#but best believe I’ll be trying out some spectator designs

[hyydraworks]

Making birthday mugs for friends and getting to test out some Baldur’s Gate 3 art?! Because that game is taking up nearly all of my brain space at present 😅

Scratch is bestest boi.

[thenovelartist]

Burned Beginnings, Chapter 5

<<Previous  Next>>  

13. Family

“Yes, Maman, Adrien and I arrived safely. Now please go to bed.”

“I just wanted to check up on you,” her maman said from the other side of the phone. “It’s your first time out of the country, so you’ll have to excuse me if I worry about you.”

“We’ll be fine,” Marinette assured, glancing over at Adrien as he snatched one of their luggage bags off the carousel. “And tell that to Papa, too. I know he’s more worried than you are.”

“Why do you think I’m the one making the call and not him.”

Marinette laughed. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“All right. Thank you, sweetie. Enjoy your trip.”

“Thank you, Maman. Love you. Tell Papa I love him.”

“Will do. Love you, too.”

With that, Marinette ended the call.

“Got our bags,” Adrien said, pulling the two suitcases behind him. “How’d the call go?”

“Fine,” Marinette said, putting her phone in her purse. “My parents are just worried about me, so it was me doing what I could to settle them.”

“You have a close family, so I understand that.”

Marinette took her suitcase from him. “So where to, now?”

“Taxi to the hotel, drop of our suitcases, find a place for dinner, maybe walk around the city a bit if we’re up for it, and then crash out for the night.”

“Doesn’t sound like too bad a plan.”

“Then let’s go, milady.”

Once they’d secured a taxi, Marinette looked out the window to take in the sights.

“Have you been here before, Adrien?” she eventually asked.

“Couple times for modeling jobs and once for fashion week,” he confirmed.

“Do you like New York City?”

Adrien shrugged. “It’s novel. It’s kinda like Paris, being a bustling city, but it’s just so modern and feels like people just don’t appreciate the history behind their city, you know? And the natives here are like a whole different breed of human. But they feel the same about us, so feeling’s mutual.”

Marinette nodded, turning back to the window to marvel at the sights.

When they got to the hotel, Adrien checked them in. Marinette only knew basic, school-grade level English, but Adrien seemed comfortable with the language. He did promise to be her translator for everything.

“Here’s your room key,” he said, handing her a room key once he’d finished at the front desk. “I got two rooms right next to each other.”

“I still can’t believe you paid for all this,” she said, taking the keycard. “This is so much, Adrien.”

Adrien shrugged. “I wanted to,” he brushed off. “And it’s not like I’m going to go broke from this trip or anything. It’s fine.”

Marinette still wasn’t fully comfortable with all of it, and she still knew that one day, she’d have to pay him back somehow. But for now, she’d smile and thank him for the millionth time.

Once they dumped their suitcases, they started to wander around town until they happened across a food shop that smelled amazing. They wondered inside the bustling shop and found the line was conveniently long enough for Adrien to read off most of the menu for her. Once Marinette told him what she wanted, he was kind enough to order for her. But before Adrien could pay, Marinette quickly held out her own card.

“I can get it, really,” she said with a grin.

“You don’t have to.”

“Please,” she said with a pout.

The cashier laughed and made some comment about her that got Adrien to smile and put away his card.

“He said that you sure know how to guilt trip a guy,” Adrien translated as they walked back to their hotel, bag of take-out food in hand. “And I couldn’t help but agree.”

Marinette grinned at that. “I’ve had good practice manipulating you. It’s almost like you just let me do it at this point.”

Adrien snorted a laugh. “Yeah, you’d think I’d have learned by now that you’re a little minx.”

“But you love me,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him.

She meant it as an offhand comment. One that could easily be brushed off, but that wasn’t its intent. She was probing, like the ‘little minx’ she was.

And she liked the hesitant response she got, his pause followed by a soft smile and gentle shake of the head. “Yeah, I do.”

