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capmerthur · 5 years

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THE ONCE AND FUTURE FIC

Yet another resurrection fic (sorry?). ARTHUR RETURNS IN CHAPTER 2. Lots of feeeeels, and overdue conversations (at last!) between our precious King and Warlock. Title might change as this goes along, but this has always been the work title in my head since I started thinking about writing it, so… Starts right when 5.13 ends. WARNING FOR SUICIDAL THOUGHTS IN CHAPTER ONE.

Excerpt PART VI:

"All those years; and you never said a word. You knew how and when I was to die; and you never said a word."

(PREVIOUS CHAPTERS UNDER CHAPTER VI)

(Sorry everyone - it's been looooong; but I wasn't entirely satisfied with this bit and had to clear it before going on.... here is the revised version, and more will follow !!!)

VI. (ARTHUR POV)

("What are you doing here, then? If you neither cured me through the lake nor provoked my return?")

Merlin seems to hesitate - looking embarrassed?

"I was waiting. Since you- I've been waiting for you."

And this just doesn't make sense.

"Why would you think I would, I could, ever come back, if I was...?"

"There is a prophecy, Arthur. So you were to return, in order to fullfill it."

"A prophecy?"

Arthur is stunned shocked. He had expected some malicious sorcery at work and Merlin having heard of it and come over - it would have made sense; and it would have given him the opportunity to fight, if not to save then at least to honour his lost people. But Fate? How is he supposed to make Fate pay? And what is Its intent to begin with? A prophecy about him? Arthur feels powerless. Is his life not even his own?

Then Arthur remembers the puzzling word has passed Merlin's lips once before.

(I'm sorry. I thought I'd defied the prophecy.)

So. Merlin had known about this? Before...? And had never said a word - again? Another secret Merlin has kept from him; but this time, about himself - about *his death*? It feels even worse than Merlin hiding his magic. After all, Merlin's magic concerned Merlin, indeed. But how and why could Merlin - who Arthur considered as his true friend, no matter how often he had repeated they couldn't be - keep something that concerned HIM from him? Especially something that monumental?

It hurts. Arthur wants to scream. But all that comes out is a shocked whisper:

"All those years; and you never said a word. You knew how and when I was to die; and you never said a word."

Merlin looks shattered by the accusation - but he doesn't refute it; only try to explain the unexplainable, eyes apologetic under Arthur's blaming gaze, voice so evidently full of guilt and regrets:

"Because I believed I could actually prevent it from happening, Arthur. You are the once and future king who will unite Albion and bring magic back to the land; and helping you achieve such a goal is to be my destiny. So says the prophecy. So I believed I was the one, the only one, able to prevent it from happening. And as it depended on me alone anyway, I thought I should spare you from the weight of such a burden."

Merlin lets out a deep sigh before meeting his eyes fully again, his voice turning urgent and pleading:

"What was I supposed to say? That your loved ones would turn against you? You wouldn't have believed me. And even if you had... I didn't want you to have to worry all the time and about everything. You have no idea how it feels - the infuriating and desperate helplessness; to constantly fight to stop something you constantly fear, but to see everything you ever try twist and turn against you; to realize at every corner that what you thought you understood means something entirely different; and that nothing you ever do makes a difference in the end... 'Once and future'? I used to think it meant you would win the war; take your throne back for good. Or die trying, by Mordred's hand and Morgana's will - but only if I failed. There were two stories, and I thought it was to be or/or; but it was and/and. I was such a fool, Arthur; such a blind fool. It's only when you- when you- that I understood what it truly meant as a whole."

Merlin sounds utterly sincere; not only heartbroken but even empty after his confession.

And Arthur wants to believe that Merlin's silence had been well-meant.

But Arthur can't help but feel betrayed still, lingering on the echo of yet another odd word he hadn't realized to be literal at the time.

(It's my destiny. As it has been since the day we met.)

And Arthur finally understands what he has never been able to comprehend until now. Merlin's puzzling bone-deep *devotion* to him; that dumbfounding unequivocal absolute *commitment* he has never wanted to doubt nor question. Well; it turns out it has in fact little to do with him... He is just a mean to an end, right? Arthur can't help but replay their shared years through his head now with this new knowledge; and it all slashes through him like a double treachery. Arthur can't even tell what feels the worst:

Did I ever know you at all?

Do you even like me at all?

'I want you to always be you', he had said - and he had meant it: the magic, all in all, had only been an addition to who Merlin was. But this? This isn't a simple revelation. This feels like a revolution - a definitive, shattering change. And it hurts, losing Merlin; even though he's right in front of him. Does the person he had always believed Merlin to be even exist? Yet another grief, on top of his fresh mourning for everyone and everything he's lost...

Arthur's hands turn into fists at his sides to suppress his urge to snarl.

"So that's why you came to Camelot. To fullfill your destiny."

"What? No! I had no idea- My mother hoped Gaius might be able to guide me: I had questions, about my magic, and-"

Merlin seems honestly surprised - and appalled - by his train of thoughts; at once standing and coming closer in his urge to explain. But Arthur moves away, keeping distance between them. He cannot trust anymore in his abilities to see straight through Merlin without further information. He has never seen straight through Merlin, apparently.

"When did you hear about it then?"

"A few days after I had arrived in Camelot", Merlin confesses right away; eyes pleading, definitely understanding the terrible weight of his words yet obviously choosing to come clean - but not moving closer this time, knowing it would only be rejected.

And it's here, again; in those little things. The way Merlin not only respects his boundaries, but respects them *even at his own expense*. The way Merlin has kept so much hidden, and for so long; yet can't actually tell a lie right to his face when asked for the outright truth, even to save his own skin. It cannot be pretense, right? On the one hand, Merlin's face tells him all he needs to know. But on the other hand, Arthur still needs more answers, and he commands them.

"Who told you?" (Not Gaius, right? Please; not Gaius.)

"Kilgarrah."

"Kilga- who?" Arthur is honestly puzzled. He surely never heard of someone with such a name in Camelot.

"The dragon your father kept prisoner under the castle."

"What are you speaking about?" Arthur doesn't let Merlin time to answer though, cutting him once more as he opens his mouth - collateral information must wait for later, when faced with such an enormity. "No matter; one treacherous beast just said (can dragons even talk?) *this nonsense*, and you believed it? It's insane!"

"The druids spoke about it too."

"That's even more insane! Why would the druids trust- They hated Camelot. They hated me."

"They didn't. Not all of them, at least. (helpless sigh) Anyway, the prophecy is truth, Arthur. Your return is proof of it. You were to rise again; when Albion's need would be greatest. And you just did, Arthur. You just did."

The words stab through Arthur, making him see red. So Arthur cannot be softened by the evident not only wonder but even joy in Merlin's voice and eyes and everything. It comes out in a roar.

"My people needed me! What need can ever be greater than that responsability!"

Silence falls, all the more shattering after his outburst.

But Merlin has heard his need for an answer, and so he gives him one - even if it's none; shaking his head in helplessness, voice breaking and eyes begging:

"I do not know, Arthur."

Merlin is nothing but obviously caring, and sorry - sorry for him; holding his gaze with only patience and commiseration - hurt about his hurt, regrets about his regrets, and helplessness about his helplessness.

And somehow, having to see Merlin's hurt and regrets and helplessness feels worse - worse than his own hurt and regrets and helplessness, somehow: because the pain on Merlin's features is his own doing, again - even though Arthur has sworn to himself only moments ago never to hurt Merlin that badly anew; and even though Arthur knows that none of the injustice he feels is Merlin's fault to start with, if everything had already been written in the stars anyway. Arthur now feels guilty for having lashed out.

Besides, Arthur knows his rage cannot and will not change a thing, sadly. Even Merlin's supposedly unparalleled magic is powerless, obviously. So. His whole purpose, his reason to be, has simply vanished. The desperate rage finally turns into crushing grief, the shout into a devastated whisper.

"The only destiny I ever wished for was to be the King Camelot needed. And now Camelot is gone."

"No."

The fiery professed word brings his attention back to Merlin - Arthur hasn't been expecting an answer; it hasn't been a question. Merlin shakes his head, a clear denial; and then kneels down on one knee, all reverent, head bowed down.

"For as long as I draw breath, Camelot still stands, Arthur. I may have grown up in Ealdor, but you have always been and will always be my King."

The words ring nothing but deeply heartfelt. But to Arthur, they only feel infuriating. Merlin officially bowing to him off formal ceremonial occasions makes him sick. Because surely Merlin is deferent in any way but not that one, especially when it's just the two of them. And most of all, because this is fake and wrong. Arthur wouldn't tolerate even for the most helpless person to bow to him simply because he should to start with; so the greatest warlock to walk the Earth, the most powerful being alive probably? The idea isn't only ludicrous, it's simply nauseating.

"Because a prophecy says that you were 'born to serve me'?", Arthur can't help but spit out, knowing now how literally Merlin had meant those words. It is not enough. It could never be enough. Arthur lets out a deep sigh though at the edge he couldn't keep out from his tone, realising in fact and no matter what, he is more angry at Merlin's Fate than at Merlin himself. How come Merlin isn't enraged too, to start with? He is just as much a puppet of Fate as he is, isn't he? "Get up Merlin; this is ridic-"

"Because I wouldn't change a thing, Arthur", Merlin exclames, cutting him mid-sentence. And it is not often indeed that Merlin actually raises his voice in anger at him; and it startles Arthur silent.

Arthur has crossed a line, apparently. The most startling though is to realize that Merlin's lines aren't about himself (he sure never looked angry over buckets full of cold water over his head or anything): they're about Arthur - once about Arthur creeping around in the woods unprotected for example; now about Arthur misreading him. Merlin's eyes are now boring into his, nothing but fierce and ardent; even though his voice turns again gentle and even adamant:

"You are not my King because of a prophecy. You are my King *in spite* of it. I grew up wondering why I was born with the abilities I had, indeed. But when I was told... Believe me, I really didn't want it to be true; at least, you bet I didn't want it to be *about you*. But then... I got to see what you were truly made of; who you really were. And everything I've ever done since then has always been for and because of you. That's why my magic is for you; and only for you, Arthur. Not because I am supposed to; but because I want to. Because I believe in you. And if my destiny is to be of any help to you then I am proud of it indeed - because I am proud of you."

As always, Merlin just sounds sincere, radiating unwavering loyalty; and Arthur is baffled. Can it still be true, despite it all?

"Please get up, Merlin," Arthur repeats, this time more gently.

"Not yet."

Stubborn - as always, again. It would make Arthur smile if it didn't feel so heartbreaking.

But then, Merlin lowers his gaze once more as his hand moves about his collar, and Merlin is presenting him with Camelot's ruler's ring, holding it out.

"Here. Gwen had what is rightly yours - according to each soul in Camelot - sent to me; so that I could give it back to you on your return."

And Arthur is paralyzed. It means so much. But he cannot take it. It is both too much and not enough. And more importantly: he has no right to - he has let his people down.

"Please, Sire."

And Arthur hears the word exactly for what it is. 'Sire' had used to be his official appellation in Merlin's language in their beginning ('My Lord' being restricted for sarcastic comments since its first use). But its meaning has grown over time - as Arthur had let simply his first name or nothing at all become the norm between them - and Merlin only uses it now on special occasions: whenever Arthur needs an extra boost in confidence and Merlin feels like insisting on his allegiance to him. Some things apparently truly never change.

"It doesn't have to be for me; nor for you."

He's transparent to Merlin, isn't he? Always has been, probably. It doesn't feel worrying though. It is a gift, to have someone who understands him that intrinsically.

"It is the wish of your people. Take back your ring. Wear it with pride. For the love of Camelot."

And how could Arthur deny this? The rallying cry is deep embedded in his soul, indeed - and he would never turn it down. No matter his guilt or inadequacy, Arthur will honor his people's will.

"For the love of Camelot."

Arthur finally takes the ring from Merlin's hand and puts it on.

AN:

I swear, those two will be the end of me. Everything about them is so LOADED, and it hurts :( Their shared history is heavy. Merlin's lonesome centuries are heavy. Arthur losing in a wink his reason for being is heavy. I'll never rest until they get some happiness, they just deserve it :(

Also, please don't be angry at Arthur. He's not at his best in this bit, I agree; but his purpose for being alive is gone for good and he's supposed to be all right 'because it's meant to be'? He has a lot to go through, and it is a lot to take in. So remember two chapters ago. Arthur isn't good with talking about feelings; but he's brave, and when it matters, he speaks - and he actually said A LOT to Merlin then, for someone usually emotionnally constipated who expresses his affection by throwing punches, right...

(PREVIOUS CHAPTERS)

(Warning for this chapter: suicidal thoughts)

I. (MERLIN POV)

Merlin holds Mordred’s sword in his right hand, appraising it. He still can’t believe he has found it; still can’t believe it’s actually in his hands.

Over sixty years now - nothing; yet far too long - Merlin has been waiting for this moment. Since he has begged Freya, and threathened (and apologised - he couldn’t blame Freya for not listening; he wouldn’t have either, if their roles had been reversed), and begged again - in vain, for Excalibur. Since he has finally understood that he was a fool to hold onto hope for something that couldn’t, wouldn’t come to pass. Arthur was *never* coming back: Merlin had simply witnessed enough - he had witnessed too much; and too many times; and definitely one time too much one time too many - to ignore it any longer.

It was not that Merlin had grown too tired of waiting - too tired of the ache, the longing, the loneliness… For Arthur? Merlin would *always* wait; however long it might take.

It was not that Merlin had come to believe mankind didn’t deserve Arthur to rise again to start with - even though it *was* an easy conclusion, when it was at its worst, when it turned its anger against itself - too many horrors, atrocities, bloodshed. But mankind could be beautiful, when loving, in any form; and marvelous, too, when it was at its best; when it turned its anger towards its limits: the medical progress over the ages would have had Gaius exhilarated, and proud; and what about its general neverending thirst for discovery, for explorations, for quests? - of course Arthur would come back: if only he could.

It was just that Merlin had finally understood that he had been played - not even because Albion (the name has since long fallen out of use and its people had been scattered through the globe, so it might mean nowadays something else than it had used to to start with) had got united without Arthur (and even if it still only meant Great Britain, well, it might after all need to be united again); but simply because the list of unending reasons why Arthur should have come back to save the day and yet hadn’t (to mention only the very top of the list: half of humanity wiped out in a finger snap by the Black Death? the whole world collapsing in chaos, bend on destroying itself - World War?) had turned out suspiciously too long, and finally impossibly too long, as mankind had truly reached the lowest point not only ever but even possible without Arthur rising yet again (organised experiments and torture on toddlers, honestly?).

So.

Arthur wasn’t ever coming back from the dead, simply because no one ever came back from the dead (except as a shade - and that would be even worse, wouldn’t it? - or at a cost too great to burden anyway). It had been easy to believe in the prophecy; simply because it had been what Merlin had wanted. A distant promise of Arthur returning was still way better than no Arthur at all, and so Merlin had willingly taken the bait. But the fake prophecy had obviously been made up; as revenge, or entertainment - or both; and Merlin had felt stupid for not having realized this ages ago - The Sidhe were proud indeed; and Merlin had thwarted them. (It had been easy to forget it at first - to tell himself that they hadn’t known Arthur was THE Arthur at the time, whatever…) Merlin wasn’t sure about what Kilgharrah might have exactly known or not (On the one hand, Kilgharrah had forged Excalibur, who had always truly helped them. And Merlin had been warned by the Great Dragon, right from the start, and repeatedly; so wouldn’t it all have worked out just fine if he had listened. On the other hand, if he had listened? Wouldn’t he have been a monster, punishing people for crimes they had not yet committed? So maybe giving him the truth had in fact been the sure way to have him not acting on it. After all, Kilgharrah had hated the Pendragons - at least Uther - enough to have tried to wipe out Camelot. And he hadn’t been exactly pleased either to discover Merlin was a Dragonlord, even if he had seemed to soften when he had realized that Merlin would not control him as a puppet. And last but not least, Kilgharrah hadn’t taken care of Aithusa as Merlin had thought he would; and that’s how Aithusa had ended up with Morgana - and had forged the sword that had killed Arthur), but it didn’t change anything anyway…

Well, you bet Merlin hadn’t been willing to indulge them any longer. Not that anger was what was driving Merlin, of course. There was simply *no point* anymore in waiting. Nor in living, to be honest - especially as it might be what kept him from actually finding Arthur again somehow; next life, paradise, wherever and however and whenever? Merlin was no religious man, but even he had no answer about what happened after death after all. Maybe it was worth a shot? It was a very, very thin chance indeed; but it was still more of a chance than just staying here waiting for *nothing*… So. Merlin had begged Freya for Excalibur. But as she had kept absent, it had dawned on him at some point that Excalibur wasn’t the only blade he could use… Merlin had searched for that other mighty weapon through his magic for years; then had sent his creature to retrieve it when he had successfully localized it.

And here, now, finally, is Mordred’s sword.

And Merlin feels no dread, no fear, while holding it. If anything, he feels calm - calmer than he has ever been, probably. And that’s how Merlin knows that his decision is indeed right: even his magic agrees.

He should do it in the lake though. Magical artifacts just shouldn’t linger around in the open, huh…

Yes.

Let Mordred’s blade rest along Excalibur.

And let Merlin rest along Arthur.

Freya will make sure they all lay undisturbed.

Merlin blindly pulls at the cord around his neck, taking it out from under his tunic and sliding his left hand along it until it closes around Arthur’s mother sigil (AN) and Camelot’s ruler’s ring (Gwen had it brought to him, so he could give it back to its true owner on his return: Camelot in the meantime was to be ruled by a Concil of Knights and a Guardian, until Arthur would come back to sit on his kept empty throne and his kept empty seat at the Round Table).

