the well worn leather. Almost instantly, his white t-shirt clung to his torso. “What’s easier, John?” He shook his head, this time not hesitating to touch you this time, tracing wet hair off your forehead before his hands rested on your cheeks, as his eyes racked your face. “(Y/N), you gotta stay away from me. Move on, have a life.”   “You seem to be moving on just fine.”  You raised an eyebrow bitterly, jerking your head to the side but still allowing John to guide your face back to his. “Believe me, I’m not doing as well as you seem to think I am.”  He muttered, the only thing you could find on him to back up the statement was the slightly over grown scruff on his jawline. "Where is this coming from?” Your voice was tired, but you didn’t pull away from his touch.  He sighed, eyes closed as his thumbs swiped across your cheeks before his lips pressed gently against your forehead. “(Y/N), you’ll be so much happier, safer if you do.”  He promised (carefully avoiding answering your question) you after he pulled away, but kept his nose pressed to your forehead. You sighed heavily, your body naturally folding into  chest as if he wasn’t telling you to move on. “I don’t know how, John.” You whispered, close enough to hear his heart beat. His arms wrapped around you like they had done so many times before, cheek pressing against the crown of your head. Finally, you pulled away, forcing the distance he so desperately wanted between the two of you. “You taught me how to live with you,” You kept your voice steady as you met his eyes again. He was staring after you with sad eyes, but waited quietly as you continued. One deep breath to ground yourself as your eyes began to sting again, “And I was happy.” John began to say something, but you cut him off by holding up your hand. Sliding his jacket back off and tossing it to him, the assassin caught it easily. This gave you enough time to continue, even if your voice was so thick it was barely audible over the steadily increasing rain. “Then, you made me leave, so tell me how to live without you, John. Tell me how to live without you and I will, but I genuinely don’t know how to.”

[tothelasthoursofmylife]

“To bring order to a disordered world was the detective’s job.”

Nanteuil-la-Forêt, Marne, France – June 1848

~Cedric~

The bed looked untouched; it was arranged exactly like Cedric’s when he had arrived. There was nothing on the desk, nothing on the bedside cabinet. Nothing hung on the clothes hooks, and there was no suitcase in sight. There were no move-marks from the nearby armchair on the carpet; no slight body-mark in the pillow.

When Cedric had stepped over the threshold, coldness had washed over him even before he had taken a closer look at the orderliness of the room. The room was significantly colder than the corridors, and the fireplace inside it did not look like it had been used recently although it had been fairly cold lately.

At least, there was really neither an adjourning room nor a divider.

“Duke Kristopher?” said Anaïs, and Cedric flinched when she spoke to him. “Is something wrong?” she asked and walked from the desk to him. Before she reached him, Milton hurried forward and wrapped an arm around her. Surprised, Anaïs blinked at him. “I will handle this,” Milton said, his voice strangely breathless, and gently pushed her back to Gérard and Arnaud. Then, he went to Cedric and closed the door.

“Are you all right, Kristopher?” Milton wanted to know. His voice still sounded a bit shaky, and he dug his fingers into his palm. “Do you want to sit down? Lie down?”

Cedric looked at him in bewilderment. “I’m okay.”

Milton nodded absentmindedly and walked to his bed and knelt in front of it. He reached under it and – to Cedric’s slight relief – pulled out a suitcase. He retrieved a smaller case from it before he put the suitcase back. With a heavy strait, Milton headed to the desk and sat down. Cedric went to join the others, and Arnaud put the birdcage clock on the table.

Milton took a deep breath, then unlocked the case with an odd key to reveal numerous tools. They were perfectly polished and neatly arranged, and Cedric did not recognise most of them. He could only make out some screwdrivers, a hammer, and a little saw, but there were many, many more, and he could only wonder how they could all fit into such a small space. From his jacket pockets, Milton took a pair of white gloves which he put on before he started to inspect the clock. Milton was focused in a way Cedric had never seen before. The nervous energy that constantly flowed through him seemed gone, and he sat there perfectly still and calm while he scrutinised the broken clock. The children must have noticed Milton’s strange calmness too as they silently spectated him work as if they did not dare to interrupt him.

While everyone’s attention was on the birdcage clock, Cedric sneakily stepped back to glimpse into the wardrobe and the drawers of the bedside table which were all empty. When he went back to the others, Milton had already opened the cage and taken out the bird. Now, he turned the cage around to open the casing and look inside. He took a good look at the cogs and wires before he went to work. It was wondrous to see him work so meticulously. With quick, swift movements Milton alternated between various tools which he used on the clock. Although Cedric was undoubtedly interested in this process, he could not help himself but drift away now and then.

Not that he could make out much anyway: Cedric saw Milton doing things, but, for the life of him, he did not know what he was doing. While blissfully ignorant spectating was a lovely thing in many cases, it certainly wasn’t when one was halfway to dreamland. Cedric snoozed off for a few minutes at most and when he jolted awake again, Milton had moved on from the inner workings of the clock and was now putting back the bird. With a few more skilled movements, it was done, and Milton closed the cage. He waited a moment, and everyone held their breaths.

Then, Milton turned on the birdcage clock.

And metallic sing-song filled the air.

The bird, now perched on a top again, moved its beak and head and sang its melody which sounded only a little bit off to be true birdsong; and the clockhands had been set in motion too. The children jumped around happily, and Cedric could only stare at the now again intact clock, entranced by its uncanny song and in disbelief about what Milton had accomplished.

“That’s amazing! How can you do that, Baron Milton?” asked Anaïs.

“A lot of practice and…” Milton began, his eyes glowing as they had in the corridor, but then he interrupted himself and the glow vanished. He and Cloudia displayed the same enthusiasm for what they loved; only Cloudia’s was persistent while Milton’s was always cut short. “I was a very bored child,” Milton continued and packed his utensils in his case and locked it. “And you do not have to call me ‘Baron’ or ‘Lord,’ Miss Anaïs.”

Anaïs put her hands on her hips. It was a funny gesture on someone so small and young. “Only if you stop calling me ‘Miss Anaïs.’”

“Of course,” he replied, and she beamed. “Is it simply Milton then or may I call you something else too? Am I allowed to give you a nickname?”

Arnaud blinked at her, seemingly horrified at the request and familiarity, but didn’t say anything.

“I allow you to give me one,” Milton told her, and Anaïs jumped up and down. “Thanks! It has to be something cute…” She weighted her head left and right. “How about ‘Millie’?”

Milton tensed a little bit. “Could… could you please pick another nickname?”

“Why?” asked Anaïs.

“It…” Milton fumbled with his toolbox. “It’s only that my father used to call me that.”

“‘Used to,’” she repeated before it dawned on her and she put her hands over her mouth. “I apologise. I didn’t want to…”

“It is all right,” he assured her. “How could you have known?” Milton stood up and took the case from the desk. Milton returned his toolbox to his suitcase and then looked at Anaïs who still seemed uneasy. “All is fine, Anaïs. I could never be upset with you.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He smiled. “You may pick any other nickname.”

Anaïs returned his smile. “I’ll think of one!”

Milton’s smile widened a little before he turned to the singing clock, and as soon as his gaze fell on it, the shine from before reappeared in his eyes. “I still cannot believe it,” he said dreamily to no one in particular. For a moment, Cedric wondered if he should interrupt Milton to spare him any potential embarrassment that might grow from his absentminded monologue, but he decided against it. After all, Milton usually did a fine job cutting himself off – and Cedric wanted to see if Milton’s enthusiasm could hold firm.

Milton picked up the birdcage clock and turned it in his hands. “Automata,” he said. “A fascinating subject that has kept humankind busy since ancient times. How could they not? Artificially created life – or, at least, life-like entities. Clockwork birds have been reportedly designed since the Hellenistic Period, but then there’s the legend of King Solomon’s throne and its mechanical animals which is, of course, dated much earlier. Even if it may only be a story, it is still a testament to people’s continuous fascination with automata.

“And then we have this lovely piece,” Milton continued and turned to Cedric with the clock in his hands. “Born 1721. Died 1790. Pierre Jaquet-Droz. His ancestors were from the Brandt-dit-Grieurin, Sandoz, and Robert families of clockmakers, and this made him pursue this craft, this art, as well – and we can only be blessed that he did as he is one of the, maybe even the, best creators of automata of all time. His first singing birdcage came out in 1780 and featured a miniature pipe organ; each pipe was for a different note. He and his partner later exchanged the pipe organ with a chamber whose size was altered by the movement of a piston.

“While Jaquet-Droz’s career is astonishing, it was fuelled by tragedy: He lost both his wife and daughter in short succession and, in his sadness, fully dedicated himself to his work.” Milton placed the clock back on his desk but did not let go just now. “Still, although he became internationally famous after he created six magnificent pendulum clocks for the Spanish king and his court and went on to present his crafts to various other kings and queens and even the Chinese emperor, he did not neglect his only living child, his son Henri-Louis. Instead, they worked together, and Jaquet-Droz made him the director of his workshop in London. Jean-Frédéric Leschot, Jaquet-Droz’s partner, was also his adoptive son. It was a family business that flourished despite its tragic history.

“But their success did not last forever. Towards the end of Jaquet-Droz’s life, they lost their partners in China and London. Their business started to show losses, and Jaquet-Droz moved to Biel where he died. A year later, his son Henri-Louis and his daughter-in-law died on a journey. Leschot, now all alone, worked hard to keep the business afloat, but the revolution and Napoleon’s Continental System led to the eventual ruin of Jaquet-Droz & Leschot.”

“Out of your system, hm?” said Cedric and leaned against the desk. The sudden flush of wakefulness was beginning to wane, and he could feel his eyelids getting heavy.

Milton abruptly let go of the clock as if it had stung him and craned his head to Cedric. “I rambled again, didn’t I?”

“You did, but it’s fine. How are you?”

“I am…,” Milton began and tilted his head a bit. “I am feeling better than before. The… the repair was quite…” He fiddled with the hem of his right sleeve. “… refreshing.”

“If it’s such an intricately made clock,” said Cedric, “it is even more impressive that you could fix it.”

Milton let his hands fall to his sides. “There was not much wrong with it. A few sprung-out gears, loose bolts… I suppose the owner does not maintain the clock enough. Fixing it was nothing.”

Cedric yawned. “Still, it was quite amazing. You must have practice in this.”

“As I said, I was a very bored child.”

“I was bored at times too,” Cedric replied with a shrug. “Still, I never went to try my hand on fixing clocks. You were even so focused and calm. I barely recognised you. You must be quite fascinated by clocks.”

Milton looked at him. Even if Cedric had been fully awake, he would not have been able to read them. “It is not the clocks. Not just them. Or just automata. I appreciate their composition, their machinery, but I would say I am fascinated more by the reason why they were invented.”

Cedric wanted to respond something, but then Anaïs walked to them and said, “Milton? If you can repair things, can you build some too? I am asking because, if you are feeling better after fixing the birdcage clock, I think you should continue spending your time doing something like that until the rain stops. Arnaud, Gérard, and I can help too if you want.”

Milton blinked at her and then smiled softly. “This is a good suggestion, Anaïs. How about we create a chain-reaction machine? Then, you can all help me with it. And, I suppose, it will be more fun and interesting for you than the repair of a clock. I have to bring Kristopher to his room first though.”

“Oh, no,” replied Cedric. “I still feel sleepy, but I also feel more secure on my feet than before. I can go to my room on my own. You only need to tell me how to get there.”

“Kristopher, are you sure? You…”

“I am. You are not in the best state yourself, and I think it would be better for you if you stayed in your own room instead of wandering through the château. If you get an attack again, it would be better it happened here instead of anywhere else.”

Milton wanted to fight against his words but restrained himself and only said, “Very well, Kristopher.” He was about to turn around and reach for his notebook when Arnaud came forward.

“If you do not mind, Duke Kristopher,” he said, “I would offer to bring you to your room. I do not feel comfortable letting you go on your own, and I know the château’s layout very well. I also fear that, if you are told the way to your chamber, you may forget your given instructions in your exhaustion and get lost.”

Cedric blinked at the little boy. It was a bit weird to get help from a nine-year-old, but did he really have another choice? It was either Arnaud or Anaïs after all who could guide him through the building. Perhaps even Gérard could, though that would stretch the absurdity too much. “That would be good. Thanks, Arnaud,” Cedric replied, and Arnaud bowed his head in response.

***

~Cloudia~

There is still so much left to do, Cloudia thought while she and Yvette walked through the shadowy village to the inn once again. She hoped that Maxime and Violaine had returned so that she had not taken the effort to go to the pension in this weather twice in vain. She hoped Lisa and Kamden would find something interesting while inspecting the corpses. She hoped that whatever she could learn from the Guilberts or the bodies would be enough to find out who the culprit was.

Still, there was so much left to do. For example, she had to speak to the victims’ friends.

This case. Part of me wanted to end it here and now. Run to the mayor and tell him that he was on his own, then turn the village upside down to find out anything about Townsend, find the Queen’s box, and return home after spending time with my relatives and a brief round of leisurely exploring France.

But this was not to be. I was too deep into this now, and another part of me did not want to abandon the villagers to their murderer. Especially considering that such a development might prove to be difficult to hide from Milton, even if he was leaving for Paris tomorrow. After all, he would return in a few days and might catch sight of the aftermath of the hypothetical chaos that could be unleashed in Nanteuil-la-Forêt.

Also, I did not want to give up now. Giving up was like losing, and I did not like to lose.

Cloudia straightened against the rain for the last few metres of their way, for the rest of their investigation.

A hot bath. A change of clothes. A meal.

The storm was making me impatient, tried to fray my thoughts. I needed to calm down, sit down, make myself comfortable and think everything through at the château. On my own or with Cedric if he could be bothered.

I could do it like this. I would be able to do it like this.

At the pension, Yvette knocked against the door, and they waited for a few moments until the door was thankfully opened by Maxime.

“Yvette, M Gauthier,” he said, his gaze darting between them. “What are you doing outside in this weather? Come in.” Maxime ushered them inside and closed the door.

“We would not have come here again if you had been here before,” Cloudia told him, pulling down her hood. It had been wonderful to have been able to dry herself at the church, but now she was as wet as before again.

Only a few more hours.

Maxime turned to her. “Hm?”

“We have been here before,” Cloudia informed him. “Hours ago. Where were you, M Guilbert, when it’s pouring outside and a murderer is going around? Even if they have only been acting at night so far, we can never know when our killer will change patterns.” Again, she added in her head.

“Maybe we should sit down and talk?” suggested Maxime. He walked ahead to the inn’s community room, and Yvette and Cloudia followed him. There, they were greeted by a woman who smiled awkwardly at them and shifted nervously on the sofa.

“Violaine,” said Maxime. “That’s M Gauthier, one of the men I’ve told you about.”

His wife nodded at his words, and Cloudia smiled at her. “Good afternoon, Mme Guilbert. I am glad that you are here too, and I want to apologise in advance for potentially ruining your furniture.” She spread her arms, water dripping from them as if she was a fountain. “The weather has not been particularly kind lately.”

“Yes, it hasn’t, but don’t worry about the furniture, M Gauthier,” Violaine replied. “Please just sit.”

Cloudia sat down on an armchair. “I shouldn’t worry? I thought you would be very upset. Not only as the wife of this tavern’s owner but also as its housekeeper who meticulously makes sure that all the rooms look immaculate.”

“Well,” Violaine said and touched a lock of her brown hair that had sprung free of her up-do. “The state of the furniture is only a subsidiary matter in our current situation, isn’t it?”

Cloudia smiled. “Yes, of course, it is. Mme Guilbert, I’ve already told your husband about this, but Mlle Guilloux and I were here earlier today alongside two of my colleagues who are currently investigating elsewhere. We knocked and knocked and waited a considerable period, but you were not present. Considering that the village is in a state of emergency with a murderer going around and Mother Nature herself trying to destroy this place with this heavy rain, could you tell me where you and your husband were, Mme Guilbert?”

“Where we were earlier?” Violaine repeated and then clutched and unclutched her hands.

“My apologies, M Gauthier,” Maxime interjected, “but my wife may not be suitable to answer any questions right now. She is easily unnerved and, as you said, a killer is going around.”

“Chamomile tea,” Cloudia said, and Maxime blinked at her, perplexed. “If you have correctly guessed that your wife is anxious right now, M Guilbert,” she explained, “why not bring her a cup of chamomile tea or do something else to ease her nerves? After all, you guided us here, fully knowing that she would be here and the reason I am here – fully knowing that your wife is nervous and uneasy. Why not help her a bit? Chamomile has relaxing properties, and so has peppermint if you have no chamomile tea at hand.” She smiled at him, and, for a fraction of a second, Maxime narrowed his eyes at her before he wordlessly left for the kitchen.

“How kind of him,” Cloudia said hollowly. “I wonder if he knows how to use a kettle.” She looked at Violaine. “At any rate, Mme Guilbert, I do not want to unnecessarily distress you or anyone, so I’ll ask you: Are you comfortable with answering some of my questions? Please be honest.”

Violaine tensed immediately and looked from Cloudia to Yvette and back, glanced briefly to the door through which her husband had left. “I…,” she began, “I think I can answer some questions.”

Cloudia smiled at her and wrapped her arms around herself. She was cold from the rain, so she was not certain if it was true or not, but the room itself seemed unusually cold too. “Thanks. Let us wait a moment until M Guilbert returns with the tea. I also want to address that it is very considerate of you to agree to help. We need as many to help out, need to find out as much as possible to bring this to an end. Cooperation is key, especially when it is about a murderer roaming around. They have been predominately targeting young people too – and if I remember correctly, you have a daughter around the age of the latest victims. What was her name? Marie-Claire? How is she?”

Violaine’s eyes widened. “Marie-Claire? Oh, she… she is doing well.”

“That is good to hear. I assume she is at home? You don’t live at the inn as well, right?”

“Oh, she…” Violaine trailed off and curled her loose lock of hair around her finger.

“They do not live here,” Yvette came to her rescue. “They live down the street in a little house and come every morning to the inn for work. Marie-Claire is someone who prefers to spend her time inside; you have to practically drag her outside.” She chuckled.

“I see,” said Cloudia. “How far is the kitchen from here?”

“It is down the corridor, why?” Yvette replied.

She raised her shoulders a bit. “I wondered when M Guilbert will join us again. While he is still absent, Mme Guilbert, may you tell me where you were earlier today? Were you with your daughter?”

“Yes,” Violaine answered. “Maxime and I were with her all day.”

Cloudia smiled. “I see. Spending time together with your family is good. As you have said that you were with her ‘all day,’ can I assume that you currently have no guests at the inn?”

Hesitatingly, Violaine shook her head. “No, we do not. We… we rarely get any guests at all. The stranger was the first in a while.”

“Must be terrible business,” Cloudia remarked, “having a pension in a place such as Nanteuil-la-Forêt. When it is not pouring, the village is beautiful enough, but it is certainly not in the best of locations.”

“We are working on advertising Nanteuil-la-Forêt,” Yvette said. “My father and M Descombes want to give Nanteuil-la-Forêt more presence and prominence as they want to share our cosy place with others. Soon, the inn will flourish because many will come here.”

“How very nice,” Cloudia replied. She pricked up her ears, but she could still not hear it. How curious. “Then, Vidocq and I should hurry to wrap up this case so that the inn’s flourishing will indeed happen ‘soon,’” she proceeded. “Though I suppose that a place that has once harboured a vicious murderer may become an attraction even without a pretty village around it.” She smiled at Yvette, and Yvette replied with a crooked, uneasy smile.

“Now, Mme Guilbert,” Cloudia began, “did you know any of the victims better? Mme Allemand, Dominique Duhamel, Gustave and Marius Beaubois?”

“I…” Violaine’s grip on her lock tightened. Cloudia almost feared that she would rip it out. “I knew Dominique, Gustave, and Marius. Marie-Claire went to school with them, but they were not very close.”

“I see. And the boys amongst one another? Were they close?”

“No,” said Violaine before she backtracked. “Yes. You must know how boys are at that age: often quarrelling and arguing, but still being close. It is a little hard to tell whether they are friends or not because of that. However, they were friendly.”

“Thank you for the information,” Cloudia said at the same time as Maxime returned with a cup of tea which he handed to his wife with a slightly breathless “Here, my dear.” Cloudia glanced at the floor and then smiled at Maxime. “Welcome back, M Guilbert. You have left us waiting for quite some time.”

***

~Cedric~

A few corridors into their little journey to his room, Cedric realised that Arnaud was not very talkative. He had associated noise with the boy; now, he understood that it was only attached to him in the form of Anaïs who would always talk and laugh. Cedric would not have minded this aspect on any other day, but right now, he needed anything to help him stay awake or he feared he would fall asleep here and now.

“Arnaud,” Cedric began. “What do you think about Anaïs calling Milton a faerie? I know Jacques does not like it, and I’m curious what you think of it. I think of it as childishly charming.”

“That is how Anaïs is,” Arnaud said. “She is very fond of associating people with something – as you have found out at her picnic.”

“Yes, she is,” Cedric replied. “Only she is especially insistent about the whole faerie affair.”

“Anaïs is also very fond of faeries. She loves reading about them and telling everyone about them. As Papa is an expert when it comes to birds, Anaïs loves to talk to him about faeries as they are, like birds, flying entities. They also sometimes explore forests.”

“In search of faeries?”

Arnaud nodded. “Anaïs, at least. Papa ‘helps.’”

“I see,” Cedric said and yawned. With difficulty, he dragged himself to his room with Arnaud’s guidance. At his blessed bedroom door, Cedric said goodbye to Arnaud and then walked straight to his bed.

A quick nap before Cloudia returned. I wanted to reach at least some level of rest until she came back so that we could talk. I also wanted to catch some sleep before dinner or I feared I might miss it like I had missed lunch.

With a tired half-smile on his face, Cedric took off his jacket and threw it on the closest chair, freed his hair from the band, and kicked off his shoes on the way to the bed. He was about to jump into it when he heard someone say, “How unsightly, Not-Kristopher.”

Cedric flinched and every fibre of his body sighed.

Could one not find rest in this damn château?

He rubbed his eyes. “Dammit, Cecelia, what are you doing here?”

Cecelia leaned back on the armchair she had made herself at home on. “Waiting for you, obviously.”

“But couldn’t you have waited a bit longer?”

“Don’t worry, Not-Kristopher. The servants have informed me about your sleepiness. Thus, I have brought you a gift.” She gestured to the little table in front of her which bore a tea service.

Cedric laughed hoarsely. “I’m not drinking anything you offer ever again,” he said, and she rolled her eyes. “A butler brewed the coffee. It’s to help you stay awake.”

He scrutinised the pot. “I don’t believe you. Now, leave.”

“You are being dramatic.”

“So would you be if you had been nearly killed by some unknown substance. Now, go.”

“Not-Kristopher, sit down.”

“I will laydown and you can go.”

Cecelia sighed and then poured herself a cup of coffee and took a sip without taking her eyes off Cedric. “See? I’m perfectly fine,” she said when she sat the cup down again. “There is only one pot. You will drink from it too. Its contents are fine. Now, stop being difficult and drink your coffee and sit down.”

Cedric ran a hand over his face, defeated, and then poured himself a cup and sat with it down on his bed. He sank into the soft blanket, and his heart tightened with longing to simply curl himself up in it and drift into dreams. Instead, he glared at Cecelia and took a deep gulp.

And started coughing.

“What isthat?” Cedric said, grimacing at the evil dark tincture in his cup.

“Coffee.”

“I hadcoffee. That’s not coffee. What’s this?”

Cecelia rolled her eyes. “It is coffee, Not-Kristopher. There are different kinds of tea. Did you think there wouldn’t be different kinds of coffee too?”

He scowled at his cup. “It’s vile and bitter. The coffee I had was a little bitter too, but not like this. I thought drinks have to be drinkable.”

“The French like their coffee harsh and bitter,” she said with an elegant shrug. “And you cannot deny it did not wake you up thoroughly.”

Cedric opened his mouth to say something but immediately closed it again. She was right. Even if the coffee itself might not have kicked in yet, its taste had certainly shaken off part of his sleepiness. He put his cup on the little table. “I don’t like anything that tastes bitter.”

“I realised.”

“That includes you.”

Cecelia laughed. “Oh, don’t make me repeat that to Cloudia.”

Cedric glared at her, and she smiled at him. “Now,” she said, “tell me: How was your day with Milton?”

***

~Cloudia~

Cloudia and Yvette said their goodbyes to Maxime and Violaine and headed back out into the rain and to the hospital. It had been an interesting conversation, and Cloudia could not wait to go over and discuss it with Cedric.

And write down everything in a fresh, new notebook. After Maxime’s arrival, I had taken out my notebook and learned that it had not survived the rain although I had safely put it in my pocket.

A new notebook, a night to myself. Normally, my memory was good enough that I did not really need to write everything down, but I liked to have everything structured and laid out in front of me. Also, good memory or not, one could not recall all at once, and writing everything down helped to draw everything out of one’s mind.

Considering the amount of input I had received in the last few days, it might be quite beneficial to write it all down.

And considering that I felt a little frayed – the dread of one of those episodes was always at the back of my mind – writing down everything when I still remembered it all would be for the best.

Yvette informed Cloudia that it was a relatively long way from the guesthouse to the hospital. Hearing of a distance was wildly different from experiencing it though. A “short ten-minute walk” could feel like an eternity when it went up a hill, the path was uneven, or the sky had spontaneously decided to empty its water storage for several weeks in a single day. If it was not a ten-minute walk, but a thirty-five-minute one with similarly awful conditions, one could not help but wonder which deity they had upset to have to suffer like that.

Just the hospital left. It was just the hospital left, I told myself all the way to it.

When Cloudia and Yvette finally arrived at the hospital, a nurse led them to a waiting room after greetings and introductions. There, Vivienne, the nurse, told them to sit down and wait while she would go to get the head doctor. Cloudia thanked her and sat down.

I was athletic. I trained whenever I could, but today’s ordeal was unnecessarily exhausting.

But it was just the corpses left now. At least for today, only the corpses were left. Then, it was time to–

Cloudia sat up straighter when another nurse hurried into the room, an angry man following her and demanding to speak to Laurent Michaux, the head doctor. The nurse began to say “I am sorry, but I cannot help you. I have already said that he has…” when Cloudia stood up and went to take hold of the man’s arm before he could grab the nurse’s.

“I am sorry for interfering,” Cloudia said to the man. He had looked stunned the moment she had taken his hand, but his surprise was slowly eaten away by his anger yet again. The nurse took a few steps back. “However, it seems that this situation is getting out of hand. Monsieur, may I ask you what you are doing? Yelling in a hospital and running after this nurse?”

The man narrowed his eyes at her. “And you are?” he said. He tried to get out of her grip, but Cloudia held on tight. He was considerably taller than her and seemed strongly built, so it was quite a strain to keep her grip on him, but she wouldn’t let go just yet. “Wait. I’ve never seen you before: You are one of those people from Paris, aren’t you?” the man continued and his tone became even angrier.

“Exactly. I am Jean Gauthier, Détective Alexandre Vidocq’s assistant,” Cloudia replied, holding her gaze steady when she looked at him. “And who are you?”

“Fernand!” exclaimed Yvette and walked to them with wide eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Yvette, what are you doing here?” the man asked.

“I am guiding M Gauthier through the village.” She turned to Cloudia. “My apologies. This is Fernand Beaubois, the father of Gustave and Marius. Could you perhaps let go of him?”

“Of course, I can,” Cloudia replied and glared at Fernand. “He has to promise not to do anything though.”

Fernand glared back at her. “Fine,” he growled. “I promise.”

Smiling at him, Cloudia let go. “Much obliged,” she said and then looked at the nurse who was standing frozen a few steps away from her. “Are you all right?”

The nurse nodded.

“Would you like to sit still? You look a little pale.”

“No, it’s fine. I need to be elsewhere now anyway.”

“I see. What is your name?”

The nurse blinked at her. “Uhm, Corrine.”