 14. New York

He forgot just how much he hated New York Fashion Week.

I’m doing this for Marinette.

That was what kept him going. That, and her smiles. She was happy and enjoying herself, which made this whole trip worthwhile.

The last thing that made this easier to bear was the fact he was strictly a spectator. While he’d debated using what contacts he had to see if they could have special access, he ultimately decided not to. When his father kicked him out, it wasn’t something that was just kept quiet. Back when he still was in contact with Chloe, she told him he was the buzz of the fashion world. Even recently back in Paris, he had been spotted by cameras and had come across an article written about him. Whatever contacts Adrien had would likely be unwilling to work with him, and he wasn’t willing to take those chances to find out for certain. Not even for Marinette. If she decided no after this, Adrien would still feel confident that he did everything her could to help her make her decision.

“You look tired. No, more like completely drained.”

Adrien looked down at the lovely lady standing beside him and forced a smile. “I’m fine. Are you enjoying yourself?”

Marinette paused. “I am,” she answered.

“That’s all that matters, then.”

“Adrien?!”

Both he and Marinette turned their attention towards the voice.

And Adrien’s heart dropped. “Chloe.”

The woman rushed over to him, heels clacking on the pavement. The fiery look in her eye was one he was all too familiar with: she was on a mission. “Adrien, I have so many questions for you, but let’s start with what the hell you’re doing here with her.”

Adrien gave Chloe a flat look. “I thought I told you I no longer want to be in contact.”

“Yeah! What’s that about?” Chloe screeched. “You text me out of the blue and tell me we’re done?”

Adrien nodded. “Yup. Because if all our interactions after my dad kicked me out weren’t enough to convince me, Marinette here told me everything. I was already fed up with your lies and how cruelly you treated people, but telling people we slept together when we never did takes the cake.”

Chloe froze, her eyes wide with horror, and Adrien knew why. Was he being an ass on purpose? Absolutely. He knew full well what he was doing talking in his best English loudly enough for anyone and everyone around to hear.

In the blink of an eye, camera flashes started up, and Adrien knew that meant paparazzi were here, ready to cash in on this drama. He pulled Marinette close, knowing it was likely too late but still trying to hide her face against his shoulder.

“Adrien,” Chloe began, voice dripping with fake honey. “What are you talking about?”

“Our friendship is over, Chloe. Don’t try to lie your way out by saying I just used you for sexual favors, either. Because that never happened. We never happened. Just leave me alone, and don’t bother contacting me ever again.” He hoped he didn’t butcher the English in that, but even if he did, he didn’t particularly care. His point got across, Chloe was redder than a tomato, and security was doing their best to shoo the paparazzi away.

Now, it was time for him to leave, if for no other reason than getting Marinette out of here. “Head down, cover your face,” he whispered to her.

She already had her hand over her face, but she still nodded in understanding.

“You think this is over, Adrien? Just like that?” Chloe yelled in French.

“Completely,” Adrien asserted.

How Chloe’s face turned redder, he didn’t know, but it did. “And you never answered my question of what you were doing with her!”

Adrien was going to leave it, but Marinette turned around and snapped. “I’m treating him with more respect than you ever did, entitled bitch!”

His heart went thud in his chest, and he quickly slapped his hand over the grin that couldn’t be suppressed. As he ushered Marinette away as quickly as he could, he snuck a glance behind him at an absolutely enraged Chloe, her security coming to her aid and trying to get her in the car. He hated to say it, but served her right.

 15. Dreams

“I’m not doing this.”

“Hmm?”

Marinette looked over at Adrien. Currently, they were resting in Adrien’s room while eating pizza from a little place close to the hotel. “I’m not going into this industry. At least, not this section of it.”

Adrien’s expression fell. “Was it because of Chloe?”