Merlin closes his eyes; makes a silent promise.

I’m coming, Arthur.

He takes a first step into the lake.

Backstory: +1500 years in short - because it hurts and I just don’t have the heart to fully write the prologue I had intended to write:

Merlin has never left the lake. He kept waiting. He couldn’t, wouldn’t leave, (nor SLEEP even for that matter by the way) no matter for how short - imagine if Arthur came back just when he was NOT there, huh. And of course he wouldn’t trust his magic to warn him somehow - it had failed Arthur when he needed it the most after all. So no. Merlin has never left the lake. But Gaius has mentioned to him (Merlin got visitors, in the beginning (and his mother came to live with him until she died); before he cut himself off the world) how maybe the time he was given without Arthur was to LEARN more about magic; so that he would be prepared when Arthur came back to face whatever ordeal they were supposed to face. Because even if Merlin is hyper *aware* - he feels *everything*, through his magic - practice is necessary too. So Merlin mastered the art of molding sand/clay and animating it with his magic (basically, he walks the Earth as Old Merlin - because people tends to let old grumpy men on their own - whenever he needs anything physically). He can speak, hear, see, learn, through him, following the world as it expands (America, Australia, etc etc, because even if he was aware they existed, he couldn’t physically *go* there before they were ‘found’). And he can touch, and carry (for example you bet he brought back something red for Arthur to wear every time - Merlin sort of owns a ‘male red mode through the ages’ museum by now - and he hates it, of course). The first time Merlin has truly thought Arthur *would* come back has been The Great Plague. The second time has been WWI. The last drop has been the Nazis and Unit 731 experimentations. So Merlin sent its creature to fetch Mordred’s sword after having localized it though his magic - and that’s what Old Merlin is bringing back to him when this all starts (aka that shot at the end of 5.13)…

(AN: Just so you know, Merlin’s magically pierced in the thickness of Ygraine’s sigil to pass a cord - he wouldn ’t make a hole in the front design of course!)

(Also… A resurrection fic!? What am I getting myself into!? I’m still a newbie around here so I definitely haven’t read enough Merlin fics to ever claim making something original (so by the way, please feel free to let me know your all time favourites resurrection fics! So far I’ve read The Change Trilogy and Like the cycle of the year we begin again (and they’re both gorgeous reads so run and read them if you haven’t yet!) but I haven’t seen (yet?) my take, both on the waiting and on the getting along after Arthur’s return, in the fics I’ve read so far, so I thought I might as well write this down ?)

II. (ALTERNATE POV)

Arthur regains consciousness under water.

He’s cold; so cold he’s shaking - helpless, steady spasms he just can’t put an end to (being past half dead apparently has repercussions?). But it’s bright, up over him, and he instinctivally pushes himself up towards the light; towards the air.

The moment he breaks the water, Arthur registers that he’s not only alive but that he feels *just right*. No pain in his side, no weakness, no dizzinesss, no strain: nothing wrong at all - except from the convulsions from the cold, but you bet he’s not going to complain, all considered. The sun is veiled by clouds, but feels nonetheless like a welcomed warmth on his face, and Arthur breathes deep, bringing his arms up and turning his palms towards the warmth too as the tremors start to subdue; he’s alive!; and well! He doesn’t need to pat his absent wound in wonder, nor to look at the water, transparent clear instead of bloodened red, to know that what he feels is true.

Merlin’s done it.

He *has* saved his life.

Again.

It’s both unexpected (Arthur had been so sure he had taken his last breath, when all had finally faded to black) - and yet somehow expected. Magical waters and a sorcerer who knows how to work its power would do wonders, obviously. It has happened before after all, bringing his beloved Guinevere’s spirit back?

A sudden realization; and Arthur can’t help but laugh. And it feels so exhilarating - alive! alive! - the laugh turns into a howl; and Arthur relishes on it, throwing his head back. Honestly? How could he have ever been *so* blind - of course it had been Merlin then too by the water edge, disguised as an old woman!

Somewhere on his right, a buoying laugh erupts.

And Merlin knows that laugh. So hearing the exact right tone of that entirely unexpected laughter at once feels as if a vicious invisible hand is squeezing at his heart.

He had forgotten it; he realizes. But he would recognize that howling laugh amongst any other…

Merlin doesn’t dare to *believe*. Cruel hope nonetheless blooms unbidden in his heart, and his eyes can’t help but zero in on the source of that sound.

And it is exactly as it should be; exactly as it has used to be…

There *is* ARTHUR; standing in the lake, water reaching his hips, chainmail glistening, head thrown back as he laughs. (Has anyone ever looked more simply breathtakingly majestic no matter what they did and even without trying?) Merlin can only see his back, but you bet he would recognize the shape of that back amongst any other too.

Merlin’s breath is knocked out of him; and Mordred’s sword falls from his hand.

Merlin knows what he hears and sees *cannot* be true. He has seen the world in a much, MUCH more desperate state without Arthur coming back then. There is absolutely no reason for Arthur to come back right now. So. He is being granted a vision; that’s all. But of course Merlin wouldn’t, couldn’t, try to take his own life anymore, not after having had even just a glimpse… Besides, he has just handed over the last sword that could end him anyway. Merlin has to acknowledge The Sidhe’s thinking; they know exactly well how to play him. But damn, they are vicious.

But no matter the abysmal pain from such a low blow, Merlin still considers this to be a gift, and is determined to draw it out for as long as he will be allowed to. Those few seconds might sustain him for another fifteen centuries to come, and maybe more…

Arthur quiets down after a while. Thinking about his savior: where is he?

Arthur scans his surroundings; and the warmth he feels when he finally spots Merlin definitely eclipses the sun.

The laughing stops, and Arthur turns, eyes searching; and a bright smile appears on Arthur’s face the moment they find him.

“Merlin!”

Merlin’s knees give out. His name through Arthur’s lips has sounded *exactly* right - righter than in any memory Merlin has relied on to live on hanging onto. And it hurts. The shame, and guilt - to realize he had forgotten *this* too? It shouldn’t have been possible - to have something so dear going misformed; a pale, withered, incomplete, erroneous copy, so far from the original that its truth has disintegrated? Oh yes, it hurts.

And Merlin’s fingers dig; hard, deep into the sand. He cannot reach out. He longs for; he *aches* to - both physically and emotionnally. But he cannot. As long as it’s only his eyes and ears that are deceived, then he can pretend it is true…

Merlin starts to cry. He can’t help it; he cries - as he hasn’t cried since, well, all those years ago: silent tears endlessly streaming down his face, unabached, treacherous; and Merlin hates them - hates the way they blur his vision when he has to - HAS TO - *see*. He is powerless to stop them though.

It is *blinding*.

Merlin has tried, so hard, to keep remembering, to NOT forget. But his memories, even sustained with his magic, have so obviously failed him; haven’t done Arthur any justice at all. Merlin has forgotten so, SO much; and being proven just how much he has actually forgotten slices through him like a knife. The exact darker shade of Arthur’s blond hair when wet. The exact way Arthur stands and moves. The exact sharpness of Arthur’s features - his nose, his cheeckbones, his jawline. The exact shape of that smile - that particular, undeniably fond smile following his name Merlin has used to live for and from. Guilt slashes through him again. How could he have *forgotten* the exact shape of *that* smile; the most precious to him amongst the myriad of each and every of Arthur’s smiles?

But then Merlin collapses, instead of cheering with him - he has thought him gone for good? And Arthur suddenly feels like there is still after all a gaping aching wound on his body; but this one deep in his chest, and of his own making. He owes Merlin *everything*, doesn’t he? Yet he has hurt him - and so very severely. Despite it, though, Merlin obviously still cares for him; and so very much… His own behaviour puts Arthur to shame. So. Arthur hadn’t had the time nor the strength to plainly apologize before. But he has now; and he won’t run away from the words that he needs to say - and even more important, that Merlin needs to hear…

Arthur is now rushing through the water towards him - so fierce!, so strong!; alive and well!? His smile is gone though; replaced by worry - because of Merlin’s tears, no doubt: yet another reason to hate them then…

And then Arthur is plopping down in front of him, out of breath; and Merlin gets proof again of just how much he had forgotten - the exact colours and depths of Arthur’s eyes! There is now a fragile smile back on Arthur’s face - a soothing smile, meant only for Merlin’s sake; and it’s going to break Merlin’s heart, no doubt.

III. (MERLIN POV)

“I’m fine, Merlin. I’m fine.”

And not only the voice is perfect, but the language is the one Merlin hasn’t heard for over a millenium…

“Arthur?” is all Merlin can let out - no more than a somewhat hiccuped whisper as he still has no breath, no voice, to start with; but an obvious plea coming from the depths of his soul. A world of wonder, and longing, and ache, and disbelief, and hope - because no matter what, Merlin can’t help but want; can’t help but hope - in those two syllabs that own his heart. Magic *does* exist, after all; and Merlin would give it all - all the magic he possesses, all his pain, all his hopes, everything - for this vision to turn real.

Arthur’s already fragile smile falters: “Don’t you remember, Merlin. No man is worth your tears.” The reproach is nothing but badly fake though, and Arthur’s voice somehow breaks as it ends: “Especially not me.”

And then suddenly - and so quickly Merlin doesn't register any of it before it has actually happened, and so it is too late for him to move backwards to prevent it from happening - Arthur brings his hands on Merlin's face, gloved fingers brushing his tears away under his eyes - and Merlin can *feel* them!?

Merlin is lost; lost in what he sees, lost in what he hears, and lost in what he feels. Can this be true? Can it truly be true?

But then Arthur starts speaking again - rushed out words leaving Merlin stunned.

"I apologize, Merlin. The way I reacted- (sigh) I deserve all the names you've ever called me and more. I'm thick, and dumb, and *such* an idiot, and a complete dollophead, and a cabbage head, and a prat, and a royal *ass*, and I still don't know what a clotpole exactly is but I'm certain I am the definition for one indeed too. I may have seen anyone with magic turning against me; but I should never have doubted *you*, Merlin. I should have remembered the butterfly (AN)."

Merlin just cannot believe what he's hearing. It's everything he has ever wanted to hear; everything he has ever hoped to hear - so how can it be real?

"But more than anything, I think, I'm sorry because I should have known, Merlin. I called you a liar; looked at you like you had betrayed me. But you've told it. You actually shouted it for everyone to hear; and I believe you nearly told it to me, privately, at least once, and presumably more... But I just didn't want to hear it, did I? So I'm sorry I was such a coward; a *coward*, Merlin. And I'm so sorry, and so ashamed - and honestly I really can't blame you for not trusting me to understand: because you were right; and it guts me, Merlin. And 'There is no place for magic in Camelot'? How hard it must have been for you to say-"

Merlin can't help but shake his head, about to interject. Not because (even if it's true) one exception shouldn't and couldn't be enough to break a rule anyway; at least not at once, and not until Arthur would understand that magic itself isn't corrupt. Not because it hadn't been hard in fact to say those words - at least not hard enough, and that will always feel wrong. But simply because real or not just cannot matter anymore; not when Arthur's gaze is boring into his very core, pleading and honest and full of a guilt Merlin just can't bear to witness: "Arthur-"

Arthur silences him though, cutting him off by shaking him once by the shoulders: “But what counts is that I know, now, Merlin. Your magic is not only part of who you are; it also makes you who you are. And I will trust it; because I trust *you*. You must believe- No, let me rephrase this before you obey me again - because you *always* obey me, don’t you Merlin; even when whatever I say in anger or despair isn’t intended nor meant to be an order; and I’ve done it so often, haven’t I… ‘Do not put me into that position again’? ‘Tell me it’s gone’? (AN) So. Can you believe me; Merlin? It’s not an order; I definitely do not deserve to give you any order at all to start with anyway. You don't even have to forgive me; you shouldn't forgive me maybe. But please, at least, can you b-”

“Of course I believe you. And there is nothing to forgive, Arthur. Nothing.” Merlin half shouts, ancient words flowing instinctively, head skaking 'no’ for emphasis, bringing his hands up to Arthur’s wrists and pushing downwards, keeping Arthur’s hands in place on his shoulders. If this is a waking dream then Merlin never wants to leave it. This is solid enough, real enough, for the rest of his maybe neverending life. “You’re here. You’re well. That’s all that matters, Arthur; I swear that’s all that has ever mattered to me.”

Arthur holds his gaze for a long, long time; as if waiting for Merlin’s clear eyes to betray his words. And when he finally seems confident enough that they are indeed genuine, he whispers, but it sounds like a pledge: “And you’re here, Merlin, and you’re *you*; and I swear that’s all that will matter to me from now on.”

AN: Tiny quote from my Body Swap fic; sorry, I just couldn’t NOT put it there, it just FITS…

(Also, just imagine they speak in old brittonic… but please don’t expect me to write it? sorry?)

IV. (MERLIN POV)

Arthur squeezes his shoulders one last time and then lets go, about to stand.

“Now, let’s go home. We have a feast to prepare in your honor.”

Merlin cannot tell if his heart has just completely healed or totally disintegrated. Let’s go home?

It’s real! Of course it’s real. If Arthur doesn’t know- It’s real! Arthur is truly back! And that’s…

But *Arthur doesn’t know*. And so *Merlin will have to tell*.

Merlin blanches. He feels guilty, anew. Because he has hoped and prayed and begged for Arthur to return; with everything he had. He has been selfish, hasn’t he? And he has been blind; stupidly blind - again. All those years he has prepared for taking care of a still bleeeding wound, for clothes, for food, for any necessities; but it has never crossed his mind that Arthur wouldn’t know… and he is not prepared for Arthur’s emotional pain; and even less for causing it. Some small part of Merlin can’t help but wish now that Arthur had stayed in the lake after all, had never awoken. It’s too cruel. Merlin shouldn’t be the one to break Arthur’s heart.

Arthur is reading his panick wrong, of course:

“Don’t worry- No one else has to know about your magic if you don’t want to. But you DID end the war, Merlin; you did what I couldn’t do - Morgana… All Camelot should know what they owe y-”

And Merlin can’t bear Arthur’s concern on his behalf any longer; making it last feels like a betrayal. And no matter how much Merlin doesn’t want Arthur to get hurt, ever, he cannot and will not lie - not about this. Conjuring ghosts wouldn’t be real and would only make it worse in the end anyway. The only option is a clear cut, right away.

“It’s not- (deep breath) I’m so sorry, Arthur. We cannot go home. You were gone. For such a long time. For such a long, long time, Arthur. I’m so, so, sorry.”

And Merlin watches, feeling his eyes filling up once more, as Arthur’s eyebrows furrow in incomprehension; as Arthur blinks, taken aback as realization hits; as Arthur’s eyes turn desperate and pleading, shaking his head in denial-

“No. I remember just-” His voice falters as he probably notices the house behind them - the house that definitely hadn’t been there before - and who knows what more (trucks on the road farther away? joggers in strange clothes passing by?) “And you look exactly-”

And Merlin has nothing to say, nothing to offer, to soothe the hopelessly growing pain ready to crush his King, hollow him out - nothing but the cruel testimony of his once more, always, useless tears; and Arthur knows, indeed.

It comes out as a whisper, but it sounds as if Arthur’s spirit has gone with it, vacillating.

“They’re all-”

And the only thing Merlin can say still is: “I’m so sorry” - again.

“My people? My Knights? My- Guinevere…”

And it hurts. Oh, it hurts; to have to see Arthur’s broken heart on his face, to hear its crack as his voice breaks on his Queen’s name and his head turns away.

“I’m so sorry.”

A litany; a chant; a prayer. Over, and over, and over. Pointless, worthless, useless, anyway; as his King cries silent tears, all the more shattering by their quietude…

Then Arthur is up and pacing, a fierce but dark spark in his eyes as his hands turns into fists - anger, rage; of course.

“Why did you bring me back then? How could you bring me back if-?”

And Merlin would gladly take a blow; if it could help Arthur to feel better, somehow. But nothing comes. It’s Arthur. Of course nothing comes.

Arthur briefly closes his eyes, inhaling sharply. And when he opens them again, Arthur’s anger hasn’t faded; but isn’t directed towards Merlin anymore.

“But then; you would have brought me back right away, wouldn’t you have - if it had been in your power…”

And Merlin feels crushed, again; by how he *always* fails Arthur, indeed.

“I’m so sorry…”

AN: I realize I do have a thing for Merlin crying - blame it on Colin’s A+ crying performances - so of course it has to appear somewhere… Merlin will not weep though for much longer, if it can reassure you…

V. (ARTHUR POV)

Merlin hasn't said the word; but Arthur heard it anyway.

Dead.

He'd been dead.

And for such a long, long time, Merlin had said; even though it feels merely minutes since he closed his eyes?

It makes no sense; it feels unreal - impossible. Merlin hasn't aged a day...

And yet... The grief in Merlin's eyes tells him it's true. Everyone he knows, except Merlin, is gone. Arthur doesn't know what feels worse. To know that he will never see any of them again; or to know that he has failed them all... He feels unfulfilled, hollowed out; utterly lost, even though knowing exactly where he is...

He feels furious, too. What is the point of coming back to life, if it's coming back *too late*?

But Arthur simply knows, somehow, that Merlin - who has literally collapsed upon seeing him emerge from the lake; who has seemed so utterly shattered by his apology; and who looks now so honestly sorry for his loss, gazing up at him from the ground, nothing but stabbing understanding and concern in his eyes - isn't to blame for that lost time.