“Corrine, do you have a few minutes to spare or are you in a hurry? I want to ask you something, but it is fine if you have no time.”

“One question will be all right.”

Cloudia smiled at her. “Thanks, Corrine. Could you please tell me why M Beaubois has been running after you?”

Corrine glanced briefly at Fernand. “M Beaubois wants to speak to M Michaux about his sons. I was strictly instructed to send him and anyone else away as M Michaux does not want anyone to tamper with the bodies. It was decided that nobody could access or retrieve the bodies until the murderer is apprehended. I don’t have the power to undo that decision, and the doctor is busy right now. I have told M Beaubois this, but he does not want to hear and keeps enquiring.”

“‘Tampering’?” Fernand’s face turned red. “I only want to see my sons. I cannot understand why I’m forbidden from seeing them.”

“M Beaubois, as I said, I am sorry, but M Michaux has prohibited it specifically,” said Corinne with a halting voice. “No one is to see the bodies except for the doctor himself and the investigators until the murderer is caught.”

How interesting.

Cloudia smiled. She had been smiling so much all day; she hoped her face would not hurt tomorrow. “Thank you, Corinne. I will handle this from here on. We have impeded you enough.”

It seemed as if Corinne wanted to protest but then decided against it. She just bowed and said her thanks before she left the room. As soon as she was gone, Cloudia turned to Fernand who still looked highly displeased. “M Beaubois, I am sorry. It must be terrible for you not to be able to see your sons now. However, I cannot condone that you are directing your anger towards innocent people. I hope today will be an isolated case,” Cloudia said firmly. “At any rate, I am here because I sent two of my colleagues to the hospital earlier to inspect the bodies. Of course, this will not be the same, but I will promise to tell you about the conditions of your sons’ bodies – and make sure that the investigation will be wrapped up as soon as possible so that you can see them yourself before the funeral.”

Fernand continued to glare at her, and Cloudia fought back the urge to sigh and tell him that, if he neither wanted help nor reassurance, he could leave and stop wasting anyone’s time and pestering people. She was not patient enough for such things. Still, she forced herself to soften her voice and repeated, “I promise to ensure that Détective Vidocq will quickly wrap up the case. Also,” Cloudia sternly looked at him, “I was at your house earlier, M Beaubois, and met your wife and son. I know that you are hurting because of your loss. I promise to take care of the dead; I urge you to take care of the living.”

Fernand held her gaze for a while before his shoulders sacked. There was still fight left in him, but it had mostly cooled now. “You better catch the killer soon,” he said and then turned and left.

“M Gauthier, Yvette?” said Vivienne when she returned a few minutes later. “I will now lead you to the deadhouse – the doctor has said that he will meet you there.”

***

~Cedric~

“How should it have been? It was a normal day. We played some chess. Ate some sandwiches. That’s it,” Cedric said dryly, and Cecelia raised an eyebrow.

“Not-Kristopher, do you need more coffee? Because your mind still seems to be fogged from sleepiness – or are you deliberately answering my question in such an obviously avoidant way?”

“I have told you all we did today,” he replied. “Did you really expect thorough replies when you broke into my room and are now preventing me from sleeping?”

Cecelia chuckled. “You sure are prickly today, Not-Kristopher,” she said and broke into an impish grin. “Of course, I expected thorough replies because you know exactly that they are the only way to ever get me to leave. I also did not break into your room. A break-in is a forced entry, but your door was never locked and I, thankfully, did not have to resort to using force.” Cecelia took a sip of her coffee. “Please indulge me, Not-Kristopher, what did you and our dear Baron Salisbury do today?”

Cedric sighed. “We played chess and ate lunch I prepared because we missed the actual lunch.”

“I wondered where you two were.”

“You had lunch with the others? I thought you preferred to eat alone in your room.”

“And I do, but every once in a while, you should be polite and eat alongside your gracious hosts. Anyway, it must have been a veryengaging game for you to get so caught up.” Cecelia smiled. “Did you have any engaging conversations as well?”

“If you want to know if we talked – of course, we did. And I did learn a few more things about Milton. I just don’t think they will interest you much. It was nothing particularly substantial. However, what I can say after spending time with Milton today is that I doubt that he could be capable of something like arms smuggling. He’s overflowing with anxiety and can barely hold himself together. If he truly were a weapons smuggler, he would have surrendered himself to the authorities a long time ago.”

“Still, there is the rumour,” Cecelia replied.

“Yes. While I think that Milton is not involved in any smuggling himself, I do believe someone is using his company under his nose to engage in illicit activity.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Who do you believe to be the actual weapons smuggler, Not-Kristopher?”

“Wentworth,” Cedric said, and while he felt confident when he said it aloud, his confidence vanished when Cecelia started to laugh.

“Enough of the joking. Tell me, who do you believe to be the actual weapons smuggler if not Milton?”

“It… it was not a joke,” he replied, now feeling quite silly and foolish. No, I don’t have to be, he thought right afterwards. It makes sense that Wentworth is the culprit. I cannot allow Cecelia to talk me out of it; I only have to explain my logic to her.

“Wentworth? Don’t be absurd. It’s not him.”

“Are you saying this because you did not consider this possibility yourself? You only gave me notes on Milton; you only focus on Milton. Everyone does. Who would ever focus on the butler? That’s how Wentworth could do it – even if it was at the expense of Milton who is supposed to be his beloved protégé. You made no effort to look into Wentworth or consider him as a legitimate suspect, Cecelia, and now you–”

Cecelia glared at Cedric, effectively cutting him off. “Making false claims on my persona? On my abilities? Of course, I researched Abraham Wentworth, Not-Kristopher, who do you believe me to be? Only because I did not tell you about my findings regarding this part of my research does not mean I did not do it.”

“You did?” said Cedric, slightly taken aback. “Then why didn’t you inform me about this?”

“I did not inform you as I did not think it would be necessary, Not-Kristopher. We are, after all, focusing on Baron Salisbury, not on his butler. That’s what I’ve told you. I wanted you to focus on what is of importance. If I wanted you to keep an eye on Wentworth too, I would have given you two files, one for each.”

“But if you looked into Wentworth, you surely must have found anything that could explain everything – that incriminates him because I am sure his background is as sparsely documented as Milton’s and–”

“And why do you think that, Not-Kristopher?” Cecelia interrupted him.

“Because he has always been at Milton’s side, and Milton’s life is like ‘Swiss cheese’ as you said.”

“Of course, there’s a large gap between when Wentworth moved with Milton’s family to Milton’s mysterious birthplace until they went to London. Rather unfortunately for your speculative daydreams, the rest of Wentworth’s life is as well-documented as anyone else’s.”

Cedric blinked at her, and Cecelia sighed. “What do you want, you pathetic fool? Proof? A summary?” she said, and he slowly nodded.

“God, I cannot believe Cloudia has still not thrown you into a ditch,” she proceeded and poured herself a new cup of coffee.

“Abraham Wentworth was born in Cadgwith, Cornwall to Asher Wentworth, a fisher, and his wife Leah. They were not bathing in money, but they had enough to feed their family of six. Wentworth was the second oldest amongst four children; he had an older and a younger brother and a younger sister. His family was quite liked where they lived and their business provided food to the nearby gentry. This eventually allowed Wentworth to be schooled to be a butler in the household of Lord Helmer Carrington for whom he worked until he was hired by Milton’s grandmother in 1811.

“I hope you remember that Milton’s mother Kordelia was adopted after she had lost her entire family in a shipwreck of which she was the sole survivor? Her adopted mother was a certain Idella Scarborough who was quite the character.

“She had been adopted too, was a rich heiress, and quite the traveller and an acquaintance to many – amongst others, to Lord Carrington. When she took in Milton’s mother, Miss Scarborough – who was never married and, as I heard, very much refused to be wed – looked around for servants to hire. She did not have any herself as she thought they were only a hindrance in her nomadic lifestyle, but she changed her mind after becoming a mother as she certainly needed a bit of assistance to take care of her new daughter while scouring through Great Britain. At times, Miss Scarborough would even leave Kordelia and her little household in a rented house in Britain while she ventured to the continent. You can only wonder why she adopted Milton’s mother in the first place. After all, Miss Scarborough evidently had never planned to settle down and having a traumatised child and a few new servants did not quite agree to her chosen lifestyle… Surely, she needed an heir, but the timing seems to have been inconvenient… Anyway, enough of this; I am diverting.

“Miss Scarborough talked to Lord Carrington about searching for staff, and he warmly referred Wentworth to her. Wentworth was hired to take care of Kordelia Bloomfield – apparently, she took her adoptive mother’s surname for a while, but did not use it when she moved to London. Miss Scarborough also employed a maid and companion for Kordelia.

“The little household around Miss Scarborough – she, Kordelia, Wentworth, the maid, and a family friend – travelled through the kingdom until 1819. The longest they stayed at a place together was a month. When Miss Scarborough decided to cross the Channel, the others would stay at the same place for a considerably longer time. After eight years of constant travelling, Kordelia got tired of it and asked her mother if it was possible for her and the others to settle down somewhere while her mother would indulge in her travels on her own. Miss Scarborough accepted Kordelia’s request, and Kordelia went to live at her mysterious choice of settlement. There are reports that her mother visited her as often as she could – Kordelia was only fifteen at that time after all – but there is nothing on where Miss Scarborough went, where Kordelia chose to live. And this absolutely ridiculous circumstance leaves us with a gap of eighteen years.”

“A very large, very suspicious gap,” chimed in Cedric.

“Definitely, but not exactly something that would incriminate Wentworth now, eleven years after he re-emerged into common society with his household. There are no documents on Wentworth having been spotted anywhere else in those missing eighteen years, so I would presume he had simply been staying there, taking care of Kordelia Bloomfield’s household day in, day out. Still, this is obviously an eyebrow-raising topic and needs to be examined further. Unlike Milton, however, that’s the only gap in Wentworth’s timeline. After the death of his mistress, of Milton’s mother, in 1838 Wentworth was regularly seen running errands alone or accompanying Leland,” Cecelia said, counting the differences between Milton’s and Wentworth’s stories on her hand. “Milton was only seen twice in the same year. In 1841, Milton travelled overseas and did not take Wentworth or anyone else with him – he went alone. Again, Wentworth’s schedule is perfectly documented in contrast…”

“Wait – Milton went away alone?” Cedric cut her off, earning a glare from Cecelia. “He alwaystakes Wentworth with him, why not then?”

“That’s the mystery, Not-Kristopher, for God’s sake,” she snapped. “And how often do I have to tell you that you should not interrupt me!” She took a deep breath to calm herself down before she continued, “After Neal Salisbury’s death, Milton went missing from the public eye again; Wentworth was still seen in the city. When Milton engaged more in society, his butler was at his side, loyal and true as a shadow. When Milton was in Cardiff around the time of his uncle’s death, Wentworth was with him. He accompanied him to his travels afterwards – to Germany, to France, to Sweden… all the way to China and Korea and back. He was with him when Leland died. He was with him when he got involved with Cloudia. He was with him when he travelled again. He is with him now. Whenever Milton is in public or away, Wentworth is by his side; and when Milton is unseen, Wentworth is observed running errands for his young master. Wentworth’s file is airtight except for the eighteen-year gap. The rest of Milton’s gaps aren’t Wentworth’s too. He did not use them to his benefit to hide his criminal schemes if you believed that, Not-Kristopher.”

“But that does not mean he isn’t doing any criminal scheming; it only means that he didn’t hide it with that,” Cedric pointed out, and Cecelia rolled her eyes and took another sip of her coffee.

“You’re hopeless, Not-Kristopher, and I wish I brought something stronger to drink to get through this,” she said. “If you are so adamant about Abraham Wentworth being the true arms dealer, why don’t you explain his motives to me? After all, this business would harm the Salisbury Company – and it almost did. The Salisbury Company, the pride and joy of Milton’s family; his dear protégé’s company. Why should he purposefully try to exploit and hurt it? What is he gaining from it?”

“Maybe he doesn’t care for the Salisbury Company and Milton? Maybe he intends to ruin Milton and run off to have a better life elsewhere with all the money he accumulated on the side with his smuggling business?”

“You’re wrong: Wentworth does care for Lord Milton.”

“No, you are wrong. Milton flinched when Wentworth spoke to him in Dover. Wentworth left him alone when Milton was not feeling well. Does this sound like he cares to you? And since when are you a sentimental person?”

Cecelia put down her cup. “I am not sure if you know that, Not-Kristopher, but Milton needs his butler to function. In the time he was involved with Cloudia, she and I came to understand that Wentworth is his safety net. He is independent in any other manner, but emotionally he isn’t. This isn’t surprising considering that Wentworth is the only constant he has ever had. Everyone else either died over the years – his parents, his sister, his uncle, his cousin – or left; his mother’s lady companion and the family friend left his household in 1841.”

“This only proves how much Milton needs him. How much he loves Wentworth, not the other way around.”

“Cloudia grew fairly close to Lord Milton in the months they spent together,” said Cecelia, ignoring his interjection, and Cedric flinched a bit. He hoped that Cecelia hadn’t seen it, but she tilted her head and smiled. “She hasn’t told you yet, has she? I suppose she will soon, so be patient. And don’t contemplate to ask me. I have neither the time nor desire to inform you about those months. Also, Cloudia would be very mad at me if I did tell you, and I am already walking on thin ice with her considering that I researched Baron Salisbury and his butler.”

Cecelia leaned back. “At any rate, Cloudia grew quite close to Milton – not that she would ever admit this; their relationship has always been a little odd and complicated. And at some point, Milton told her that when he let go of his mother’s lady’s companion and his family friend left his household, he also talked to Wentworth about his retirement. Apparently, Wentworth was quite insistent that he would not retire anytime soon despite his advanced age.”

“Of course, he does not want to retire,” Cedric replied. “If he did, he would lose access to the Salisbury Company, and his illicit business would be harder to undertake.”

“Once you got your teeth into something, you really won’t let go of it, will you?” Cecelia sighed. “Cloudia did not go into detail as she may not know the full extent of Wentworth and Milton’s relationship, but from what I’ve heard, Wentworth very much cares for the Baron.”

“Milton said that while he views Wentworth as his family, Wentworth does not return this sentiment.”

“He’s a butler, is he not? I suppose he would want to keep a certain distance between himself and his master because his occupation requires him to do so. Just because he says that he does not think of Milton as family does not mean that this is the case. What you say is not necessarily the same as what you do and actually think and believe. Cloudia certainly believes that Wentworth cares a lot for Lord Milton.”

“And what about Dover? What about Wentworth’s neglect of Milton today?”

Cecelia rolled her eyes and poured herself another cup of coffee. “We are talking about Cloudia who has observed them for months and a few isolated cases that happened in the span of a few days. What may give us the best data to work with? You also care for Cloudia, don’t you? Do youget along with her all the time? Lord Milton and his butler are still human. Maybe saccharine Milton would never be upset with Wentworth, but Wentworth may have the capacity to be ‘harsh’ to a certain extend – and they have known each other since Milton’s birth. There isa certain familiarity and closeness between them; that cannot be denied. Also, have you asked why Wentworth was not with Milton today?”

“Wentworth wanted to spend time with Alfred and…” Cedric began before he stopped himself when the memory flowed back.

“Bram didn’t just leave me alone. I… I had to convince Bram for quite a while that I would be fine on my own. I didn’t mean to ruin Mr Newman’s day. I can look after myself after all.”

“Milton sent Wentworth away to be with Alfred because he knows they get along well and he did not want to hinder them from spending time together,” Cedric said ultimately.

“See? Milton ordered Wentworth to leave him alone – and a butler can only fight that much against his master’s wishes,” Cecelia said. “And in Dover… did the Baron flinch because his butler spoke to him or because someone said anything to him at all?”

Cedric blinked at her. “What?”

“In what state was Milton back then? Did he flinch because of Wentworth’s words or because of something else?”

“He flinched when Wentworth called him.”

“And?”

“Wentworth said Milton’s name when… when Milton was staring at Alfred,” Cedric replied haltingly, slowly drawing out each word as it dawned on him.

I had often seen Milton flinch like that. Every time he was deep in thought or very focused on something, and someone – anyone – interrupted him, he would flinch.

I had been the cause of this plenty of times.

Cecelia looked at her fingernails as she spoke. “Have you understood? Milton flinched not because Wentworth was the one who spoke and addressed him but because someone pulled him out of his thoughts.” She looked up. “And now, please answer this question for me:

“What is with you and your insistence to prove Milton’s innocence in this still very hypothetical matter that he may be an arms smuggler? Have you become so smitten with him in this short time? Or are you simply trying to convince everyone and yourself that you don’t hate and aren’t jealous of Milton for the petty fact that he was ‘there first,’ whatever this entails?”

“I am not jealous of Milton. I don’t hate him either.”

“Do you like him then?”

Cedric was silent, and Cecelia laughed. “Not-Kristopher, how idiotically amusing you are. What does it do for you to lie to yourself? No wonder why your hair is all grey. I never lie to myself as I believe it to be a matter too pointlessly exhausting. And look at me: As youthful as ever.” She leaned back. “So?”

“I barely know Milton,” Cedric said matter-of-factly. “I neither hate him nor am I particularly fond of him.”

“And still?”

“And still… There’s no ‘and still,’ Cecelia.”

“And still you were almost about to tell.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“No, you are being ridiculous,” replied Cecelia, raising her voice ever-so-slightly. “From all I know and from all I have heard, I believe that there must have been at least one instance today when you thought that there is something off about Milton. Am I right?”

Cedric stiffened a bit. Agitated by his stubbornness, Cecelia did not seem to notice as she energetically carried on. “I know you’re a fraud,” she said, “but I assume you have not lived under a rock until last year, have you? So, is there not something about Milton that strikes you as fundamentally odd?”

Cedric blinked at her. “I haven’t lived under a rock, but what do you mean? ‘Fundamentally odd’?”

She sighed. “A young man, well-bred, titled, extremely wealthy, and if I dare admit, rather easy on the eyes – do you understand it now?” Cecelia asked and when Cedric stared blankly at her, she sighed anew. “In his social class, people his age with such good attributes usually cannot save themselves from possible suitors – or are already married. I would even dare to say that if you ever glimpsed at Milton Salisbury’s bank statement, you would drop those trousers faster than humanly possible. Still, Milton is a bachelor, and there are only very few who even consider trying to win him over. In part, this has something to do with his constant travels, but then, don’t you think he should have still found someone by now? Maybe even in a different country? I believe Milton is like Blanche Ingram.”

“Blanche Ingram?” asked Cedric, and Cecelia rolled her eyes in frustration. “You cannot tell me I am the only one Cloudia is telling detailed plot summaries of novels to. I refuse to believe this.”

“Well, sometimes my brain automatically turns itself off while she rambles. I try to listen, but it’s an old habit and I haven’t managed to outgrow it yet…”

“What a wonderful suitor you are, Not-Kristopher. Cloudia should consider herself fortunate,” Cecelia deadpanned. “Anyway, what I want to say is that Blanche Ingram from Jane Eyre is beautiful, quite talented, and comes from a good family. All this should make her very desirable to everyone. However, like Milton, she is in her mid-twenties and still unmarried. For a woman, this is even more eyebrow-raising than for a man as women of the gentry usually marry in their early twenties or, in some cases, their late teens which means that she has surpassed the ‘usual’ age of marriage by a few years. The question is: Why does nobody want to marry Blanche Ingram despite her apparently good qualities? Because she’s a haughty person: beautiful on the outside, rotten on the inside with skin quivering in rot and on the edge of breaking up and falling apart. The kind of apple you would not even throw to the pigs. Beyond disgusting.”

“And you think Milton is like that… an apple rotten on the inside?”

“Maybe not as dramatically as Blanche, but I suppose there’s still rot inside him too. What kind of rot do you think it is? Blanche’s rot is her arrogance, her haughtiness, her ill-treatment of those below her in social status. I am aware Blanche does not know that Mr Rochester is in love with Jane Eyre by the time he faux-courts her. Still, imagine ‘indirectly’ insulting the governess of the ward of the man you are pursuing and that right in front of him? Reminiscing with your family how you maltreated your own governesses?” Cecelia shook her head. “Now, I am sounding like Cloudia, going on and on about books and fictional characters. What I am intending to say, and I am putting this as plainly and clearly as I can so that evenyou will understand it: There must be something about Milton Salisbury that is driving people away which is especially interesting as, from my observation, people are often strangely drawn to him as well. This is, of course, not always the case as can be seen from me and Cloudia’s maid Lisa Greene.”

Cedric yawned. He knew he should take another sip of the coffee, but every fibre of his being protested against it. “You are not particularly companionable people though.”

Cecelia raised an eyebrow. “Would you describe Cloudiaas a ‘particularly companionable person’?”

“No, but she’s not as openly hostile towards people as you and Miss Greene are. Or, well, in your case your hostility is packed up twenty times and wrapped to seem to be a gift.”

She smiled. “How nicely put, Not-Kristopher. Maybe your true calling is to be a writer of fiction. I believe Cloudia would very much welcome the career change.”

Cedric scowled at her, and Cecelia continued, “Maybe what draws others to him also keeps others away. However, I don’t think this characteristic of his is the one we are looking for. After all, this particular adverse effect does not seem to occur very frequently and, if it does, is more ‘severe’ if I can put it this way. Whatever drives others away from him must be something else. It may be more like a ‘feeling’ someone has in regards to Lord Milton rather than anything he does and says considering his personality.”

“Like some kind of ‘sinister gut feeling’ whenever he is around?” suggested Cedric.

Cecelia smiled. “Exactly. Have you felt something like that, Not-Kristopher?”

“I cannot say I have.”

She shrugged. “Very well.” Cecelia stood up, and relief made his heart jump.

I could sleep. I could have my peace. I could rest before Cloudia returned. I could rest to have the energy to talk to her for hours and hours, maybe even through the entire night. I-

“I will leave you now,” said Cecelia and those five words were an even more beautiful sound than the birdcage clock’s song to Cedric. She walked to the door, and he was ready to let himself drop onto his bed and promptly fall asleep as soon as the door fell into its lock behind her when she turned to him once more, a sly smile on her lips.

“This question has left me wondering for quite some time now, and I want to give it to you to ponder over as well,” Cecelia said.

“Have you never wondered why Lord Milton’s in love with our Cloudia?”

***

~Cloudia~

Hector hurried towards Cloudia, Yvette, and Vivienne as soon as he spotted them. “M Gauthier, Mlles Guilloux and Gaumont!” he greeted them with a wide smile. He was so happy and enthusiastic; one could almost forget that corpses were stored in the next room. Vivienne had told Cloudia that they did not have a separate deadhouse; they only refurbished a basement room to function as one some years back. They still called it a “deadhouse” though.

“I am glad you’ve finally arrived,” continued Hector.

“I am sorry to have left you and the others waiting for so long, Officier Monteil,” Cloudia returned. “Our conversation with M and Mme Guilbert took quite some time, and the way from there to here is long – and even longer in this horrible weather.”

Hector nodded a little excessively. “Indeed, indeed.”

A moment passed in which nobody said anything, though Hector kept smiling.

“Officier Monteil,” Cloudia asked slowly, “won’t you lead us into the deadhouse?”

“The deadhouse?” He looked to the door. “Oh. Oh, no. I cannot. I am prohibited from entering. I am standing here so that I am not a hindrance while they are working inside. M Fouille and Mlle Ledoux even told M Michaux to leave. However, he waits outside with me for a while, goes into the deadhouse to speak to your colleagues, M Gauthier, then comes back out, goes back in... I am not quite sure why. Every time, I try to stop him from entering, but he ignores me and goes inside anyway. M Michaux just entered the deadhouse again, so I would say that they will send him out any moment now. Mlle Ledoux in particular does not seem to enjoy being watched while she works.”

“That’s how she is,” Cloudia replied. “However, she does not mind when I see her work, so I would say that I can enter safely. If there is nothing else, I would like to go into the deadhouse to talk to my colleagues.” She stepped past Hector and barely touched the doorknob when he said, “The door is fairly heavy and a bit tricky to open. Not that I doubt that you can open it; it is just difficult and I want to warn you before you start to wonder. Perhaps, it would be better to wait until M Michaux is sent outside again…”

“Thank you, Officier Monteil, but I think I will be able to handle opening a door – no matter how heavy it is,” Cloudia said. She turned the knob and before she could push or pull the door – she assumed it was a “pull,” though could not be sure – the door opened and a man with greying hair came out… and flinched back when he noticed Cloudia.

“Not much was needed and then Mlle Ledoux could not oppose my presence in the deadhouse anymore,” Laurent Michaux said, glaring over his shoulder and into the room. Then, he cleared his throat and turned back to Cloudia and the others. “Vivienne, you are dismissed,” he said. “Please go and help out Corinne.”

Vivienne bowed her head and left without a word. Laurent cleared his throat again and held out his hand to Cloudia. “Laurent Michaux, pleased to meet you.”

Cloudia took his hand and shook it. “Jean Gauthier, likewise.” They let go of each other, and she proceeded to say, “I apologise if my colleagues have been troubling you too much.”

Laurent’s expression soured. “Not too much.” He narrowed his eyes and looked sideways to the deadhouse and closed the door to it.

Oh dear.

“M Michaux, may I briefly ask you a few questions?” Cloudia said.

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” she said and then proceeded to ask him about his relationship to the victims, to Nadia, Dominique, Gustave, and Marius. Laurent told her that he knew Nadia better than the others, but still barely knew her at all. He spent most of his time in the hospital or at home, wanting to spend the time he was not working away from people. As Laurent was one of the three physicians in the village, he was always pestered by everyone and, over the years, he had developed quite a distaste towards people. It did not affect his work; it only made him not spend any time with his fellow Nanteuillats. His house was even a bit farther away from the rest of the buildings to guarantee that he saw as few people as possible when he was home. Thus, Laurent had not been anywhere close to the crime scenes when the murders happened, though this circumstance did not provide him with an alibi that could protect him.

“I have one more question,” Cloudia said. “M Michaux, have you examined the corpses yourself? I know Grégoire and Maryse are currently examining them, but I want to know what you’ve learned before I talk to them about their findings.”

“I don’t have anything to say to that,” Laurent replied, and Cloudia looked at him in bewilderment. “I am not being uncooperative, M Gauthier. I did not examine the corpses myself at all.”

“Pardon?”

“Ever since I started working here as a doctor, I was never confronted with a murder case,” he explained. “Neither were the other two doctors. I asked them both, and both told me ‘Laurent, I am sorry, but I have no idea how to handle this.’ I stored the corpses and made sure they stayed in good condition which is not easy. Now, I am telling you what I have been told: M Gauthier, I have no idea how to handle this. Preserving the bodies was all I could do – Mlle Guilloux said I should keep them safe; it may be important for the investigation, she said. So I did. I cannot do anything else. Therefore, I cannot tell you about anything concerning the bodies, M Gauthier. I swear I did not tamper with the corpses in any way though.”

Cloudia nodded. “I see. Thank you for your efforts, M Michaux. They are much appreciated. Now, pardon me as I have just remembered that I wanted to ask you yet another question: I can see that the door is rather thick. Are the walls of the entire deadhouse built as thickly?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, they are. To contain any putrid smells. People also wanted to keep as much distance from the dead as possible. No one lying in a hospital wants to be constantly reminded that they may potentially die and end up in the deadhouse.”

“I see. I assume this also means that nobody can hear you gag or something like that?”

“Indeed. Nothing can penetrate these walls: no smells, no sound. That’s why always at least two people have to be here in case of an emergency. One has to remain close to the exit to get out quickly and call for help. It is quite tedious, and we are working to install some sort of bell system.”

“Thank you. That’s all I wanted to know. I know that you dislike it when you are told to leave your own workplace but may you please leave me and my colleagues alone? We have to discuss some matters of utmost importance and confidentiality,” said Cloudia.

“Of course,” Laurent begrudgingly replied. “I will wait for you upstairs if you need me.”

“Thanks. We will not take long.”