Half of Marinette’s lips pulled up in a twisted, bitter way. “Yes and no,” she said. “Chloe wasn’t the only reason I came to this decision, but she’s a good reminder that people like that will always be a part of it. People who would gladly manipulate you to advance themselves exist here, and you will always have to be careful about who you can and can’t trust in this industry. Who can you trust to give your designs to, who do you have to hide from, when do you let go of your designs even though they won’t be under your name, and when do you cling to them in the hopes that one day you’ll be able to use it? I just…”

She shrugged, giving Adrien a pitiful smile. “I don’t have the energy to gamble on this trust game,” she finally managed. “And I don’t trust easily in the first place. Which, in a profession that requires you to be social and stretch yourself out into, that would take so much out of me. And in the end, I just don’t want to. Maybe things would have been different had I not been walked over by Chloe. Had things not gone in such a way where teachers and students automatically began to assume the worst out of me just because of my reputation that I didn’t even get to shape myself. I don’t want to go in an industry that demands those parts of me that I’ve learned not to give out. I can’t.”

The pain on Adrien’s face physically hurt her. He’d given so much to encourage her, and here she was, practically throwing it back in his face.

Yet, despite that, he smiled sympathetically. “If that’s your decision and your reason, I won’t challenge you on it anymore.”

At the sight of his forced smile, her heart hurt, and the guilt soon became so much to bear. She wouldn’t cry, though, not even as she felt the pinprick of tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

His brow furrowed. “What for?”

“I feel bad for making this decision, because you brought me here to New York Fashion week. You spent time and money planning this trip just to encourage me, and here I am throwing it back in your face. I’m really appreciative of what you’ve done for me. Really, I mean it. So, I’m so sorry that I can’t… I can’t move forward and prove your efforts weren’t in vain.”

She hadn’t been expecting the shock on his face at her words, like they’d caught him off guard. But soon, that faded away into a soft, sympathetic smile. A real one that she liked so much, that could ease her worries and calm her down.

He stood from the bed and started walking over to her, his arms open. At this point, she gladly took the invitation, standing from the chair she’d been curled up in and meeting him half-way. When he wrapped her up tightly, she clung back, relishing in the warm comfort that being cocooned in his arms, protected from the world, provided.

“I’m not disappointed,” he spoke softly. “Not at all. It’s clear you thought long and hard about your decision, and so, if you decided you didn’t want to go into this field, then that’s perfectly fine. I just didn’t want you to give up on your dreams just because you saw only the negative. And I know I was part of that, telling you my own horror stories. That’s why we came, as one last encouragement to feed your dreams before you decided on your future.”

By now, Marinette could feel the tears well up in her eyes. She sniffed, hoping to bite them back.

At that sound, Adrien squeezed her tighter with one arm and rubbed her back with the other. “Oh, Marinette,” he whispered soothingly.

That was all it took to break her. The tears spilled over down her cheeks, and there was no stopping them. She buried her face against his chest, clenching his shirt tighter as she hiccupped out choked sobs. “Thank you,” she managed to squeak out in the midst of her tears. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re so welcome, Marinette,” he whispered.

Still, he never let go, continuing to hold her as he gently swayed back and forth. And Marinette gladly stayed in that warm embrace, unwilling to leave the comfort he so willingly provided, even after her tears had stopped falling.

[liunaticfringe]

(via Lucy Liu's Independent Woman - Interview Magazine)

There have been many great sidekick pairings in the history of modern literature. Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer, Phileas Fogg and Jean Passepartout, Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet…the list goes on. Yet, it seems there has never been a delightfully tumultuous relationship that comes close to echoing the one embodied by rogue detective Sherlock Holmes and his faithful friend and assistant Dr. John Watson. Written in the form of short stories by Arthur Conan Doyle between the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the opium-den loving Holmes would terrorize London with his intellectual, astute, and stubborn prowess, with Dr. Watson providing medical expertise and chronicling their entertaining exploits along the way.