Which means his presence, here and now, is puzzling indeed:

"What are you doing here, then? If you neither cured me through the lake nor provoked my return?"

@clone-number-1

#merlin #merthur #bbc merlin #merthur fic #bbcmerlin #the once and future fic #my own two spells #fic #fanfic #text

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tothelasthoursofmylife · 5 years

Text

“A little village with a little mystery.”

London, England, United Kingdom – February 1846

~Cloudia~

“How often will you come here again?” asked Arthur Randall, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

When I had wrapped up my Watchdog mission last week, I had been more than ready to return to my manor – but then, a letter from Thomas had arrived in which he informed me that a large part of the manor’s pipe system had broken down and that, thus, the manor was currently uninhabitable. As the remedial maintenance at the townhouse was still ongoing, Newman, Miss Greene, and I kept staying at the Morrow townhouse. The first week I had been with my family, I had my Watchdog work, the gallery opening, and my cousins to keep me busy. This week, I had no Watchdog work, there were no events to attend, and Ceara was ill and Keegan too grumpy and worried to do anything fun with.

Now, all I could do was sit in the Morrows’ library and read or, occasionally, go into the city and accidentally pass by Scotland Yard and overhear some case details.

“This is the eleventh time this week – and it is only Thursday,” he continued and glared at her.

Perhaps, it wasn’t quite “occasionally,” but gruesome murders and thievery entertained me more than gossip over tea.

“It’s also the eleventh time this week that I am passing by the headquarters and you are around to see me,” Cloudia replied. She loosened the scarf around her neck a bit. Last week, it had been devastatingly cold, but now, the temperature had become more bearable – a development Cloudia hoped would last a little while longer. “Don’t you have any work to do, Randall? How does someone like you even become a detective constable? You are barely older than me and only joined the Met three years ago. Could it be that you paid your way up like Police Commissioner Rowan did until he became captain?”

Randall narrowed his eyes. “Says the girl who is only what she is because of her family.”

“You are only partially right, Constable: I am what I am because of my family, yes, but if I was completely useless, I would have been long replaced – or never even instated,” Cloudia said.

I had met Arthur Randall for the first time nearly two years ago, and every time I saw him, I disliked him a bit more. Despite my dislike for him, I had to admit that he also caught my curiosity: The first time we had met, he had immediately known that I was the Queen’s Watchdog. This was especially interesting because, in the last two years, I had learned that there was absolutely nothing special about him to justify Rowan and Mayne’s decision to let Randall know about the Watchdog secret. So, my question was: Why did he know? The Commissioners couldn’t possibly consider to eventually make him their successor – what other reason could there be?

“And will you ever stop rubbing my family history under my nose? In a twisted way, we are, after all, colleagues,” Cloudia added, and Randall chuckled. “Colleagues? With the likes of you? Even if it’s the last thing I do, I will stay here and protect this place from your kind, Lady Phantomhive.”

She smiled. “Oh, is that what you have been doing all week? Well, I wish you all the luck in the world that your feet will not die away in the cold before you are fired for doing nothing. If you may excuse me now: I have an appointment and am running a little bit late.”

***

“Arthur Randall is nobody to lose any brain cells for, Cloudia. I have been telling you this for years,” said Cecelia and raised her cup to her lips.

Scotland Yard was not the only place where I could get my share of crimes: Cecelia was a wonderful source for that too. I had no interest in pointless gossip discussed over tea – crimes discussed over tea, however, was the best form of socialising I knew.

“I know, I know. But you were asking about my day, and, sadly, I didn’t do much except unwillingly meeting His Moronship,” Cloudia replied, leaning back into her sofa’s soft fabric and cushioning. Cecelia’s Blue Drawing Room was her favourite place in her mansion solely because it had the most comfortable furniture in it. “The manor and the townhouse are still in repair and I am getting more and more bored by the minute – so, thank you, for inviting me.”

“You are thanking me for inviting you? Cloudia, dear, you must be feeling worse than expected. I guess that is the curse of those who cannot sit still. You have too much energy to spare, and if you do not find anything to do, you wither away faster than the plants I had to look after for my father.” Cecelia waved with her hand and leaned back as well. “I, on the other hand, am contemplating about never leaving this sofa again. Or would an even more comfortable one be the better choice? Or a more beautiful one? On which sofa would you rather spend the rest of your life, Cloudia? The beautifully embroidered, immensely expensive one that claimed the lives of three decent men during its transportation? Or the ugly olive-coloured one which you did not intend to buy, but still did because your shoes were killing you, you sat down on the wretched thing, and it swallowed you whole, forcing you to purchase it?”

“You have such a sofa?”

“It’s in the boxroom. I believe it’s possessed, but I do not have the heart to get it exorcised. On the one hand, because I can feed especially annoying guests to it; on the other hand, because I do not believe in such superstitions. It is more likely that the sofa fell victim to an extraordinarily enthusiastic upholsterer.”

Cloudia shook her head in an effort to get rid of her grin. It didn’t work. “Do you really want to spend the rest of your life sitting? After the trip to Bristol?”

Cecelia groaned and took a blueberry tartelette. To uphold the drawing rooms’ aesthetic, she had told her cook to only prepare blue food: the muffins, biscuits, and tartelettes had been made with blueberries, blackberries, plums, and black currants. The sandwiches had been spread with blue jam and the tea service had a forget-me-not pattern. It was a surprise that the tea was not blue.

“What you don’t do for gathering intelligence! I should see Quirino to find a way to rename Duchess Adrianne Royceston to Hysteria Royceston! That woman organises a party spanning several days, including a trip to another town, and what does she do? Decide that we should travel to Bristol by carriage because she thinks trains are the ‘devil’s work’!”

“Still, you are thinking about sitting forever.”

“Cloudia, I have no aversion whatsoever to pass my time sitting. If the world was not like it is and dresses would not crinkle so easily, I would have decided to do this – sit until I die – a long, long time ago. I have always said that, in a better world, you would not have to go out and dirty your hands to get what you want, that you would get everything by simply clicking your fingers together instead. Father deemed this one of my worst traits. To be honest, I had no good traits in his eyes.

“To say it clean and concisely: I could sit for hours and hours with no end in sight, just not with any kind of ‘humpy-bumpy’ nonsense.” Cecelia skilfully cut her tartelette into pieces without even looking at it and said, “So, you have come to hear about some grisly crimes?”

“Yes.”

“Over tea?”

“Yes. And some biscuits,” said Cloudia.

“If Adrianne Royceston was here, she would have already sent for the local priest, his mentor, and the holy spirit itself. Are you sure that you know that things like this – being overly interested in murders and thievery – could get you sent to an exorcist at best and to an asylum at worst?”

Cloudia clutched her hands. “Asylums are worse than exorcisms?”

“Of course. If you end up in an asylum, you may never get out of there. During an exorcism, you are restrained and have to listen to a priest reciting all sorts of prayers for hours. When he is done, you pretend to have been successfully purified and do whatever you did to get exorcised for in the first place more secretly than before. I know what I am talking about: I have experienced it thrice and it is always the same.

“Unfortunately, it is easier to get thrown into an asylum than to be sent to the next certified exorcist. To get an exorcism, you either have to live in a place filled with religious hysterics, have a sudden change in personality and voice, an unusually cold room, have to correctly guess the weather for the next three days, be very moody and aggressive, lie down really weirdly, or hate the Church with a passion. To get to an asylum, all it takes is to drink alcohol or distribute bad whiskey. You could be declared a lunatic for having asthma or getting your son married! Pamela Tracey was sent to an asylum because she asked her mother if she could have a rat as a pet.” Cecelia put down her knife and looked at Cloudia. “I know that you know all this, Cloudia, but sometimes I wonder if you are forgetting or deliberately ignoring it. In any case, I want to remind you to be careful. All it takes is for someone to overhear one of your conversations with Randall or even to see you lingering outside the Yard every single day. I know the last few years were rough for you, but you eventually have to stop being so harsh to yourself and move on, Cloudia.” Cecelia wanted to reach out to her, but Cloudia pulled back.

“I would rather get for what I came here,” she stated.

Cecelia looked at her for a while and sighed. “Here I am, giving you advice for once, and you don’t take it! Then, so be it.” She leaned back. The tartelette was left untouched. “The Met is currently searching for a group of bandits known to hide around the area of manor houses. They wait until the inhabitants are wandering about, and then rob and, or abduct them. The last ones to be robbed were the Kents – poor Mary Louise was so terrified! They say that she still hasn’t left her room. Her fiancé Sean is beyond worried. Anyway, where was I? Oh, I remember.

“Our dear officers at the Yard are, of course, doing a wonderful job trying to find them. To their misfortune, Mary Louise’s mother is not allowing them to interrogate her poor, poor baby! Mary Louise is the sole witness in this case as the bandits have robbed her and her maid while they were taking a stroll. They have even tried to kidnap Mary Louise as well. In this moment, her maid proved to be a true loyal soul, intervened, and got killed while defending her protégée. Afterwards, the bandits ran off. But Mary Louise’s best friend’s sister’s best friend, Felicitas Wernholm, was with me in a carriage to Bristol to continue Duchess Royceston’s damned party. This lady could be Quirino’s long-lost sister, I tell you, because she was talking without any pauses for hours. In-between her chitter-chatter salad, she mentioned that she knew from her best friend that Mary Louise has seen the bandits vanish into the direction where the Beaumont and Croft estates are.” Cecelia raised her cup and took a sip of her tea.

Cloudia frowned. “That’s all?”

“That’s classified information for which the Met would pay me very good money. Not that I am interested in such things.”

“No, I meant it like that: ‘That’s all you have for me? A robbery? Where’s the grisly murder?’”

“I promised you a crime. Robbery and attempted kidnapping are crimes, Cloudia.”

“I know that, Cecelia. But murders are more exciting,” Cloudia said.

“Didn’t you listen to me? There was a murder! Mary Louise Kent’s maid was killed.”

“On accident, not on purpose.”

Cecelia sighed. “You are the reason why I am glad that Michael and I never had any children. Without him, I most definitely would not be able to endure them in this phase. And I endured the carriage ride to Bristol with Felicitas Wernholm.” She rubbed her face. “Cloudia, we both know that if you were truly so intent on hearing about grisly murders, you would go and learn about them yourself. Instead, you linger around the Yard and come to me. And why? Perhaps you want to take some of your agency away from it; perhaps you want to eventually point your finger at me and say ‘She made me do it!’ I don’t know. All I know is that, from now on, you will only get your murder case details from me if you stay away from Scotland Yard and take a break.” Cecelia gazed at Cloudia, a stern look in her eyes. “If Barrington visits me one more time crying and complaining, you are going to pay for my dress and carpet, do you understand, young lady?”

Cloudia sighed. “Yes, I understand. I promise to stay away and take a break. Satisfied?”

“Very,” said Cecelia and leaned back. “And now, let us talk about something more fun.”

***

Cloudia’s favourite places to be had always been the little cosy corners, the alcoves lying in the shadows. If the world around her was fast and loud and messy, those places were always there for her, always giving her the time for herself she needed, the order, the calmness, the minute she required to take a deep breath and collect herself. Before Cloudia had learned about the Phantomhive Manor’s intricate system of secret pathways, those little places had been a blessing.

The oriel window in the library of the Morrow townhouse might not be the most hidden, not the most inconspicuous corner, but its comfortableness and feeling reminded Cloudia of all her secret little corners at home, and, for now, in her ongoing boredom, that was all that mattered to her.

I could feel it in my bones: I would die here. Yesterday, my visits to Scotland Yard and Cecelia had kept me busy; today, I had nothing to do. “Died of utter boredom” would be scratched into my tombstone and everyone passing by my grave would wonder if this was even possible. This was my legacy, I knew it.

With a sigh, Cloudia put a finger between the pages of Pictures of Italy and stared randomly in front of her. The library was rather small and the door usually kept open, and from the oriel window Cloudia could see the door and the corridor beyond it – and Keegan walking up and down the floor grumpier than she had ever witnessed him. It was quite a sight, so she kept watching him. She had been unable to concentrate on her book for the last hour anyway.

Lately, he had been slightly grumpier than usual because Ceara was ill, but she had almost fully recovered. What could have caused the sudden increase in his bad mood?

“Keegan,” Cloudia said, leaving Pictures of Italy at her seat and going to her cousin when he walked by for the millionth time today. “What is wrong?”

For a moment, he seemed to struggle whether to answer or not before he sighed and said, “I’ve remembered that Geoffrey Bentley asked Father if I could join his hunting party one day and that Father said yes. I’m supposed to go hunting with him and the rest of his party tomorrow.”

Keegan was an exceptionally good tracker. People would constantly ask if he wanted to join them in a hunt or two, but as he had neither patience, passion, or interest in hunting, Keegan would always turn them down. He only used his skills for more mundane purposes. Growing up, it surely had been no fun playing hide and seek with him.

“Why would Uncle Aiden even do something like that?” Cloudia asked. “After all, he knows how much you hate hunting and Geoffrey Bentley.”

“Because,” Keegan said with clenched teeth, “Bentley cannot be more of an annoying and loud person, and Father did not even listen to what he said: Bentley started talking to him, and Father simply nodded and agreed to whatever he was saying.”

“I have almost forgotten how much of a nuisance Geoffrey Bentley is. My ears still hurt a bit from the last time I heard him – from the other end of a ballroom.”

Keegan rubbed his temples. “It is not only Bentley. Of all the people who could be in Bentley’s hunting party, it’s Falk Flanagan and Cadell Beaumont.”

I could not name a more chaotic trio than Cadell Beaumont, Falk Flanagan, and Geoffrey Bentley. They were a notorious group of troublemakers, and their presence at social events was always met with a wave of annoyed sighs. Separate, they were already an imposition; together, they were unbearable. Different as they were, they would always loudly bicker among one another. Everyone could only wonder why they were even friends.

“No wonder why you are in such a bad mood,” said Cloudia.

“An entire day with those three at Beaumont’s estate… Ramming a fork into my own throat would be more pleasant.”

The Beaumont estate? Hadn’t Cecelia told me that Mary Louise Kent meant to have seen the bandits run to where the Croft and Beaumont estates were?

There was only a fifty per cent chance that the bandits were on Beaumont land – if they had not long moved on.

But I was bored and desperate to find anything I could do: Why should I not go a little bit hunting and, maybe, catch a couple of bandits to taunt the Met on the way? I had only promised Cecelia that I would stay away from Scotland Yard – and none of its members would be at the Beaumonts’ from what she had said. Therefore, I would not even go behind her back. It was foolproof.

Cloudia grinned. “Keegan, cousin dear, I think I have the perfect solution for your problem.”

***

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

It was like a dream.

When we had crossed the Channel, had travelled from town to town, it had felt like I hadn’t been me: that my soul had become detached and I had watched someone else on that ship, in that town, in that carriage. When I woke up today, it took me a while to realise that I was not dreaming, that I was just where I was supposed to be.

It didn’t make it less unbelievable though.

Surely, it was quite unfortunate that I was currently stuck in “only” a little village and that we had had to rush a bit through Lille and Creil, but I was still satisfied. I had always longed to see the world beyond the isle. I would not become picky now.

Cloudia kicked away her blanket and walked to the windows. Lisa would be here any second and pull back the curtains with a slightly heartfelt “Good morning,” and Cloudia really wanted to pre-empt her. They had arrived very late yesterday, and the hour and general exhaustion had prevented her from taking in her surroundings. Full of sleepy excitement, Cloudia pulled on the cord. The curtains opened. The high windows appeared behind them, and through them, she saw…

… rain. Nothing but rain. It was pouring buckets, and Cloudia could not see farther than a metre.

I had travelled for so long only to arrive in England again.

She heard the door opening and Lisa coming inside. “Good morning, Lady Cloudia,” she said and closed the door behind her. “You woke up early today. Didn’t you sleep well?”

“I slept surprisingly well. The carriage drive got the best of me. Fourteen hours are far too long,” Cloudia replied, not taking her eyes off the windows. “And you?”

“I slept well too. It is such a pity that still nobody has tried to make carriages faster or to find a good replacement for them. Do you think Baron Salisbury may be interested? After all, his company developed special train engines for the sole purpose of reducing the transportation time for some beetroots,” said Lisa and went to the bathroom. “I’ve prepared a bath,” she announced when she came back a few minutes later.

“Thank you,” Cloudia said, not making a move to step away from the windows.

“Is it really that interesting outside?”

“It’s just a very familiar sight,” Cloudia answered and finally turned away to follow Lisa into the bathroom. “I doubt that Milton would be interested. His company focuses, after all, on food transport and not on developing machinery for the broad public. We might have a chance if we all were to turn into beetroots overnight.”

Cloudia undressed and stepped into the bathtub. A sigh escaped her lips when she sat down and was engulfed by the warm water. There was nothing better than a warm bath to loosen up tense muscles, and hers were certainly tense after yesterday. The carriage ride had been dreadfully exhausting and dinner had been both pleasant and a complete mess: pleasant because most attendees had been too tired to engage in proper conversations; a complete mess because, for example, Cedric had become so sleepy midway through that he had nearly fallen face-first into his soup, and Kamden had tried to eat his soup with a fork.

“Speaking of the Baron,” Lisa began, pouring more hot water into the bathtub. “Now that we are here, how do you feel about him being here as well?”

Cloudia sank a bit deeper into the water.

“Before, it was only an idea, then a fact lying in the distant future you did not have to pay much attention to. Now, we are here because of Her Majesty and there is this unknowing outsider lurking around.”

“You sound like the Duke. Milton is harmless and won’t be a hindrance,” said Cloudia.