The doctor bowed his head to her. As soon as he was walking upstairs, Cloudia turned to Yvette and Hector. “This, of course, also applies to you. I am sorry, but you cannot go inside with me.”

They nodded, and Cloudia gave them an appreciative smile before she entered the deadhouse – a cold, grey, windowless room which was well-lit by multiple lamps – and closed the door behind her. Hector had not exaggerated: The door wasextraordinarily heavy.

“We can talk,” Cloudia said in English. “The walls are thick enough that nobody will hear us.”

“Oh, finally,” Lisa exclaimed. “I was going mad being moved around like a brainless game piece, not knowing what anyone is talking about, and not being able to say a single word. And then we were always with this girl – Yvette.” She grimaced. “I have no idea what she said all day, but she sounds insufferable.”

“Maybe when we are back in England or have some time left here after everything is wrapped up, you should learn French,” suggested Cloudia.

Lisa huffed. “Of what use is it to me then? The mission will be over; it’s unlikely that we’ll return to France. And it’s not like I am one of those fine ladies who may need to know French to find a husband, accumulating and listing ‘good traits and skills’ as if they are applying to a job, or to be able to continue gossiping even in the presence of lowly maids.”

“Oh, dear,” said Cloudia. “Kam, would you agree with me that Lisa’s grouchier than usual today?”

“I am not grouchier than usual.” Lisa turned to Kamden. “Mr Kamden, if you take her side, I’ll shave your head and make a broom out of your hair.”

Kamden looked between them. “I… I will not comment on the level of Miss Lisa’s grouchiness. However… learning French may be useful for you, Miss Lisa. You can never know enough. Mr Newman could help you practice.”

“You could listen in on the secret gossip of the young ladies you think are irritating,” Cloudia pointed out. “Imagine their faces if you reveal that you actually understood everything they said.”

Lisa crossed her arms in front of her. “Hm. This does sound intriguing. Let’s see.”

Cloudia clapped her hands together. “That’s good. Now, what did you find out?”

“Some things,” Lisa said. “Yvette is not the only nuisance. That man Lawrence…”

“Laurent.”

“…whatever his name is, is also tremendously annoying. Mr Kamden tells him to please go and wait outside, we want to do the examinations in private, and he keeps coming in! You have barely touched a corpse, he comes in, starts to chatter – don’t ask me what could be so urgent and important – and I stand here,” Lisa pointed next to a table with a body laid out on it, “or there,” she pointed to another table, “and can only think ‘If I could talk to him, I would cuss him straight to his own grave.’ Another reason why I should perhaps learn French. Mr Kamden has the most difficulty to get him out again – you know how soft he is – and I can only seethe and glare in silence. A pain. I don’t care what that doctor’s name is. He’s a pain. I’m calling him that – Pain.”

“‘Pain’ is bread in French,” Cloudia told her.

“That fits too. If we chop him up, we’ll likely find pieces of bread wedged between his cerebral lobes. Assembling the pieces might even give us a whole loaf.”

“A whole loaf?”

“A whole loaf! This village is infested with the most idiotic people.” Lisa gritted her teeth. “And then there’s this moronic police officer or whatever he is.”

“Hector Monteil.”

“He is so stupid, he’s wholly undeserving of any name. He got lost multiple times from the church to the hospital. We lost so much time because he has a worse sense of orientation than a headless chicken! And then when we finally arrived, he let Pain enter the deadhouse every two minutes! How can you be so spineless as a police officer? If someone says to maybe take care that someone does not enter a room – and Mr Kamden politely told him that after I could urge him to do so in the short window between us being all alone and Pain barging in again – you make sure that person does not enter the room!” Lisa pinched her nose. “If he was in charge of protecting someone, his protégé would die within minutes because he would let the killer into the room – maybe give them a little gift basket too.”

“Miss… Miss Liiisa,” Kamden said. “Do you want to sit down…?”

“Nice of you to ask, Mr Kamden, but I cannot simply sit down in Lady Cloudia’s presence.”

“You have my permission to sit,” Cloudia said.

“Well then,” Lisa replied and threw herself on the deadhouse’s singular chair.

Kamden took a deep breath. “Cloudie, what Miss Lisa was trying to say was that we did our best but were unable to do much due to outside factors.”

Lisa huffed and crossed her arms in front of her. “Don’t be so kind to those idiots, Mr Kamden. They hindered us at our work. It is a miracle that we managed to do a full external examination for all four bodies.”

Cloudia pressed her lips together. “That’s definitely not ideal.” She glanced at a clock and sighed. “And it’s too late to continue now.”

“It is not that late, Cloudie,” Kamden meant, but she shook her head. “No. Today is an awful day. You must be tired. I do not want to force you to do the internal examination now too. Also, if you do it while you are exhausted, you are more likely to make any mistakes which I’m sure you don’t want. This is not ideal at all and things can change overnight, but whether we like it or not you will have to continue tomorrow. The results of the external examination are better than nothing.” Cloudia leaned against the door. “Now, Kam, tell me, what did you find out? Then, we can finally head back and have dinner.”

Kamden grabbed his notes and walked to the table with Nadia’s body on it. “Nadia Allemand. 61 years old. Killed in the night from the 16th to the 17th of June. She was found by Mme Armelle Peletier in her tailor’s shop. As you can see, Cloudie, Mme Allemand wore only her nightgown when she was killed. Her bed was untouched, so it can be assumed that she was killed shortly after she changed clothes. Mme Allemand possibly heard noises downstairs and went to look for their source. I doubt the culprit changed her clothes; neither her wardrobe was in disarray nor could we find any marks that indicate this happened.” With his pencil, he pointed to the numerous pins that still protruded from Nadia’s corpse, though many had already been carefully removed and placed in bags. “Her nightgown exposes large parts of skin. Every exposed part has been meticulously punctured with pins. Miss Lisa found the same pins in a tea box at the tailor’s shop, meaning that the culprit knew Mme Allemand and used her own property against her. However, the pins were not the cause of her death.”

“It would be odd if they were,” Lisa continued. “They are quite thin and have not been stabbed very deeply into Mme Allemand’s skin. It’s a bit like acupuncture: There are so many pins in her skin and it makes for a horrifying image, but she did not die of that. I checked the needles and can say that they aren’t laced with poison.

“There’s nothing special about her nightgown; it’s some old rag-type thing, too often washed, too long in use. This is surprising considering that Mme Allemand used to be a seamstress. I guess, she was simply fond of it. Thomas is also weirdly attached to his especially stinky pieces of clothing that won’t ever lose their horse stench no matter how often I wash them.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, apart from the hundreds of little puncture holes, Mr Kamden and I found only one more outward blemish on her body.” Lisa touched the back of her head. “The backside of her head shows clear signs of blunt force trauma. Fractures in skulls aren’t as ‘flashy’ as hundreds of needles, I suppose, so it was overlooked. Mme Allemand was likely hit in the back with something and died. Then, the killer spent an ungodly amount of time putting metal-toothpicks into her skin for whatever reason. Maybe they wanted to distract from the head injury, no idea.”

Kamden moved to the next body and pointed with the pencil at it. “Dominique Duhamel. 19 years old. Killed in the night from the 17thto the 18th. He was found by the clergy when they went to the church to prepare for Sunday Mass. He was hanging from the church’s roof and a knife pierced his heart.” He pointed to the “empty” wound. “We removed and bagged the knife. The knife seems to be perfectly ordinary.”

“Imagine if the culprit had used a knife with their initials on it. We would only need everyone’s name and the case would be wrapped up in no time,” Lisa said. “We might have caught Townsend by now and be on our way home. Who knows?”

Cloudia sighed. “If only things were that easy,” she said and immediately remembered Cedric’s frequent suggestions to use “his method:” “Don’t be like that, Countess. You know that my method is much easier and faster. We can spend the time we save getting something to eat.” She knew that “his way” was indeed easier and faster; only, she did not want to become too reliant on such methods and use Cedric’s “short-cut.” As long as a case was not virtually unsolvable through regular means or she had not completely lost patience with an investigation, Cloudia had no desire to use it. While this investigation was wearing her nerves thin, it had not snapped them yet.

Maybe that would happen one day; maybe it would not. I hoped it would not. I very much wanted to avoid seeing Cedric’s triumphant face and hearing his snappish remark.

“Kam, please continue,” Cloudia said.

“Of course.” Kamden looked at Dominique’s body. “He was hanged on his neck, though he was not strangled to death. He was already dead by the time he was hanged. His neck didn’t break and uhm…” He looked at his notes. “M Duhamel was stabbed in his heart twice. The first stab killed him. Miss Lisa guesses that the murderer removed the knife when carrying his body to the roof as it may have been inconvenient to carry it with a knife protruding from it.”

“‘May’? Mr Kamden, I want to see you carrying a corpse with a knife lodged in its chest without any problems,” Lisa interjected.

“I wouldn’t be able to carry M Duhamel’s body though,” Kamden said. “Obviously, the culprit has to be strong as he was able to hang M Duhamel from the church’s roof. According to M l’Abbé, no contraption to get the body to the roof has been used after all. Also, Dominique Duhamel is quite muscular; it would not have been easy to carry him at all. We have no idea where he was actually killed before he was brought to the church.”

“Someone stabbed M Duhamel in the heart,” said Lisa. “Then, that someone brought him to the church, hanged him and stabbed him anew. It is curious that the culprit stabbed him again.”

“Indeed,” Cloudia replied. “I would say that it has some significance; maybe not the fact that he was stabbed twice, but that he was stabbed in the heart. It’s interesting that he was stabbed cleanly through the heart – and that the murderer made the effort to bring him to the church. Are there any other injuries? Any signs of a struggle?”

Kamden shook his head. “Nothing. I can’t say yet if he was drugged or not, but I would assume he was. It would be strange if he had stood still while someone stabbed him in the heart.” He moved to the next table. “Let’s continue with Gustave Beaubois. 18 years old. Killed in the night from the 18th to the 19th. He was found by Marc Cazal in the woods. He was lying on the ground, and, unlike M Duhamel, he was stabbed in the back. The kitchen knife that was used to kill him still protruded from his back. We bagged the knife too, and it is, again, a regular knife. M Gustave was lying on his stomach, but his head was turned to look up. His eyes were still open when he was found. Again, there were no signs of a fight. It is likely that he was also drugged before he was stabbed. His pockets have been emptied. Because he is the woodcutter’s son and helps his father a lot, I think, M Gustave is very fit and muscular.”

“If there had been a fight,” Lisa added, “he could have easily subdued his attacker. So, he musthave been drugged. However, there are no signs that Gustave Beaubois was carried to the woods. The culprit must have given him the drugs then and there, though why would he have taken something from someone he potentially did not know at all? It’s weird, but then the living residents of this place are all horribly dumb. I guess, he was as much of an idiot and took something a stranger gave him. In the forest, no less.”

“Or it was not a stranger,” suggested Cloudia. “The killer knew where Mme Allemand stored her pins. The killer could easily give Gustave something to drug him. If the stab to the heart and the church have some deeper personal significance, the killer may have known Dominique too. I do not want to completely disregard the ‘the murderer is the stranger’-hypothesis just now, but it seems more probable that the culprit is one of the villagers. Furthermore, the stranger was seen by multiple people – he does seem to exist. The question is: Where is he?”

Kamden nodded. “I would also say that one of the villagers is the true culprit.”

“And everyone is blaming the stranger because it’s always easier to blame the stranger,” said Lisa.

“Exactly.” Kamden walked to the fourth and final table. “Marius Beaubois. 17 years old. Killed in the night from the 19thto the 20th. He was found in the fountain on the village square by someone on their way to work. His entire body was submerged in the water. His skin is shrivelled because of this and his clothes are completely wet. It rained heavily that whole night, but he is not wearing a jacket or a cloak. There was also not an umbrella found at the crime scene. The rain made it impossible to check for any marks that indicate that he was carried to the fountain or that he fought against his assailant. Thus, unlike with the others, it is harder to discern whether M Marius knew his killer or not.

“M Marius did not drown. His head was smashed.” Kamden nonchalantly circled with his pencil over the damaged head. “He was both hit in the back and the front with possibly a hammer or something similar.”

“It looks like someone tried to pry open his scalp with a hammer and brute force,” commented Lisa. “As if the murderer saw Marius Beaubois and thought ‘oh, canned food.’ Only the culprit did not manage to open him up properly and then threw him in the fountain out of frustration.”

Kamden looked at her, horrified, and she shrugged. He blinked at her and then cleared his throat and looked through his notes. “I think that is all for now. We’ll have to look further into everything tomorrow.”

***

~Cedric~

“Have you never wondered why Lord Milton’s in love with our Cloudia?”

If I had not seen her eyes and knew better, I could make an excellent case detailing why Cecelia Williams was a demon – maybe even the devil. It would be a case so convincing that everyone would hunt her down, and I would finally be at peace.

Cedric rolled around on his bed, trying to shake away the question and rattle his restless mind into silence.

What had I even done to her? Nothing. Nothing at all. I was her “ally,” and she still did this to me. Heavens, how would Cecelia behave if I had done something to her? If I were her enemy?

If she ever found whoever killed her husband Michael, I would not want to know what she would do to that person.

Cedric turned and turned around. He rolled over his bed countless times, even changed his position from correctly to sideways to upside-down and all the way back. The bed must look like a warzone.

He kept his eyes firmly closed while he tried to find a comfortable sleeping position and shut out his thoughts. Unfortunately, Cedric was quite unsuccessful in either as Cecelia’s damn question had taken root in his mind: “Have you never wondered why Lord Milton’s in love with our Cloudia?”

He turned on his back and sighed. The question was haunting him, but he had refused to give it an answer.

Until now.

Lying in his bed for what must have been hours and being unable to find any sleep while a very persistent question asked by a demon lady knocked against the walls of his mind had drained the last bit of energy and strength Cedric had. His willpower had been filed off, and when the question knocked again, he answered in his mind: “How could he not.”

My sleepless, restless, haunted mind kept threading this string of thoughts into a cursed blanket that laid heavily over me.

I had no idea how they had met, how they had interacted and been at each other’s side, but if Milton had spent such a long time with Cloudia, he should have collected plenty of reasons to fall in love with her. How could he not have fallen in love with every bit of her being then?

The light in her eyes when she rambled about anything she was passionate about. The mischievous shine in her eyes when she had a witty remark on the top of her tongue. The triumphant smile whenever she solved a case. Her smiling face, her thinking face, her annoyed face when I teased and teased her…

Her sternness, her stubbornness, her eagerness to succeed and win. Her determination to take on all challenges. The calmness that appeared on her face whenever she was reading and which made her look so youthful – made her look as young as she actually was. Her softened expressions when she read a sad part, a lovely part, a funny part.

Her glares and scowls and strained patience… The brief moment of disdain that laid itself over her face whenever she had to eat olives – or any other bitter or overly salty food.

Her hand in mine. Her warmth against me.

The warmth that filled my body whenever she laughed at a silly joke or made one herself.

And her laugh. Her laugh, her laugh… Carved in my memory was the meadow in Wales, the sunshine, the bright blue sky… and her laugh that filled the air, rang in my ears and heart and which had been more beautiful than any song I had ever heard.

It was one of those memories I liked to dust off and replay on bleak, grey days when I had worked long, tiring hours, and her and my work had kept us apart and busy for too long.

If he had heard this laugh once too, what other reason could he even need to be in love with her?

“God, what am I thinking?” Cedric mumbled into his pillow. “What’s the matter with me,” he said and rolled around again, trying to shake off these thoughts, shake off these thoughts which had not arrived with Cecelia’s words. They had been infesting his mind for weeks and weeks and months and months. They had come one day in silence and never left again, no matter what Cedric did.

These thoughts had been there all this time, but he had managed to hide them away temporarily –only for Cecelia to drag them out again with her damn, damn question.

Cedric rolled around again, though his movement was a little too wild this time and he fell with a shriek. He opened his eyes, saw himself tangled in blankets and stared up at the ceiling.

If I did not know better, I would be certain that Cecelia was a demon.

“I am not,” said Cedric to himself as he struggled to sit up in this tangled mess he had made, “in love with the Countess.”

“I am not,” said Cedric as he pulled himself up and sat down on his bed, “in love with the Countess.”

He let himself fall back. “I am not in love with the Countess,” he said a moment before he sat up quickly, his heart pounding vehemently in his chest, because Newman came to his room to tell him that Cloudia and the others had returned and were currently taking baths.

***

~Cloudia~

Relief overcame Cloudia as soon as she walked over the threshold and into the château. It felt as if she had been away for a year or more, as if she had travelled far and long and finally returned home after spending a long time on the road and living through countless adventures. Only, she had been in the village down the road for less than a day. Cloudia wondered how intense the feeling of return would be when she came back to Phantomhive Manor after actually having travelled far and long with many hours on the road and adventures on the way.

One step after another.

First a bath. Then Cedric. Then catch the murderer. Then Townsend.

Then return home.

But, first, it was time for my bath…

“What is this mess?” Lisa asked. She pulled down her hood and stared at the weird “apparatus” that took up most of the entrance hall and even went up to the main staircase’s first landing. It was made out of all sorts of things, and Cloudia had no idea where to look as there was so much to see. So many unrelated objects – cutlery, books, wheels, toys, a service wagon, etc. – had come together to create this Frankenstein-construct, but for what purpose?

“That’s not a mess!” said a very upset voice. A second later, Anaïs walked into the entrance hall, carrying a few boxes of playing cards. Gérard followed her like a duckling.

“Miss Lisa,” Anaïs continued when she stood in front of them. “This is a chain-reaction machine Arnaud, Gérard, and I have been creating with Milton’s help.” With a bright smile on her face, she gestured to the machine. “Oh! And welcome back, of course,” Anaïs quickly added and curtsied to them.

“Thank you, Anaïs,” said Cloudia as servants came to help her, Kamden, and Lisa out of their wet cloaks and wrapped them in dry blankets. They wanted to usher them to their respective rooms to take a hot bath and change clothes, but Cloudia told the servants to prepare the baths and that they would go to their rooms in a little while on their own. With nods, they left, and Cloudia, Lisa, Kamden, Anaïs, and Gérard were alone in the entrance hall.

“With this now over…” Cloudia said and wrapped the blanket tighter around her. She yearned for this bath, but her curiosity prevented her from rushing to her room just now. “…could you tell me more about this chain-reaction machine as you have called it, Anaïs?”

Anaïs nodded enthusiastically. “After lunch, Arnaud, Gérard, and I explored the château. We have been here so often, but its unique shape allows you to discover new things, no matter how well you think you may know the place. So, we found this one room and a beautiful clock was in it. All gold, shaped like a cage – it even had a bird inside! And the bird sings!” She sighed. “It’s sopretty, Claudette! But then we made a mistake and the clock was damaged. The bird fell off and the clock stopped working… We panicked and walked around in the château and eventually met Duke Kristopher and Milton. Milton recognised the clock and said it is a Jaquet-Droz and very expensive and important. We panicked even more and then he said he could perhaps repair the clock! We went to his room, and it was like magic, actual magichow he fixed the clock, Claudette! I shudder only thinking about it. Afterwards, Duke Kristopher went back to his room because he was sleepy. We returned the clock to its original place and then gathered all kinds of objects to build a chain-reaction machine. As you know, Milton can’t be left alone now, so I suggested that we could build something together if he can do such things, and he said we could make a chain-reaction machine. And it’s been so fun to put everything together! Milton is amazing. He thought of most, but we helped too, of course. We are almost done! He and Arnaud should return soon with the last few bits and then we can see if the machine works. I know you are wet and tired, but it will not take long, I suppose, until they come back.” Anaïs looked at Cloudia with big eyes.

Cloudia blinked at her cousin, trying to make sense of her words. Milton had fixed a broken birdcage clock that could sing? A Jaquet-Droz even? She had heard of the Jaquet-Droz and Leschot clocks and while she did not know much about them, she knew that they were definitely not simple to build or repair. And then, Milton had also planned out this convoluted monster-machine that had taken over the entrance hall and wound up the stairs?

“Yes, I will wait a while to see the machine in motion,” Cloudia eventually said. “But Milton and Arnaud better be quick.”

Anaïs smiled at her and then turned to Kamden and Lisa. “And what about you two?”

Kamden glanced at the machine. “I think… I think I’ll wait and see the demonstration.”

“Lady Anaïs,” said Lisa, “excuse me, but I will not stay. I am wet and cold to my bones, so I must decline.”

“I understand. Warm yourself up well, Miss Lisa,” Anaïs replied, and Lisa bowed her head at her words. She was about to leave when Newman and Wentworth entered the entrance hall.

Immediately, Lisa stopped in her tracks and huffed at Newman’s sight. “There you are,” she said. “I have started to wonder whether you were eaten by this unnecessarily confusing building.”

A soft blush crept into Newman’s cheeks. “I profusely apologise, Lisa. I have been busy all day. Still, I should have worked harder to wish you a good morning earlier at least.”

“How dramatic you are being, Al,” said Lisa as if she had not complained about his busyness and absence this very morning and said that she had begun to believe that he was eaten by the château a moment ago. “It’s fine.”

“Let me make it up for you later,” Newman replied with a smile and then turned to look at Cloudia and Kamden as well. “Welcome back, Lady Cloudia, Mr Emyr,” he said with a bow. “I suppose preparations for your baths are being undertaken at this moment?”

Cloudia nodded. “Indeed, though Emyr and I are waiting until Milton and Arnaud arrive so that we can watch the chain-reaction machine’s demonstration.”

“I see,” Newman replied, and right on cue, Milton and Arnaud entered the entrance hall. They halted at everyone’s sight.

“Lady Cloudia, Emyr, Miss Greene,” said Milton, looking rather surprised to see them. “Welcome back. I did not expect to see you here. Or you, Mr Newman and Bram.”

“Everyone has been waiting for you, Milton,” Cloudia told him. “We are very much looking forward to seeing you demonstrate the machine you put together with Anaïs, Arnaud, and Gérard.”

Milton’s eyes widened. “You have been waiting to see this machine work although you are wet and cold?”

Kamden nodded. “Yes.”

Milton blushed and looked down at the final piece in his hands, a small toy wagon. “Then, we should not leave you waiting any longer.” He was about to set out to make his finishing touches on the machine when Wentworth said, “A moment, please, Master Milton.”

Milton turned to his butler who walked to him, held his arm, and put a hand on his cheek to crane his head to inspect him. “Mor,” Wentworth said softly. Cloudia had heard this voice of his many times before; still, it always surprised her anew. “We have been separated all day – how have you been?” the old butler continued. “Did you get lost?”

Milton leaned a bit into his touch. “Almost,” he answered faintly. Their conversation, despite being held in the presence of others, felt so private, Cloudia was nearly embarrassed for listening to it. “But Kristopher was there for me, and then Anaïs, Arnaud, and Gérard. It was all right. I am all right – I am as well as the circumstances allow me to be, Bram.”

Wentworth let go of Milton’s arm and cheek, and Cloudia could have sworn to have seen a smile on the butler’s face for a split second. “That is good to hear, Master Milton.”

Cloudia tore her eyes from the scene – and noticed Lisa next to her grimacing at them which made her chuckle. Lisa had always disliked seeing Milton and Wentworth displaying their closeness.

Some things never changed.

“Ah, the chain-reaction machine,” Milton exclaimed, “but first before I forget it.”

He swiftly took hold of Kamden’s hand, and Kamden blinked at him, clearly taken aback by the sudden touch. “I know this is several hours late,” said Milton with a smile on his face. “Still, I wanted to thank you for helping me during breakfast.”

Kamden blushed and promptly looked away. “Youu… Yooou’re we-welcome, Milton.”

Milton’s smile brightened a little and then an embarrassed blush crept into his cheeks and he let go of Kamden’s hand. “I am so sorry, Emyr. I got carried away. I didn’t mean to take your hand like that.”

“No-no, it… it is aaall right,” Kamden replied, still keeping his gaze diverted from Milton.

Milton smiled awkwardly at him and then looked at Anaïs. “Anaïs, do you have the card games?”

“Yes, I do!” Happily, she handed them to Milton. “Thanks,” he said and then hurried upstairs to do… something. Cloudia could not tell what he was doing from where she was standing, though he seemed deep in concentration as he set the pieces in place.

“Anaïs, Arnaud, Gérard,” Milton said after a little while. “May you come up here please to set the machine in motion?”

The children looked at one another for a moment before they bolted upstairs with surprising care not to destroy the precarious apparatus. When they arrived by Milton’s side, he turned to speak to those downstairs, a shy smile on his lips, “It has been a while since I last created a chain-reaction machine, but as this one has been a group effort – and Anaïs, Arnaud, and Gérard did so well for this being their first one – I would say that it will be a success. I hope you will enjoy the demonstration.” He nodded to the children who together pushed the wagon forward to set the machine in motion.

The wagon collided with a row of playing stones that fell down one by one. Like dominos, they fell – and so did the rest of the machine. One part fell into the other, drove into the other, circled and catapulted and pirouetted and rolled into the next. One by one, the separate parts and objects handed the energy the children had put into the machine with their push to the next in line. This inanimate relay race continued down the stairs, circled and zig-zagged over the entrance hall’s floor. It was fascinating to watch the objects interact, and all their interactions cumulated into a set of domino stones falling against a doll that had held down a wound-up music box. The doll tumbled down, the pressure was taken from the music box – and its song echoed through the hall.

Excitedly, Anaïs and Gérard and even calm Arnaud jumped up and down when the music box’s melody rang out. “It worked! It worked!” they chanted and hugged one another.

Cloudia started to clap and the others joined her, even Lisa who had said that she would leave but who had been intently watching the machine in action. The children hugged a taken-aback Milton. He turned red in all this joy and the praise he and the children received from those downstairs. It was a lovely sight, and it had been a triumphant, satisfying moment when the box had begun to sing. Still, a bad feeling had overcome Cloudia when the machine had reached its end. She was glad no one noticed how stiff her clapping was.

***

~Cedric~

Cedric thanked Newman for the information, and when Newman asked him what had happened to his bed and offered to tidy up everything, he declined the offer and said he would fix it himself. He forced himself to smile to seem normal and not distressed from his mind infestation and sleep deprivation. Then, Newman left, and the first thing Cedric did afterwards was to rub his eyes and stand up. He swayed a little, but quickly recovered and went to the little desk where Cecelia’s evil coffee still was.

Cedric had planned to sleep a bit before Cloudia’s return so that he would be energised enough again to be able to talk to her at length. Only he had been unable to catch any sleep, and the coffee had helped him earlier. It would have to help him now too. Cedric braced himself before he poured himself another cup and drank it like it was bitter medicine.

It was worse than before. Earlier, it had at least been hot and fresh, now it was cold, and every fibre of his being protested as Cedric forced the cup down.

If this didn’t work now…

Grimacing, Cedric put the cup down. It was as vile as before, and the coffee’s bitter taste stuck to his mouth and throat in the worst way possible. He then walked to his bathroom and splashed cold water into his face – however, he had forgotten to remove his glasses first. Cedric cursed and took them off. His vision blurred, and he kept his face close to the furniture to see anything at all. It must have looked comical how he was hunched over, dripping to the ground and onto objects, carefully moving from the sink to the shelves to find tissues. Normally, Cedric would have wiped his glasses on his clothes, but that would wet them, and he neither wanted to look even more dishevelled than he already did when he met Cloudia nor was he pretending that he would have enough energy to change.

If someone entered my room now…

After an agonising while, Cedric finally found some tissues and dried his glasses. He put them back on, walked back to the sink, took them off to wash his face again and dry himself off, and then put his glasses back on. He felt like a fool with every action he took, but it couldn’t be helped. Cedric rubbed his eyes and squinted at his reflection.

He looked awful. Maybe, before he had washed his face, he had looked worse, but he had forgotten to look into the mirror beforehand. At any rate, he looked pale and exhausted and had dark rings under his eyes. Cedric knocked against his head to set his tired brain in motion to think of good excuses and come-backs for later when Cloudia would remark on his appearance. At least, while he could not fix his face, he could fix his hair which had turned into a bird’s nest.