Doyle’s works have now long been entered into the public domain, with many film and television adaptions cropping up every few years. Still, when CBS announced in 2012 that it would be turning Doyle’s works into an hour-long crime-drama series titled Elementary, it elicited an unusually high response—this was mostly due to the news that a woman would, in fact, be portraying Watson. Her name would be Joan, not John. And she’s now a fallen from grace surgeon-turned-sober companion and private detective, forfeiting her “Dr.” title in the process. The woman chosen to take on this exciting, contemporary role of Joan Watson was none other than seasoned actress Lucy Liu.

Liu, who’s best known for her roles as a fierce and ill-mannered lawyer in Ally McBeal, an ass-kicking “angel” in the rebooted Charlie’s Angels, and an equally ass-kicking bad girl in the Kill Bill series, certainly provides the yin to the yang of Jonny Lee Miller’s gritty portrayal of Holmes. Elementary chronicles the duo’s relationship as they consult for the NYPD on various criminal cases while living in a shared brownstone in Brooklyn Heights. Initially starting off in Season One as a substance-free friend to the fresh-out-of-rehab Holmes with a keen interest in solving crimes, Watson quickly transformed into a sharp and observant right-hand woman who now clearly has the aptitude to work on her own. And it appears she’ll be doing just that—the end of Season Two left viewers witnessing Watson’s decision to move out of the brownstone and start a new career as a solo private detective, seemingly fed-up with Holmes’ erratic behavior.

The warm and delightful Liu recently called up Interview from her home in New York City to discuss Elementary’s upcoming third season.

DEVON IVIE: Were you on set today?

LUCY LIU: I was running around like a maniac, yeah. It’s beautiful today, it started getting a little bit cooler again. But of course I’ve been bitten by the two mosquitos that are still alive in New York City.

IVIE: I know you were recently at New York Comic Con. How was it?

LIU: It was amazing. It’s such a spectator place. Not only do you get super fans, but you also get people who are curious and inventive and imaginative. It’s fun.

IVIE: Did you run into any cosplayers dressed as Joan Watson?

LIU: Oh, no, I don’t know about that. That’s funny! We did a panel with a huge audience so I couldn’t really see if anyone was wearing anything specific, but it’s an excuse for kids and adults to get dressed up and just be crazy. You know you’ve made it when you have super-fans out there.

IVIE: When you first read the scripts for Elementary, what was it that attracted you to the role of Joan?

LIU: I liked the fact that it was going to be about [Joan and Sherlock’s] relationship and their friendship, and bringing that into modern times. And I thought it was wonderful to change up the gender.

IVIE: Did you immerse yourself in Arthur Conan Doyle’s work as preparation at all?

LIU: I did, I did! I started reading the short stories. I never read them before so it was a really great excuse to read them. I can’t believe it was written so long ago, because it’s so current. The characters are so colorful, which is why I think there are so many incarnations of Watson and Holmes.

IVIE: Do you have a favorite story? I love “A Scandal in Bohemia.”

LIU: There were some pretty amazing stories. The one that stood out to me, which was a Watson story that I got to know him a little more through, was “The Hound of the Baskervilles.” He really is on his own in that. Of course it turns out that Holmes has been there all along, but it’s interesting looking into his interior.

IVIE: Yeah, the entirety of “The Hound of the Baskervilles” is narrated just by Watson. And his diary and letters, too.

LIU: Yeah, I think it’s really cool. We started incorporating that into the show, too, the letters and journals.

IVIE: Has this detective genre always appealed to you? Did you grow up watching or reading detective whodunits?

LIU: I remember more of the old school Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys sort of thing. I also grew up with the Scooby-Doo mysteries. Remember when the villain would go, “I would’ve gotten away with it if it weren’t for you rascal-y kids!” Those were the kind of the things I immersed myself in. I have to say that my mother has always been a huge fan of Columbo and Murder, She Wrote, so this show was her dream come true. I don’t think she totally understood what was going on with Ally McBeal. [laughs]

IVIE: I’ve enjoyed witnessing Joan’s evolution throughout the course of the show, starting off as a sober companion and eventually ending up as a trusty sidekick and confidant to Sherlock. What can we expect from Joan in Season Three?