Thin-lipped, Lisa put some flowers and herbs into the water to make it smell nice. “Lady Cloudia, I do not believe that the Baron will be a hindrance because he will bother everyone all the time. I believe he will be a hindrance because you got along rather well until he proposed to you and you declined. Then, he left for a few weeks, only to invite you to his crumbling villa and pretend that nothing happened before he vanished for eighteen months. This sounds like one of the ridiculous romance novels Al likes to read.”

Cloudia groaned. “I know you don’t like the Duke, but sometimes I think you could be the best of friends. This is one of those times.”

Lisa rolled her eyes.

“I saw that,” said Cloudia. “Why should Milton’s presence bother me? He misunderstood something, he proposed, I rejected him and never regretted it. And it doesn’t seem as if it hurt him all too much. Now, please let go of this nonsense and go read something for half an hour. You can ask Newman if he can lend you one of his romance novels.”

Lisa leaned against the washbasin. “Very well. One more thing regarding Baron Salisbury: I have never liked him, to be honest –”

“Who would have guessed.”

“– but even to me it seemed very unlike him to stare at Al like that in Dover.”

“I agree. It was odd, but I suppose Milton was simply surprised. If you see someone who looks like Newman, you usually do not expect them to be butlers. Or, in turn, if you imagine a butler, you do not think of someone who looks like him.”

Lisa shrugged. “Until I get some proper reason for his behaviour out of Baron Salisbury, I will dislike him a bit more than before. How’s the water?”

“Fine. How are the rooms in the servants’ tract?”

“They are acceptable. However, while you and the others inhabit the manor’s actual guest rooms, we sleep where the actual servants sleep. As they are going to return by the end of the month, they left quite a bit, and it’s very compelling to look through their stuff. One maid left her diary.”

“Oh, the temptation.”

“I mean: If her diary was so important to her, if what she wrote in it was so secretive, she would not have left it in the open, would she?”

“She may be a very forgetful maid,” Cloudia suggested.

“She left it in the open, Lady Cloudia! The maid meticulously packed all her other belongings and put them away, but the diary was lying on her desk when I came. That does not sound like she’s a very forgetful person.”

“She may have been angry that she had to leave for a month. Perhaps, it’s going to explode when you open it. Or, a less destructive option: Maybe there are ghosts in this house and the diary is her chaos record and warning?”

“Let’s hope nothing is going to explode,” Lisa said and whipped out the diary from her dress pocket.

“Lisa Greene, didn’t you say that you are only intrigued about taking their things?”

“I said that ‘it’s very compelling’ which it is. I have never said that I still haven’t given in to the temptation. To give me the littlest amount of credit, I have not taken a look inside it.”

Cloudia smiled and shook her head. “Because you wanted to share its contents with me? To make me your partner in crime? Your accomplice in this breach of privacy?”

Lisa raised an eyebrow. “So you are not interested?” she asked, flipping open the diary. “That’s good: no explosion.”

“I want to say that I am not interested, but I would be lying. I’ve always thought that pouring your feelings, thoughts, and secrets into a little, easy-to-steal book is a very idiotic thing to do. Of course, I would not want anyone to go through my things,” Cloudia sat up a bit in the bathtub, “but the possibility of this diary being a ghost record is certainly alluring.”

“I knew that you would say this,” Lisa remarked and paged up to the beginning. She opened her mouth to begin reading, but quickly closed it and skimmed through the diary with a frown on her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“It says ‘diary’ on the cover, but…” Lisa flipped back to the first page and showed it to Cloudia. The first page did not start with Dear diary… or Something terrible is going on in this manor. Instead, the very first page had nothing written on it but The Maid’s Manifesto in beautiful cursive.

“It’s a guidebook?” said Cloudia, and Lisa nodded and closed the “diary.”

“This notebook is filled with recipes and instructions on how to make beds and fold serviettes. There are even notes about the food preferences of every member of the de Charbonneau family. Apparently, Baronne de Charbonneau is allergic to strawberries. It’s a bit insulting that the maid left this for me. ‘I do not think that you know how to make beds; therefore, I have written a manual for you, blockhead!’”

“Very anticlimactic,” Cloudia commented and dived back into the water.

“That’s how it is sometimes,” said Lisa and stuffed the notebook back into her pocket. “And now, let us get your hair washed and this bath wrapped up before you get wrinkly.”

***

Nearly an hour later, I descended the stairs to the dining room. I had dismissed Lisa so that she could join Newman – and perhaps, Wentworth and some other servants – for their own breakfast. Although the memories of last night were hidden behind a veil of sleepiness, I hoped that I was still able to find my way through the corridors on my own.

After I had walked down the wrong set of stairs twice and had to ascend them again, I had to think of the Layton Art Gallery: The château was a godawful mess of a place. At least, unlike the gallery, it would cease to be one when I became familiar with it. No matter how often I had gone to the gallery, I had never been able to figure it out.

After a few more wrong turns, Cloudia finally found the right flight of stairs – on which Cedric was sitting. Frowning, she approached him and saw that he was grumpily nibbling on one of his bone-shaped biscuits.

“What are you doing here?” she asked and sat down next to him.

“I have taken a glimpse into hell: It is a mansion with an abundance of stairs and doors and no signs,” said Cedric, staring ahead of him with glassy eyes. “My soul has left my body. Forevermore, it will slumber in room 1046 while my body resides here…”

“The dining room is downstairs and to the right.”

He threw the biscuit down. “Dammit!”

“What did the poor biscuit do to you?”

“Nothing.” He leaned forward and picked it up. “I’m sorry, my friend,” Cedric said to the biscuit and stuffed it into his mouth. Cloudia grimaced.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked after he had swallowed down.

“It was on the ground!”

Cedric shrugged. “I’ve eaten worse. So… downstairs and to the right?” He got up and held out his hand for Cloudia. She took it and let herself be pulled up, and in this instant, Kamden appeared at the foot of the stairs and waved to them before walking up.

“There you are! Everyone is waiting for you,” Kamden told them.

“Then we should hurry,” said Cloudia and linked arms with him.

Cedric frowned. “How did you manage to be punctual, Kamden?”

“I wanted to go to Cloudie first, and on my way, I met Miss Lisa who seemed quite mad. She said that she found a handbook in her room that was not what she expected it to be. I asked her if I could take a look. We inspected it and found out that it is not as useless as she had believed it to be: It turned out that the handbook contains a thorough map of every passage and every room of the château,” Kamden said. “Apparently, Baron Lambert de Charbonneau who commissioned the manor was paranoid and wanted his home to resemble the inner workings of the Pyramids of Giza. For the same reason, he ordered for the manor to be built here where his only neighbours would be the birds and the people in the village nearby. He was ridiculed by other noblemen, but, according to Miss Lisa’s handbook, he must have turned in his grave in joy when the revolution happened. When King Louis XIV had ordered for all nobles to live with him at Versailles, nobody had bothered to make sure that Lambert de Charbonneau and his family would come too as nobody had been eager to search for them in this labyrinth. Thus, the Baron’s descendants were saved when the revolution came.”

This explained the Duponts’ eagerness to get their hands on the château: In the unlikely case that we were attacked, the manor’s architecture would protect us – or work against us if we had not got used to it by then. I should not forget to ask Lisa if she could lend me the Maid’s Manifesto later.

“Very impressive,” Cedric remarked, and Kamden cleared his throat. “I have found you, but Milton still isn’t there. Has any of you seen him?”

“If Milton is not in his room or in the dining hall, I suppose he is in the library,” Cloudia suggested, and Kamden nodded.

“I’ve passed the library earlier,” said Cedric. “I should have taken a look – especially considering that you might have been there as well, Countess.”

Cloudia’s eyes widened as she suddenly remembered something. “Will you be able to find it again?”

“I guess?”

“I hope so because Milton and rain is not a good combination.”

How could I forget this? I should have thought of it when I had pulled back the curtains and seen the rain.

“What do you mean?” Cedric wanted to know.

She looked down the stairs, then back to Kamden and Cedric. “We have no time for explanations. I would like to go with you, but, at least, I have to hurry to breakfast. I need to greet my relatives. And you should hurry to the library to make sure Milton’s all right.”

Gently, Kamden unlinked his and Cloudia’s arms. “I will go with Kristopher.”

She nodded. “Thank you. Now, quick. We have no time to lose.”

***

~Cedric~

What was with Milton and rain for Cloudia to get concerned? It rained so often in England; thus, it could not be something too serious, right? Especially considering that Wentworth was – at least, according to Cecelia – Milton’s “shadow,” and if he had not gone to get him or to attend to him, it really could not be very dramatic, right?

More curious than worried, I traced my way back to the library with Kamden. All the way I hoped that I was not misremembering anything, that I would be able to return to the dining hall, and that Milton was actually in the library. It would be quite a waste if he was not.

I was relieved when I found the door with “Bibliothèque” written above it again. I pushed open the heavy door and was met with yet another labyrinth. That Lambert de Charbonneau had truly been very meticulous with his plans. Rubbing my head, I walked inside – Kamden right by my side –, and after a few turns, I felt something tugging at my jacket and had to sneeze.

Cedric turned around and saw a little girl standing in front of him: She seemed to be between seven and nine years of age, had unruly, red-brown hair, and big blue eyes. She smiled at him, took hold of her lavender-coloured dress, and briefly curtsied.

“Hello, I am Anaïs Dupont,” she said with a slight accent. “Claudette told me that I would find you here.”

“Claudette? Oh, you mean the Countess.” Cedric sneezed again and rubbed his nose. What was wrong with him?

“Bless you,” said Kamden.

“Thank you.”

Anaïs nodded. “Claudette told me that you went to look for Baron Salisbury, Your Grace, Mr Bonham. I offered to help because the library is very confusing, and she said that all I had to do was ‘find the man with the long, weirdly coloured hair.’”

“I want to protest, but I have to admit that she is right.” Cedric tugged at his ponytail. “Anyway, you do not have to be so formal when you are addressing me. ‘Kristopher’ is fine.”

“And ‘Emyr’ is fine to me,” said Kamden.

“Very well, Duke Kristopher, Mr Emyr,” Anaïs said and walked ahead.

“I would say that Baron Salisbury is in the seating area, don’t you think?” she asked, turning her head back to them every now and then.

“I guess so, yes,” Cedric said, trotting after her and sneezing again. Was it so dusty in the library? But if it was, why weren’t Kamden and Anaïs sneezing too? “I have a question, Anaïs: Are you the little sister of that frowning, knife-throwing boy?”

She giggled. “Aurèle? He is my cousin. I have a little brother, Gérard, who is three. There are also Jacques and Arnaud who are Aurèle’s younger brothers. You will meet them at breakfast,” Anaïs told Cedric and Kamden before she jumped up excitedly. “Look, Duke Kristopher, Mr Emyr! Is that Baron Salisbury?”

Cedric followed her gaze to an armchair. It was standing in front of a window; outside, the rain had become even stronger. Milton was sitting on the armchair; there was a pile of papers and a notebook on his lap, but he was not staring at them: He was staring at his left arm while he pressed his right hand to his chest.

Cedric stepped towards him. “Milton? Are you all right?”

Milton flinched and craned his head to him, staring first at him, then at Anaïs for a few seconds; his eyes were wide, his face ghostly pale. When he saw Kamden, Milton shook his head and rubbed his face. When he had put his hands down again, the expression on his face had already eased back to his normal one. “I am sorry if I made you worried, but I am fine,” he said and smiled at Cedric.

He sneezed again and said, “You were not looking fine to me.”

Milton sorted his papers and stuffed them into the notebook. “It’s just… I do not have a very strong heart. It is nothing serious I swear, and nothing has happened since I was a child, but… but the last time something did happen, it rained. And now, every time it rains, the memory of the feeling I had back then returns. It is simply a ‘ghost feeling’ and nothing worrisome,” he informed them, still smiling, but when Milton got up, his notebook in his hand, the movement still visibly strained him. Out of the corner of his eye, Cedric saw Kamden shifting slightly towards Milton, though he did not take any step to him.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting. The next time I do not arrive on time, you can simply start without me. Also, thank you, Kristopher and Emyr, for still having been so kind to look for me,” Milton continued.

“Well, we did not find you though. The little lady over there did,” said Cedric and looked at Anaïs who stared at Milton with glittering eyes.

Huh? Had I missed something?

Cedric was about to say something when Anaïs blurted out, seemingly incapable of keeping her words within herself any longer, “Baron Salisbury, are you a faerie?”

The confusion within Cedric grew stronger, his understanding of the situation lessened, and in his perplexed state, he did not know what to say; the events had rendered him speechless, and Cedric was certain that if Cloudia was here, she would be thoroughly amused.

Apparently, Milton did not suffer from temporary speech loss as Cedric did. That’s why he was able to kneel in front of Anaïs and say, “I am afraid that we have not been properly introduced to each other. I am Milton, and I suppose you are Miss Anaïs Dupont?”

Anaïs’ eyes widened. “You know my name?”

“Lady Cloudia has given me a list of all your names in advance. Now tell me, Miss Anaïs, why do you believe me to be a faerie?”

“Because you look like one!” she exclaimed. “In my books, faeries are described to look very fair and delicate and sometimes to have green eyes.”

“Uh, well, you see, Miss Anaïs,” Milton began bashfully. “I have to disappoint you: I am not a faerie. I do not even have green eyes – they are hazel. The light here must tint them more green than brown right now. Kristopher has green eyes though. Did you ask him whether he was a faerie?”

“No, I did not because Claudette said that his hair – and I do not mean to be offensive or unkind; I simply recite what she has told me – is not washed very often, and even though faeries are creatures of nature, they are supposed to be impeccable. Also, he does have very striking green eyes, but they look too unnatural to belong to a forester,” Anaïs said, and Cedric groaned. “I do wash my hair. This is its natural colour,” he said and sneezed.

“I am sorry, Miss Anaïs, but neither Kristopher nor I are faeries. We may have disappointed you, but I do wish you all the best in your search – and so does Kristopher and even Emyr, I assume,” said Milton and stood up, still a little bit shaky. “Also, I think we should hurry to the dining hall. We have kept the others waiting long enough, and Kristopher is in dire need of a cup of tea: He seems to have caught a cold.”

“I was fine until a few minutes,” Cedric said, rubbing his nose.

“Colds can be deceitful,” Anaïs stated with a serious face before she turned to Milton. “Well, you may not be a faerie,” she said, boldly taking Milton’s hand, “but you do look like one, Baron Milton. This alone may convince Jacques that faeries may really exist.” She dragged him forward. “Come! I cannot wait to see Jacques’ face! And, of course, to finally have breakfast and get Duke Kristopher his tea!”

With no protest, Milton let himself be dragged through the corridors by Anaïs, and Cedric and Kamden followed them.

Something told me that our stay here would be far from boring.

***

“There you are. We were about to begin to believe that the château swallowed you whole,” said Cloudia when Cedric, Kamden, Milton, and Anaïs entered the dining hall. Silently, Kamden went to occupy the chair to her right.

Last evening, the food displayed on the table had been scarce as their hosts had known that, while they had been undoubtedly hungry, they had also been very, very exhausted. Now, it was richly laid, and seeing all the food made Cedric’s stomach grumble. He sat down on the empty chair to Cloudia’s left and briefly looked around the hall, saw Aurèle scowling at him from the opposite side. He, Anaïs, and the spectacled boy to whom she was dragging Milton and who was sitting to Aurèle’s right, Jacques Cedric assumed, had hair in various shades of brown; however, the little boy to Aurèle’s left, presumably Arnaud, had black hair and piercing blue-green eyes. The instant Cedric and the others had come in, he had turned his head to them and fixed his eyes on Anaïs. He was still watching her, and Cedric followed his gaze to see Anaïs talking rapidly to Jacques in French, he answering her, they taking turns looking at Milton, and Milton looking very out of place and fumbling with his stuffed notebook.

It was quite a sight.

“Why did you even make such a fuss about Milton?” Cedric asked, leaning to Cloudia. “He only gets ‘ghost pain’ from the rain after all. I’ve expected something more dramatic. For example, that he is actually a very confused werewolf, changing to his were-form when it rains and not when there’s a full moon…”

“I think you need to eat something,” she said, handing the butter to him. “You always become more nonsensical when you are hungry.”

Cedric took the butter from her. “Definitely. Where are your ‘aunts and uncles,’ the rest of your distant relatives? The Comte and Comtesse? The Baron and Baronne? Will they come later, or at all? Will the enigmatic Marquis come too? And where is Cecelia?”

“What an awful lot of questions.”

“Apparently, hunger does not only make me more ridiculous but also very noisy.”

Cloudia put a raisin roll on her plate. “Anselme, Sylviane, Amélie, and Firmin have already eaten. They like to get up early, and because they do not want to disturb their children, they eat breakfast separately. If possible, they usually eat lunch and dinner together. About the Marquis… I told you about his condition yesterday, don’t you remember?”

“Frankly, I don’t. I’m not even sure if I was anywhere else but in that damned carriage yesterday.”

She sighed. “The Marquis is eighty-six years old and not in the best condition. Amélie and Anselme were against him coming here, but he did not want to hear any of it. He is the only one who knows where the Clockmaker is, and he does not want anyone to find out as long as it’s not absolutely necessary: He has not even told his own children. The Marquis will entrust the Clockmaker’s location to one of us, presumably me, and that’s it. Considering his state, I doubt he will leave his room during our stay.”

“How unfortunate. I really wanted to meet him even if I think that he is scary. And what about Cecelia?”

“She needs more time to collect herself. Cecelia has a bit of trauma regarding overly long carriage drives,” Cloudia told Cedric who nodded and looked away from her and ahead, seeing Aurèle still staring at him while he layered white cheese on bread.