Cedric leaned against the sink – he wanted to sit down but knew very well that he would be unable to stand up again if he did – and stared at his reflection while he brushed and brushed his hair. The length was a hassle. Hard to wash, hard to brush, hard to maintain. Still, Cedric could not imagine ever cutting off more than just the tips again.

When he had brushed out all knots, Cedric bound his hair to a ponytail and then stood for a moment in his bathroom. The coffee’s bitter taste still clung to him, and the cold water had minimally helped to wake him up.

Maybe I should move around a bit. Wake up my body, get my blood pumping. I had no idea how many minutes ago Newman had come to tell me that Cloudia, Kamden, and Lisa had returned from Nanteuil-la-Forêt, though I discerned that enough time must have passed that Cloudia would now be in her room.

I guessed she would want to talk. She always did even if I were to say nothing at all, not that I had ever sat quietly and listened; she liked to have someone to whom she could talk about her cases. Talking to yourself too often was, after all, maybe not the healthiest in the long run.

Still, I didn’t think that Cloudia would come to seek me out. She would want me to come to her. After all, I had, theoretically, the opportunity to rest and catch up on some sleep, and she had been wandering around Nanteuil-la-Forêt all day in terrible weather and must now be awfully exhausted. Cloudia couldn’t know that I had delayed my rest and that Cecelia had come to ruin my day and sleep.

Of course, I could tell her that “yes, I know that you are expecting me to come to you, but Cecelia was being a nuisance and did not let me sleep, so could you come to me instead?” But I didn’t want to sound whiny, and moving would likely help me to shake away some of my sleepiness. And I needed to be, I wanted to be awake when I talked to Cloudia. I had, after all, much to say to her too.

Cedric clapped his cheeks a bit and then coerced his protesting body to leave the room and get to Cloudia’s. At least, it was not far.

***

~Cloudia~

Cloudia sighed in relief when she slipped into the warm bath. She had known that she needed this for hours, but she had not known how much she needed this until she was doused in water.

My body warmed up and relaxed, soaked in bubbly, scented water. The water soothed my muscles, untangled my thoughts that laid in my mind as a ball of string. The strings came loose, snippets of today rattled my mind: the carriage ride, the rain, Yvette, Antoine, the tailor’s shop, the bakery, the church, Nicolette and Marcel, Hector, Armelle, the rain, the rain…

I could stay in the bath forever. Let my skin shrivel for warmth and relaxation, for comfort and peace.

At least, I wanted to stay until I could sort all I learned today and the days before. Bring the pieces together bit by bit like the chain-reaction machine, laying the pieces out one by one in my head before I wrote them down. Laying them out until they clicked into place and I reached a conclusion.

But it was only a small part of me that wanted to remain here. To think this through all by myself. A small piece that was still the lonely girl of the past that had no one to talk to, no one to listen to her words.

I had one now.

With yet another sigh, Cloudia emerged from the water. Her body was refilled with energy. She could do anything – sprint over fields, climb mountains, swim across seas – but for now, it was enough to get dressed and cross a few corridors.

And the thought excited her more than anything else she could do now.

***

~Cedric~

It was such a short way to Cloudia’s room, but Cedric’s tired bones made him feel every step, every movement, every minute and second. It was not a long way; still, he felt like he had been wandering for hours like an adventurer crossing forests, deserts, glaciers in the hope to find anything at all that was not a tree, a dune, a sheet of ice.

Cedric had seen enough carpets, enough lamps and portraits and vases of flowers, had wandered enough corridors that looked the same.

His destination was so close, yet so far. And so he trudged through monotony until finally, finally he arrived.

***

~Cloudia~

Quickly, Cloudia put on layer after layer of undergarments before she stepped into a yellow dress. It was not a colour she usually wore and would pick herself. Cecelia had chosen the dress, telling her that yellow complemented blue and that she was young and should bring more colour and change to her wardrobe. Cloudia had accepted the gift with a raised eyebrow. After all, she very much doubted that even though blue and yellow were complements, the dress would look flattering on her – and Cecelia who had not worn anything but black for nearly seven years had made this remark. On a whim, Cloudia had agreed to pack the dress when Lisa and she had been laughing over it during travel preparations. And she had only chosen to wear it now because, after all that rain, she could not bear to wear anything blue or dark.

Now, wearing it for the first time and looking at herself in a full-length mirror, Cloudia had to admit that Cecelia had chosen well: She looked brighter, looked like she was glowing, and the yellow of the dress went exceptionally well with the blue of her eyes and hair. Baffled, Cloudia gazed at herself from all sides. If Cecelia saw her in this dress, she would never talk about anything else again.

Let her talk. I did not care. At least not now.

Cloudia tore her gaze from her reflection and then went to leave her room. Talking to Cedric about cases had become a normalcy in the past months; he would expect that she wanted to talk about the Nanteuil-la-Forêt murders now. Expecting this, Cedric often came to her, but Cloudia would seek him out just as often. She could wait a while until he appeared on his own. However, she doubted this would happen today: Even if Cedric had been able to sleep for a few hours, he would still be tired. Newman would have informed him of her return by now, and this and the expectancy that she wanted to talk made her sure that Cedric was awake now – awake and waiting as he, while he was ready to talk and listen, would not want to go to her room in his current state.

It was her turn to visit him.

Cloudia pushed open the door and walked down the corridors to his room. It was, thankfully, not very far.

***

~Cedric~

The carpet looked the same in all passages. No matter the wing nor the floor, the carpet was a rich burgundy hemmed with gold and lightly threaded with other shades of dark red. Every step Cedric took was heavy as if his shoes were made of lead. The corridor did not seem to end, and he grew sick of the carpet.

And then a dash of yellow entered his sight. The colour clashed horribly with the carpet but still brought a smile to Cedric’s lips.

***

~Cloudia~

Energised by the bath, Cloudia wanted to dash through the halls, gather her skirts and run, but she held herself back and covered the distance between her and Cedric’s room in long, fast steps instead. The corridors’ colours blurred a little, ran into one another – the burgundy of the carpet, the beige of the walls, the gold of the frames and the light emitted by the lamps –, partially because of her speed, partially because Cloudia did not pay much attention to them.

Gracefully hurrying through the halls, it did not take long until Cloudia spotted a dark figure. He moved slowly and did not mix with the other colours. A steady, separate spectre – and she smiled upon seeing him.

***

~Cedric~

Cedric wanted to rush to her, wrap his arms around her, whirl her around. Only, his body betrayed him, and while he made the first step after they both had halted for a moment when they had spotted each other, it was her who reached him first.

He wanted to tip forward, fall forward and into her arms, but he caught himself and stood upright.

“Undertaker,” Cloudia said, and his heart stopped for a second when she took his hand and smiled at him, shining so brightly from inside and from outside in this yellow dress… “Undertaker, come, let’s go.”

***

~Cloudia~

Cedric’s body temperature was slightly too low. It was something she always noted whenever she touched him. Colder than the living, warmer than the dead. Cloudia wondered if it was a trait he shared with the other Grim Reapers or one that was all his own. She tightened her grip on his hand and did not let go until they were inside her room and she had placed Cedric in an armchair. As soon as she let go of him, he fell back into the chair like a puppet whose strings were cut. He looked pale and had dark rings under his eyes. The few hours of sleep she guessed he had definitely hadn’t been enough. Cedric certainly needed to get back to bed after their conversation and dinner.

Cloudia clenched and unclenched her hand. Apparently, it was now her hand’s turn to be cold. She sat down on a sofa opposite Cedric and when she was done arranging her skirts and brushing her hands over them, she looked up and saw him grinning like an idiot at her.

“You are grinning like an idiot at me,” Cloudia said, and his smile widened.

“I must be an idiot,” Cedric replied, and she was stunned by his sudden introspection. “Because I missed you all day, Countess. You were gone for a day, not even a day, but it feels like years have passed since we’ve last seen each other.”

Cloudia chuckled, and he continued, “Who would have thought that, at the end of the day, you are the most normal person here.”

“Beside you?”

“Beside me, of course.”

“I would not exactly describe you as ‘normal’ in any way, Undertaker.”

“Me neither, but this is a madhouse! A madhouse! No matter how weird you are, you become the most normal person as soon as you enter a madhouse. The competition is too hard.”

“Even for you?”

“Even for me.”

Cedric smiled at her, and she smiled at him. There were a million things she could have said now, so many possibilities that were ready to be spoken out – and out of them all, Cloudia chose a question she wanted to ask, but not one that rang true now. “How was your day, Undertaker? Did you play chess with Milton like you planned to?”

Cedric sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I was able to play chess with Milton. He was fairly good, but I still beat him every time. Except once.”

Cloudia’s eyes widened, and he laughed. “I lost on purpose! He is doing so badly today; I didn’t want to be too hard on him. I let him win the first round we played, but Milton noticed it and told me to play normally. I did not think that he would notice. But then – I told you that, remember? – he somehow correctly guessed that I’m allergic to cats. Milton is as strange as he is nice. Anyway, we also ate together and then he fixed some pretty birdcage clock Anaïs, Gérard, and Arnaud accidentally damaged.”

“Anaïs told me about it,” Cloudia said. “Earlier in the entrance hall. They were building a chain-reaction machine there, and we arrived just in time for it to be completed and watch the demonstration.” She let her gaze drift through the room, let her eyes jump from shelves to books to lamps to paintings.

“You look worried. Are you all right?” Cedric asked, and she looked back at him. “I am. There is just so much on my mind right now, as you know,” Cloudia replied. She took a deep breath. “I… I didn’t know that Milton could build such things.”

“You didn’t?”

She shook her head. “I would say that I know him fairly well, but I did not know about this until today. Just like I didn’t know that you were allergic to cats until today.”

“It never came up. We’ve never run into a cat together, and I could start to sneeze like I’m a step away from my second death and tell you, ‘Countess, I have a confession to make: I am allergic to cats.’ You were my cat-repellent until now, Countess.” Cedric shifted in his seat. “You can know people for years – friends, family, colleagues, etc. – and never know all they are. Some things simply do not come up in conversations. You can know people for decades and still discover new aspects of them. It happens.”

“You’re right. It’s only…” Cloudia sighed and brushed non-existent dust from her dress. “I doubt this will become an issue. I do not want to sound overly arrogant, but if I didn’t know, what are the chances many others do? Milton’s quite isolated after all. Still, I cannot wonder: How many do know about this and how good he is?”

Cedric blinked at her and then his eyes widened when he understood what she meant. “The box.”

Cloudia nodded. “The box. It was the first thing that came to my mind when I saw the chain-reaction machine work. I’m not sure if you’ve seen it, but it’s not a simple construction at all. And the Jaquet-Droz clock – I have heard of those clocks! They aren’t easy to create or fix either. I have no idea if this means that Milton can open the Queen’s box. It doesn’t even matter if he can or not. If Townsend could not find the Clockmaker and learned that Milton might also be able to open it, he would definitely force him to try.”

Cedric took a deep breath. “I would say you are worrying too much about this, Countess. As you have said, it is highly unlikely anyone knows beside those who are here in the château…” He suddenly stopped talking and all colour vanished from his face.

“Undertaker?” Cloudia said and stood up to walk to him. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, but...” He looked at her. “Countess, I’ve been in cahoots with a demon.”

“Excuse me?”

“You see, Countess, two days ago, Cecelia gave me some papers on Milton. She said that you forbade her to research him, but she still did it because she didn’t want to go on the same ship as him unless she knew all about him. Only she could not find out everything because Milton’s extraordinarily secretive and large parts of his history are widely unknown. That’s not all: Cecelia has also heard of a weird rumour that Milton’s smuggling weapons with his trading company! Those rumours surfaced one day. Interestingly, before they could blow up and be everywhere, they vanished overnight. Cecelia caught them in time though and as the situation is so odd, she is, of course, especially suspicious. Rumours don’t have to mean anything, but the fact that they disappeared that fast means that someone wanted to get rid of them. Of course, this could have been done to protect the Salisbury Company’s reputation, though it’s unclear if this was the case or if there’s not another reason…

“Anyway, Cecelia is immensely suspicious when it comes to Milton. The rumour is bad enough, but then there is also his hidden history. It’s easy for her to find out everything about anyone else; only, she cannot find out many things about Milton. It annoys her. It also annoys her that he learns his employees’ names and gives them gifts and amazing pay and benefits. Cecelia thinks that it is only a ‘good persona’ and that he is, in fact, a terrible person. As Cecelia is Cecelia, she does not want to take the rumours at face value and told me about them so that I can spend time with Milton for her and find out if he seems like the kind of person who would viciously smuggle weapons.

“I think that everything about this is silly. I swear I only spent time with Milton because I wanted to spend time with Milton and because there was no one else I could spend the day with – not because Cecelia made me do it. Only, of course, her wicked words were always at the back of my head while we talked and played and cooked and you know. And I spent the entire day with Milton! It was interesting. He’s very odd, but under no circumstance, I would say that Milton is an arms smuggler. This doesn’t fit at all. And then I thought: If Milton is not the smuggler but his company is, in fact, involved in illicit activities and that’s how the rumour came to be, who else could be the smuggler? Milton is so careful and observant. However, he mentioned that he is good at ‘reading’ people – except for Wentworth. Thus, I thought: Wentworth is so close to Milton, and Milton can’t ‘read’ him, so it would be fairly easy for Wentworth to exploit Milton and use his company for his illicit activities. I told Cecelia how I believe Wentworth to be the actual weapons smuggler and she laughed in my face – she actually laughed at me! – because she thinks my hypothesis is beyond outlandish.

“And now, you have talked about Milton and his hobby of fixing and building objects and machines and whatnot and who could know of it: Wentworth knows of it! He literally watched him grow up and changed his garments when he was an infant! He knows of Milton’s aptitude and is apparently a dangerous smuggler that does not seem to genuinely care for Milton: Who says that he wouldn’thand Milton over to Townsend?” Cedric clapped his hands to his cheeks. “Countess! Milton is here because something went wrong with his company! What if Wentworth made sure something would go wrong and Milton had to go to France of all places to fix the problem? Like that, he brings Milton to Townsend without him knowing! Perhaps, Wentworth is already in cahoots with Townsend like I am in cahoots with the demon Cecelia. What if Townsend is not here but in Paris and Wentworth will give Milton to him when they go there? What if…”

“Undertaker,” Cloudia said, holding up her hands to emphasise that he should stop. “How much sleep did you get today?”

“I am not sleepy. No worries, Countess. Where was I again? Oh right… What if…”

“Undertaker.” She walked to him and looked down at him, narrowing her eyes. “How much sleep did you get? Did you take a nap before I arrived or not?”

Cedric sank deeper into the armchair’s cushions. “I tried but I could not. But I am awake, Countess. I drank the horrible coffee Cecelia gave me. I put my face in ice-cold water and all.”

For a moment, Cloudia was surprised that he had done all this and wondered what reason he could have had. Then, she sat down on the armrest and said softly, “Undertaker, you are talking nonsense. You always do. Right now, it is especially nonsensical. Wentworth and Milton hold each other very dearly. They would never do anything to each other. And don’t listen to that rumour: Milton would never do anything like that. Maybe someone else has been secretly using Salisbury Trading to smuggle weapons, but I assure you that it was neither Milton himself nor Wentworth.” Cloudia chuckled to herself. “What else has your exhausted brain cooked up, Undertaker? That Milton is the murderer terrorising Nanteuil-la-Forêt?”

Cedric slipped a bit down from the chair, and Cloudia stared blankly at him. “You cannot be serious.”

I had been looking forward to this – and he came with that? Seriously?

“Countess, I know it sounds a bit outlandish, but hear me out,” Cedric honestly continued and sat up properly again, and Cloudia was too poleaxed to interrupt him just now. “You remember what Maxime said? The stranger is a tall man – Milton is a tall man! The stranger likes to vanish – Milton likes to vanish! Maxime said the stranger has a ‘nice’ eye colour – Milton has nice hazel eyes! The stranger hid his hair beneath a hat – Milton has very noticeable gold-blond hair! And you found blond hair on the stranger’s bed! Today I was in Milton’s room because he had to get some tools to fix the birdcage clock. You know how odd it is that the stranger’s room is completely untouched as if no one was there? It’s the same thing with Milton’s room! Nothing looks like he ever even touched it. There are no signs of anything. I had the same feeling I had when I entered the stranger’s room when I entered Milton’s.

“I’ve not told you about this because I didn’t have the chance until now, but last night, I went to the kitchen to get some biscuits for our night talk which did not work out. I saw Milton on my way there. I turned invisible and followed him. I wanted to see where he was going because it was so late, you know? What could he possibly want to do at such a late hour? I followed him, and when I noticed that he was also going to the kitchen, I waited until he was inside, turned visible again, and went in too. I wanted to greet him and say ‘oh, what a coincidence to find you here, Milton!’ – only Milton was nowhere to be seen when I entered the kitchen! I entered it a minute after him! Maybe there was even less time between his and my entering. He couldn’t have left. Still, he managed to disappear in this minute. I was in the kitchen for about five to ten minutes and he never reappeared. What if there is some sort of secret passage in the kitchen that leads outside? What if Milton has been leaving the château via this passage to get to Nanteuil-la-Forêt and murder people? He does not seem at all like a person who would ever kill someone, but you can never know! Someone can be the nicest person around and still have a basement full of skeletons.”

While Cedric had been talking, a laugh had built up in Cloudia – a laugh that now burst out of her in full force. She doubled over with laughter and it took her several minutes and multiple attempts to calm herself down enough that she could say anything.

“Dear Undertaker,” Cloudia said, smiling. The laughter still lingered in her and it was hard to say anything without accidentally reigniting the ember. “I appreciate your efforts and that you went out of your way to make deductions to bring this case forward. However, you are disregarding one very crucial aspect: The stranger came to Nanteuil-la-Forêt and the murders started a day before we even arrived here. How could Milton have committed the first murder when he was still on his way like we were? He could have only done it if he were like you and capable of transporting himself instantly to another place. And I know for a fact that Milton cannot possibly be like you.”

She brought her face close to Cedric’s and noticed him sinking into his backrest a bit and sucking in his breath. “After all, as you’ve told me, all Grim Reapers have eyes like you, and I’ve seen yours enough to be able to say that Milton certainly doesn’t share that trait with you.”

Still smiling, Cloudia backed away, and Cedric breathed out again. Did he forget to brush his teeth and did not want her to know or why was he doing this? “Undertaker, you are too sleep-deprived to think properly.”

“I am not,” he protested.

“You can barely keep your eyes open as we speak. Go to sleep.”

“No, we had this already!” Cedric sat up straighter and then fell back again, his body too tired to hold him up.

“You don’t have to push yourself like that. If the rain stops tomorrow, you’ll have to wander to the Clockmaker, have you forgotten?”

“I do not care about the Clockmaker!” Cedric exclaimed. “I do not care about this case, about this mission. I am only here for…” He trailed off and looked away.

Cloudia raised an eyebrow. “Whatever you are here for, Undertaker, it is no reason to die a second time because you didn’t want to go to bed.” She brushed over his face, and he tensed for a second but there was not enough strength in him anymore and he immediately relaxed again. Cloudia rested her hand in his hair, and Cedric’s eyes fell closed.

It was astonishing how feathery and soft his hair was, considering how rarely he washed it. It was so silky and pleasant to touch; one could almost forget to wash their hand afterwards.

“You should go to sleep now, Undertaker. You are completely exhausted. We can always talk later.”

“No, Countess,” Cedric mumbled and opened his eyes again. “Perhaps I can’t talk much anymore, but I can listen. I can listen.” To her surprise, he took her hand. “Just tell me anything. I’ll lend you my ear for anything. I don’t want to sleep now. I can’t sleep now. I…” He yawned. “I’ve waited for you to come back all day…”

Cloudia’s eyes widened and she suddenly pulled back her hand from his head, and Cedric’s head rolled back and fell hard against the backrest. He groaned, and she put a hand over her mouth. “Why are you always hurting me… Countess…”

“This time I didn’t mean to do this,” Cloudia said and stood up. Surprised by her own action, she had forgotten that they were still holding hands. Thus, when she abruptly stood up, Cedric was first pulled forward and then let go and his head collided just as hard against the armrest. He groaned and mumbled something into the armrest Cloudia could not make out.

What was wrong with me?

“Let me get you something to cool your head. You’ve hit it twice now,” Cloudia said and hurried to the bathroom. She grabbed a towel and ran it under cold water. Cloudia turned off the tap and briefly looked up, catching a glimpse of her flushed face, before she hurried back to the main room.

“Undertaker,” Cloudia said, “this will be cold now; beware.” She was about to put the cold, wet towel on Cedric’s head when she noticed that he had fallen asleep.

Cloudia sighed and smiled at him. Then, she put the towel in the washbasin and called Newman to carry Cedric to his room.

***

Her stomach made highly unladylike sounds while Cloudia walked to the dining hall, and she was quite relieved that no one was with her to hear them, even if it was a little boring to walk alone. She sighed. It couldn’t be helped though.

To entertain herself and drown out her stomach’s noises, she mumbled a poem to herself: Thy soul shall find itself alone/’Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone –/Not one, of all the crowd, to pry/Into thine hour of secrecy:/Be silent in that solitude/Which is not loneliness – for then…

“‘The spirits of the dead who stood/In life before thee are again/In death around thee,’” Cloudia heard a voice behind her and startled. She halted and turned to see Milton behind her who was looking absentmindedly ahead. “‘And their will/Shall then overshadow thee: be still,’” he finished the stanza and then blinked – and turned red when he saw her.

“Ah, Lady Cloudia,” Milton struggled to say. “I am sorry. That must have been so weird… I’m so sorry. I… I heard you start and I recognised the poem and I couldn’t help myself and continued half-consciously – I had not heard it in a while and…” He craned his head to the empty corridor behind him and swallowed. “After the kitchen… Anaïs forgot to get something for Gérard, but Arnaud had to go to his father, and she could not leave Gérard with me and could not leave me alone. I assured her that it would be fine; I said I was fine enough to walk a bit alone, and she left after I convinced her, but said she would be quick and would catch up with me in no time. She’s still not here, and I feel very guilty relying on a little girl. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have. I thought… I thought…” Milton scratched at the hem of his sleeve, a nervous movement that Cloudia had not seen before and which made her eyes widen in concern.

“I thought it would go well because I did fairly well while we assembled and disassembled the machine and then went to... Then, she left… she left, she ran away, and I…” His eyes became distant, and Cloudia stepped forward and gently took his hand. It was an instinctive action – how many times had she seen him like this? how many times had she helped him through this? – and what little awkwardness she might feel now, taking his hand again after all this time, was drowned out by focusing on the situation at hand.

“Milton,” Cloudia said softly, “what do you need me to do?”

Milton looked at her, though it seemed more as if he was looking through her, his wide eyes looking, searching for something, someone else. Cloudia had never doubted the story of his weak heart and childhood illness, but she had always wondered if there was not more to it than he was comfortable to share; it just seemed so much like he was stuck in a nightmare.

Cloudia slightly squeezed Milton’s hand, and it seemed to help. His face twitched a little, and he closed his eyes, breathing a bit raggedly. “I… I…” Milton pressed out. “There is too much, too much… I cannot recall how it goes on.”

She smiled. “It is fine, Milton. I do. I do. ‘For the night – tho’ clear -- shall frown –/And the stars shall look not down, /From their high thrones in the Heaven,” Cloudia said and wished to have chosen a more pleasant, less heavy poem than one titled “Spirits of the Dead.” “‘With light like Hope to mortals given –/But their red orbs, without beam, /To thy weariness shall seem/As a burning and a fever/Which would cling to thee for ever.’”

“‘Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish –,’” Milton continued slowly, eyes still closed, his hand loose in her tight grip. “‘Now are visions ne'er to vanish –/ From thy spirit shall they pass/No more – like dew-drop from the grass.’”

Milton opened his eyes again and the odd far-away expression was gone from them. A little smile appeared on his lips, the kind that made it seem as if he was half-dreaming, half-awake, and Cloudia was rather relieved to see it. “Lady Cloudia, you’re here,” he said as he always did.

“I am,” she responded. “Tell me, what do you need now?”

“I want to sit down,” Milton said after some time of consideration. Without letting go of his hand, Cloudia carefully helped him to sit on the floor and lean against the wall. She sat down opposite from him, and their entwined hands hung between them as if he would float away and disappear if she were to let go.

Maybe that’s what would happen – that Milton would float away like a balloon into the sky or like a buoy out to the sea.

Milton and Cloudia sat like this in silence for a few minutes. He breathed in and out evenly to calm himself down, and she scrutinised him. Seeing Milton like this reminded her how ridiculous Cedric’s words from earlier were. Still, thinking about them again, Cloudia remembered something. The thought had lingered in the back of her mind since Lille, only she had been unable to grasp it until now. She had heard the name “Quentin Nichols” before; she was sure of it now.

In 1843, he had killed one of his co-workers. Quentin had managed to escape, and Scotland Yard had been searching for him since.

However, Cloudia could not imagine Milton hiring anyone without doing a background check first. Quentin’s crime had been in the newspapers for some time. It wasn’t an unknown case. Perhaps the Quentin Nichols she had met in Lille was not the same as the one she had heard of? That was possible. Milton surely would not employ a wanted criminal, and Quentin’s full name was “Quentin Thibault-Nichols.” The Quentin from the papers didn’t have a hyphenated surname. The Quentin from Lille might have been born a “Thibault-Nichols” or one part of it might come from his wife. As “Thibault” preceded “Nichols,” it was more likely that “Thibault” was Quentin’s birth surname.

Cedric’s absurd theories had really got to me.

“Lady Cloudia,” Milton said eventually. He still looked like he had seen a ghost, but some colour was slowly returning to his face. “I am sorry for making you see and do this again.”

“It is all right, Milton. You cannot help it,” Cloudia replied.

He smiled weakly at her, and at once, they let go of each other. Cloudia held her breath for a moment, but Milton stayed where he was.

What a silly thought, Cloudia.

Milton dug his hands into the carpet as if he too was thinking about floating away. “Thanks, Lady Cloudia.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I may need another moment.”

“Take your time. It’s fine.”

He leaned his head against the wall, and she heard him count to himself from thirty downwards. When Milton was done, he let go of the carpet and rose to his feet. As soon as they were both standing again, Cloudia heard a screeching sound behind her. Someone was running and had momentarily lost balance. She craned her head to see Anaïs hurrying towards them.

“Milton,” she said when she reached them, “was everything all right?”

Cloudia looked at Milton, and Milton avoided her eyes and replied, “Yes. Everything was all right.”

Anaïs beamed. “That’s good. You’re getting good! I feared something might have happened while I was away. And hello, Claudette! I am so happy. Now, we can go to dinner together.” She trotted ahead, and Milton and Cloudia readily followed her.

“Where did you leave your brother, Anaïs?” asked Cloudia.

“We walked into Maman on our way! He wanted to stay with her which was better anyway.”

“You ran into your mother?” Milton said. “Anaïs, you did not have to find me then.”

“Of course, I had to! I promised I would come to find you. You never break promises!” Anaïs replied energetically. “And I could not risk an incident and lose you back to the faerie realm.”

Milton smiled. “Of course. I’m sorry for saying that. Thank you, Anaïs.”

She returned his smile and then started to chatter about helping out a bit in the kitchen with Milton and the others – they had brewed some tea –, getting the item they forgot, and running into Amélie. Cloudia listened intently to what she had to say but kept glancing over to Milton. He looked fine; he thankfully looked fine. Under normal circumstances, he would have long left such a rain-heavy place, and Cloudia felt bad again to have dragged him here.

I only hoped Paris would have nicer weather.

They had almost reached the dining hall when Cloudia saw Milton putting a hand over his chest. A cold calm rushed over her, and she was about to ask if he was fine… and then, he smiled. Cloudia looked at him in bewilderment.

“It has stopped,” Milton answered her unspoken question. “The rain has stopped.”