“Do I have something on my face?” Cedric asked. Aurèle ignored him.

At least at breakfast, I had been free of Miss Greene and her piercing stares; now there was her male French counterpart to irritate me.

Apparently finished with their argument, Jacques returned to his breakfast while Milton hastily sat down next to Kamden, and Anaïs took place next to Arnaud, albeit a little grumpy. Her mood instantly turned around when she sat down. “Gérard!” she exclaimed, jumped up from her chair, and vanished beneath the table.

A few seconds later, she reemerged with a little boy with slightly tousled light brown hair and blue eyes. Anaïs said something to Aurèle that Cedric could not understand before she seated her little brother and a servant came to help her clean his hands and comb his hair. When they were finished, Anaïs clapped her hands together.

“It’s a bit late – you have already started eating after all – but have the others, apart from Aurèle of course, introduced themselves to you, Baron Milton, Duke Kristopher, Mr Kamden? If yes, I have not noticed it.”

“Well, I would have introduced myself to His Grace and Mr Bonham if you had not hindered me with your faerie business, Anaïs,” Jacques pointed out before he briefly bowed. “I am Jacques Beauchene, nice to meet you,” he said. Unlike his brother or cousin, he had no accent at all. “The boy next to Aurèle is my younger brother Arnaud.” Arnaud waved at them.

“And my fiancé,” Anaïs added, beaming. “Finally, that’s” – she pinched Gérard’s cheek – “my little brother Gérard. He is usually with Maman or our governess Josseline, but I begged for him to join us because we were unable to see you yesterday.”

“Hello,” Gérard said in his little voice and waved.

“So, as we are all here,” said Anaïs, her eyes shining with something ill-boding. “How did you all meet Claudette?” She turned to Kamden. “Mr Emyr! Can you start?”

Kamden stopped in his movement and very slowly looked up. In this moment, he reminded Cedric of a fawn that was seeing a train for the first time: scared, shaky, and not knowing what this thing in front of him was and what the hell he was supposed to do with it.

“She came into my bookstore,” Kamden said when he regained his voice.

“That’s everything?”

He nodded.

“Oh. Very well… Baron Milton, what about you? How did you meet Claudette?”

Milton put down his knife and clutched his hands together. “Her aunt is a patron at an art gallery where my father used to be one as well. A few years ago, a new exhibition opened. Lady Cloudia accompanied her aunt, and I attended the opening in my father’s stead,” he told her.

“That’s all?” Anaïs pressed.

He smiled. “That’s all,” Milton said and took up his knife again.

Still hopeful to get a wonderfully long and exciting story, Anaïs turned to Cedric. “And you, Duke Kristopher?”

“She was killing a man in a dark alleyway, and I happened to be there because I had to collect his soul. I told her that I was a Grim Reaper, and she still insisted on starting a partnership with me.”

This was exactly the kind of story Anaïs was seeking – insane and entertaining. Unfortunately, it was not one Cloudia or I could ever tell her.

“Well, it was incredibly unspectacular,” Cedric began instead. “We were at the party of a noblewoman whose name I have already forgotten – that’s how unspectacular it was.”

Anaïs let her shoulders sink. “I see.”

“That story may be wholly uninteresting,” he continued with a grin which earned him a frown and a glare from Cloudia, “but I have better stories about the Lady to tell.”

Anaïs’ eyes glowed. “Oh, please tell them, Duke Kristopher!”

“If I may have a word,” Cloudia said, her voice carrying loudly through the hall. She looked at Cedric. “No.”

“All that build-up for a simple ‘no’?”

“Brevity is the soul of wit. If you want me to elaborate, I will.” She cleared her throat. “No.”

“You did not elaborate on it at all.”

“Of course, I did. I elaborated on the intensity. The stress. The pronunciation.”

Anaïs giggled. “You two get along so well! Claudette, please, one harmless little story?”

“If she does not want to, you should respect her wish and stop pestering her,” Jacques said and stood up. “It’s not very polite. And if you may excuse me for a few minutes, my glasses are slightly dirty and I have forgotten my special handkerchief in my room.”

“I know… but are you not curious?”

“Curiosity should never lead to a breach of privacy, Anaïs,” said Jacques and left the dining hall.

“But…”

Aurèle groaned. “We should let Cloudia decide. If she is fine with one… uh… short harmless story, that will be all we will hear. If she is not… then we will talk about something else. Cloudia?”

Cloudia was silent for a while before she ultimately sighed and said, “Only if he tells me beforehand which one. And only one.”

“That will be enough!” exclaimed Anaïs happily. “Duke Kristopher, which story do you pick?”

Cedric looked at Cloudia who raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. There were many stories he could tell, but most he wanted to share were intersected with Watchdog work – their charade in St Margaret’s Chapel, how they were standing on that ledge outside the Salisbury Villa, how she took him to meet the Queen, how she killed Maven von Brandt… – and, thus, were not ones Cedric could tell in the presence of Milton. Then, there were the ones that were too ridiculous to tell: tracking down Dahlia Duke, how they sneaked into a Christmas party, how they hid zucchinis on the Lincolns’ porch…

Fortunately, Cedric had never intended to share any of those events.

“The picnic in Wales,” he answered, smiling at the memory.

“I hate you very much for this, but please go on.”

His smile widened. “Last year, the Lady and I were in Wales and, one day, I decided that it was the perfect day to go out into the wild and have a picnic. And while we were eating, I managed to make her laugh genuinely – by, you will never believe it, telling her one of the worst jokes possible.”

“What joke was it? Please, please, Duke Kristopher, what joke did you tell Claudette?” begged Anaïs.

“As I have said, we were having a picnic in Wales,” Cedric continued. “I asked the cook of the place where we were staying to prepare a few things for us. One of them was Glamorgan sausage. It is some kind of sausage which is not made out of meat but of cheese. The cook was very talented; therefore, the sausage tasted really delicious – and I jokingly said ‘Ah, I would like to marry him but I can’t.’ The Lady wanted to know why I couldn’t marry him after I told her that it wasn’t for the reason she believed it was – and I answered: ‘Because I found out that he’s a really cheesy guy.’”

Arnaud and Anaïs chuckled. “You made her laugh with that?” she said.

“Only because I had a terrible headache at that time,” Cloudia defended herself.

“No headache in the world can make someone laugh so hysterically at a pun as you did back then,” Cedric countered.

“Of course, it can’t. You may recall that, at that time, I did not only have a headache but was also on the verge of having a sunstroke because of a certain someone who insisted to take me out for a picnic when the sun was at its zenith in the middle of summer – and I hope you haven’t forgotten what happened afterwards.”

“What happened afterwards?” Anaïs wanted to know.

“He nearly got me killed, and I had to spend most of our time in Wales in bed recovering.”

Milton choked on his food, and Kamden clapped him on the back while staring at Cedric. Aurèle scowled at him with an intensity so fierce that it might surpass Lisa’s scowls. Even little Gérard could not believe what he had heard and looked at Cedric with wide eyes.

“What is going on?” Jacques asked when he re-entered the dining room. His glasses were now polished and nicely reflected the light from the chandeliers.

“Duke Kristopher once murdered Claudette!” Anaïs answered.

“You forgot to say ‘almost,’ Anaïs,” Arnaud told his fiancée.

“Oh, yes, right – he almost killed our Claudette!”

Jacques looked at Cedric. “How could you even try to harm our cousin?” Then, he let his gaze wander to Cloudia. “And why are you still talking to someone who almost got you killed?”

“I did not actively try to get her killed,” Cedric protested. “We went picnicking, and she carelessly put down her hat and didn’t put it on for hours – and she neglected her health again by not drinking enough.”

“Are you trying to blame me for what happened?”

“I am trying to defend my honour here. Unlike you, I have to do this all on my own, Lady Phantomhive. After all, I don’t have an army of cousins. To be honest – do you have more cousins hidden somewhere? The next time, you make Milton, Emyr, and me accompany you to Latin America because your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother’s favourite aunt was Paraguayan, and you have a million more cousins there.”

“He’s ridiculous,” Aurèle said.

“We should get rid of him,” Jacques added.

“I once read a book about how to make murder look like an accident,” Arnaud proudly told them.

“I read it to him!” Anaïs happily exclaimed.

“Murder!” Gérard yelled, raising his fork into the air.

“I am so glad that you don’t have any Phantomhive relatives,” Cedric said to Cloudia who ignored him and chuckled at her cousins. “You are too sweet, but I cannot let you kill the Duke,” she said, taking a sip from her tea. “Because that is my privilege.”

Aurèle grinned. “Of course, Claudette. But if you… if you need help, you can count on us.”

“Always,” Anaïs added.

“Aren’t you forgetting the Earl, Kristopher?” Milton remarked after he could breathe again and had thanked Kamden.

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course, the Earl. His presence is so thin that I keep forgetting that he exists,” Cedric replied and he hoped that his words had not come out of him too hastily.

“Also…” Milton started, paused, opened his mouth, and closed it again.

“What do you want to say, Milton?” asked Kamden.

Milton cleared his throat. “I want to say that it was a really nice story, Kristopher.”

Aurèle raised his eyebrow but did not say anything. “It was?” said Cedric.

“Yes, of course,” Milton replied, fiddling with a serviette. “Sure, it was unfortunate how things turned out in the end, but at the beginning, you looked so happy to tell us about the picnic. You must truly cherish this memory despite its ending, don’t you? I think it’s good that you can still enjoy thinking about that time. Bad things often overshadow the good ones – and you two seemed to have had such a good time in Wales; it would be so sad if you only ever focused on the one bad thing that occurred. Especially as it was not the fault of neither of you.” He made a pause. “No… simply forget that I have ever spoken if it does not bother you too much. I am sorry.”

“Uh… well…” stammered Cedric before he gave up on saying anything. He had no idea what to respond to Milton anyway.

For the rest of the breakfast, Milton did not say a single word although everyone else was talking boisterously and over one another; and every time, Cedric glanced into his direction, he also saw Aurèle scrutinising him.

***

~Cloudia~

“Well, that was probably the most chaotic breakfast of my life,” said Cedric. Right after they had finished eating, Anaïs and Arnaud had gone to bring Gérard to Sylviane, his and Anaïs’ mother, and to see Babette. Jacques had announced that he would head to the library now, and Aurèle had vanished to go outside – presumably to practice throwing in a much safer place than in the corridor. Kamden and Milton had left with Cloudia and Cedric to go to their respective rooms but were walking a few paces behind them because Milton had been the one to close the door.

“That means a lot considering that I am not the youngest anymore,” Cedric continued.

“Really? You have never experienced even more chaotic breakfasts?” Cloudia said. “The bread did not go up in flames? A servant did not triple and spill a whole can of milk over your grandmother? Nobody ever bit into a roll so hard that they lost a tooth? The cook was never so tired that he misunderstood ‘croissants’ as ‘cross’ and ‘saints’ and prepared a very holy breakfast surprise?”

“You cannot tell me that you have actually experienced these things.”

She shrugged. "I don’t have to. Poor John can tell you how he was fired after angering Grandmother Hortense. Clarissa can tell you how she lost a tooth – thankfully it was only a milk tooth – to a centuries-old roll that somehow sneaked its way into the bread basket. If he was still alive, Maynard could tell you how he was fired after he was out with his friends for so long that he was too sleepy to work properly the next morning.”

“You are making this up.”

“I could never. All I said was born out of breakfasts had during the annual three-day family gathering at Grandmother Hortense’s. Do not get me started on stories concerning lunch or dinner!”

“Hah!” Cedric exclaimed and jumped up and down. “You are lying! I have never heard of an annual family reunion of yours! Last year you did not attend such a thing!”

“Grandmother Hortense is not particularly fond of me and only ever invites me every other time. Sometimes I cannot go because I have Watchdog duties to attend to.”

“That does not prove any–”

“Lady Cloudia, there you are,” said Lisa when she approached them. “I guess Mr Emyr has already told you about the Maid’s Manifesto?” She took it out and opened it. “Hah! What I thought to be completely useless and outright insulting ultimately turned out to be very, very helpful. This place is an architectural mess and without a map or having become fully familiar with the building due to haunting its floors for years, you would be lost. I doubt anyone would ever be able to find your corpse in here.” Lisa sighed. “Unfortunately, the Maid’s Manifesto was more of an exception than the starting point of a new surprising rule,” she added with a sideways glance at Cedric.

“Very funny, Miss Greene.”

“How was breakfast with the other servants?” asked Cloudia.

I had already a bit of a headache; I did not need it to become worse.

“It was fine. The servants of the Duponts and Beauchenes do not speak English, though. The only exception is, according to Mr Wentworth, the governess Josseline Manaudou, but she does not eat with us. This creates a bit of a barrier – at least, for me. Still, Al, Mr Wentworth, and I ate together while the others where bundled among themselves.

“Al and Mr Wentworth talked for quite some time and they get along very well. It surprised me a bit as Al usually shies away from conversations, and people shy away from him. Mr Wentworth does not seem to mind though – unlike his charge.”

“This again? Simply ask Milton about it. He is right behind us.”

“Oh, yes. I doubt that he would refuse to answer or that he would give a dishonest response,” Cedric said. “Milton strikes me as the kind of person who would gladly answer all your questions as truthfully as possible. Of course, only if he knows the answer and as long as it’s not too intrusive.”

“Nobody who is in their right mind would answer such questions. This says absolutely nothing about his character.”

“May I interrupt?” Milton suddenly said, having approached them as silently as a cat. “I am afraid, but I involuntarily overheard bits and pieces of your conversation. I am very sorry, but…” He turned to Lisa. “Miss Greene, are you referring to the incident in Dover? I did not mean to stare at Mr Newman; my surprise got the best of me. I am very sorry. I truly did not mean to make him uncomfortable in any way. Being stared at for such things is awful. I know that.” Milton sighed. “I will apologise to Mr Newman as soon as possible. I will definitely do so sometime today. I should have done it sooner. I am very sorry.”

“I… I think Al will appreciate it,” Lisa replied, clearly taken aback by his words.

“I do hope so,” he said. “Now, with the whole day ahead of us…” – Milton put a hand on his chest and smiled – “and the rain ceased, have you already made any plans for today?”

No matter what I had said to Cedric and Lisa, Milton was a bit of a hindrance. Nanteuil-la-Forêt was a small village and every new face would instantly become subject to gossip. We were a large group of people, and if we went there together, it would be even more eyebrow-raising than when only one or two of us go. The same would apply when we took turns going to the village.

And even more, if we went there looking like nobles.

The latter part should not be a problem with Milton – he would certainly be fine with disguising himself. The first part, however, might be tricky. Keeping an eager traveller and explorer away from Nanteuil-la-Forêt could not come without problems.

Under different circumstances, I could not care less if he went to the village or not – but if we caused too much a stir, it might alert Townsend and endanger the mission.

“Have you already made any plans for today?” Cloudia countered.

“Bram and I were contemplating exploring the nature around here a bit. Apart from that, I have a lot of work to do before my meeting in a few days. I thought about doing my paperwork in the salon or library.”

Evidently, I was absolutely wrong. Milton was as easy to handle as I had claimed.

“Are you not afraid of getting lost?” asked Cedric.

“Not quite. Are you interested in coming along?”

“Oh, no. I get lost all the time, and I am not a fan of forest strolls.”

“You could ask Firmin – Baron Beauchene – if he wants to accompany you,” Cloudia suggested. “Amélie said that he is very interested in the wildlife here and that he has been here once before. And I believe Emyr would like to join as well.”

She looked at Kamden, and the gaze he returned to her told her that he had understood: Milton had said that he and Wentworth would only walk around the forest, but if they were to change their minds, it was his job to stop them.

“I would come myself,” Cloudia continued, “but I promised His Grace to pay a visit to Nanteuil-la-Forêt with him. It is a little, unremarkable village, but even such places can have some hidden charms tucked somewhere in their two streets, I suppose.”

Milton smiled. “Villages always do, not only hidden between two streets. Maybe we will head to the village as well later. Until then… Emyr, do you want to ask Baron Beauchene with me whether he is interested in joining us or not?”

“Sure,” Kamden replied. “Let us talk later, Cloudia, Kristopher. Miss Lisa.”

Kamden and Milton said their goodbyes and walked back to a staircase they had passed earlier; Lisa had consulted the Manifesto, and, apparently, that was the best route to get to the Beauchenes’ rooms.

“What a splendidly useful guide you have there, Miss Greene!” Milton had said before he had wished them a good time in Nanteuil-la-Forêt and gone away with Kamden.

“So, my dear Duke,” Cloudia said when they arrived at her room and she pushed open the doors.

“It is time for us to get changed. We will meet here in thirty minutes. Not a second later, you understood?”

***

“Thanks for taking us with you, Mr Cuvier,” Cloudia said in French against the wind when, thirty-five minutes later, they were driving from the château to the village.

“You are welcome, Lady Cloudia!” Denis Cuvier replied. Cloudia had partially anticipated that she and Cedric would have to walk all the way to Nanteuil-la-Forêt. To their luck, Denis had been ordered to go down for shopping by Anselme Dupont – the Marquis’ son, Amélie’s older brother, and the father of Anaïs and Gérard. When Cloudia and Cedric had gone downstairs to head out for their little adventure, they had stumbled over Denis, and he had been so friendly to drive them. At first, he had been unsure whether he should or not as his wagon was not exactly made for the transportation of humans. Cloudia had convinced him that it was fine, and now they were being transported like goods in the back, and Cedric screamed his lungs out, holding on for dear life to the wagon’s side.