***

Except for Cedric and the Marquis, everyone was at the dinner table today. Even Cecelia had come and was now conversing with Sylviane about something Cloudia could not catch. Jacques and Anaïs were arguing again. Aurèle was grimly eating his food, and she spotted him glaring at Milton now and then. She had to talk to him about his, to her, unreasonable dislike of Milton later. Arnaud was helping Gérard, though the little boy could eat remarkably competently for his age. On the other end of the table, Amélie was talking to her husband and brother. A few moments ago, the constellations of the conversations had been different: Anaïs had talked to her and Kamden, Jacques had asked Milton something, and Arnaud had spoken to Aurèle. Now, the exchanges and interlocutors had shuffled and Cloudia had no one to talk to. She did not mind much. This would change soon again after all, and like that, she could properly savour the delicious soup that was part of the entrée.

Cedric would be over the moon if he had it. He would swoon and then say something along the lines of “If the appetiser is this good, how would the dessert be?”

A few times, Cloudia glanced over at Kamden and Milton who were talking. They got along rather well, and Kamden seemed slightly livelier than usual when he spoke to Milton. Since the rain had stopped, Milton was looking and doing well again. He still seemed a bit shaken up, but he was almost back to normal.

By the time the main course replaced the appetiser and tea was served with the meal, Cloudia was telling an interested Anselme about her experiences during the last Season and the bit she had to endure this Season before she had been thankfully sent away by the Queen to France – not that she mentioned the latter part, of course.

It never stopped being strange to engage in such ordinary conversations in such normal settings after having looked for a murderer and inspected corpses hours before.

Halfway through the main dish, Amélie addressed Milton: “Lord Milton, I heard that you will leave us tomorrow.”

Milton halted in his movement with the sudden addressing and put down his cutlery. “Indeed, I will leave you tomorrow, Baronne, though it will not be for long. A few days, a week at most.”

“I see. For business, I heard?”

He nodded. “Yes. I have to do some business-related duties in Paris.”

“Paris?” Amélie repeated, and an odd silence fell over the other adults. “You may not have heard of this, Lord Milton, but the atmosphere in France and especially in Paris has been considerably tense in the last months. Lately, a great number of people are heading to Paris to find work. I am sure that this will not end well considering the current situation. Lord Milton, I advise you, if you haveto go, to wrap up your business quickly and return here.”

“Thank you for your piece of advice, Baronne,” replied Milton with the trained calmness he reserved for social events such as this one. “I will take care. I will do my best to complete my work there as fast as possible then.”

Amélie smiled. “You are welcome, Lord Milton.”

***

After dinner, Cloudia instinctively headed to Cedric’s room. Only halfway there did she realise that he was sleeping and that she should not disturb him. She hovered for a while in the corridor, not knowing where to go. Suddenly, Cloudia remembered that she had wanted to speak to Aurèle, and now he was elsewhere and she scolded herself for forgetting. At least, she didn’t want to talk to him about anything urgent.

Eventually, she decided to just walk. Cloudia hoped she would think of something to do while she was moving around – and that her legs would not lead her to Cedric nevertheless. Also, she had barely been in the château since her arrival; she still had so much to see and explore.

And now, I sounded like Milton. I wondered how he was doing right now. The rain had stopped before dinner, but it had bothered him all day long. It must have been awfully tiring; not that he would ever admit it.

Cloudia wandered a while through the labyrinthine château before she grew bored. The building was immensely beautiful and filled with objects that could make her talk and talk for hours – but without having anyone to talk to, it was not enjoyable at all. She had already spent years of her life talking to herself. She was not very eager to repeat the experience. Sighing, Cloudia gathered her skirts and headed downstairs. She had no idea where those stairs would lead her but they would eventually bring her to the ground floor of which she had a fairly good grasp. From there, she could go to her room, wrapping up this tiresome day even though her blood was still boiling with the desire for more. Cloudia’s entire day had been filled with the investigation; she wanted to do something for herself. The bath had re-energised her, but since dinner, she felt even more vitalised.

With nothing else to do, I supposed I would have to satisfy this want by simply reading a book. First, I would have to navigate my way through this maze though. Next time, I should ask Lisa for the Maid’s Manifesto.

Lisa.

With an idea overcoming her, Cloudia stopped on the stairs. Of course, she had been with Lisa all day long, but apart from the deadhouse and the drives to and from Nanteuil-la-Forêt, they hadn’t had an opportunity to talk. And she had barely spoken with Newman all day too. Smiling, Cloudia bolted down the stairs to the next landing and sought out the next best servant to ask which way she had to take to get to the servants’ quarters. The servant told her how to get there, she thanked him, and then excitedly went off her way.

Cloudia was almost there – only the corridor down and then through a hidden stairway – when she noticed familiar footsteps behind her. For almost a year, those footsteps had followed hers, and she would forever recognise them: His ghostly steps which came along with a soft metallic clack. She had always wondered why, but never asked.

And then, they were sometimes so ghostly I could not hear them at all. That had been the case when I encountered him before dinner.

Her smile widened a bit as Cloudia turned around to face Milton. “I had thought of you a little while ago – and now you are here as if I managed to manifest you, albeit a little slowly.”

A small, sheepish smile appeared on Milton’s lips. “I…” He took a deep breath. “It’s good to see that you are still so lively.”

Cloudia looked at him in bewilderment. “Why shouldn’t I be lively? Because my powers of manifestation are weak and lacking?”

“Oh, well.” He looked at his sleeves and fumbled with them. “I suppose my mind is still a bit muddled from today. I did not mean to blurt it out. I… Anyway, I said this because you have been so busy lately, and you also seem deep in thought whenever I see you.”

She chuckled. “I suppose my mind is still muddled from today because I should have figured that you noticed. Don’t you always notice?”

“Not always.”

Cloudia looked at him and then shook her head before she realised with a pang that, for the first time in years, they were actually all alone again. Earlier, it had been an emergency, and Milton had barely been with her in that hallway mentally. There had been much else to focus on besides the awkwardness between them. Now, the rain had cleared and they were both well and conscious and all alone again.

The last time had been on the day of the failed proposal, and Cloudia felt awkward thinking about it. Everything had become weird and fallen apart after that day. Although they had resumed their talks via letters a few months afterwards, it had never been the same again. Their written words were always laced with a certain stiltedness, one worse than the one when their little acquaintanceship or whatever one could call it had begun. Cloudia had never known how to describe their relationship.

With the others around, it had been so easy. She could have nearly forgotten that anything had ever happened at all. Now, being alone with Milton, the distance between them was palpable again. He stood only a few steps away from her, but he could have been kilometres away. Cloudia had never been a natural when it came to understanding people. She did not have the talent to look at someone and understand, see every bit of them and realise what might be hidden. She had had to acquire this skill through hard work and training, and although she was good at it now, the skill failed her every now and then.

It did not fail her now. Cloudia had intentionally not paid it any attention before, but there was always a bit of hurt in his eyes whenever they talked. He was still friendly to her, still smiled at her, had still helped her with this trip. Cloudia had been shocked and annoyed when Milton had behaved as if nothing had occurred the day his villa blew up – a month after the proposal. She also had not expected him to write to her months later.

It had seemed as if Milton had been doing well after the failed proposal, as if he had got over it well. Accepting that he was not, that he had not, made her realise with a heavy heart that they had yet another thing in common: For one and a half years, they had pushed the memory of the proposal away and pretended that all was fine although the event still clung heavily to them. It was easier like that. Even now while acknowledging everything, Cloudia’s first instinct was to push it all away. It was a bad habit, yes, but it had been a long day. A very long day. This was her hard-earned time off. She had a murderer to catch and a thief to find. She had no time and strength to deal with the remnants of the past.

Maybe one day, she would. But not now. Not now.

“Where were you heading to?” Cloudia asked, smiling as if nothing had been. “You are quite a bit away from your room. Did you get lost again?”

“I didn’t,” Milton replied. “I wanted to go see Bram.”

She blinked at him. “In the servants’ quarters?”

He nodded. “In the servants’ quarters.”

“Isn’t it funny how I planned to go to France at the same time you planned to?” she said. “And how now, again, I am going to the servants’ quarters at the same time as you are?”

Milton chuckled. “It is indeed quite funny,” he said and walked towards her. “I guess you know the way?”

“Yes, a footman told me. Do you?”

“Yes. I…” He hesitated. “I have been charting the château.”

“Huh?”

“Did I never tell you?”

“No, never,” Cloudia told him.

Cedric’s words came to my mind: “You can know people for decades and still discover new aspects of them. It happens.” And now I had found out two new things about Milton in a single day.

Milton smiled bashfully. “I like to create maps for buildings, make my very own blueprints. It’s an old habit of mine, and I know it is strange but…”

“There is so much to see, so much to explore even in a building?” Cloudia continued, smiling.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Yes.”

“You are becoming predictable, Milton.” She put her hands on her waist, content that she got at least that. “Also, when I said that I was thinking of you – and unwittingly conjured you by doing so – I thought about this exact thing.”

Milton closed his eyes. “‘There is so much to see, so much to explore. Roads to travel, people to meet, mysteries to unravel.’ Right, I said that to you.” He reopened his eyes, and they began to walk, side by side, down the corridor and to the hidden stairway without any of them having to indicate to do so.

“Mysteries,” said Cloudia; the word alone brought excitement with it, and she hoped she did not sound too eager as she continued. Not that Milton had ever seemed to care for that. “Have you found any on your most recent travels? Where have you been last again? Sweden?”

“Yes,” Milton replied, paused, then added: “Yes, I’ve been to Sweden last. I’m not sure about mysteries though. There has been the occasional misplaced document, but that’s not really a mystery, isn’t it? And while this is also not a mystery – after all, I know how this came to be – there is this mistake I have to fix and for which I have to go to Paris. Maybe you could call it a bit of a mystery still… the Paris part at least. I need to go there to find something out; however, I don’t quite know what will await me there. I cannot measure the extent of what I will learn there and…” He fidgeted with his right sleeve. “I mean I knowmore or less what will await me. It’s just the details, you know? Perhaps it’s more of a ‘surprise’ than a ‘mystery’ though. I am not sure.”

Despite our commonalities and Milton’s odd little habits, he was still so amusingly ordinary. My mystery was a serial murder in the nearby village. His, a company-intern mishap.

“Let’s call it a mystery,” declared Cloudia as they descended the narrow stairs together. He let her go first and followed her. “It sounds better like that. And it’s not quite a ‘surprise’ if you know that you will find something out, isn’t it? Only the content of the information will be a surprise, but that’s essentially what a mystery is anyway.”

“You’re right,” Milton said. “Of course, it cannot be a surprise when I am expecting it.”

“Your mind is still really quite muddled. Are you okay?”

He nodded. “It has been a long rainy day. I should be completely normal again by tomorrow.”

Cloudia threw a glance over her shoulder at him. The light was so dim here that he looked quite ghostly. “Speaking of today… how was spending time with the Duke?”

“It was lovely,” Milton replied. “Kristopher is so kind to have kept me company despite being unwell himself. I’m glad that he could finally find some sleep. I hope he will sleep well and sound. Kristopher was very patient with me all day, and he defeated me in every round of chess we played. He is really talented.”

“He sure is,” said Cloudia, remembering the countless days they had spent playing chess together and how Cedric had beat her in every single round without fail. He would always tease her for being so bad at the game. She was not even that bad; he was simply very, very good.

“Kristopher surprised me quite a lot of times today,” Milton continued. “Not that I believe that he was incapable of any of the kinds of prowess he showed today, of course. I simply have not met anyone with such chess skills in a very long time. Or anyone at all who, I suppose, correctly guessed that when it rains and my senses act up, I anchor myself by focusing on all kinds of details – often details concerning people. I have never thought about this myself before. It’s usually just Bram and me on rainy days after all.”

Cloudia halted on the stairs and turned around to him. “Oh, he did that?”

Milton stopped too, and she noticed that he had been walking a few stairs behind her to keep his distance. “It was a remarkable observation. Kristopher did not believe that you would believe him, so I wanted to let you know.”

“He did not make you say so?”

“No. He…” Milton paused. “He did say I should be the one to tell you, but what I am saying is not a fabrication. Kristopher cares a lot about what you think of him.”

“The Duke? Caring for what I think of him?” Cloudia laughed. “I assure you, Milton, that this is not the case at all. He does not care for anyone’s opinion of him or he would not walk around the way he does. He cares for mine the least of all. If he truly did, would he do me such a disservice with the way he dresses and carries himself? And have you ever seen him dance? It’s like watching a chicken hobble about.”

Cloudia felt Milton’s eyes scrutinising her. As if he was searching for something specific. Then, he smiled.

“Is something?” she asked, and he shook his head. “No. It is just that…” His gaze softened. “I’m just glad for you.”

Cloudia blinked at him, then turned and continued to descend the stairs. “Milton, the storm had gone on for very long today. Your mind is still all scrambled. Are you really fine?”

“Yes,” Milton replied, sounding a bit merrier than before. She heard him following her. “I am perfectly fine now.”

They walked for a while in silence, but the silence soon became stifling. The stairs seemed unbearably endless, and Cloudia felt herself suffocating under the stillness and her overflowing energy. “Milton,” she said to break the silence open and be able to breathe again, “the clock you’ve repaired – do you think you can show it to me before your departure? I am interested to see this birdcage clock of tales. I have heard of Jaquet-Droz clocks but never seen one in real-life.”

“I can show it to you on the way back from the servants’ quarters if it has not become too late by then,” Milton replied. “I have to head out so early tomorrow; I doubt I will find the time then. Though I will return in a few days or a week at most anyway. Thinking of it… maybe, if it does not work out later, it may be better if one of the children showed it to you.”

“I can wait if it does not work out. I want you to show it to me so that you can tell me what you fixed and how.”

“Eh,” blurted it out of Milton, and Cloudia smiled to herself. “I, uh,” he stammered. “You are interested in this?”

“Yes, I am. Very much so. I have never been very adept at creating or repairing anything, so I am quite fascinated whenever someone can. I am actually a little bit mad that you have never mentioned this talent of yours before, Milton.”

“It’s… it’s not a talent. It’s just… something to pass time with. A little hobby. I am not even very good at it.”

“Let me be the judge of this,” Cloudia said. “How many know of this ‘little hobby’ of yours anyway?”

“Not many. Before today, only my family knew. Now, everyone here knows too,” Milton told her the very instant Cloudia reached the end of the staircase and arrived in front of the door that would open up to the servants’ quarters. She waited until Milton was caught up with her before she put her hand on the doorknob.

“Lady Cloudia,” Milton said then, and she stopped her action and looked at him. “I will not ask for specifications regarding the matter that is keeping you busy,” he continued. “All I want to say is that, if you require my help, I would be happy to offer my assistance in any way. And if it is a mystery you are busying yourself with and at which you are stuck… at times, it is best to take a short break and think of anything else, do anything else. Sometimes thinking too intensely is the problem: It often blocks your mind. Letting your mind wander to different places, you may be able to think of possibilities you have not considered before.”

Cloudia’s gaze softened. “Thank you, Milton. Let’s see if whatever chaos my servants will hand me behind those doors will ease me up,” she said and opened the door. They stepped into a hallway with multiple doors left and right that led to the servants’ personal rooms. Newman had told her before that Lisa’s, Wentworth’s, and his rooms were those closest to the door and that there was a community room at the end of the corridor. Cloudia knocked on Lisa’s and Newman’s rooms and Milton on Wentworth’s. When they got no response, they walked to the community room.

“… to Nanteuil-la-Forêt today,” said Lisa when they entered. She was sitting at a table with Wentworth and Newman, some biscuits and sandwiches spread out before them. There was a pot of tea on the table and everyone had a cup in front of them. “And I tell you: Denis Cuvier attempted to kill us – what other reason could he have to race into the village with such speed? Gallop there if you want, but don’t drive a wagon like that, least of all one with people in it. Mr Emyr was rather green throughout the entire rides.”

“Telling everyone about our adventure in Nanteuil-la-Forêt, aren’t you?” Cloudia said, and everyone turned to her and Milton. From the corner of her eye, she could see Milton’s gaze wandering to Newman before he discreetly looked away.

“Our disgustingly wet misadventure, Lady Cloudia,” Lisa replied and shuddered. “I took a bath and still feel cold. I’ll be counting the sponges I waste trying to scrub off the moistness that seemed to have sunk into my very flesh and bones.”

Newman stood up and bowed to Cloudia and Milton as a greeting before he turned to Lisa. “Shall I fetch you a jacket if you are still so cold, Lisa?”

She patted his hand. “That would be nice if you can be bothered, Al. Maybe a blanket would be even better.”

“I can always be bothered for you, Lisa,” Newman said with a small smile. “I will go and get a blanket from your room at once.” He looked at Milton and Cloudia. “If you may excuse me for a moment.” Cloudia nodded, and Newman left the community room.

Lisa grinned at Cloudia. “I see you are wearing the yellow dress.”

“Yes. I surprised myself by picking it today,” Cloudia replied and looked down at herself. “I didn’t expect Cecelia to be at dinner for once, so she has seen me in it. Until now, she wasn’t able to say anything to me about it, but the time will definitely come…”

Lisa chuckled. “It had to come to this. You don’t look as silly as we imagined you would though, Lady Cloudia.”

“That surprised me too.”

“You do indeed look very lovely, Lady Cloudia,” Milton said and immediately blushed and looked away. Lisa rolled her eyes.

“Thank you, Milton,” Cloudia responded. Then, Wentworth stepped to them and bowed to Cloudia before he asked, “Master Milton, are you all right?”

Milton took a deep breath to compose himself and then smiled at his butler. “You asked that earlier already, Bram. When Lady Cloudia, Miss Greene, and Emyr returned, and we all met in the entrance hall.”

“The rain didn’t stop until shortly before dinnertime. A lot could have changed between the chain-reaction machine’s demonstration and dinner. Between dinner and now.”

“I promise that it did not,” Milton replied, and Cloudia was surprised that he lied to Wentworth like that. Though perhaps he didn’t want to disclose what had happened before dinner to Lisa?

“What I told you before still holds true,” he went on. “Kristopher and the children helped me, and I have been doing well because of that. And since the rain stopped, I have been even better.”

“Albeit your mind is still a bit muddled,” added Cloudia, and he looked at her. “Indeed.”

“I am glad, Master Milton. It was a strong storm today,” Wentworth said. “Even with the support you received, I was worried. Forgive me if I am overstepping my boundaries, but my duty is, first and foremost, to ensure your well-being, Master Milton. Next time, I will not leave your side; today was an exception I do not want to make a rule.”

“I’m sorry to have worried you, Bram. I…” Milton fumbled with his sleeves. “I should not have asked for that.”

“It is also my duty to worry about you all the time, Master Milton. You do not have to apologise for something that cannot be helped,” Wentworth replied, and Cloudia could see Lisa grimacing in the background again.

“I have returned,” Newman announced as he stepped into the community room, a blanket in his hands. “I apologise for having kept you waiting.” He walked to Lisa and gently draped the blanket around her.

“Thank you,” she said, and his cheeks roused a bit. Pulling the blanket tighter around her, Lisa said to Cloudia, “Not that I oppose your presence, but why have you come here, Lady Cloudia?”

“To see how you and Newman are doing, and what you are doing,” Cloudia replied and sat down at the table where Lisa was sitting. “And to talk to you for a while.”

“Is His Grace still asleep?”

“Very much, but I might have come here anyway.”

Lisa scoffed. “Very well, Lady Cloudia. Do you maybe want to play something then? To pass the time and have something else to do while we talk?”

“Why not?”

“Great,” said Lisa and took out a deck of cards from beneath the blanket. She was always carrying playing cards with her, eagerly awaiting the first available moment to take them out and make someone cry.

“Milton,” Cloudia said and turned to him. “Would you like to play too?”

Milton blinked at her, taken aback by her offer. “Oh. Sure. Thank you,” he responded and sat down – keeping a chair between them free.

“How about we play poker?” suggested Lisa while she shuffled the cards. A mischievous light shone in her eyes.

“Still taking every opportunity to practise, aren’t you?” teased Cloudia, and Lisa scowled at her.

“One day I will return there and be victorious.”

“Return where?” Milton asked, puzzled.

“Earlier this year, Lisa lost to someone in poker,” Cloudia said and earned a dirty glance from her maid. “Apparently, I am forbidden to say more on this matter. Anyway, she taught me how to play poker afterwards so that she had more people to play with. Lisa already taught the servants at the manor as they regularly arrange game nights.”

“That sounds interesting,” replied Milton. “Miss Greene, I wish you the best of luck that you will win against that person one day.”

Lisa nodded at his words and kept shuffling the cards. “Lord Milton, have you heard of poker?”

“I have, actually.”

“And can you play it too?”

“Yes,” said Milton, and Lisa was surprised by his answer – and so was Cloudia. After all, poker was still very unknown in Europe.

“Of course,” Cloudia said when the realisation hit her. “You have told me you travelled often to the States.”

“Do you want to play poker with us then, Lord Milton?” Lisa asked with a little sly smile on her face. “I can guarantee that this will not be a pleasant game to play as a newcomer, and it may be better if you found something else to do.”

“Every game is not a particularly pleasant one if you play with Lisa,” Cloudia interjected. “She is quite passionate and competitive when it comes to games.” At her words, Lisa’s little smile became a wicked grin.

Milton smiled sheepishly. “I do, in fact, know how to play poker,” he told them and worried at the hems of his sleeves. “However, I have not had an opportunity to play poker for quite a few years. Or to play any card game, to be frank. Playing cards is common at social gatherings of a more familiar nature, but as you know, I do not really attend such gatherings or any at all as I have been on the road for the last year and…” He cleared his throat. “I want to say that I do know how to play poker but I may be a bit rusty.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, it is good that you know, but I hope you don’t expect us to play kindly for your sake, Baron.”

“Oh, I would not want that,” Milton replied. “I think that no game can be enjoyed if the participants do not give their fullest. I will try my very best. I simply wanted to inform you that I’m not very good even at my best.”

Lisa shrugged. “Well, not that you would have had a chance if you were any good,” she said, and he chuckled.

“Wentworth, do you also know how to play poker?” Cloudia enquired.

“I do, Lady Cloudia,” the old butler replied.

“Then, do you want to join us?”

“I am thankful for the invitation, but I will have to decline. I have only played the game once myself and have mostly watched others play. I do not want to slow the game down and would rather spectate.”

Cloudia nodded. “I see. Feel free to watch then, Wentworth.”

“But you’ll have you watch from a place where Lord Milton can’t see you but I can,” interjected Lisa. “I do not want to outright accuse anyone of cheating – not before we have even begun playing at least – but I want to make sure that it does not happen at all.”

“I can do this if it eases your nerves, Miss Greene,” said Wentworth.

“Thank you.” Lisa smiled at Cloudia. “See? Manners.” Then, Lisa craned her head to Newman who was still standing behind her as if he was her butler and not Cloudia’s. “Al, you’ll play too, won’t you?”

He bowed his head. “As always, Lisa.”

She smirked at his words, and Newman sat down next to her.

“If I am recalling correctly,” said Wentworth, “chips are needed for this game.”

“Yes, of course,” Lisa replied. “I put a bag of them on my nightstand. Could you fetch it, Mr Wentworth?”

“Of course. I will hurry.” Surefooted and quick for someone his age, Wentworth left the community room.

“I’m glad that you play too, Mr Newman,” blurted it out of Milton whose eyes lingered a bit too long on Newman yet again. Cloudia frowned. She would have been a fool if she had not noticed Milton staring at Newman back in Dover, but she thought that, by now, the initial surprise would have waned. Apparently, it had not. At least, Milton was seemingly trying to suppress his staring.

“As it is said,” Milton continued, fidgeting with his hands, “‘the more the merrier.’ How well can you play poker, Mr Newman?”

Lisa chuckled and distributed the cards. “Trying to find out if you will have any chance at all, Lord Milton?”

“Not at all, Miss Greene. I only wanted to ask,” Milton replied. “I do not care whether I win or lose as long as the game will entertain everyone.”

Lisa rolled her eyes which Milton, fortunately, didn’t see as his own eyes were fixed on Newman who answered him, “I am not as proficient as Lisa, though she assures me that I still play fairly well.”

“Definitely better than Thomas,” said Lisa. “Which isn’t that hard, but still.”

At this moment, Wentworth returned with the bag of chips which he handed to Lisa before he went to sit at a nearby table, a bit away but still close enough to spectate. Quickly, Lisa distributed the chips and then smiled. “Let’s begin.”

***

They had not agreed to bet actual money. Lisa had never asked, and Cloudia thought that she might not have wanted to be overly brash, though she was still very brash, to Milton even if he likely would not have minded playing for money. Still, Lisa grinned like she was doubling and tripling her monthly wages with every won round and envisioning retiring early. Although Lisa was triumphant in every round, they had great fun playing the game. Milton had said that he might be rusty as he had not played poker in years, but he was a surprisingly good bluff. He was almost as good as Lisa. However, here and there, his façade would crumble: His mouth would twitch, his eyes would betray the truth… Cloudia caught it twice.

I wondered whether this was normal or a product of the fact that Milton had not fully recovered from today’s “phantom pains.”

Lisa was better at that and relentlessly played everyone to the ground. It was past midnight when everyone decided that it had become too late for another round.

“That was fun,” said Milton with a smile on his face and stood up. “Thanks for letting me play.”

“You are such a strange one, Baron,” Lisa replied and closed the bag with the chips. She did not have to do much collecting as the chips had naturally wandered to her anyway. Newman, on the other hand, had to walk around the tables to collect all the cups and the empty teapot.

“All smiles although you have not won a single round this evening,” Lisa said.

“It is only a game. I don’t particularly care if I lose or fail.”

Lisa huffed. “Well, once or twice you were fairly close to winning.” “I was?”

“Yes. It was quite a surprise – you are not half as bad as I thought you would be.” Lisa grimaced at her own words, and Cloudia chuckled at Lisa’s anguished appraisal. Then, Cloudia stood up too.

“The evening ended as expected,” she said. “Nevertheless, that were some good games. I’ll head to bed now. Tomorrow will be a long day again.” Cloudia looked at Milton. “And didn’t you say you will leave very early in the morning?”

He nodded. “Yes, I will.”

“All the more reason to return to our rooms now. You need to be well-rested for tomorrow’s gruelling carriage ride to Creil.”

“That would be good,” replied Milton and fumbled with his sleeves. “Good night, Miss Greene, Mr Newman, Bram.”

Everyone returned the “good night” and Cloudia gave her own before she and Milton left the community room and walked down the corridor and back to the château’s main area.

Unlike when they had gone to the servants’ quarters, they were silent now as they ascended the stairs. This time, Cloudia was too tired to perceive the silence as suffocating or awkward and attempt to pierce it. Upstairs, they walked around until they found a servant still wandering the halls to ask for directions and then headed to a forking the maid had referred them to. According to her, they could go to their respective wings and rooms from there.

“Until here and not farther,” Cloudia said when they arrived at the forking and halted. “Well, at least, not together.”

Milton smiled at her. “Good night, Lady Cloudia. I suppose we will not see each other tomorrow, so I guess this is also goodbye for a little while.”

“Seems like it. I wish you well in Paris, Milton. Don’t forget that you will have to show me that clock upon your return, and good night.”

His smile brightened. It was like sunshine after a long grey day. “Thank you. I will not forget this, and I wish you all the best for your mystery. Speaking of mysteries… we haven’t finished the poem earlier: ‘The breeze – the breath of God – is still –/And the mist upon the hill/Shadowy – shadowy – yet unbroken, /Is a symbol and a token –/How it hangs upon the trees, /A mystery of mysteries!’”

***

I could not sleep.

I had not looked at the clock since I had laid down, but I was sure that it had been about two or three hours since I had said goodbye to Milton at the forking. I had tossed and turned in a desperate attempt to find some sleep. I needed to be rested for the day. However, the energy and restlessness that filled my body did not allow me to sleep.

I needed answers, I wanted answers.

This needed to be over.

I had told Yvette to barricade everyone inside for the night, to huddle them together, to keep them safe. But that had not worked before.

One slip-up would mean another dead body. Another web of strings I had to investigate.

Lives and time were running through my fingers, and I was sick of it.

Cloudia kicked away the blanket and stood up from her bed. She had to go back to Nanteuil-la-Forêt. The murderer had made the worst mistake to come here, and she was dead-set to show this to them.

A stakeout was something I had not done yet.

It was time to wait and watch from the front row.

It was time to catch the culprit red-handed.

Cloudia went to her wardrobe and pulled out some clothes she could wear as “M Gauthier.” When she was done changing into them, she let her skull pendant necklace vanish beneath her shirt. She had not taken it off before going to bed. She never did as it soothed her mind to have someone on close-call in case of an emergency. Cloudia only ever removed it when she bathed, but still kept it close to her then.

Of course, this only worked if Cedric wore his necklace all the time too. And I had no idea if he did.

Afterwards, Cloudia took off her blue Phantomhive ring which she also never removed before bedtime and went to her jewellery chest. She wanted to wear it on her finger all the time, but could only ever do it when she was at home or exclusively around family. Nobody knew that the ring was in her possession – it was, after all, “Earl Phantomhive’s.” Not that this mattered now, of course. After all, Cloudia would go to Nanteuil-la-Forêt as Gauthier, and it would be rather eyebrow-raising if a simple detective’s assistant wore such a fine piece of jewellery.

Cloudia opened the chest but did not put the ring inside. She did not like to leave it behind, and in cases she could not wear it openly, she wore it on a chain around her neck. Behind her clothes, it would be concealed for all; only she would feel the ring’s comfort against her skin.

She rummaged in the jewellery chest until she found the chain and then slipped the ring on it. Just as Cloudia had finished putting on the chain, she spotted something in the chest. Smiling, she took it out and inspected it.

The four-leaved clover necklace Cedric had given her for her seventeenth birthday was a piece for which she rarely found an occasion to wear. It was too simple to wear at balls and gatherings, and Cloudia generally disliked wearing two neck-pieces at once. She only, begrudgingly, did an exception for the Phantomhive ring. The clover necklace had no place next to the skull pendant one.

However, Cloudia sometimes put the clover necklace in her pocket if she had any. Skull pendant around her neck, ring on her finger, clover in her pocket – it was a bit like a spell. But then, the clover necklace was supposed to be a good luck charm on its own anyway.

Cloudia pocketed the necklace, grabbed her cloak, and left the room.

She had gone down to the stalls often enough to know the way herself, and she went there with quick, silent strides. Denis should be fast asleep now, and a wagon would be too bothersome to bring to Nanteuil-la-Forêt anyway. A horse would do; Cloudia would tie it to a tree before going to the village.

Cloudia pushed open the door to the outside and was relieved to see the sky dark and clear above her. No rain clouds. She had seen enough of them already.

She hurried to the stalls. There, while she was looking around, trying to find a suitable horse to borrow, a voice said behind her: “Cloudie?”

Surprised to hear it here and at this hour too, Cloudia turned around and saw Kamden standing at the doorsill to the stalls. The moonlight left him as a shadowed silhouette – except for his hair which shimmered a bit under the light. Lisa was right: Kamden just looked odd with blond hair.

“Kam, what are you doing here?” Cloudia wanted to know.

“I had the weird feeling that you would be here,” he said, and she smiled. “Cloudie, have you slept at all?”

There was no use lying to Kamden. “No. I have tried for hours, but could not. I am too restless to sleep.”

Kamden nodded. “Then let me accompany you. We can take a wagon then: I can drive, and you can take a nap until we arrive.”

There was no use fighting back either. Especially not when it was already so late and time was tight. “Okay,” Cloudia said. “Let’s go to Nanteuil-la-Forêt.”

***

~Cedric~

Cedric was woken up by Jacques and as soon as he saw his face, he groaned.

“Your Grace,” said Jacques while Cedric sat up and glimpsed at the clock – six in the morning, brilliant. “It is a clear day today. It is time to visit the Clockmaker.”

***

Somewhere, United Kingdom – May 1843

~Cloudia~

They had guided her into a room where she could wait while they released him. Cloudia had not expected much of this process – in fact, she had barely thought about how exactly Oscar’s actual release would go – but having now waited for over an hour, she admitted to herself that she had hoped that someone would have simply opened his cell’s door right after she was done talking to him. Right then and there. If they had done that, Cloudia could have been on the road home now. Instead, she was waiting in potentially the least shabby room the wardens could find for her, twisting and turning her father’s sketchbook in her lap.

I hoped they had at least informed Clifford that it was taking so long. I would not want him to worry whether or not the Yard Ripper had killed me on the spot after being released or not. But then, I supposed, the wardens would certainly tell him that.

Cloudia drummed her fingers on the sketchbook and looked at the clock whose hands seemed to move painfully slow. Sighing, she flipped open the book. Since she had found it in a secret passage in Phantomhive Manor three years ago, Cloudia had looked through it a million times and every time, it gave her a warm, comforting feeling. She loved the soft brushstrokes, the precise lines made with pencil and coal. Nobody had ever told her about this hobby of her father’s, and looking at his drawings made her feel closer to him than she ever had before. It was a solace Cloudia sought out whenever the days were especially bleak or she was hit with yet another wave of loneliness, though this had been happening less and less frequently since she met Kamden.

Cloudia thumbed over the landscape drawings and went to the one that had brought her to this place. She had stared at this portrait of Oscar Livingstone for three years and wondered who and where he was. Now, she looked at it and wondered how much he had changed since Simon Phantomhive had immortalised him on paper.

Not that I even knew how exactly Oscar had looked back then. The portrait was uncoloured, a quick sketch in black coal. His hair was drawn black in it because of that, but maybe it was not that dark at all. His eyes had not been filled in, so, I thought, they must be of a light colour. Blue or green? Maybe grey?

Cloudia closed the sketchbook. Soon, she would find out. She only hoped this “soon” would not break the word’s definition. Cloudia leaned her head back, looked up at the tattered ceiling, and kicked her legs back and forth. A year ago, her feet had hovered above the floor when she sat properly on a chair. Now, her feet reached the ground, and when she kicked her legs, her feet scraped the floor – click-clack like a pendulum.

Had so much time passed that I had become my own clock?

Then, the door opened, and someone entered. Cloudia had thought at least one of the wardens would be with him, but, apparently, they had only escorted him to the door and allowed him to enter the waiting room on his own. He was truly her problem now.

“They took their time arranging the final steps of my release,” said Oscar, “but here I am now.”

With a pounding heart, Cloudia tore her gaze from the crumbling ceiling and sat up properly on her chair. Her imagination of him was replaced by reality, and she hoped she did not stare as she scrutinised him.

Oscar Livingstone towered over her in the truest sense of the word as he was fairly tall and broadly built. He seemed robust and steadfast although he was not well-nourished: His cheeks were sunken and his skin taut. If he had not been so broad, his clothes would have hung on him like laundry on a washing line. He was only forty-four, but his black hair had largely faded to grey, and it hung long and wild over his shoulders. Oscar’s beard was also long and unkempt. Despite the wardens’ efforts to shield her eyes from the other patients in the asylum, Cloudia had been able to glimpse at some of them. Unlike Oscar, their heads had been shaven. She wondered if he had resisted when they tried to shave him, or if the staff had been too frightened of him to ever try.

But it was not the fact that Oscar looked like he had not spent the last six years of his life in an asylum but hidden away from the world in a forest that surprised and fascinated Cloudia. It was his eyes which were a beautiful light blue and which, despite the last few years, were still sharp and shone with life. They also provided such a stark contrast to his hollow body.

Looking at the rest of him, she might not have stared, but she feared that she was staring at his beautiful blue eyes now. Cloudia blinked, shook herself out of her amazement, and wrinkled up her nose when her focus was broken and her senses were not directed to one thing anymore.

“You need a bath,” Cloudia said.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

The Island

Fingel Von Frings took a deep drag of his cigar and exhaled smoke against the glass that allowed him to see into the cryo chamber while the people inside couldn’t see out.

Cassell medical personnel wrapped in thick cloth hazmat suits with protective helmets and visors worked quickly to secure Tom Allman for transport. His thick claws were wrapped in cut proof mittens. HIs arms were twisted tight in a straight jacket. On top of that, thick straps reinforced with kevlar tied his arms together. Finally, a helmet faced with a titanium alloy cage  was fitted over his head.

There was no point in wasting any more serum on this young man. He had passed the point of no return. 

As the Vice Chancellor, he’d only had the responsibility to sign off on his expulsion from Cassell. He didn’t have to be here. But he always made it a point to see off every student who left academy without an official ceremony.

A wheeled metal coffin was rolled in. On the count of three, the medics lifted his body and placed him inside, closing the lid. A pneumatic pump, sealed it with the push of the button and the glass that showed his sleeping face inside was frosted over as liquid nitrogen filled the tubing in the metal casket dropping the temperature inside. At this point, all of his body processes would cease functioning.

Fingel took a deep breath and let it out.

Footsteps approached him. Mr. Baldwin, the head of the executive department came up to him and held out a stack of papers. He stared at it. He was starting to hate those 8 x 10 white sheets as much as he hated doing his classwork.

But after a seconds hesitation, he took it from Baldwin’s hands and started to flip through it. “Runes, in Norton Hall?”

“First I’ve heard of it. Of course, it’s not the strangest thing I’ve heard. We scanned the entire place. No sign of any runes.”

“Have it tested for Longwei.” He pulled a pen from his pocket. It gleamed golden, a diamond at its head. He signed his name and handed the papers back to him.

“Yes, sir.”

“How is she?”

“Emotional.”

Fingel turned to him and stared coldly, his hands in his pockets. “What emotions.”

“Sadness, betrayal, distrust...”

“Has she talked to anyone?”

“She refuses all visitors. She believes Tom is dead. I’m fine with that. No one ever comes back from that island.”

“Does she want to leave?” Fingel began to walk out of the medical ward, still puffing on his cigar.

“She hasn’t said that. She hasn’t called her parents either.”

The chill wind from the rotors of a helicopter tossed Fingel’s golden hair about his face. The coffin was wheeled from the high security facility and into the open cargo bay of the helicopter.

“That’s strange. She talks to them every day...”

“Yes, her father has called the main office several times asking to speak with her. No word from her mother though.” Baldwin said this casually.

Of course, Fingel and Carli - otherwise known as Meixiu - talked frequently and Baldwin knew this. She had to be informed of new patients admitted to the island. “Do you want to know her opinion on the situation?”

“I do actually!” Though he was raising his voice to shout above the roar of the helicopter engine, Fingel could still hear the anger in his voice.

The machine lifted off and gained in altitude before swinging its nose to point towards the northwest and speed out of sight.

Once it was quiet enough to speak normally. “I want to know how long she plans to continue this cruel exercise. It would have been much easier to just expel him and put a bullet in his head. Which is what I suggested from the outset! And what I suggested after he went berserk and almost killed her the first time!” “Well, you went against your own orders the first time...” Fingel was quick to correct him.

“Which... I sincerely regret.”

Fingel turned to face him directly. “Why? What gave you hope the first time that has left you now?”

“There was a theory. I’d say it’s more of a myth than a theory. It stemmed from the report of Akira and Kogure Sakurai. Those two unstable Hybrids were part of the Devil Clan and had dangerous bloodlines. Both of them were held in the black jails run by Hydra until they escaped. Kogure, however, never harmed anyone, and Akira, after running on a spree of rape and murder, suddenly stopped.”

“The common denominator of the two was personal attachments. Kogure was attached to Chimei Gen. It was only after she felt that she had lost him that she finally gave in to her blood. And Akira had given in to his blood until he met a girl on the subway, which was actually an undercover agent for Hydra. He switched from killing every woman he met, to trying to protect her.”

“Ah... the power of love and friendship!” Fingel said without any mocking tone.

“Of course, this has been impossible to study. But when I saw how attached Ru’Yi was, I hoped she could act as a restraint for him. I knew this also posed a danger, so I put her under constant surveillance. But... this only served to put her in danger. The result was the same. She’s in the hospital, and he’s her mother’s guinea pig. The results were the same for Akira and Kogure as well.”

Fingel raised his hand and put it on Baldwin’s shoulder without looking at him. “Science has progressed and will progress. Even if he is a guinea pig, it may be one on the road to a solution.”

“We have a solution... Vice Chancellor.” He shrugged off his hand. “She just doesn’t want to accept it.”

Mr. Baldwin left Fingel to make the slow and long walk back to his office in the drifting snow.

The helicopter traversed the continental United States, briefly stopped for fuel in LA and lifted off again over the endless blue ocean of the Pacific. Eventually, the sun set and the pilot only had the instruments to go by. According to the official maps, there was no island on the coordinates. The helicopter was headed for a deadzone. The pilot turned the navigation to auto and stood up, walking back to the cargo bay.

The pilot removed the heavy flight helmet, revealing falling cascade of ebony hair which she shook out and ran her hands through.

Mai Sakatoku then reached into the onflight fridge for a can of beer which she opened and took a sip. “You make for quiet company.” 

She leaned over to see into the window of the coffin. The young man’s eyes were still closed, frozen in place by tears that couldn’t be shed. She lightly tapped the glass with a delicate fingernail. “You and Miss Chu’s daughter, hm?” 

She leaned against the coffin, her mind going back to the countless so called boyfriends of the past. “I suppose it’s fitting. Her father was also a berserker, before he fell head over heels for a certain dragon. And in the end, that was what saved his life.”

“She never got to tell you the story, because she doesn’t know it. In fact, I think it’s just me, my fellow Nanny and Mingfei Lu that know the end of that story.”

“Let’s hope yours ends a bit differently.”

There was no signal out here. So Mai had to content herself with whatever she had already downloaded on her phone, bingewatching her favorite movies and K-dramas. Meanwhile, she kept a close eye on the casket, making sure the temperature was kept cold enough to keep this guy from waking up.

A sudden alarm shook her from her reverie. She stood and went to the cockpit. Another plane, flying low, almost out of radar range but nearly directly below her. “Ah... we have a curious jet?”

She tried to get a picture of it, but it appeared invisible against the dark waves of the ocean. “Cloaking technology?”

Her eyes narrowed. This was no normal inquiry from a nation-state. Few nations could approach this level of high tech on a plane. Hybrids were higher functioning physically. The technology they surrounded themselves with was likewise ahead of human technology. 

That made this jet fair game. She did not change trajectory. Instead, she reached for a large gun on the back of the the plane. She hoisted to her shoulder with a soft grunt and strapped it to herself. She then hooked herself to the interior of the helicopter and opened the door.

The ferocious wind was enough to tear her away from the helicopter and she grit her teeth and let go. She was like an out of control kite, fluttering precariously in the wind. It was like being on the worst carnival ride. Still her powerful muscles braced themselves and forced the sight to her eyes. It wouldn’t do to have any reports getting out about the island.

She aimed directly for the cockpit of the jet. A tiny target to be sure. She took her time fluttering back and forth. Eventually her mind caught the rhythm of the wind, the speed of the aircraft, and linked it to the knowledge of the speed of the missile. She aimed at a spot far ahead and after a few more seconds, she pulled the trigger.

There was a bright flash of light. She blinked and the target had disappeared. She imagined the pilot getting vaporized instantly, the instrumentation getting blown apart. She turned her head to look, there wasn’t so much as a ripple that could remain in the open ocean.

[atlafan]

Take it Slow - Part Thirty-One

a/n: okay this is my first shot at a harry:y/n fic, and it will be multiple parts. y/n had a bad experience with an ex over a year ago, and finally accepts her coworker and good friend Niall’s invitation to go on a blind date with his friend Harry.

Warnings: Fluff.

Masterpost (all previous parts can be found in the masterpost)

You and Harry agreed he would move in after you got back from England. You spent most of the week helping him pack up some of the easier things he didn’t need every day. That way you wouldn’t have to do much when you got back.

You rummaged through your closet pulling out as many options for outfits you thought you’d need for your trip. You had one really big luggage bag you’d be able to get most of everything into. You decided to use your backpack as a carryon. You kept your travel toothbrush and a spare pair of clothes in there. Harry had a large luggage bag and a backpack as well.

“Think you have everything ya need? We gotta get up pretty early tomorrow.” He asks, sipping on his coffee Friday morning.

“Yup! Everything’ll be good to go. I’m leaving work around three today too. I’m hoping to go to bed early.”

“Same here. We’ll need to be up at like three in the morning, order the uber and all that. International security takes a little bit longer. Got your passport?”

“Yes, it’s on my dresser ready to go.”

“Perfect.” He kisses you on the cheek. You look down at your watch.

“Well, I better go to work. See you this afternoon.” You kiss him goodbye, and head out the door.

You were thankful it wasn’t snowing, and there were no storms in the forecast. Sarah and Rachel agreed to help take turns watching your place while you were gone, and you were so grateful for them. Niall was only working a half day today. He was taking a red eye to Ireland that night.

“Excited?” He asks, coming into your office.

“So excited! It’s going to be so much fun.”

“Won’t be weird celebrating Christmas?”

“Not at all! I’m excited to see what traditions his family has.”

“It’s quaint, quiet. Very cozy.”

“Nice change of pace from my family.”

Niall makes sure to hug you before he leaves. You wish each other safe flights. The clock moves agonizingly slow. You just want to get home to Harry. He was smart enough to just take all of Friday off. When it finally hit 2:50, you dipped out.

When you got home, Harry was making some lunch. You loved your little chef so much.

“Whatcha making?” You ask kissing him on the cheek.

“PB and J’s, sound good?”

“Sounds perfect, thank you.”

You both sit on the couch with your sandwiches, and watch a little TV.

“How was work?”

“So boring, half the office wasn’t there. Niall left at like noon, so the rest of the day just dragged on. Happy I’m home now.”

“Doesn’t your work usually have like a holiday party or somethin’?”

“Yeah, they usually do it at the end of January. It’s a lot of fun, they have it at this hotel with a big ballroom. Open bar too.”

“That’ll be fun.” He smiles. “I secretly love staying in hotels. Feels like a mini holiday.”

“We’re staying in a hotel when we go to London?”

“Actually, we’re staying at my flat.” You give him a confused look.

“You…have your own place in London?”

“I sublet it. I had done a lot work there a few years ago when I was traveling. I took the opportunity to make some money. I mostly use it on Air BnB. It’s nice to have the few times I go home. Since there are a few weeks I go home in the summer, it was just more cost effective to have my own place.”

“How do you run an Air BnB if you’re not there?”

“My sister lives in London too, so I give her a cut to help take care of things.”

“Oh nice! I’m really excited to meet her, and your mum.”

“They’re excited too.”

//

Your alarm goes off a little after two in the morning. You wipe away the sleep from your eyes, and take a really quick shower. You put on some leggings and a sweatshirt. Harry has a pair of sweats on as well, and a long sleeve shirt. You both wheel your luggage down, and he puts it into the uber. You hold his hand the entire way to the airport.

He prints both of your tickets, and sets your luggage up to be checked. He hands you your ticket, and your eyes pop out of your head.

“Harry?” You tug on his jacket.

“Yeah, love?”

“Why does this say first class? I only paid you for a commercial flight.”

“I always fly first class on these long flights. Trust me, it’s worth it.”

“But Harry…this is too expensive.”

“I had the miles babe, it’s not a big deal. C’mon, we need to go through security.”

You both get through security quickly, and head to your gate to wait. You wanted to be mad at him. You really didn’t like when he would pull these fast moves over you. When he puts his arm around you, and pulls you closer to him, you forget you’re upset. You’re too tired to even care at this point. You rest your head on his shoulder.

“What time will we get there?”

“Let’s see, if we actually take off at six? We’ll get there about eleven.”

“That’s good, we’ll still practically have the whole day.”

“Yup. I’m rentin’ a car for us too. That way we can scoot in and out when we like.”

“You think of everything, don’t you?” He chuckles.

Your flight is ready to board, and your jaw drops at the nice seats. You had never done something so extravagant.

“You want the window seat, love?” He asks, putting a carry on overhead.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. If I sit on the aisle, I can stretch my legs out easier.” You kiss him on the cheek and sit down.

You remember the dream you had a few weeks ago of being married and pregnant, traveling with Harry. Your mind wandered to how often you may end up taking this trip with him.

A stewardess comes around with hot towels and mimosas making you giggle. You buckle yourself in, and watch as Harry takes his glasses and a new book out. You take your headphones out, and plug them into the jack in the arm rest. He watches you scroll the countless movies and television shows available.

“Oh hell yeah.”

“What?”

“They have HBO on here, I can finally watch the second season of Big Little Lies.”

“You’re going to watch the whole season on this flight?”

“Probably, I am a pro at binging, or did you forget?” Harry giggles.

The flight attendants go through the safety procedures, and prepare for takeoff. You hold Harry’s hand as you take off. You switch your screen to see what music was available.

“Thought you were goin’ t’watch TV, love.”

“I will in a little while. I feel like I’m gonna drift off, and I don’t wanna miss anything. Think I’m just going to listen to music for a little while.” You smile. He takes your hand and kisses it.

“Here, I’ll grab you a blanket.” He moves to put his hand up to ask for one, but you stop him.

“Brought my own.” You reach for your backpack, and take out your baby blankets. You drape one over your legs, and keep the other bunched up at your stomach to hold onto.

“Never seen those before.”

“I keep them in a box under my bed for safe keeping. They’re not in the best shape, but I don’t like traveling long distance without them. They’re for comfort. I brought a small blanket for you too.” You pull out a fleece blanket and put it in his lap.

“Thanks. Had ‘em for a long time?”

“Yup, they’re my, um, baby blankets.” He smiles at you. “What?” Your cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“Every time I think you couldn’t possibly get cuter, you go and do somethin’ like this.” He kisses your cheek. “Ya comfy, baby girl?” You smile.

“Very.”

You put your ear buds in and scroll through the music options. You settle on The Weeknd, and put it on shuffle. You take out your neck pillow, and get even more comfortable. You close your eyes and sigh quietly. Harry smirks at your music choice, unsure of how you could fall asleep to that kind of music, but he doesn’t question you on it.

He dives into his book, and slowly feels his eyes start to droop. Just as he feels like he’s going to fall asleep, a stewardess comes up to him.

“Sir, would you like anything to drink?”

“Coffee would be great love, and a couple of waters. She’ll be thirsty when she wakes up.”

“Of course.” She hands him the drinks and he puts them in the cup holders. “Here are the papers to fill out for your meals later. If you just want to leave them in the pocket when you’re done, I’ll come ‘round to pick ‘em up.”

“Sure thing, thanks.”

Harry looks over at you, and you look completely passed out. Your face was slightly scrunched, the way you always looked when you were having a dream. You made a slightly distressed noise.

“Oh no.” Harry knew you well enough to know by now that you were most likely having a bad dream, if not a nightmare.

He gently strokes your cheek to try to soothe you. Your breathing steadies, and a slight smile forms on your lips. Your eyes flutter open, and you look over to him through your lashes.

“Ya alright?” He coos.

“Can we snuggle?” You say still half asleep.

“Mhm.”

Harry puts your tray table down so he can stick the drinks on there. Then he lifts up the arm rest so you can scoot closer to him. He puts an arm around you while you nuzzle into his chest. He puts his book in his lap, and drifts off into sleep with you.

You wake up a couple of hours later with your head in Harry’s lap. He was watching TV, nibbling on some potato chips. His other hand was stroking the top of your head. You sit up slowly, and kiss him on the cheek.

“Hey, sleepy head.” You giggle.

“Hi.” You stretch. “Think I’m gonna use the bathroom.” He gets up so you can get out. The bathrooms were much nicer in first class.

When you sit back down you guzzle down the water he had gotten for you earlier. He passes you a small bag of chips.

“Got you a bag of crisps. Should be comin’ ‘round with a meal soon.”

“Crisps?” You giggle. “You’re going full Brit on me this week?”

“Very funny.” He sticks his tongue out at you.

About a half hour later, the stewardess comes around with two continental breakfasts. Harry passes you yours.

“You ordered kosher meals?”

“Yeah, they have to make ‘em fresh.”

“Smart.”

“Only a couple more hours now.” He gives your hand a squeeze.

You and Harry watch the same movie for the remainder of the flight. When you get off the plane you both use the bathroom. You brush your teeth and change into some jeans and a nicer top. You wanted to make a good first impression. Harry changed into some jeans as well. He grabs your luggage, and leads you to the rental car area.

Once you both are settled, you get into the car, accidentally opening the driver’s side, and laughing when you see the steering wheel.

“Wrong side, love.”

“Whoops! I’m all turned around.” You get in on the correct side. “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Am I allowed to drive here?” He chuckles.

“Course.”

“Would you let me try it out at some point during the week? It’ll be cool to say I drove on the opposite side of the road.”

“We can definitely do that. We’ll find a nice parking lot for ya to practice in.”

You gaze out the window as you take in the sights around you. He steals glances of your reactions, and smiles to himself. About an hour and half later, you come close to where his mother lives. He takes his phone out to call her.

“Hi mum, yeah, we’re about twenty minutes away. Sorry, I forgot to call when we landed. Airport was hectic. Alright, see ya soon.” He puts his phone back down. “She’s got a nice lunch ready for us, you’ll love it.”

“I can’t wait.”

Harry pulls up to a small/medium sized house.

“This is beautiful.”

“S’not where I grew up. Mum moved here once I went to uni. Still feels like home though.” He takes the luggage out of the trunk, and you both wheel them up the walkway. Harry opens the door. You both take your shoes off, and leave the luggage in the front hall.

“Harry?! That you?” Anne peaks out through the kitchen. “My baby!” She runs over to him, and gives him a big hug and kiss.

“Hi mum.” He smiles. “Mum, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.” You smile shyly.

“Hello, love.” She gives you a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“Same to you, you have a lovely home.”

“Oh thanks, Harry, your sister should be here any minute. If you want the larger bedroom, I suggest you bring your things upstairs.” She looks at you. “Y/N, come to the kitchen with me while Harry does the heavy liftin’” She winks at you.

You follow her to the kitchen and see a spread of salad fixings and bread.

“Can I get you anythin’ to drink?”

“Just some water would be great, thank you.” She gets a glass and fills it with water for you. You smile as you take it.

“So, you’re the beautiful young lady my son keeps gushing about?” You blush. “He calls me once a week you know? Part of our rule for him not livin’ here anymore. He speaks so fondly of you, dear.”

“That’s sweet of you to say.” You wondered when Harry actually called his mother, because he never did it around you. Maybe when he was at work?

“I didn’t think he would ever meet someone he really loved, let alone liked.” She laughs. Harry walks back in, and sits down at the island with you.

“Oi, I hear ya talkin’, nice things to say about your only son.”

“Sorry Harry, you know how you are.” She grabs two plates. “Please, make up your plates, no need to wait for Gem, you both look famished from the flight.”

You each pile up your plates with salad. You hear someone come in through the door.

“Harry!” Gemma exclaims. He puts his plate down to give his older sister a hug.

“This is m’girlfriend, Y/N.”

“So great to meet you.” She gives you a hug. “Heard wonderful things. Don’t know why you’d wanna give this idiot the time of day, but I suppose someone had to.” She rustles Harry’s hair.

You enjoyed your lunch with the group, it was nice to see Harry interact with his family. They asked you all sorts of questions about your work and family. You listened to stories about Harry and Gemma when they were younger.

“Gem, is your boyfriend comin’ over on Christmas?” Harry asks.

“No, he’s on business right now. I’ll be leavin’ here after we do gifts to meet up with him.”

You were excited to give Harry’s mom and sister the small gifts you had picked up a couple of weeks ago. You also couldn’t wait to see the look on Harry’s face when he opens the box for the watch he’s been wanting.

“So, Y/N, does your family do anything for Christmas?” Anne asks.

“When we were younger we would wait until Christmas to do all of our Hanukkah gifts. And it was an easy day for our whole family to get together. But once we all got older and moved out, we stopped getting together. My brother and sister both have non-jewish significant others, so they spend the day with their families. We usually get together for one of the days during Hanukkah.”