“Is His Grace fine?” Denis asked, glancing at Cedric.

“Oh, yes,” said Cloudia. “Undertaker,” she continued in English. “If you do not stop screaming, some passing-by villager may believe that there is a howling monster in the woods and break out a panic. If they catch you, they may try to dissect you.”

Cedric was silent for a moment. Then, he started to whimper.

With a sigh, Cloudia slid down next to him. “What is wrong?”

“This bastard there is driving too damn fast. Why are you fine with it?”

“I had worse carriage drivers. One time, some maniac managed to get me from Quaker Gardens to Soho in twenty minutes. Never tell a hansom driver to go as fast as he can and that he may cross others on the way,” Cloudia told him. “The better question is: Why are you not fine with it? What are you afraid of? You are already dead.”

“First of all, I am very capable of dying again. Second, I would not describe myself as ‘dead.’ I may be a Grim Reaper, but I still have to eat and sleep and do all other essential things humans have to do; I can even get ill – and you know that! If I were dead, I could jump off this damned wagon and come out unscathed. But I am not. I would die again and land before the Great Grim Reaper who would only sigh and say, ‘You again?’”

Cloudia held out her hand. Cedric stared at it.

“Come, take it, and tell me a story. We have already established that you like telling stories after all.”

He glanced one more time at her hand and then at her before he finally took it.

“Wonderful! And now to the story. Tell me whatever you like and what will distract you from Denis’ questionable driving skills.”

Cedric whimpered one more time before he cleared his throat, squeezed her hand, and focused his eyes on Cloudia.

“It started with a desperate man. Once upon a time, that man lived with his wife in a wonderful little cottage. They had wished for a child for a very long time, and when they were finally expecting, they had to face a great problem. As you see, there was a little window at the back of their house which overlooked their neighbour’s garden, and that garden was filled with the most wonderful vegetables and flowers…”

***

“Thank you, Denis,” said Cloudia. They had not quite reached the village now as she thought that it would be better if Cedric and she walked the last few hundred metres on their own. Nobody had to know that they belonged together after all. “Let us meet here in five hours. Is that fine for you?”

“Of course! Goodbye, Lady Cloudia! Your Grace!” And like lightning, Denis was gone.

“What is he feeding his horses?” asked Cedric, leaning against a tree. Her method to distract him had worked – he had gone through the entire fairy-tale without whimpering once –, but now that they were on solid, unmoving ground again, his queasiness had returned.

“I should inquire about it. Thomas may be very interested in it. ‘Power food! Makes your horse run so fast that even Death would rather die than chase it!’”

“I for my part am very interested in keeping my breakfast inside of me. I do like nature, but nobody benefits from it when I share the dozens of croissants I ate with it.” Cedric took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes for a moment before he shoved himself off the tree so that they could resume their journey to the village.

“Do you think Denis will slow down when we have to return?” asked Cedric, circling a puddle. “He has to think of the cargo after all.”

“Earlier, we were the cargo, and you know how it was.”

“But the other cargo, the actual cargo, cannot hold on to something. It would topple out and be ruined.”

“Let’s see what will happen later, okay? Let us focus on our work now.”

“Very well. What do you even mean to do in the village? Question every resident if they are Nicodemus Townsend?”

“Do not be ridiculous, Undertaker,” said Cloudia. “I plan to see the mayor. We say that we were sent from Paris to catch a criminal and that we need his help in this task which will require his absolute discretion. If we are in a particularly bold mood, we may tell him that he will receive a medal if he helps us. People are like magpies – hopelessly attracted to everything that shines.”

“Are you sure that this will work? I don’t think I can pass for a Frenchman if I cannot even speak French.”

“I will say that you are embarrassed about your voice and have to whisper all you want to say into my ear.”

“Cannot we say that I am a foreigner and need a mediator?”

Cloudia looked at him. “The world is slowly shifting together, Undertaker, but villages like Nanteuil-la-Forêt are not very affected by that shift. The people living in such places are not used to foreigners and often do not trust them. If they don’t trust us, how will they aide us in our investigation? Also, Townsend may be a foreigner here too, but it would still seem suspicious if the Parisian police send foreigners to do their job for them. The mayor and nobody else would believe us.”

“But can’t we say that I am… I don’t know… mute? I know a bit of sign language; it might work.”

“I don’t know sign language, though. You need to teach me one day. Until then, we have to push back this charade idea.”

Cedric sighed. “Very well. Then, I will be the detective with the embarrassing voice. Are you happy now?”

“Definitely. How do you want to be called?”

“Hm?”

“Undertaker, we need false names. I don’t want to have to think of ones on the spot. I am, I have to admit, not very good at naming anything, and it will be better if you already know to which name you have to respond when I call you.”

He sighed again and pondered over it for a while. “Jeanne Gauthier for you. Alexandre Vidocq for me.”

“Interesting choices. Wholly unexpected. Why did you choose them?”

Cedric smiled. “I had no particular reason.”

***

After ten minutes, they finally arrived at the village. At first, they kept to alleys, tracing the village more than entering it, but a place like Nanteuil-la-Forêt did not have many dark corners to begin with and soon, Cloudia and Cedric wandered rather openly through the streets.

It was a perfectly ordinary village and every now and then, people stared at them and put their heads together. The gossiping had already begun.

“Do you smell this?” Cedric asked into Cloudia’s ear, sniffing the air. “Cake.”

Cloudia rolled her eyes. Very well. But only because we need to ask someone for the way, she thought, touching her skull pendant necklace.

I followed Cedric’s keen nose. If one of us should be called a dog, he should be it. It fit more.

They entered a little bakery, and Cloudia ordered a piece of cherry crumb cake for Cedric.

“Hello, my companion and I are looking for the townhall,” Cloudia told the baker in French after she had handed the cake to Cedric. “May you be so kind as to tell us the way?”

The baker wiped the counter and narrowed his eyes. “I have meant to ask: Who are you? I have never seen you here before, and I am one of the only three bakers here. I have practically seen everyone.”

She smiled at him. “We are simply two strangers passing by.”

For a moment, the baker scrutinised her, and then, he said, “Follow down the main road; then go left. You cannot miss it.”

“Thank you.” Cloudia gestured for Cedric to come, and they quickly walked down the path to the townhall. There, they had to wait quite a while. Not because the mayor was so busy, but because the staff was wondering who those two persons they had never seen before in their entire lives could be.

Gossip. Cecelia loved it because she could get a lot of information out of it, and I could see its value in this regard, but it was far too tiring for me. Cecelia could handle it. I did not want to have to do anything with it.

“The mayor will see you now,” the secretary Alain Descombes, a tall man in a well-worn suit, told them. “If you may follow me now.”

Cloudia and Cedric followed their guide to the first floor, and in front of the room at the very end of the corridor, he halted and opened the door for them. He bowed when they entered and closed the door behind them.

“Welcome, Monsieur Vidocq. Monsieur Gauthier,” the mayor said. He walked up to them and shook their hands. “I am the mayor of Nanteuil-la-Forêt, Mathieu Guilloux. What can I do for you?”

After we had parted to get changed, I had put on trousers, well aware that with them and my hair up and hidden beneath a cap, I could pass as a man. It was easier to walk through the streets like that: People were already talking about us, and I did not want them to fantasise over the “unmarried pair walking around the streets solely on their own” too. But when I had told the secretary that I was Jeanne Gauthier, I had not put any effort into lowering my voice. The trousers were a disguise for the street; I had not meant to continue the charade here. However, if they saw pants and apparent short hair and instinctively believed me to be a man…

Part of me wanted to continue this masquerade, wanted me to be “Jean” instead of “Jeanne.” I had done this before and it had gone well. Why not do it again? The rest of me, though, had no interest in pretending to be a man. And, for once, this larger part was louder than the smaller one.

“It is Mademoiselle Gauthier,” Cloudia corrected him with a smile.

Mathieu Guilloux frowned. “I knew that you were an odd pair – marching into my village and heading straight to me – but now you have become even stranger. A girl in pants!” He shook his head. “Anyway, please take a seat and tell me what you want.”

Cloudia and Cedric exchanged a glance before they followed Guilloux to his desk and sat down on the chairs in front of it. Guilloux himself sat down behind the desk.

“Monsieur Vidocq, why have you come here?”

“Monsieur Vidocq and I have come to Nanteuil-la-Forêt on order of the Parisian police,” Cloudia answered him, still smiling. “Vidocq is a renowned detective there. Unfortunately, he is very embarrassed by his voice, and because of this, he needs me: I am the only one who is allowed to hear his voice and recite what he is saying.”

“So you are his secretary?”

“We were sent here for a highly important case,” Cloudia continued. “A criminal from England has caused quite a riot in Paris and before we could catch him, he fled. We assume that he is hiding somewhere around here.”

Guilloux frowned. “He is hiding here? In Nanteuil-la-Forêt? Unbelievable!”

Her smile widened. “That’s exactly the reason why he is here. Nobody expects a wanted thief to be here.

“Mayor Guilloux, we have come to inform you of our investigation and to ask for your aide in finding the thief. We are certain that with your help, we will be able to find him in no time. The sooner we find and catch him, the sooner Vidocq and I will be gone.”

Guilloux said nothing for a while before the neutral line of his mouth transformed into a grin Cloudia did not like at all. “Mademoiselle Gauthier, so you are saying that Monsieur Vidocq is a renowned detective in Paris?”

She nodded. “Very famous, very talented. Day after day, his brilliance adorns the title pages.”

Guilloux leaned back. “I see, I see. Mademoiselle Gauthier, you may not have noticed it while coming here, but we have our very own criminal lurking around here. In the last two days, two persons have been killed. It is the first time something like this has happened here and my people are in a panic.

“I will help Monsieur Vidocq in finding his thief if he agrees to help me with my murderer. Is this a deal?”

***

I hated this bastard so much. I had tried to argue with him for a while – I had even told him about the prospect of receiving a medal, but it had not helped –, but soon figured out that it was in vain. Guilloux was one of those people whose mind you could not change no matter what you did. After briefly “consulting” Cedric – he had only whispered into my ear how much he disliked the mayor – I had agreed. However, I had made a condition as well: Under no circumstances should he tell anyone that I was, in fact, a woman. It would ruin my disguise on the streets after all.

Still furious, Cloudia left the mayor’s office with Cedric. Outside, a young woman with light brown hair in a long braid and a gentle face waited for them.

“I am Yvette Guilloux, the mayor’s daughter,” she introduced herself with a curtsy. “I am to guide you through Nanteuil-la-Forêt. Very pleased to meet you, Monsieur Vidocq, Monsieur Gauthier.”

“We are very pleased to meet you as well,” said Cloudia, and Cedric nodded.

“Please follow me down,” Yvette said and led them to the stairs. “I hope Père was not too unfriendly. He can be rather rough sometimes. I hope he did not offend you?”

“Not at all,” Cloudia dryly replied.

Yvette nodded. “Did he tell you something else I have to do? Apart from showing you around?”

“Your father said that you would inform us about the murder case – Vidocq is a detective and agreed to help. What happened?”

She paled. “It is absolutely horrible! Traumatic! Two days ago, Madame Nadia Allemand, an elderly seamstress, was found in her tailor’s shop – with thousands of pins stabbed through her skin! It was an awful sight and nobody knows who it was. It was a shock to all of us. And then, yesterday…” Yvette shuddered. “Dominique Duhamel was found hanging from the church’s roof. He was hanging there with a rope around his head, but his heart had been pierced by a knife…”

She showed them to the backdoor and out. “And, well… We do know who it might have been, but we have no idea who he is exactly.”

Cloudia frowned. “Oh, very interesting. Could you please tell us more?”

“Two days ago, a stranger came here and checked into Maxime Guilbert’s pension. He checked in and vanished on the same day: On the day Madame Allemand’s corpse was found.”

Cloudia leaned towards Cedric so that he could whisper something into her ear.

“What is she saying?” he wanted to know.

“Vidocq would like to see the pension,” said Cloudia, and thought: I will tell you everything later, Undertaker.

***

Maxime Guilbert’s pension was right next to the bakery they had visited earlier. According to Yvette, the baker Basile Duhamel was the father of the second victim.

It was certainly odd for him to continue working after his son’s gruesome death. Was it because he was dependent on the money or because of something else?

Guilbert heartily greeted Yvette and after a row of small talk and introductions, he gave her the key to the apparent murderer’s room and told her, Cloudia, and Cedric its number: 245.

“I am a friend of his daughter Marie-Claire,” Yvette told them while they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “She and I used to run around these halls all the time. Now, all we do is drink tea and converse in the kitchen.”

She put the key into its hole when they arrived in front of Room 245. “Maxime said that he did not touch it: Everything is exactly like the stranger has left it. Maxime was afraid to touch the room after what happened, and he stopped Dominique’s mother from destroying it. Poor Solange. Now that you are here, Maxime is especially happy that he has protected the room. He got a few scratches from the fight. At least, now he knows that they were not for nothing.”

The door swung open, and Cloudia and Cedric stepped inside. They walked around, searching for something useful.

The room was ordinarily decorated: There was a rug, a bed, a small desk, a slender wardrobe. From the window, Cloudia could see the façade from a house, and there was a chamber pot beneath the bed. No manipulated tapestry, no loose floorboards.

The wardrobe was empty. The bed was untouched. There was nothing on the desk, not even faint lines that indicated that the stranger had sat down and written something there. The rug was glued to the floor so masterfully that it was impossible to move.

The window was intact and closed. There were no holes in the ceiling and walls, no cracks as well.

The room was absolutely blank.

***

~Cedric~

On our way back, Cloudia explained everything to me, but it sounded more like she was talking to herself than to me. After we had gone to the pension, Yvette had led us to the church and to the tailor’s shop. At each place, Cloudia’s frown had deepened, and when Yvette had invited us to tea, I had been able to hear the gears turning inside Cloudia’s head over my chewing.

The case was clearly bothering her. Still, in my eyes, this was no excuse for ditching me as soon as we had arrived at the château. Denis had actually driven slower this time, relieving my soul and stomach, but when Cloudia told me that she would retreat to her chambers now, I still had not the strength to protest.

The hours passed and after doing nothing in that time, I decided to go out and find out whether she would like to see me now…

Cedric walked down the corridors, crossing his fingers that he was actually taking the right path when he was promptly grabbed and dragged into an astonishingly beautifully furnished and decorated room.

Wrong way.

Very unceremoniously, Cedric was thrown onto an ottoman.

“I would appreciate it if you were to stop doing this,” he said to Cecelia and shifted into a better seating position.

Cecelia shrugged and sat down on a large sofa opposite him. Today, she was wrapped in black silk. From the exhaustion that had apparently been plaguing her earlier was nothing to be seen.

“Rather, you should consider becoming less lost-in-thought and more observant and cautious. Under widely different circumstances, I might have been an intruder sent to cut off all the heads of the residents here. Imagine it! Someone whose sole talent and purpose in life is cutting off and collecting people’s heads! And he was sent after us! How tragic for the world it would be to lose my lovely countenance!”

“I thought you were talking about my head.”

“I will talk about your head when I want to play ball like the shepherd’s children.”

“Cecelia, why am I here?”

“Do you remember the promise you have given to me? Back in April? Please do not say you don’t: I will be tremendously disappointed.”

“It was not a promise when I said that you could ask me another time whether I would like to drink with you.”

“You remembered!” Cecelia exclaimed. “Wonderful. Splendid. Marvellous. Today will be the day you will redeem your promise.” She stood up, walked to her dresser, and inspected her face and hair which sat perfectly.

“I have asked Newman if he was so kind as to organise some beverages and prepare the salon for us. Of course, he was. A very dutiful man. If he was not so devoted to our dear Cloudia, I would take him for myself.”

Cecelia turned towards Cedric and held out her arm to him. He sighed. “Did I ever have a choice?” he said, taking her arm and guiding her out of the room.

“Did anyone ever have one?”

***

“Is there not something you would like to ask me?” said Cecelia, leaning towards him and speaking in a low voice, while she led him to the salon.

“How are you able to navigate through the château so confidently even though you have spent the entire day in your room? This place is a mess!” Cedric replied, shuddering at the hundreds of different staircases they passed. Who was the architect Lambert Charbonneau had employed? Had he gone wild when the Baron had said to create “the most dazzling building” or had he been insane?

Cecelia laughed. “I may have spent my day in my chambers, but I talked to Newman, don’t you remember? I ask him about the way to the salon, and he went to ask Lisa about it. Apparently, the one whose room she currently occupies left her a very remarkable little book. I keep saying this to Cloudia, and now I will say it to you too: I could very well spend the rest of my life in a single room or stitched to a bed or sofa and still be able to acquire all the information I want.

“Now, when I asked whether you have a question or not, I did not prompt you to give me this question. While entertaining, I doubt it is all you have in mind.”

Cedric was silent for a while. “While we were travelling, why were you being so weird towards Milton? For example, why did you make the Countess withhold from him that you would accompany us as well?”

Cecelia tugged on his arm to make him bend down and poked his nose. “I am slowly training you to ask the right questions, and it is working fantastically!

“Well, you have to know, dearest Not-Kristopher, that I do not travel with anyone I have not researched before. When I had to cross the Irish Sea to get to England and marry Michael, I requested him to find out every man’s name who would be on the ship. I had never been on one before, and I did not want to take any risks. Michael gave me all the names and I spent an afternoon finding out everything I could about them. One of them was a wanted axe-murderer who planned to kill everyone on board and steal the ship to escape to mainland Europe. Michael and I reported him, he was arrested, and we could calmly take our journey. Never trust anyone – that incident cemented this for me.