“I saw some of the pictures on Facebook, can’t believe you got Harry to sit on your uncle’s knee, wish I could’ve seen that.” Gemma laughs.

“I’ll have you know, it was an initiation into her family.” He sticks his tongue out at her.

“Harry, I was thinkin’ we could all go out to eat tonight since we’ll be cookin’ a bunch tomorrow and the day after.” Anne says.

“Sounds good to me, can we go to that curry place?”

“Definitely.”

“We’ve talked your ears off, why don’t you kids go unpack a bit and relax.”

You, Harry, and Gemma all head upstairs.

“Took the bedroom with the ensuite by the way.” Harry smirks. “Snooze ya lose.” She rolls her eyes at him.

“Happy to give you two your privacy.”  You giggle and go into the room with Harry. He closes the door.

“Are you allowed to have the door closed when you have a girl in here?”

“Think it’ll be fine as long as m’sister doesn’t rat us out.” He kisses the top of your head.

You unpack your bathroom toiletries, and some of the clothes you plan to wear while in Anne’s house. Harry lays back on the bed, and waits for you to finish. You sit down next to him.

“This is a nice room. Does she often have guests?”

“Sometimes. Gem comes to visit every other weekend.”

“You’re good children.”

“My mum did a lot for us growin’ up.”

“Is your dad in the picture at all?”

“Oh sure, saw him just about every weekend growin’ up. He lives far from here now, so we won’t see him. But I plan to give him a call on Christmas.”

“Didn’t you say you had a stepdad?”

“I do..did. He passed away not too long ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“S’alright, he was a great guy.”

“I don’t wanna fall asleep. I’m nervous I won’t be able to sleep tonight if we nap.”

“Wanna go for a walk? I can show ya the neighborhood.”

“That’d be great.”

“It’s a bit chilly, so we’ll need to bundle up.”

You leave the room. Harry knocks on Gemma’s door, and invites her to come along. The three of you tell Anne you’ll be back soon. The two point out different homes to you. The architecture was exquisite.

“Have ya ever been to England before?”

“No, it’s my first time.”

“Oh how excitin’!”

“She’s been to the Middle East though, Israel.” Harry chimes in.

“Holy shit! That’s so cool. When’d you do that?”

“My senior year of college, I went on a birthright trip.”

Gemma asks you all sorts of questions about the trip, and you show her a few photos on your phone. You liked Gemma, she was nice and friendly. Her and Harry also seemed pretty close. It reminded you of how you were with your brother. But Harry and Gemma acted more like best friends, probably since they’re so close in age.

//

The restaurant Anne took you to was perfect. It was nice, but not too fancy. You greatly enjoyed watching her scold Harry and Gemma for offering to pay. When you all get back to the house you decide to play a card game before bed. You and Harry turn in early since you both were still tired from all the traveling.

You do your nightly routine, and put on a t-shirt and pajama pants. Harry slides into bed with just a pair of boxers on. He raises an eyebrow at you as you join him in the comfy bed.

“You’re awfully covered up.”

“I didn’t know how cold it would be, plus I didn’t want you thinking we were going to get into any funny business at your mother’s house.”

“So I’m not going to see an ounce of your skin for the next three days?”

“You can see plenty of my skin.” You hold your arm out to him and giggle. “You know I’m lucky me neck has completely healed up.”

“That’ll change once we’re in London, same goes for the rest of ya.” He kisses you on the lips, and turns over.

You wrap yourself around him to spoon him, a leg going between his. You both sigh and fall asleep pretty easily.

//

The next morning you and Harry get up to take a shower. You shower together, but no funny business. Other than a few soft kisses, of course. You dry your hair, and put on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Harry does the same. You both go downstairs and see that Anne and Gemma have put together a small breakfast of beans on toast.

“Um, do you we have any plain toast?” Harry asks.

“Of course! We also have jam and butter.” Anne says. “I was thinkin’ we could all decorate the Christmas tree after breakfast. Y/N, would you feel comfortable in helpin’?”

“Sure! I’d be happy to.”

After breakfast you all go into the living room to decorate the tree. Harry and Gemma reminisce over different ornaments from their childhood. You help put different lights around the tree, and Harry plugs it in.

“Oh that’ll look just lovely when the sun sets.” Anne beams. “Thank you kids.” She wraps her arms around Harry. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“Me too mum.”

“What do you all usually do on Christmas eve?” You ask.

“We have dinner, and then we take a drive to look at all the lights around town. Some people really do up their houses.” Gemma explains. “Then we come back and get into our pj’s and watch holiday movies and sip on hot cocoa.”

“Do you like Christmas movies, Y/N?” Anne asks.

“Oh sure, my siblings and I used to watch The Grinch every year on Christmas Eve. The one with Jim Carey.”

“We’ll just have to add that to the list then won’t we?”

“Then on Christmas morning we all have this big breakfast, and open presents. Some friends usually come to visit for dinner, and that’s about it.” Gemma finishes.

“That all sounds wonderful.”

//

After dinner, Anne drives the three of you around the neighborhood. Gemma was right, a lot of people really go all out with their lights. Harry keeps his fingers intertwined with yours for the whole drive. When you get back you were happy you brought a festive pair of pj’s, even if they were Hanukkah themed.

Gemma made everyone hot chocolate as you all got settled in the living room. You started off watching A Year Without A Santa Clause, and all of those stop motion classics.

“Hey look, The Grinch is on Netflix, shall we watch that next?” Anne asks.

“We don’t have to watch it if you all don’t want to.” You say.

“Nonsense, it’ll be a new tradition.”

“Mum, Y/N said she’d make us all potato pancakes tomorrow with breakfast. They’re really good. Do we have everything we need?”

“Yes, I have an abundance of potatoes.”

“Mm, homemade potato pancakes, what a treat.” Gemma says.

Anne flips on The Grinch and you feel a nostalgic excitement take over. Harry pulls you closer to him on the couch, and you snuggle in. You try really hard to stifle some of your laughs. But you can’t help it, you think the movie is hilarious. Harry knew it was bound to happen, you started laughing so hard you cried when the Grinch burps in a random guy’s face on the street. You were trying to be quiet about it, but it just made it funnier. Harry, Anne, and Gemma all laugh along from your infectious laughter.

You had only been there for a couple of days, but you loved his family so much already.

[srbachchan]

DAY 4304

en route, eof the ain u ;           Dec 18,  2019              Wed 9:25 PM

.. on the clarity of skies and snow capped Europe .. more Eastern than in the other direction .. but in picturesque presents and now in journey break to resume tomorrow early ..

.. the immediate and rapid locale change brings .. desperate illusions and confusions of merit and a pave that misleads .. and as it gets in comfort zone, the locale change and the adjust to where the bed the other the other and yet again the other .. it is I believe an aggression unforgiven to the storie above ..

( I was wanting to give it another spell and make it sound somewhat continental, but on the look up found it to be one of a model and professional wrestler  .. and a quick retreat was made without any dwell ..)

I fear when the environ reaches its rightful residence it shall have half a time to adjust there as well I presume because the absence has been .. err .. rather long ..

But a 6 hr airborne condition kept company with the lilt of the mobile stored music and matters reached a situation of a pass , rather effectively .. and now another 3 tomorrow morning .. BUT the imagery and the temperament of the city of Wroclaw ( made the correction from Wroslaw, which is wrong ) lingers in great remembrance over and over again .. a desire that refuses to diminish .. to leave boundaries and come alive again for another seeing ..

Ignored hitherto , but finding its own now in great presence and pride .. something about it that lingers on .. the freedom of its sight and material .. its welcomed relax .. its smile on the people .. on the wonder and sublime servility almost of all that come across the streets or just about anywhere .. a simplicity unknown and in the strength of its presence .. 

A must again .. 

.. the honour and the compassion and the respect given, has been beyond the expectation .. and it is of wonder why .. but there is a natural affinity .. one that holds your hand and does never make even the slightest effort to slacken its hold to give allowance to drift away .. it remains there, strong compassionate and in readiness to deliver .. immediate in its concurrence ..

there is far too much detail that needs mention ..

I shall recall again another time and DAY ..

Amitabh Bachchan

[6extinction]

The book Continental Drift by Jim Robinson is a book series which is providing now-a-days for us easily with lots of description. This book content material is very effective which gives us a immense pleasure to hear these all the stories.

[undermounts]

Bound—Chapter 14: New

AO3 | Masterlist

Summary: Ah, the honeymoon phase.

Pairing: Gaius Augustine/Diana Leigh (BB MC)

Warnings: nsfw

                                                           Zermatt, Switzerland, 2042

Two days later

Kissing him was as easy as breathing.

The sheets whispered against Diana’s skin as their bodies moved together, syrupy slow, the last dregs of sleep fading. She slid her fingers through Gaius’s hair, sighing contentedly as his hand swept over the curve of her spine, his bare skin delightfully warm against hers.

Everything about this was gentle, relaxed, exploratory. This was uncharted territory—being able to touch each other without restraint, to share a gaze unburdened by agony, to speak without having to navigate a minefield of lies. They were still becoming familiar with each other on this new level of intimacy, and Diana had to admit that it was every bit terrifying as it was liberating to have someone know her the way Gaius did. She had opened her mind to him a long time ago but if she was being honest, every second she spent with him now made her want to fold like a weak hand of cards and share everything she could give.

Diana knew that Gaius was in a similar boat. She had seen the way his expression would shift in the slightest of ways whenever their conversations veered towards thoughts of the future. She felt his uncertainty, his longing, and even an odd undercurrent of sadness she didn’t understand whenever they breached the topic of life beyond these wooden walls, beyond the next few days.

Diana didn’t know what any of this stuff between them meant, only that it meant something, and for now, that was enough. The rest of it, they could get to in time.

But this? Touching him, letting him touch her—this was easy. This was good. And Gaius, bless him, was personally committed to learning every inch of her body. The things that made her toes curl, her lips part, her legs tremble. 

“Good evening,” Diana murmured against the shell of his ear as he pressed tender kisses to her jaw, working his way down.

“Sleep well?” Gaius mumbled against her neck and Diana shivered as the low timbre of his voice, still husky with sleep, sent little vibrations across her skin.

“Like a baby,” she grinned, pushing his hair back to see him better as he crawled over her, kissing her sternum, fingers framing her ribs. “I had the most wonderful dream.”

Gaius raised a brow at her, running a stray hand down her side to gently hold her knee against his waist. “Tell me about it.”

“Well,” Diana began, her lips curving as she stretched, arching her back and pushing her chest into his touch. Gaius’s mouth drew into a smirk and he followed her cue, mouthing along her breast. She sighed, resting her hand on his shoulder and rubbing small circles into the tense muscle as she continued on. “There was you. And me.”

“Mmhm.” Gaius hummed in wordless encouragement to go on and Diana’s toes curled, her thighs pressing together.

“Alone,” she added, wrapping one of his dark curls around her finger.

“I like the sound of that,” he chuckled, tongue swiping over her nipple. “What else?”

“Oh, I think you can imagine what transpired,” Diana teased although her voice quivered a little, her focus wavering. “It went a little bit like this, actually.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

“Then I suppose it’s in our best interest to make those dreams come true,” Gaius said innocently, shifting the leg he had held against her hip to rest atop his shoulder. There was a mischievous gleam in his eye that Diana had recently come accustomed to as he retreated down the bed that told her exactly what he planned to do to make her sing.

She was about to let him, too, when she let her head fall back against the pillow, gaze falling on the window to her left. Beyond, she could see the golden lights of Zermatt, sparkling in the night. The sight of it reminded her of a promise she made to herself last night, that she would take some time to explore and appreciate being in this incredible alpine village while she was here. Although Diana supposed that she couldn’t exactly do that if she was committed to spending the entire night in bed with Gaius, again. Sighing internally, Diana realized that if she didn’t stop this now, she never would.

Before Gaius could taste her, Diana squeezed his shoulder, drawing him up with a suffering sigh. As he settled onto the bed beside her, he raised an eyebrow. She knew he could feel her desire as acutely as she could feel his, but he didn’t push the matter.

Diana pushed herself up to her elbow, trailing her fingers over his chest. “As much as I want to stay here all night with you—and believe me, I do—I want to enjoy Switzerland while we’re here and do it without having to walk 60 miles.”

Gaius huffed a laugh, covering her hand with his. “I suppose that’s fair.”

Diana looked down at him, her gaze softening. “You’ll come out with me tonight, right?”

For him, it wasn’t even a question. “Of course.”

Diana smiled, nodding. “Perfect. I’m going to go take a bath. I want to check out the tub.” 

She dragged herself out of bed, fingers combing through her tangled hair as she grabbed her bathrobe and a few clothes she had purchased from the hotel’s boutique when they slipped out of the room in the early hours of the morning the day before to cash in on the lodge’s complimentary continental breakfast. 

As she rounded the corner to the bathroom, she paused,  glancing back at him over her shoulder. Maybe she could kill two birds with one stone. “You could… join me, if you want.”

Something in her stomach clenched at the way his eyes darkened ever so slightly with lust, his brow raising in amusement. Before he could respond, Diana slipped into the bathroom, tossing her pile of clothes on the counter and turning on the bath’s faucet. 

Bath wasn’t really the right word. This was more of a hot tub, with seats along the walls, small jets embedded in the sides. Diana was in the middle of studying the array of oils and bath salts the hotel provided when Gaius appeared behind her, looking over her shoulder at the collection. Reaching around her, he plucked a small tin of salt and flipped the lid open, sniffing it once before he pressed it into her palm and scouted out a small bottle of oil.

Those should go nicely together, he supplied, kissing her shoulder as he set his clothes, neatly folded, beside her pile.

How do you know that? she questioned, although she didn’t bother looking beyond what he had picked out. She scattered salts among the water, adding in the scented oil. Before long, the delicate, night-filled scent of jasmine wafted through the room, tendrils of steam caressing her body.

He gave her a lopsided smile. I know a thing or two about luxury, diviana.

I don’t doubt that. She gave him a knowing smirk, then gently placed her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Gaius held her elbow as she put one leg over the edge of the tub, gingerly testing the water’s temperature before stepping in.

Oh, that was divine. Diana groaned as she sat against the wall, the water going all the way up to her neck, sore muscles sighing in relief. Gaius chuckled and settled in across from her, ducking his head beneath the water’s fragrant surface.

Diana simply observed him, draping her arms over the lip of the tub, chewing her lip as he resurfaced, dark hair slicked back, little rivulets of water trailing down his sculpted cheekbones, falling into the hollows of his neck. Diana watched one droplet roll down his chest, lower, lower…

I thought you wanted to go out tonight, Gaius mused in her head and Diana snapped her head up, catching his knowing expression. She felt her blood rush to her face but forced her features to relax into a mask of neutrality.

I do. She shrugged, trailing her fingers across the water. I was just admiring the view.

Gaius’s lip curved and he turned, grabbing a small bottle of shampoo. “Come here.”

Diana submerged herself, soaking her hair and gliding over to him. Gaius’s hand settled on her hip, guiding her to sit between his knees. He placed a quick kiss to the edge of her jaw, then swept her dark hair over her shoulders to rest against her back, fingertips brushing the sides of her neck as he did.

“What do you want to do tonight?” he asked, pouring soap into his hand and gently lathering it into her hair, fingers massaging her scalp. Diana let out a sigh, relaxing beneath his touch.

“Find a restaurant,” she hummed, eyes drifting closed as she tilted her head back. “Order some appetizers. Order drinks. Order dinner. Order dessert. Find a bakery. By some pastries.”

“It sounds like you just want to eat.” Diana could tell by the sound of his voice that Gaius was smiling. She wanted to see it. She turned, sitting sideways across his lap and he tsked. “I wasn’t done yet.”

“You can still do it like this,” she shrugged, plucking the shampoo bottle from his hands. “Now I can wash you, too.”

Gaius didn’t object as she dumped some of the soap into his hair and combed it through his locks. When he leaned in to resume his progress, Diana pecked the corner of his mouth; his smile deepened and she did it again.

“Sit still,” he mumbled, rolling his eyes. “I’m going to get soap in your eyes.”

“A small price to pay,” retorted, but focused on washing his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp.

This was… nice. Diana was struck by how easy being here with Gaius was, sitting in silence, just washing each other. This was yet another example of how well they coexisted together, fit together, worked together. She couldn’t help but wish that things could have always been this simple between them and found herself wondering if they could have had this sooner. But there was no use in going down that rabbit hole. They were here now, and that was all that mattered.

A few minutes later, after they had washed their hair out, Gaius poured body wash into his palm and motioned for her to turn around. “I’ll get your back.”

Diana didn’t argue and he set to work scrubbing her shoulders, her neck, fingers expertly kneading her tense muscles. She jolted, biting down hard on her cheek as she fought down what would have been an embarrassing moan in response to a mixture of a pleasant sort of pain mixed and relief that rolled through her, inadvertently lighting a fire low in her belly. Diana gritted her teeth as his thumbs pressed into the ridges of her spine. 

This was going to be a test of restraint then.

After several agonizing minutes, Gaius finally washed the soap from her skin with water and Diana turned, trying in vain not to show how flustered she was, although color was high in her cheeks. Gaius’s face was neutral as he regarded her, more soap ready in his hands.

Right. Because there was still so much left of her to clean. Diana’s toes curled. If just washing her back had been that enticing… 

Diana shifted, framing Gaius’s thighs with her knees to face him better and grabbed a bar of soap, clenching it hard in her fist to stop her fingers from trembling. She held it to his chest just as he began at her collarbone. He lifted a brow.

Diana swallowed but didn’t back down. I can control myself. Can you?

Gaius huffed, his breath warming her skin. Of course I can.

Then this shouldn’t be a problem. Before he could respond, Diana ran the soap across his tan skin, trying to focus on washing him rather than the feel of his hands on her. Subconsciously, her legs tensed around his as he cupped her breasts, thumbs swiping over her nipples, lathered in body wash.

Self-restraint, Diana told herself even as her breath hitched. Self-restraint.

She dragged the bar of soap lower, scrubbing the hard planes of his stomach while his attention was still on her breasts, his touch tantalizing. Diana clenched her jaw. “I think they’re clean, Gaius.”

His eyes flicked up to hers. “I am being thorough.”

Thorough my ass, she thought, biting so hard on the inside of her lip, she drew blood. When he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, a small whimper sounded from the back of her throat and she glared at him. 

I thought you could control yourself, he teased, eyes sparkling in amusement, and Diana scowled.

You’re hardly playing fair, she snapped back, fingers tightening on the bar of soap. 

Gaius tilted his head slyly, lips curving. I wasn’t aware we were playing.

Oh, so that was how he was going to be then. Diana ground her teeth, steeling her resolve. Fine. If he was going to act up, she could return the favor. She dipped her hands below the water, swiping the soap along his lower stomach as she used her other hand to scrape her nails along the inside of his thigh. She watched his pupils blow wide, spots of color blooming across his cheeks.

Good, she hummed to herself.

Gaius drew back, dumping more soap into his hands, a muscle feathering in his jaw. He held her gaze, a hint of a challenge gleaming in his eyes as he skated one palm down the flat of her stomach and the other slipped between her legs.

Diana’s hips jerked as his fingers worked against her and she snarled in his mind, Bastard.

He innocently raised his eyebrows at her as if to say, Who, me?

Without prelude, she took him into her hand, delighted to find that he was already half-hard just from touching her, and ran the soap along his length, applying just enough pressure to make up for the lack of friction.

Gaius sucked in a sharp breath, his brows lowering as he gripped her hip with her free hand. Now who’s not playing fair?

Still you, she countered, not trusting herself to speak aloud as her body heated, practically burning in the warm water. The pads of his fingers circled her clit, his touch slick with soap and her own need, and Diana bit back a groan. She refused to sing until he did.

Diana fit the bar into the palm of her hand before wrapping her fingers, stroking without giving him the friction he needed. She watched in triumph, swiping her thumb over the head of him as his eyes fluttered shut and he tilted his face back, the curves of his throat standing out in stark relief as he let an unsteady moan.

“Now we’re even,” she cooed, a little breathless both from his ministrations and just the sight of him, so vulnerable and god damned beautiful under her touch. He belonged in a Renaissance painting, one with clouds and cherubs and whatever heavenly bullshit usually appeared in those works of art that she couldn’t remember for the life of her. After all, how could she? When he was touching her like this and her name sounded like a prayer on his lips?

All Diana knew was that he looked like an angel, absolutely ethereal. The sight of him like this, holy but so debauched, left her both entranced and feeling as if she were intruding on something private. If this was one of the Roman myths Gaius had recently told her about, then she was Actaeon, stumbling upon the sight of a god in their naked, full glory and—damn it, if she was Acteon, that made him the goddess Diana. The absurdity of that allusion almost made her bark with laughter as her mind hazed with the pleasure he freely gave her.

Diana moaned at last as he easily slid two fingers inside, curling them against her walls. She ground down on his hand, involuntarily clenching, feeling at once full but still left wanting more. 

Before her mind could spiral even further, Diana withdrew her touch, casting the soap aside. It splashed somewhere behind her as she leaned forward, gripping the back of Gaius’s neck and pulling him in for a searing kiss. He moaned against her as she swiped her tongue against his lip, ravenous.

Gaius drew back, breathing hard. “I thought you said—”

“I know what I said. I take it back.” Diana crushed her lips against his and his fingers slipped out, causing a whine to build in the back of her throat. He gripped the underside of her thigh, pulling her over him and they both swore as Diana ground herself against him at last.

Zermatt and dinner could wait a little while longer, Diana decided as she rose on her knees, took him in her hand once more, and sheathed him in one move. Gaius swore in some language Diana didn’t recognize as she rolled her hips against him, draping one arm over his shoulder and cupping his cheek with her other hand, bringing their foreheads together. She wanted to see him, to see how his eyelashes fluttered and lips parted as she bore down on him, setting a steady but sensual pace.

Gaius’s hands roamed down her spine, settling on her backside and helping her along as he thrust up to meet each roll of her hips. It didn’t take long for the pleasure to build up in Diana, not with all of the wanting and (poor) self-restraint that had led up to this. She rocked against him, her stomach tightening as she breathed into the space between them, “Gaius, I’m not going to last.”

He had been watching, transfixed, all of the places they met. At her admission, his eyes flicked up to hers and she saw the hunger in them, the desire to please. He removed one hand from her back and set his fingers against the apex of her thighs and she shuddered, clenching hard around him. Every muscle in her body—her thighs, her stomach, her arms—felt coiled so tight, and every snap of her hips and rub of his fingers set her closer to the edge. 

It was everything, the savage pace she had adopted, the desperate grip he kept on her back, and the look of complete and total surrender that crossed his face that urged her faster, harder, until it was too much and she went tumbling, hurtling herself over the edge of that cliff. She pulled Gaius tighter to her, gasping his name against his lips as she came, not slowing her pace until he groaned and she felt him stiffen and spill inside her, sated.

They stayed like that for a long while, breathing hard and still reeling. Diana’s head fell to his shoulder and Gaius ran a soothing hand down her back as he pressed his lips to her temple. In response, she kissed his neck and swiped her thumb across his shoulder.

When Diana finally caught her breath, she said, “I still want to get dinner.”

Gaius huffed, his breath ghosting over her forehead. “I’d expect nothing less of you.”

Diana lifted her head, glancing around the tub and wrinkled her nose. “I think we’re going to have to shower after this.”

Gaius hummed in agreement and shifted them so he had one arm beneath her shoulders and another at her knees. He stood, carrying her out of the tub and to the shower stall. He set her on her feet and stepped in beside her, shutting the glass door.

“We’re just showering,” Diana declared, pointing a finger at him as she turned on the faucet. “I mean it.”

Gaius smirked at her, eyes dancing. “Of course.”

                                                “This is a nice shirt on you,” Diana noted, leaning across the table to tug on the cuff of Gaius’s shirt, a white cotton button-up. “You should wear more like it.”

They sat in a low lit restaurant, somewhere off of the main street in Zermatt, having just finished their main dinner course and ordered dessert. Fragrant spices and the din of conversation whirled around them. It was perhaps, the first time in weeks that they had been surrounded by so many people, and not had to hide.

“It’s not very practical for fighting,” Gaius frowned down at it as he drank from a glass of red wine. “Or camping. Or hiking.”

“And a doublet and a cape ever was?” Diana rolled her eyes, brushing her fingers over the back of his hand as she sat back, setting her elbow on the table and fitting her chin in her palm. “Adrian and Kamilah fought in pantsuits all the time.”

“Fine. It’s not very easy to clean,” Gaius rephrased, with a sigh. “Adrian and Kamilah have closets full of identical suits. “I have a backpack. Had a backpack.”

“We’ll get you a new one. A bigger one.” Diana ran her finger over the rim of her wine glass as she added, “One with lots of space for button-ups.”

His lip curved and he leaned back as their server reappeared with two plates in hand, decadent desserts topped on each. An elegant roll of sponge cake, cream, and strawberries for Diana and some sort of tart piled on with glazed fruits for Gaius. He thanked the server and picked up a small fork before turning back to her. “You spoil me.”

“I would be a liar if I told you that I wasn’t partially acting in my best interest.” Diana mirrored him, reaching for her own utensil and using the side of it to cut into her roll. “Besides, a backpack is nothing,” Diana clicked her tongue and tapped her foot against his below the table. She lowered her voice, looking at him through her lashes. “You have yet to learn what it is to be spoiled by me.”

Diana watched as color rose in his neck, just above the collar of his shirt. Interesting.

She ran her foot along the length of his calf and he shot her a look that was both amused and scolding, well aware of what she was up to. Diana took a bite of her roll, reveling in its creamy texture and sweet taste before she went on. “What else shall we get for you? A new coat,” she wondered aloud, “something warm and soft. New shoes…” She took another bite, noticing that Gaius still had not touched his dessert. “What would you like?”

“I have all that I need, diviana.” Gaius shook his head, his fork still hovering in the air. “You have already given me enough. I don’t need anything else.”

“Want and need aren’t the same thing, Gaius,” she chided and he averted his gaze, finally digging into the tart on his plate. 

Diana was about to return her focus to her own food when he mumbled, “I want you.”

Her lips curved at the sentiment, heart softening. There was nothing charged or suggestive about that statement this time. Just an honest admission. 

Sometimes it caught her off guard, his more obvious expressions of affection. As they broke down these walls between them Diana had picked up on the subtle ways he showed he cared: delicate brushes of his fingers against her skin, reaffirming his confidence in her, carrying her bags when her arms got sore. Many of these things, she noted, he had shown from the beginning. In the last two days, Diana had come to the realization that he had always been giving to her, whether it be advice, encouragement, snacks, or even pieces of himself.

Gaius leaned across the table, drawing Diana out of her thoughts. She watched as he set what appeared to be some sort of glazed fruit on her plate. When she looked closer, she realized they were sliced peaches.

Diana fought down a smile. Even now… 

She ran the notch of her ankle down his leg before pulling back, the gesture one of gratitude this time rather than provocative. But his words, his behaviors… they had her thinking.

So you are more than happy to treat me, but you balk at the prospect of receiving, she mused through their bond, What is it? Do you think you are still undeserving of the things you want? Then she paused, running her tongue over her teeth in hesitation before she added gently, Of me?

She didn’t need the bond to see the answer in his eyes. Yes.

Something in her chest twinged painfully at that. 

Diana reached across the table, took his hand, and pressed her lips to his knuckles. She squeezed his fingers, forcing him to meet her gaze. You are deserving of this, whatever it is. You are deserving of happiness, even if you don’t believe it.

The look he gave her was agonized, as if her words were too much to bear. This was not the time for this conversation, Diana knew. She could not convince him to abandon his own skewed view of himself in one night or like this. So for now, she would leave it. 

But before she returned her attention to her dessert she added, With me, Gaius, you’re going to get as well as you give. She shoveled more of the spongy roll into her mouth, lips dragging along the fork as she shot him a searing look. And I know how well you do that.