“When Cloudia first began to meet with Milton, I was very eager to dig out everything concerning him. She was not very happy about my plans though and made me promise that I would, as long as they would keep meeting at least, not research Milton. Now, their relationship has not exactly soured, but it took quite a turn after his failed proposal – a very fortunate circumstance because it allowed me to research him now when it became important. I would have never set foot on his damned ship if I had not dipped into the waters of his past and secrets before.”

“So… and why exactly were you being weird towards Milton?”

“How impatient! Is it because I am not Cloudia that you cannot listen to me for more than two sentences?” Cecelia shook her head. “Anyway, while I conducted my research I came across a tiny, but highly interesting rumour.

“As you know, Milton owns a trading company which is primarily focused on food and whose profits significantly increased upon him inheriting it. The other heads of trading companies despise him for that; this hatred infamously peaked in Flavian Hunt conspiring to kill Milton. A few people believe Milton’s success is founded in some dark business.”

Cecelia inspected her fingernails. “He is a weapons smuggler.”

Cedric stared at her. “What?”

“Milton’s innocent, overly friendly aura could not be real; not a second, I believed his little act. Surely, it is only a rumour, a very tiny ember which seems to be going around for a little while now, but still has not sparked a fire.”

“What if it is only a rumour? A rumour planted by some envious rival?” Cedric suggested.

“Of course, this is a possibility. But what sounds more plausible? Nobody has a white soul, and I doubt that Milton has one. If only I could get anything out of Baroness Salisbury…”

“Baroness?! What Baroness…” Cedric interjected, but Cecelia kept on going.

“… and then there are all the other highly suspicious things about Milton and… Oh, look! We have arrived!”

A servant opened the door for them, and they stepped into the salon. Apart from them, only Milton – of all people – was there, hunched over piles and piles of papers in a corner. Cedric had almost missed him.

“Speaking of the devil,” Cecelia whispered to Cedric before she let go of him and headed straight to the table and seating area Newman had prepared for them.

There was no reason for me to believe Cecelia. Still, I hesitated before I approached Milton.

Cedric had made only one step towards him when Milton lifted his head. From the door, he had looked far more submerged in his work.

“Hello, Kristopher,” Milton greeted him with a smile when Cedric sat down on a chair opposite him. “I am sorry for the mess.”

“It’s no problem,” Cedric said, glancing at the “mess” he was referring to: There were many large piles of documents, but each pile had been neatly put together. The only thing that was “messy” about them was the fact that they were covering the entire table.

“What brings you here?” Milton wanted to know.

“Cecelia is forcing me to have some drinks with her.”

“I see. I hope you will enjoy yourselves.”

“She certainly will; I, on the other hand, am not sure I…” Cedric glanced at the paper on the very top of the pile closest to him, and for a moment he was confused because of it and did not know why before it dawned upon him that he could not read anything written on it. Not only wasn’t it in English – it did not seem to be any other language.

“Uh… Milton? What is this gibberish?”

“Oh, that…” Milton fumbled with the pen in his hand. “These documents contain classified information. Only those who concerns them should be able to read them, and to make sure that really only the right people can do something with these papers, they are written in code."

Dammit, Milton. I did not want to believe in Cecelia’s words – I wanted to trust you, but you were not making it easy for me.

“It is only a silly little security measurement. I guess everyone could break the code if they were dedicated enough…” Milton trailed off.

“Well, I certainly am not. In the end, all I would get would be boring numbers, right?”

“Oh, yes. They are not exactly interesting to everyone…”

Cedric nodded. "So if anyone ever tells you I was stealing your corporate information, you know that they are lying and only want me to look bad.”

Milton chuckled, and to Cedric, it sounded genuine. If he was really a weapons smuggler, shouldn’t his laughs be more pressed? “I will keep that in mind.”

“Very well.” Cedric stood up. “I think I will leave you alone now. You seem to have a lot of paperwork ahead of you…”

Milton looked down on his lap and twisted his pen in his hands. “Uh, not exactly…”

Cedric frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well… I am almost finished for today.” Milton picked up the single piece of paper that he had been balancing on his lap.

Cedric stared at him. “When did you come back from your stroll?”

“Two hours ago.”

“These are like a million papers! And you have worked through them in two hours? How did you even get them in here?”

Milton shyly smiled at him. “A butler, Alphonse Batteux, was so kind as to help me. I think the next time I will work in my room…”

“This is insane. Don’t you have a secretary to help you?”

“No. Even if I had, they would not be here anyway, right? Also…” Milton looked down at his last file. “I like doing paperwork. It’s very calming.”

“Baron, as you are free in a minute, do you want to join us?” Cecelia asked, coming over to them with a grin on her face.

Her words reminded me of something Milton had said after breakfast: that he would either work in the library or the salon. Who had Cecelia made spy on us for her? Or how had she found the random passing-by servant who had overheard exactly this crucial piece of information on which she could base her entire crazy plan of making me redeem my “promise” to elevate her chances of getting Milton to agree to have some drinks with her so that it would be easier for her to get the pieces of information she wants out of him?

A spy it had been. Definitely a spy.

We were here for barely a day, and Cecelia Williams had already wrapped the staff around her finger.

“Friendly afternoon drinking does always sound marvellous, and, as we will be having dinner soon, the drinking will not become too heavy. It’s unfortunate, but we have to be presentable after all. The Comte and Comtesse, and the Baron and Baronne will join us, I have heard. We would not want to leave a bad impression, would we? And, Baron, as far as I remember, we have never really talked, and like this, you can continue your conversation with His Grace as well!” Cecelia said without making any pauses to breathe that could allow Milton or Cedric to protest.

Milton put his pen down and clutched his hands together. “Very well. I am not much of a drinker, but if it is only a little bit…”

Rest in peace, Milton. It was good to have known you.

Cecelia’s grin widened. “Oh, how wonderful.”

***

“It has come to my ears that you, Mr Bonham, Baron Beauchene, and Wentworth went out into the forest today,” Cecelia said when they were all seated and the butler Batteux had poured each of them a glass of wine.

“Yes, we did,” Milton replied, taking up his glass. “Aurèle joined us as well. Baron B… Firmin was quite happy about this development because, seemingly until now, Aurèle never wanted to accompany his father to one of his nature studying trips. Firmin studies wildlife and plants, you see; he is especially interested in birds.”

How did someone like Firmin even manage to marry a Dupont? From all Cloudia had told me, it would have made more sense to me if Firmin had been rejected. Or, perhaps, bird-watching was just his hobby?

“How very interesting.” Cecelia raised her glass to her lips and took a sip. “Your Grace, what are you saying about it?”

“It must have been very nice to have an expert in your group,” Cedric said and glanced at his damned glass.

“It definitely was. Firmin was able to continue filling out his notebook on the nature of Nanteuil-la-Forêt, and we were able to get a university-level lecture on it.”

“Have you ever been to university, Baron?” Cecelia asked.

“I would have loved to, but I could not. I had to help with the company and this took up all my time.”

“How unfortunate. Don’t you think it’s unfortunate, Your Grace?”

Cedric numbly nodded.

“However, with your title and company, a degree would be superfluous. Why should you do something you do not need to do?”

Milton nodded briefly and after twirling the glass in his hand for a while, most likely he was debating whether to drink the wine or not, he raised it to his lips – and drank everything at once.

Cedric stared at him. Even Cecelia was baffled.

Bashfully, Milton put the glass down and clutched his hands. “I am not very fond of the taste of wine – or any kind of alcohol – and prefer to finish it all at once so that I do not have to endure the taste for too long…”

“Are you not hurting yourself in the process?” Cecelia said. “Drinking an entire glass of wine at once is no easy task for many because of this.”

“It does hurt. Like with the taste, I prefer to have to withstand the pain for only a short while though…” Milton paused. “I can drink it normally if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Oh, no, do not bother. It is tremendously fascinating. Can you do this with something stronger as well?” Cecelia inquired while pouring whiskey into his glass.

“Uhm… I suppose I could, but I thought we were only drinking lightly?” Milton remarked.

“Oh, one or two glasses of something stronger will be fine! Trust me.” She held his glass to him.

Milton stared at his glass before he hesitantly took it and drank everything at once again.

“Milton… are you fine?” Cedric asked when Milton had put down his glass again. He itched to throw it out. Part of him did want to get closure on the question whether or not Milton was involved in some illegal dealings, but he did not approve of Cecelia’s method of getting this piece of information out of him. Cedric was still sure that Milton would answer that question normally, but how could you embed “Are you an arms smuggler?” into a casual conversation without it becoming awkward?

“I’m very well,” Milton replied, and judging from the look on his face, he was telling the truth. “Thank you for asking. I have just remembered something: How did your visit to Nanteuil-la-Forêt go, Kristopher?”

“It was fine. The Lady and I have not found its inherent magical component, though we did have some cake.”

Milton smiled at him. “You still have time. I hope you will find it eventually.”

Cecelia handed Milton his refilled glass. This time, Cedric had not seen what she had poured into it – and to be honest, he did not want to know.

“It seems as if you are greatly amused by my drinking habits, Marchioness,” Milton said, taking his glass.

“It is a truly fascinating talent and gift. A gift I would love to have to amaze the Ladies of the Gossip Table,” said Cecelia. “Have you shown this talent of yours to others as well, Baron?”

“Please call me ‘Milton,’ Marchioness. And while there are others who know about it, I have never put it on public display.”

“You should! It would stir quite the talk at parties.”

“I do not doubt that it would, though I am afraid that this is not something I would ever do,” he stated and gulped down his glass of unidentified liquid.

Again, when he put it down, he still seemed completely unaffected.

I had no idea what Cecelia had put into that drink, but she seemed to have had great hopes for it because her face fell momentarily. Something told me that her mixture would have even knocked me out – and I was a Grim Reaper! What was Milton then?

Cedric stood up. “I think this was enough. Cecelia…” However, before he could get any further, a footman entered the room and bowed. He said something in French that Cedric could not understand, but part of it had sounded like his name…

Whatever the footman had said, it managed to surprise Cecelia for the second time today.

“What did he say?” Cedric wanted to know.

“He said,” Milton told him, “‘Duke Underwood, The Most Honourable Marquis Dupont would like to see you.’”

***

I asked the footman if I could speak to Cloudia first. He said no.

I asked him if he had made a mistake. Again, a no.

I asked if it could wait – the Marquis was an old man, and it was so late. Surely, he would rather rest? No.

I asked if he knew why he wanted me and not Cloudia, his grand-niece? He said no.

I asked if he knew what the Marquis wanted to tell me. No, again.

And then, he stopped answering any of my questions.

It was highly unnerving. Over and over again, I recalled all the bits and pieces Cloudia had told me about him because I wanted to know who I was about to meet. It did nothing to ease my nerves; instead, it only made everything worse. When the footman opened the door to the Marquis’ rooms and shoved me through it, my nerves were frazzled.

I whispered to the footman that I would refuse the meeting – why had I not done this before? – but he only closed the door behind me.

The Marquis’ room was decorated like all the others. All was ordinary; only he was not.

He might have been lying on his bed, multiple cushions lifting up his upper body and head, but he might as well have sat on a throne.

“What is your name?” the Marquis asked. Despite his age and ill countenance, his eyes and his voice were still full of strength and subtle malice.

Thank God, Cloudia did not inherit this.

I hoped.

“Not the one you use to introduce yourself to others,” he continued. “I do not want the lie; I want the truth. The one you gave to my sister’s granddaughter.”

Cedric could not help himself and flinched.

“My servants are my ears and eyes in a world I cannot explore on my own anymore. However, they can only see and hear, not observe and listen. They also do not speak a single word of English; I always make sure they do not. Certain words are not meant for the ears of many.

“So, tell me, what is your name?”

“How do you know that ‘Kristopher Underwood’ is not my real name? Why don’t you assume Cecelia Williams is lying about her name?”

“I do not have to assume anything: I know that both your names are not your real ones. In her case, she changed it upon marriage. You have never officially changed your name; you illegally bear a name that is not yours. ‘Cecelia Williams’ is her name now; ‘Kristopher Underwood’ has never been yours.

“I know the names of all who have arrived yesterday except yours. I know that Wallace Underwood never had an heir, but I do not know who you are. However, seeing you in front of me now, I have a suspicion. My servants described your appearance to me. Say, when was the last time you have washed your hair?”

Cedric groaned.

Yes, he was definitely related to Cloudia.

“It is such a pity,” the Marquis said, “that you are neglecting it so much – your impressive silver hair.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want your name. I already know enough – why are you still hesitating, son?”

Cedric took a deep breath and looked him into the eyes, but the Marquis did not look into his. “And what is yours?”

“I,” he spoke, “am the Marquis.”

He was giving me an aneurysm.

“I am not quite sure why I am even here – don’t you want to speak to Cloudia? She is your sister’s granddaughter, as you have said, and you have never met her before. Don’t you want to talk to her?”

“I have told you what I want.”

Cedric sighed. “Marquis, why are you so fixated on names?”

“Names hold power, son. They hold power and contain stories: of marriages, of favouritisms, of adoptions, of great tragedies, of love and joy and sadness and many more. I have always had an interest in stories. ‘Duke Kristopher Underwood’ tells me the story of how you met my grand-niece and came to work with her. What does your real one tell?”

Something told me that, if I were to try to escape, I would find the door locked or the corridor full of ready servants – or both. The windows would be unbreakable; the walls impenetrable.

This château had been built to protect its inhabitants from the outside world, and what was to be a safe haven could easily become a prison.

“My name is…” His heartbeat grew faster. “Cedric Kristopher Rossdale.”

The Marquis smiled. “As I have expected: another tragedy. And such a sad one. Rossdale is such an old name.”

Cedric sucked in his breath. “Now that you got what you wanted, tell me where the Clockmaker is. That’s the main reason why you have called me, isn’t it?”

“I have never said such a thing.”

“But that’s the reason why we are even here!”

“But not the one why you are here. You have come to tell me your name.”

Cedric clenched his fists. “Can’t you give me the location anyway? We do not have much time, and I am already here.”

“I will give out this piece of information when the time is right and I will only give it to the right person. This is not now. This will not be you.”

“If this is all, can I go now?”

“Nobody shall hinder you, son.”

Cedric turned around and when his hand touched the doorknob, the Marquis spoke again.

“People grow into the names they are given or take. I have not always been ‘the Marquis.’ For a brief time, I had been someone else. ‘The Clockmaker’ has not always been his name either: He grew into it when it was given to him.

“Amélie told me that my grand-niece is calling you ‘Undertaker.’ When do you think you will grow into that name?”

***

I could not stop thinking about my conversation with the Marquis.

Dinner had passed and, afterwards, we had all retreated to our rooms. Most were already asleep. Only I turned back and forth, unable to fall asleep myself.

Cloudia had still been pondering over the murder case at dinner; if she had not, she surely would have noticed that something was wrong with me. Of course, I would talk to her about it – just not now. Now, it was time for me to process the conversation myself. Now, it was time for it to haunt me.

Something greatly unnerved me when I thought back to the meeting, but I could not put my finger on it. It was on the tip of my tongue but I could not taste it.

It was horrible.

With a sigh, Cedric rolled out of his bed. This night, sleep would not find him, and he would not find sleep. At least, he hoped to find some peace while wandering through the silent corridors.

Cedric lit a candle and grabbed the clothes he had worn during the day, and when he shrugged on his jacket, a bundle of papers fell out of it. Frowning, Cedric picked them up and unfolded them. My dearest Not-Kristopher… it began and he cursed under his breath. When had Cecelia put the papers in his pocket?

Cedric was about to scrunch them up and throw them away when the word Milton caught his eye. His heart beat faster.

This was the summary of what Cecelia had learned about Milton.

I should not read it. It was a breach of privacy. I liked Milton, did not believe that he could hurt a fly, let alone be a smuggler. And still, there was his file in my hands…

No, it was not right. Who knew what was written in there? Nonsense, I guessed. It came from Cecelia after all. And still…

And still…

Cedric shook his head and put the papers on his desk. He adjusted his jacket and went to the door, but right in front of it, he stopped.

For a minute, Cedric lingered there, staring into nothingness, and then, he turned around. With sure steps, he walked to the desk, sat down, and smoothed out the papers.

My dearest, Not-Kristopher, I hope that you are aware that after you have read these papers, you have to tear them apart and burn them in different fireplaces…

***

Somewhere, United Kingdom – May 1843

~Cloudia~

A chuckle came from behind the door. “How amusing for Simon’s daughter to come to visit me,” said Oscar Livingstone, former Met detective, now incarcerated Yard Ripper.

My heart beat louder in my chest. So I had been right; it had been true.

Cloudia took a deep breath to slow her heart again; in the empty corridor, it sounded so loud in her ears, and she did not want her excitement to be so obvious.

“How exactly do you know my father?”

“Is that all you came for?”

“No, but it is a beginning.”

“I have no reason to answer any of your questions.”

“You would not even do it for the sake of friendly conversation? Your voice sounds rough – nobody talks to you, right? I must be the first one in about six years to start a conversation with you.”

For a while, it was completely silent behind the door, and then, Oscar said, “Simon and I worked on multiple cases together. His partner was gone for two years, and during that time, I was Simon’s primary aide. We worked together later as well, but not as frequently.”

“That was a surprisingly long answer,” Cloudia remarked.

“Is that everything?”

Now or never, Cloudia.

“As you know, my father died nine years ago,” she recited the words she had rehearsed all the way to the asylum. “He died under very mysterious and perplexing circumstances. Until today, nobody knows what happened, and Scotland Yard has long ceased its investigation.

“I was there when my father died, but I lost all my memories of it under similarly perplexing circumstances. This is haunting me every single day – this uncertainty. Barrington does not want to tell me anything, and Father’s other Aristocrat of Evil is in America where I cannot reach her. There are not many people who were close to my father, and when I found your portrait in Father’s sketchbook” – Cloudia held it out even though Oscar could not see it – “I worked to find out who you were.”

“And it did not stop you from coming here when you did.”

She nodded. “It did not. It only added yet another riddle for me to solve. And now, I have found you. You were friends with my father…”

“I would rather describe our relationship as ‘close acquaintances’ or ‘colleagues,’” Oscar interjected. Apparently, it had not taken much to revive his joy for talking.

“… You knew him better than many others, and I thought that because of this you could help me find out what happened.”

“I am not exactly capable of helping you right now,” Oscar said.

“This is not a problem: If you agree to help me, I will get you out of here. I have a letter personally written by the Queen which says that, if I want to take you with me, you are free to go. Even your servants will be released.”

Again, silence fell inside the cell.

“If I am to help you, you will help me as well.”

Cloudia frowned. “I will already help you get out of the asylum.”

“But does it not benefit you as well? Finding out the truth about Simon’s death is a part of the bargain that is solely for you. I want one as well.”

“Wasn’t Father your… your close acquaintance? Are you not eager to learn the truth too?”

“Curious I am, but I am neither as haunted by it nor as invested in this matter as you are. Not finding out the truth will not steal my sleep.

“Don’t you believe in balanced deals? Why should anyone agree to a deal from which only one party benefits?”

He was not in a position to discuss this with me. By any means, I should be leading this conversation, but I did not. He was right. Who was I to demand something and not be willing to return the favour? Who was I to assume that anyone would agree to this?

But was it really wise to have to owe a favour to the Yard Ripper?

Cloudia took a deep breath and pressed the sketchbook close to her, holding on to it as if it was her anchor.

I hoped this would be worth it.

“Very well. If you agree to help me, I will help you too.”

“You will not ask any questions or back out?”

“I will not ask any questions or back out. I promise.”

When Oscar spoke again, Cloudia could hear the smile in his voice and she wondered how it looked like.

“Then the deal is done, Lady Phantomhive.”

“Then the deal is done, Captain Livingstone,” she replied, uncertainty and utter relief and joy warring inside of her.

“I will go and tell the warden to release you,” Cloudia said, but right after she had taken the first step back to where her guide had left her, she halted. There was a question she should ask; one she should have asked before and had to do it now even though it did not matter anymore. She had already given her word.

“What is it that I have to help you with?”

“Do not worry about it. I will tell you when the right time has come.”

#Watchdog of the Queen #main chapters #please tell me all is working well #i feel like puking #edited all day #where is the damn line you could add tumblr???#fanfiction #kuroshitsuji #undertaker #cloudia phantomhive

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a-winterprince-blog · 7 years

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Family Ties (14/15)

Summary: Not long after receiving a strange warning in a dream, Killian finds himself forced to go to Camelot and deal with a long forgotten enemy. The heroes follow to aid him, but soon they are pulled into a net of family secrets and intrigues, with a foe who seems to bring back the dead. Killian is reunited with his family, but can he trust them? Rating: Mature Content Warning: Mention of rape and minor character death. Corresponding chapters will be marked accordingly.

As always, a huge thank you goes out to my wonderful beta @onceuponadisneypotter (AO3) and my two amazing artists:@thisisartyannaand @captainodonoghue! You can find the story on ff.net, as well.

Trigger warning: This chapter contains mentions of rape

"So you went to Dumnonia to check on the blood magic?" Emma clarified.

She had her arms crossed in front of her chest and a frown on her face as she tried to take in the new information she was offered.

"Yes," Regina confirmed. "There was something off about the story. I was right."

Emma turned to Killian.

"So, your mother killed all those people?"

He gave her a short nod, still focussing on a point on the ground somewhere behind her. His face was grim and he was clutching his jaw.

"Why?" she asked, knowing that it wasn't a great question to ask. But she didn't know what else to say.

"Apparently she was protecting me," he muttered.

Emma raised an eyebrow. "From whom?"

"Morgause."

She nodded. So Morgause was the ulterior enemy. She just exploited Morgana's love for her children to control her.

She looked at Killian. How did he feel about this? Clearly, he was upset.

Before she had the chance to say anything else, Nimue burst into the room. Not looking at everyone else, she stopped before Regina, firmly staring her down. Emma was still amazed at how scary this petite woman was when she was angry.

"How did you get here?" she hissed. "I didn't let you in."

Regina exchanged a look with Emma over Nimue's shoulder.

"I located my son with a spell and poofed here," she said.

"You shouldn't be able to do that. No one can come to Avalon just like that."

She turned away.

"This isn't good," she said, more to herself than to anyone else in the room. "Find your people and bring them to the main hall."

She left the room without waiting for their answer.

Emma looked at Killian and Regina, both as puzzled as she was.

"Was that the Lady of the Lake?" Regina asked.

Emma nodded. "Nimue," she said.

They followed her out into the hallway, knocking on the common room on their way to the main hall. Robin opened the door.

"Regina!" he exclaimed, jumping to her side and pulling her in for a hug. "Are you alright? Where have you been?"

Emma turned away to give them some privacy, quickly telling her parents what was going on.

Nimue waited for them, seated at the head of the table, as always. When they had all gathered, she started talking.

"The protection spell around Avalon is weakened. Morgause must've brought it down. As of now, anyone with a boat could enter."

"Can we put it back up?" Emma asked. "There's enough people with magic here, if we work together..."

Nimue shook her head. "It won't work. Besides, I used much of my magic to prepare a spell that could ban Morgause from setting foot here. Not that it will be of much use now. But I need time to recharge."

"Who could come here?" Snow asked. "I mean, Morgause is the biggest problem and she can come here anyway."

"Anyone could be a threat," Nimue stated. "Avalon is meant to be a private refuge, not a tactical base for a war."

She shot them a reproachful look.

"If Morgause brought it down, she has a plan. An ally she wants to bring here, maybe."

"Rumple?" Belle asked quietly.

"No. The Dark One was here before, he doesn't need an invitation."

"Should we prepare ourselves for battle?" David asked.

Nimue's head jerked around as if she was listening to a sound no one else could hear.

"It's too late," she said. "Someone is already here, I can feel it."

There was a knock on the door. Nimue got up, carefully opening it. They all tensed and prepared themselves to fight, if necessary.

"I am here on behalf of the king," a deep voice announced. Emma recognized Sir Gawain. "This place has been declared ungodly and unlawful. We are under orders to destroy it."

Emma managed to peek through the tiny gap that Nimue had opened. Her stomach clenched when she saw the army outside the door. Did Arthur send all his men here?

"You have two hours to discuss your surrender," Gawain continued. "Then we will take you with us to the castle and you will receive a fair trial. Otherwise, we will take the house with force."

Nimue closed the door without giving him an answer. She turned around, looking pale and unusually intimidated.

"How many are there?" David asked quietly. "Can we defeat them?"

Nimue shook her head. "Too many."

"But we have magic!" David protested.

"So what?" Regina asked. "You want to kill them all?"

"Morgause did this," Nimue said. "She sent them here. They wouldn't have known otherwise."

"What does she get out of it?" Emma asked.

"A distraction," Nimue whispered. "Maybe she made a deal with Arthur that she could keep Morgana and Kara."

She listened to the silence for a moment, but nobody said anything. She nodded, as if accepting that there was nothing left to stay, and left the room.

Killian sat alone at the desk in one of the bedrooms, impatiently drumming his fingers on the table. Everyone was in the main hall, discussing their options. He had excused himself and left. He couldn't be in the same room as his mother, not yet. Not after how she'd lied to him.

They had lost. The battle hadn't started yet, but that much was clear. They couldn't win against all these soldiers, and even if they did, they still had to face Morgause and Gold. They'd thought bringing the battle to them would be a good plan, but it wasn't. Now Henry, Kara and the babies were in danger as well.

No one was under any illusions when it came to the fair trial that they were promised. His mother had gotten a so-called fair trial, and it had ended with her and his sister on the pyre. Not to mention that Nimue would never surrender Avalon.

"Are you trying to come up with a battle plan?" someone behind him asked.

He turned his head, surprised to see Nimue standing in the doorframe. She seemed much calmer than before, but he suspected that she had only regained her composure.

"I'm afraid there is not much we can do," she continued. "We cannot leave Avalon. This place is too important."

"They wouldn't let us if we tried," he muttered.

"That wouldn't be a problem," she said almost cheerfully. "There is a secret tunnel in the basement behind the potatoes, no one would see us. No, the main problem is Avalon. It cannot be abandoned under any circumstances. We cannot allow them to destroy it no matter the cost, you must understand that."

Killian frowned. Why was she telling him all this?

"The frustrating thing is that Arthur sits in his castle, all alone. He sent every single guard here to do his dirty work. He won't move a finger. Morgause has really outdone herself this time," she sighed. "I thought she couldn't do more damage than last time, when she stole those two love potions. One for Arthur, to ruin his wedding. It took a powerful and complicated spell to undo that one. I couldn't do that for poor Tristan."

Killian looked up, confused. "Tristan?" he asked.

"Oh yes," Nimue said. "She met him under the name of Iseult when she was supposed to marry King Mark of Misthaven. She slipped him the potion, making him madly in love with her. They found him lying next to her the next morning. Both swore that nothing happened, but the wedding had to be canceled. They couldn't be certain that her maidenhood was still intact. Tristan almost lost his knighthood."

"But the second potion was for my mother," Killian recalled the story Arthur had told him all those years ago, when he'd approached him at his mother's execution, telling him that he was his father.

"Oh no, dear, your mother was never under any sort of spell," Nimue said.

He frowned, trying to wrap his head around this new piece of information. It didn't make any sense.

"But if she wasn't under a spell, why would she sleep with him?" he asked.

"Because he wanted it, of course," Nimue said lightheartedly.

Killian felt his heart drop to his stomach.

"What are you saying?" he asked.

"He's a king, he doesn't ask permission. He takes what he wants."

"No," Killian whispered, feeling the blood drain from his face. "You're lying. That can't be the truth."

"I thought you knew," Nimue said simply.

Killian clenched his fist, feeling blind rage flare up in him. There was no way this could be true. And yet... His mother had never shown any signs of loving Arthur. Or thinking that she did because of a spell.

His nails dug into his flesh, drawing blood. He forcefully opened his fist, reaching for the hilt of the sword he had equipped in case of a battle.

"Arthur...," he whispered, his voice trembling.

He felt something familiar creep up in him, next to the rage. The darkness was always there. No matter how long he'd buried it, he knew it would never leave him alone as long as he lived. And right now, he saw no reason to resist it.

"He has to pay for this," he whispered, walking past Nimue towards the basement.

She didn't try to stop him.

Morgana paced up and down the room, trying to come up with a plan. At the very least, she needed to make sure Killian and Kara were safe. She couldn't risk losing either one of them.

Kara was sitting at the table, head resting on her hands. She blamed herself for suggesting that they waited for Morgause, but it wasn't her fault. Her plan had been good, and no one could'va anticipated this.

She was worried about Killian. He hadn't talked to her after learning her secret. She understood that he was angry, but she needed to make amends with him. She couldn't let this stand between them.

"Killian should be back by now," Emma said. "I'm gonna go look for him."

"I'll come with you," Morgana offered quickly. "You're right, neither of us should be alone right now."

As far as she understood, Emma was Killian's love, although they weren't married. There was also a connection to this Milah, Calie's mother, and she was still confused, but she hadn't asked, deciding that Killian would tell her when he wanted to.

She was happy that Killian had found someone, truly, but at the same time, she couldn't help but feel jealous. She had last seen her baby boy at age seven, and now he was all grown up, in the hands of another woman. He didn't need her anymore. Somehow, she felt as if he'd been taken away from her.

She followed Emma down the hallway, looking for him in every room. They didn't get far before the ran into Nimue.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't stop him!" Nimue said as soon as she saw them.

She was looking at Morgana, ignoring Emma.

"Stop who?" she asked.

"Mordred!" Nimue said. "We talked and I mentioned the story of his conception. I shouldn't have, but I thought he knew..."

Morgana felt as if she'd been punched in the gut.

"You did what?" she asked.

"He took off through the secret tunnel, he's going after Arthur," her mother continued.

"Arthur!" Emma exclaimed. "He can't do that! According to the book, Arthur is the one who kills him!"

They looked at each other, eyes blown wide.

"I have to go after him," Morgana whispered.

"You can't," Nimue said. "I put up a spell. I'm sorry, Morgana, but your boy is on his own."

"If you put up a spell, how did he leave?" she snarled angrily, clenching her fists.

Something was very wrong here. Avalon was facing destruction, she wouldn't just casually walk up to Killian to have a chat. She had a plan.

"He doesn't have magic," Nimue said. "He's not crucial to the fight."

"Emma, go back to the main hall," Morgana ordered. "Send someone after him. Someone who doesn't have magic. There is a secret passage in the basement, it should be possible to escape that way. Now."

Emma didn't argue, quickly disappearing down the hallway.

Morgana pushed Nimue into the next room.

"What are you planning?" she hissed, barely containing her anger. "What are you going to do to him?"

"I'm not doing anything," Nimue said innocently.

"Of course you are!" Morgana hissed, anger rising up in her chest. "He's just another pawn in your game of chess, isn't he? Have you decided to sacrifice him now?"

"Morgana, he is my grandson," her mother stated. "Please don't be ridiculous."

"Stop it!" she yelled. "Stop pretending like you care about family! You and I both know you only care about yourself and your precious Avalon."

Nimue looked at her sharply. "You should be careful with your words," she warned her calmly, but Morgana was too far gone to stop.

"Do you want to know why Morgause turned out the way she did? You ruined her. You ruined her, just like you do everyone you touch. You ruined her, you ruined me, and now you're playing games with my son, but I won't let you do that. I won't let you ruin him."

She could feel the magic prickling in her fingers, and she brushed it off angrily.

"You created Morgause for her power, but when she was born, you were so scared that you locked her away! You took away the thing that she was born for. What did you expect? That her powers would just go away? That she would forget about them? No, instead, you have left her wanting for the thing you denied her. You keep talking about your precious trinity, about power, love and wisdom, but you never followed it, and you're the reason neither of us can."

She took a deep breath, trying to calm down. The prickling in her fingers was more aggressive now, she really needed to take a step back and regain control, but she didn't want to stop. It was all so clear now.

"And Elaine," she said. "Poor Elaine had to die. But who knows, maybe it was good that she did. At least you didn't get to ruin her. It was wise of you to have another child, yes. Morgause was clearly unfit to replace you, and I was married, so I couldn't, either. But where was your wisdom when she needed it? How could you not foresee that Morgause would come after her?"

She felt tears stinging in her eyes as she remembered her sweet sister, lying dead on the ground. She'd found her when visiting her mother for the spring equinox.

"And you?" Nimue asked. She didn't seem angry or upset, which was odd, but Morgana was too far gone to notice. "Tell me what I did to you."

"You left me," she whispered, tears running down her cheeks. "I was born as a result of your love for Uther, but you never loved me. You gave me up because he asked you to, you let me grow up with a stepmother who hated my guts. You let him marry me off. You didn't even care when Arthur did... what he did."

She swallowed hard, feeling little bursts of magic sprouting from her fingers. She realized that she was about to lose control, but she didn't care.

"Morgause was there for me. It was her fault, but she was by my side when Killian was born, not you. She never intended for things to happen the way they did. She just wanted to ruin Arthur's wedding, she didn't think he would go this far. Can you imagine that? My sister, who killed a little girl out of jealousy, who made this horrible thing happen to me and who now wants me dead apologized to me in tears! I was the only time I ever saw her cry. She nurtured me for almost a month that winter and saved my and Killian's life, she held my hand while my own mother couldn't even be bothered to come to my bed when I almost died in childbirth, because her precious winter solstice ritual was more important!"

She was talking very fast now, but the words wouldn't stop coming out of her mouth. The candles started flickering and she felt something rise up that she hadn't felt since Morgause held that knife to Killian's throat by the gates of Dumnonia all those years ago. And she realized what was about to happen, but she found herself unable to stop it.

"You didn't even care when Arthur sentenced me to death. I don't know how, but you didn't. How is that possible? Please tell me, because I don't understand! My son is dead. Liam died while we were all cursed, and it's killing me! I a, trying to tell myself that he lived long after I last saw him, that he got to grow up and die in honor, but I just... I want him here. I want him here more than I ever wanted anything."

The tears were coming out of her eyes in streams and the light flickered in tact with the violent shudders that went through her body.

"I want to see him, and I just want to protect him from anyone who would harm him. And I want Killian here and not wherever you sent him. I want to know that Kara is safe and not on top of Morgause's ingredient list, how can you not feel these things? How can you use people, even your own family as if they were mere tools for you to get what you want?"

There was no escaping the darkness now. It was everywhere, creeping up inside her and threatening to drown her, pressing down on her from the outside.

"I need to leave! I need to find Killian before he faces Arthur. I need to stop him! Let me go!"

"No," Nimue said simply. "I need you here."

A burst of magic left Morgana's hand as she screamed in rage. It brushed Nimue's cheek, leaving her bleeding from a cut.

She raised her hand to heal it and straightened her shoulders.

"You can do better than that. Come one, I can tell you're close. You know it's the only way."

"I'll kill you," Morgana said, her voice trembling weakly. "You know that, right? You're still weakened from the ritual."

"You could try."

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