Diana thought he looked quite lovely when he blushed.  

                                                      Tagging: @somin-yin, @memetrashing, @bigmemesplz, @mkamra2355, @xbobbatea, @bachelorettebound14, @dorkylittleweirdo, @choicesplayer101, @mindlesschicca, @vesselsynths, @mikewawazoski

[rwby-redux]

Deconstruction

Worldbuilding: Geography

Full disclosure: I hated doing this post. Not because the writing was difficult or the topic was boring—far from it. No, the reason I hated doing this was because I got sucked into a wikihole. I started out researching climate zones, and ten hours later I was reading an article about Icelandic hot spring rye bread (which is called hverabrauð by the way and you should absolutely check it out). I only realized what time it was when I looked out my window and saw the sun starting to rise. Try to picture what my sleep schedule has looked like for the last few days, and you can see why I might be just a smidge upset.

Sorry. Where was I?

Ah, yes: geography. The bane of cartographers everywhere. If you’ve ever dabbled in writing stories with a non-Earth setting, you’ll know that one of the most fundamental aspects of worldbuilding is the lay of the land. Even before you’ve started working on the cultures of your fictional people (or hell, even the plot), you need to develop the locations. Any writer worth their salt will correctly tell you that geography dictates who the characters are, what the story’s about, when major actions occur, where the major story beats take place, why things progress the way they do, and how certain steps are achieved.

Want an example of this? Take a look at the geography of Avatar: The Last Airbender and how it influenced the Fire Nation’s culture and resulting imperialistic conquest: [1]               

A geographic map of Avatar: The Last Airbender depicting the four major countries: the Fire Nation, Earth Kingdom, Water Tribes, and Air Temples. | Source: Imgur.

The Fire Nation, being located on a volcanic archipelago, was able to jumpstart its industrial revolution decades before anyone else, courtesy of access to natural resources such as coal and metal ore deposits (which were disproportionately scarcer in the other countries). This abundance of minerals was reflected in gold being commonly incorporated into Fire Nation royal attire, and the Fire Nation boasting some of the most proficient blacksmiths and swordfighters in the world (like Piandao).

Being an island nation, their culinary staples included aquatic and marine species such as waterfowl, fish, cephalopods, crustaceans, bivalves, and seaweed.

The mountainous regions of the Fire Nation made the land ill-suited for agriculture, which likely influenced the development of an oceanic trade route. This allowed for the import of otherwise-unavailable resources from the Earth Kingdom.

The trade route helped to reinforce a unified state by connecting all seaports, trading outposts, and settlements in the archipelago to the major urban capital. This interconnectivity created economic advantages, and solidified a sense of cultural unity and loyalty to the nation by making communication (via ship and messenger hawk) direct and expedient.

The navy emerged as a natural outgrowth of the oceanic trade route. Martial vessels would have been necessary for protecting merchant ships from pirates, collecting taxes from provincial settlements (because navies have steep operating costs), and enforcing the laws of the central authority. Similarly, as an island country, the only way the Fire Nation could have feasibly been harmed is through a naval attack, which would have given it the incentive to cultivate a naval defense.

At the beginning of the Hundred Year War, the Fire Nation seized control of the northwestern Earth Kingdom because the region was rich in resources that they would need to sustain themselves if they were going to survive without international trade.

Their technologically-advanced navy and control of the major oceanic trade routes allowed the Fire Nation to orchestrate blockades, quickly transport troops and equipment between places, and limit the tactical movements of the other countries.

To say that geography dictates the story is an understatement—without it, the story wouldn’t exist. Good writing and likeable characters can only do so much to save a story that lacks this crucial component of worldbuilding.

So, how does this apply to RWBY?

In order to talk about that, first we have to address the unusual way that Remnant’s map was designed.

Back in 2012, while out at an IHOP with Shane Newville, Monty Oum had the idea of squirting a ketchup bottle into a napkin, crumpling it up, and then unfolding it to reveal the blotchy proto-topography of Remnant. His reason for doing so, as he explains:

“The philosophy behind [making the map that way] is that, I feel like, as a 3D animator […] utilizing all this technology, our process—all these computers, all these numbers and stuff—our process is so artificial, it’s riddled with so much artifice, that not only for that, but for everything else I do, I try to imbue kind of like an anarchy, an anarchic-like chaos, just to give it some sense of, like, randomness. Like, you need to preserve that sense of chaos because the process we do is so robotic. […] But the important thing was, like especially with everything that we just raise in our production value, that you have to preserve that anarchic energy that influences everything you do.” [2]

The original terrain map created by Monty Oum. | Source: RWBY Wiki contributor user:Sgt D Grif.

You’d be hard-pressed to disagree with the artistic merit of this design approach. There’s a simplistic elegance to be found in a creator forfeiting a degree of their control over a project, in order to watch how it might organically evolve.

But here’s the thing: this isn’t like leaving slime molds in a petri dish and letting them network until they resemble Japanese subway lines. While anarchic chaos can work for some disciplines of art, it creates glaring issues when applied to worldbuilding. Nature, although it appears outwardly random, is actually rather ordered. The reason why we don’t leave our houses every day carrying umbrellas is because we don’t have to—we have meteorologists that can anticipate the forecast days or weeks ahead. Plenty of natural phenomena can be predicted: weather systems over vast areas, environmental selection pressures converging on similar traits…

And, of course, plate tectonics.

You see, the problem with Monty’s method is that it didn’t account for the movement of Remnant’s continents. Because the planet’s continents were born from artistic randomness rather than methodical and deliberate forethought, we have no reliable access to certain information, like atmospheric circulation, ocean currents, or plate boundaries. All three of these planetary subsystems—the atmosphere, hydrosphere, and lithosphere—and their dynamics shape the geography of a planet.

Without this information, we can’t answer certain questions.

Was Lake Matsu formed by glacial retreat?

Are Vale’s mountains sitting on a convergent plate boundary? Or are they more like the Appalachians, which are the remains of the Central Pangean Mountains?

If Vale’s mountains were formed by convergent plate boundaries, then why don’t we see evidence of it in the forms of volcanism and earthquakes?

Is Vacuo’s interior desert formed by a rain shadow?

If Solitas’ geography is based on a polar ice cap, then how did early settlers survive long enough to excavate the Dust? How would they have dug through the ice and permafrost?

Has climate change ever resulted in changes in sea level that submerged or exposed the continents? Did early humans and Faunus move between continents by land bridges? Have rises in sea level ever hidden continents (like Earth’s Zealandia)?

Does Mistral’s capital rely on meltwater from the surrounding mountains for irrigating crops?

When the Younger Brother shattered the moon, did the lunar debris alter the landscape when it fell to Remnant? Was it like the Chicxulub asteroid that caused the K-Pg extinction? Did the lunar debris leave craters on the planet’s surface, or cause phenomena like impact winters and ocean acidification?

It bears mentioning that these questions pertain to real-life geographic concepts. This isn’t even touching upon fictional geographic concepts that RWBY introduced, like largescale Dust deposits altering the local environment in such a way that it functionally becomes its own ecosystem (like Lake Matsu’s floating islands). We’re also assuming that RWBY’s continental plates are capable of drift, and weren’t magically glued in place by the gods during the formation of the planet.

Given the scale of these problems, I think it’s safe to say that—while I can appreciate the artistry behind Monty’s design philosophy—the way he designed Remnant ultimately did more harm than good.

While I could spend all afternoon debating the pros and cons of condiment cartography, there are more productive things I could be doing with my time. Instead, I want to discuss Remnant’s geography as it currently is. Specifically, there are three questions I want to test:

How well does the geography hold up?

Does the geography have a realistic influence on society?

How well does the show integrate foreign geographic features into its worldbuilding?

As a quick disclaimer, I’m not an expert on any of the aforementioned subsystems. And because I don’t have any canonical information on Remnant’s atmospheric circulation, ocean currents, or plate boundaries, it becomes impossible to prove or disprove the realism of its geography. For now, we’re going to err on the side of caution and assume that Remnant is a planet with a functionally-analogous lithosphere to Earth’s, and that Remnant’s features are byproducts of such a system.

The current geographic map of Remnant. It boasts five major continents (of which only four have been named) and multiple islands. | Source: World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 1: “Vale.”

How Well Does the Geography Hold Up?

To answer this, I used the Köppen-Geiger climate classification to categorize Remnant’s main landmasses (with the exception of the unnamed continent). This model organizes areas into distinct climatic regions based on seasonal precipitation and temperature patterns. The results I cobbled together are based on approximate latitude, ecosystems that we’ve seen in the show, canon maps, and comparisons between the continents and their real-world sources of inspiration (Asia for Anima, North America for eastern Sanus, Australia for Menagerie, etc). Here’s what I came up with:

SANUS: Tropical savanna (Aw/As), cold desert (BWk), cold semi-arid (BSk), hot-summer mediterranean (Csa), warm-summer mediterranean (Csb), humid subtropical (Cfa, Cwa), hot-summer humid continental (Dfa), warm-summer humid continental (Dfb)

ANIMA: Tropical rainforest (Af), area of tropical monsoon (Am), tropical savanna (Aw/As), desert (BWh), hot semi-arid (BSh), humid subtropical (Cfa, Cwa), subtropical highland (Cwb), hot-summer humid continental (Dfa), warm-summer humid continental (Dfb), subarctic (Dfc), Mediterranean-influenced subarctic (Dsc)

SOLITAS: Tundra (ET), subarctic (Dfc), ice cap (EF)

MENAGERIE: Tropical savanna (Aw/As), desert (BWh), hot semi-arid (BSh), humid subtropical (Cfa, Cwa), temperate oceanic (Cfb)

VYTAL: Subpolar oceanic (Cfb)

This isn’t perfect by any means, but I think it satisfies some lingering doubt about the credibility of the geography. Sanus’ interior desert, for example, could easily be a cold desert climate. The exterior band of foliage on the northern and western sides appears to be indicative of a rain shadow effect caused by a mountain belt (the conditions necessary for creating this climate type). We have evidence of there being nearby western mountains courtesy of the earthquakes in Vacuo, [3] as earthquakes often occur near mountain ranges created by subduction boundaries. Similarly, oases (like the one once found in Vacuo) tend to form in cold desert climates as the result of rain shadows (similar to the el-Djerid oases near the Atlas Mountains).

All things considered, I’m inclined to give the climate regions a tentative pass. Like I said, they’re not perfect, but they seem to be holding up so far.

Does the Geography Have a Realistic Influence on Society?

Ehhh. It depends. With Vale it’s hard to say, given how little we’ve seen of the areas outside the capital (like the Emerald Forest and Forever Fall), and the fact that we haven’t visited any other cities in the kingdom. We know that Vale makes use of a massive port for trade and travel due to the nearby body of water. But there doesn’t seem to be anything particularly unique about the capital’s culture that can be directly attributed to its geography. Despite being a coastal city, it doesn’t have any signature delicacies derived from the abundant seafood. The architecture is largely generic urban-Western, and doesn’t incorporate the mountains in any way. Vale’s geography is little more than a convenient buffer against the Grimm.

Mistral, on the other hand, is heavily influenced by the geography. All of its houses and shops are directly integrated into the mountains, with an emphasis on vertical building to accommodate the limited space on the cliffs. Stairs, bridges, and electronic lifts are used for getting around the city. Unlike Vale, Atlas, and Mantle, which use motor vehicles, Mistral doesn’t have the space to accommodate modern roads, and instead relies on railroad transport (like the Argus Limited) to move around the continent. Compared to Vale, Mistral is a vast improvement on how well the writers used geography to influence the culture of a city. However, I still think the show could’ve done more to strengthen this connection. For instance, we see evidence of cave systems in Mistral, which briefly appear on-screen and are never brought up again. [4] Talk about wasted potential. Additionally, the show never addresses how the Council keeps its citizens from falling to death. No joke, the only place in the city that has railings is the safehouse where Qrow and the kids stay. What the hell do people do in the winter when the stairs and paths ice over? How do they not slip and fall and plummet to their deaths? And while I’m thinking about it, why doesn’t the city have a system of ziplines or ski lifts for getting around? Are native-born Mistrali people adapted to the lower oxygen found at higher elevations? And what about Mistral’s agriculture? Do farmers live outside the capital? How do they protect themselves?

Like I said, Mistral is better than Vale in this department, but it could still do with more worldbuilding.

Atlas and Mantle are more akin to Vale when it comes to noticeable geographic influence—or rather, a lack thereof. While the technology accommodates its residents via the heating grid, there doesn’t seem to be any evidence of how the geography shaped the people of this continent. You’d expect a circumpolar indigenous group to have very distinct cultural traits, but there’s none of that. It’s just rampant technological growth. Now, you could argue that any aspect of geographic influence on culture was wiped out around the time of the Great War. But if the show wants me to believe that, it needs to show me proof. Whether it’s a conversation between two characters, or a political movement spearheading cultural revitalization. Something—anything—that might hint at how geography influenced pre-industrial Mantle.

And forgive me if I don’t feel like speculating about Vacuo, given that it’s only appeared in After the Fall and Before the Dawn. When the show decides to unveil it, then I’ll have more to say.

As for Menagerie? Another resounding meh. The inherent intrigue of a settlement that shelters aquatic Faunus is never fully explored. We get to briefly visit the Shallow Sea district of Kuo Kuana, but the scene is too focused on Blake’s and Sun’s conversation to let us fully explore the area. Which is a shame, because a concept like that could easily be taken to some really cool extremes. Like, what about entirely underwater settlements that are built on coral reefs? How cool would that be for Faunus that have gills, webbed appendages, or caudal fins? I’m not expecting Zootopia or anything like that, but it’d be neat if settlers had gone to creative extremes to accommodate the wide variety of Faunus traits.

How Well Does the Show Integrate Foreign Geographic Features into Its Worldbuilding?

In Volume 5 we’re introduced to Lake Matsu, an area rich with naturally-occurring superterranean Gravity Dust. What makes this place so intriguing is the fact that the Dust is in a constant active state, causing the islands to float in the air. Given that Dust is usually inert unless activated by an Aura, the existence of this place is frankly astonishing, and for the life of me I don’t get why the show treated it as little more than set dressing.

This phenomenon—which I’ve taken to calling a Dust vortex—has so much worldbuilding potential. What if Remnant had pseudo-ephemeral lakes created by concentrations of Water Dust? Or how about a cave system with an abundance of Electricity Dust that causes magnetic charges in the surrounding minerals, creating a place similar to Unova’s Chargestone Cave? Maybe Sanus’ southeastern desert has large pockets of Steam Dust that enshroud the area in permanent fog?

Dust vortices wouldn’t just be aesthetically cool, either; they’d have important implications for the lore. Let’s use Lake Matsu as an example.

If the Dust vortex has been there for a long time (upwards of thousands of years), then the organisms in this ecosystem would’ve adapted to it. You would have endemic wildlife—agamid-like gliding lizards, plants with wind-dispersed fruit, lianas and mosses draped from the underside of the islands, diving birds that nest on the outcrops, microbial detritivores found exclusively in the islands’ soil. Maybe Lake Matsu is an important stopover for migrating birds. Maybe the shadows from the overhead islands are important for predatory fish, which hide in the shade to ambush flying insects. Because the wildlife would be endemic to this ecosystem, perhaps the Mistrali government would designate it a protected area and prevent Dust companies from excavating the site. What if there were fishing towns on the shore that depended on tourism to sustain the local economy? Would they ever come into conflict with Dust companies that lobby the government to open up the area to selective mining?

I’m sure I must sound like a broken record at this point, but the worldbuilding possibilities on display here are nothing short of incredible. And the failure of RWBY to explore even a single one feels like getting repeatedly kicked in the stomach by a feral horse.

We’re now 3,000 words in and I didn’t even get to include ideas for tautological place names. It sucks, but sometimes you have to compromise and go with the idea that make sense to include, rather than the idea that exists just to be novel.

Sound familiar?

-

[1] Hello Future Me. “Avatar: A Study in Worldbuilding — the Fire Nation [ The Last Airbender ]” YouTube video. October 26, 2019. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pa2BD13VzxY&t=3s]

[2] Rooster Teeth. “RT Podcast: Ep. 191.” YouTube video. November 14, 2012. 7:52 - 12:01. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kymVnsIUWLY]

[3] Myers, E. C. RWBY: Before the Dawn (Book 2). Scholastic Inc, 2020. Online preview. “The city of Vacuo had some order to it, with different districts for residences and businesses, and a wide street down the center for the market. But the outer edges of it were periodically wiped out, because of sandstorms or sinkholes or earthquakes.”

[4] Volume 5, Episode 1: “Welcome to Haven.”

[breanime]

Promises, Promises

A two-for-one for Bandit’s bingo: “first fight” and “make up sex”!

WARNING: steamy!

*gif not mine*

It was a bright, crisp afternoon in Boston. The birds were singing, the wind smelt of copper and bread, and the people were lively as always in the streets as they went about their business. It was a lovely day.

It was also the day Sam was to ride out to Philadelphia to meet with the Continental Congress.

And, apparently, it was going to be the day you and Sam got into your first fight.

“What do you mean you’re coming with?” Sam had been preparing his horse for travel, but stopped, hands holding onto the saddle as he stared at you. “You’re not coming with.”

“I don’t recall asking you for your permission,” you said back, calm as ever.

Sam turned to you then, his dark eyes narrowed as he looked at you. “You are my wife,” he said slowly.

“I am aware,” you crossed your arms over your chest.

He sighed. You and Sam had known each other for a year when he’d started courting you. He had been hesitant at first, worried about his less than admirable reputation and station in life, worried he couldn’t provide for you or give you his good name, but you had been patient and warm to him until he’d finally stopped his flirting and actually asked you to consider him as a suitor. He courted you for two years—which seemed like a lifetime at the time—balancing his status as a rebel leader with his sweet attentions to you—before he finally felt confident enough to propose. You’d been married for a little over a year now, and each day with Sam was just… blissful. You would go to sleep in his arms most nights, his lips on your forehead as you both drifted off to sleep. The nights he was out late, you would wake up to him kissing you as he whispered a low “I love you” before he settled down into bed with you. You would wake up with Sam’s arms around you, kissing his stubble as he grinned beneath you. He’d had to leave for a few weeks for his work, and while you were proud of him… you missed him so much when he was away. So this time—knowing that this trip would be longer than the last one had been—you decided you would be going with him

“You don’t—this isn’t—you’re not coming with me,” he tried again.

“You promised!”

“That was—a lot has happened since then, sweetheart, I can’t—”

“Sam, I am going with you.”

“No, you are not.”

“Fine. I’ll go by myself then.”

Sam’s eyes widened before narrowing again. He stalked over to you, his long legs bringing him up to you in a matter of seconds. You glared up at him, noting the deep frown on his face and the way his shoulders were set; tense and firm. “You will do no such thing,” he said, voice low, “I mean it, Y/N. You are not coming with me, and you are not going anywhere by yourself.”

“I wouldn’t have to go by myself if you would just let me come with you,” you continued, undeterred by the quiet anger in his voice, “You said you would—”

“—When things calm down with the Redcoats!” He interrupted. “They’re still after me, soldiers are on every road—”

“They haven’t caught you yet—”

“—Because I’ve been lucky! And quick! I can’t worry about you while I’m out there—” he snatched his hat off of his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s just too dangerous, sweetheart.”

You sighed, taking his hand in yours. “I know it’s dangerous, it’s been dangerous for months now. But I want to go with you. I won’t be in the way, I promise.”

Sam shook his head, dropping his hand from yours and taking a step back from you. “No,” he said, voice firm, “I can’t risk it. Stay here, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Sam—”

“—That’s enough,” his eyes narrowed again, “You’re not coming with me. It’s not safe. Now that’s the end of it.” He turned back to the horse, roughly hitching another bag to the horse’s saddle.

“I’ll ride with Dr. Warren, then,” you said haughtily, “Or Mr. Hancock; he’s always so accommodating…”

“That’s not funny,” Sam’s back was still facing you.

“I’m not joking,” you said back, crossing your arms again, “I’m going to Philadelphia. Either with you or Dr. Warren or on my own.”

“No,” he turned to you again, “you are not.”

“My things are already packed,” you went on as if he hadn’t said anything, “It would only take a couple of minutes to—”

“I said no!” He yelled, making the horse whine and you jump. “Why don’t you listen? How many times do I have to say it? No—you’re staying at home, and I don’t give a damn what you think about that—you’re doing it!”

Sam had never yelled at you before. In all the time you’d been together, for as long as you’d known him, Sam never raised his voice to you. Ever. Now that he’d had, he looked as shocked as you felt. His eyes were wide, as if he couldn’t believe he’d just yelled at you. You felt tears prick in your eyes; your husband always spoke to you with such love in his voice. This was…new and unwelcome. Wordlessly, you turned and ran back into the house, determined to keep your tears at bay until you were out of his sight.

“Y/N! Sweetheart! I’m sorry!” You heard Sam’s voice as you ran up the stairs to your bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you. “Y/N!” His voice was close, and you knew he was on the other side of the door now. “Baby, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

You put your back on the door, letting the first tear fall. You just wanted to be with your husband—was that so wrong? The older women in town were always whispering in your ear that Sam was up to no good when he was away from you, that he was out drinking with harlots and charming the loose, wild city girls while you were at home dreaming of him. You’d never paid them any attention, only sparing them a second to coolly remind them that Sam was leagues above their own simple-minded husbands, and that he only had eyes for you and that, usually, was the end of that. But now… Could they have been telling the truth? Was Sam already tired of you? Had he found someone new on his travels? Is that why he didn’t want you to go with him? Yes, the roads could be dangerous, and yes, the Recoats were out for Sam, but that was true in Boston, and you lived there safely and happily. Why then, was it such a problem for you to go on the road with Sam under the same conditions you lived in? You slid to the floor, hearing and ignoring Sam’s voice on the other end of the door, and wrapped your arms around yourself. You loved Sam so much, but sometimes he made you feel so… alone…

“Sweetheart, I’m coming in,” Sam said softly as he opened the door slowly. He made a sad sound when he saw you on the floor, crouching down and sitting beside you quickly. “Darling, I’m so sorry. I never should have raised my voice at you, I…” He put his head down, ashamed and upset. “…I mess everything up…”

You looked at him then, tears still streaming down your face, and you saw the pain and regret in his dark eyes as he stared back. “I just want to be with you,” you said softly. The fight had left out of you as quickly as the tears had come.

“I know.” Sam reached over and wiped your tears. “I know… I want you with me, too, sweetheart, I do, but… It’s dangerous—what I’m doing and where I’m going, and if… If anything ever happened to you…” You could see the wetness in his eyes as he spoke, and you could hear the pain in his voice. “…I would never forgive myself.”

You turned, hugging him, and you heard Sam’s soft sigh of relief as you did. His arms wrapped around you, and you felt him press a kiss to the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, “I am so, so sorry, love.”

“I know,” you said into his neck, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” He pulled back, face serious. “I know how hard it is to stay here while I’m away, and I know what people say about me and what I’m doing when I’m gone…”

“I don’t believe any of it,” you told him.

Sam smiled—a weak, small smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Still,” he went on, “it’s not fair to you to keep you waiting for me, and you don’t deserve it.” He put a hand, warm and firm, on the back of your head and pulled you forward to press a kiss to your forehead. “I love you,” he said, dark eyes staring into yours, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my entire life, and when we married, I promised to make sure you were safe…and happy. I haven’t been doing my job.”

“Oh, Sam,” you sighed, heart breaking for the clear self-disgust in his eyes, “yes you have.”

“I can do better—I will do better, I swear.” He took a breath. “I just… I know you’re a smart woman, and that you know and understand the dangers we’re facing, I just… I have to keep you safe,” he shook his head, “above all else, Y/N, I have to keep you safe.”

“I’m safest with you,” you pointed out gently.

Sam nodded. “You are,” he agreed, “and you’re right—I said I would take you with me, and I’ve been putting it off because I’ve been scared, but… It’s time.” He kissed your forehead again. “It shouldn’t have taken all this to get me to take you with me… I’m—”

“—sorry, I know,” you said back with a smile, “I forgive you.”

“Do you?” He asked, eyebrow quirked. “So easily? I was prepared to beg and grovel.”

“You? Beg?” You laughed. “I’d like to see it.”

Sam grinned—the action making his face glow—and moved on top of you, gently pushing you to the floor. “Please,” he said, voice low in a way that made your stomach flip, “love of my life, my beautiful, smart, strong, lovely wife…” He kissed your neck, and you sighed. “Please forgive me.”

“Keep talking…” You said, eyes closed as you put a hand in his thick hair.

“I was a fool,” he continued, “I should have listened to you, should have taken you with me long before this…” One of his hands was on your waist, and the other was finding its way beneath your dress, his long fingers caressing your thigh. “…Please, my love, forgive me.”

You opened your eyes and looked at your husband. He was smiling, but you saw the guilt in his eyes, and knew he was being serious. You put both hands on his face and smiled up at him. “I forgive you,” you said again, softly.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Sam leaned down and kissed you, and you sighed into his mouth. “Sweetheart…” His hand gripped your thigh, and you could feel his cock hardening as he pressed down onto you. His mouth was still on yours, and you both moaned when his tongue slid into your mouth. “…Would you mind if we delayed our departure until tomorrow?” He asked, already pulling your dress up. “I promise, we’ll leave at first light…”

You giggled as Sam’s mouth dropped from your lips to your neck. “I think that would be best,” you agreed easily.

“And tomorrow, when we leave, you have to promise to stay with me at all times,” he went on, still kissing your neck as his hands worked on the laces on the front of your dress, “Do you promise?”

“I promise,” you answered, eyes fluttering closed when you felt Sam’s mouth—so warm and wet—wrap around your nipple. “Oh, Sam…”

“Mrs. Adams,” he groaned back, “sweetheart…”

You put your hands on his back, sliding under his shirt and scratching at his skin. There was no reason for words after that. You and Sam groaned together when he slid into you, stretching you in that wonderfully delicious way that only he could, kissing your neck as he did. You pressed your chest up to his, rolling your hips in time with his, glad to be in the arms of your loving husband. You could hear the floorboards creak underneath you as you made love on the floor, but neither of you seemed to be able to move to the bed. One of your hands snaked up into his hair, pulling at his ponytail as he pressed himself deeper into you, moaning into your ear with each thrust. When you came, a soundless scream spilling out of your throat as you pulsated and clung to Sam, he kissed your neck again, surely leaving his mark on your skin. He came shortly after, the warmth of his seed filling you almost as perfectly as his cock had. He was still inside of you when he whispered “I love you” into your neck, pulling back to kiss you once more.

Happily spent, you nuzzled against Sam as he picked you up and laid you onto your bed. He helped you out of your clothes—albeit with a lot of staring, kissing, caressing, and whispers of “so beautiful”—and into your nightclothes before stripping himself down and climbing into bed with you.

“I love you,” he said again, holding you to him and kissing your forehead as you laid your head on his chest, “and I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier, it won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure it will,” you said, smiling, “Couples fight. It happens. But I know that you love me, and I love you…” You opened your eyes and looked up at your husband. “…And I know you’re going to always make it up to me when we fight, won’t you, Sam?”

He grinned back. “I will. I promise.”

“And tomorrow we’ll leave at first light?” You asked, wiggling against him. Sam groaned, his hand going to grip your hips as you moved.

“Maybe a little later,” he hedged, his lips going to yours once more, “I have plans for you that involve the morning light, no clothes, and lots and lots of my hands all over you.”

“If that’s the case, we’ll be in this bed all day!” You giggled.

“We can stay in this bed for the rest of our lives, far as I’m concerned,” he said back, leaning down to suck the skin of your neck again.

You laughed, letting Sam roll you over so he was fully on top of you. You could feel his growing hard-on, and you knew your man was already ready for more—and so were you. “Stay in this bed our whole lives, Mr. Adams? Promises, promises…”

*******************************************************************************************

Thanks for reading! I hope you liked this--it’s a little short, but I brought the dialogue back! Please lemme know what you think!

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