LIU: When you see them in the third season, you see some friction between the two characters. Joan is now on her own, she has her own detective agency, has a boyfriend, and has been without Sherlock for eight months. She’s got her own apartment, she’s settled, and he shows back up. I think she’s a little bit hurt by what happened and how their relationship and partnership ended, which was basically his decision and his choice, and he left it all in one little note for her. I think she felt that their relationship was much deeper than that, and that he was dismissive in the way that he handled that.

IVIE: How would you define the relationship between Joan and Sherlock?

LIU: I think that it’s a really positive and good relationship, overall. They really have a good chemistry together, work really hard together, and understand each other. They acknowledge each other and respect each other, which is a really important way to have a friendship. And they can learn from each other, you know? She’s very curious about him and I think he sees that she’s a very smart person—that’s vital for him in having respect for someone, having them be intelligent and thinking for themselves.

IVIE: Do you see any of Joan in yourself?

LIU: I do to a certain degree. She’s a lot more measured and patient, for sure. She’s a very curious person, which I think I am, and I think she isn’t afraid of change. She was a doctor, and then became a sober companion, and then jumped off and became a detective. I think sometimes it’s good to make big leaps.

IVIE: You’ve probably been asked this question many times, but do you think a romance between Joan and Sherlock could ever fittingly happen?

LIU: It’s a question that’s often asked and I think it’s really up to the executives. Rob Doherty, the creator [of Elementary] really feels incredibly strongly about keeping their relationship platonic. He has already taken great strides to keep the relationship as clean as possible according to the literature, but he has also changed so much of it by changing the gender of Watson. To have them have a romantic involvement would turn the whole thing upside-down in a way that might really jump the line. [Doherty] felt really strongly about it and I think that’s the one thing he really wants to stay true to.

IVIE: I totally agree. Even on the BBC’s Sherlock, there are campaigns to get Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock and Martin Freeman’s Watson to become romantically involved. It’s like, enough already, no!

LIU: No way, that’s so weird! People do have that level of friendship oftentimes, but it doesn’t mean it’s physical. I think that everyone just assumes because there’s chemistry the next thing should be happening. I would vote “no” for a romance. I think for sure the creator would vote no on that, too.

IVIE: I’ve talked to both women and men who watch Elementary, and they all consistently mention how well dressed and fashionable Joan is. Do you collaborate with the wardrobe department on styling decisions at all?

LIU: That’s awesome. Yes, I collaborate with Rebecca [Hofherr], who’s the costume designer, who’s wonderful. She’s very easy to work with. One thing we try to maintain about Joan and her style is that she’s a bit wrinkled, you know what I mean? Sometimes it looks like things are really put together, but we always want to make sure things aren’t too tight and are comfortable, kind of like she throws things together. We don’t want it to seem so business-y, so we go away from suits. Chic, but not corporate. Also just to make her seem like her outfits aren’t so put-together all the time. But I’m glad that people really seem to like it, it’s a relief! We don’t splurge a lot on the show, we try to do cheaper things, like things Joan would wear a lot. She wears the same white jacket and shoes frequently.

IVIE: Will we be seeing more of the infamous Clyde the Turtle in the upcoming season?

LIU: Clyde will indeed be in it again. We have to share custody of Clyde.

IVIE: Is it true that Clyde is actually two tortoises? Pulling a Mary Kate and Ashley in Full House on us?

LIU: Yes. It’s just like having twins on a show. Just in case one is crying and screaming and passed out or something.

IVIE: You made your directorial debut for an episode of Elementary last season [“Paint It Black”]. Do you have plans to direct an episode again soon?

LIU: That was so exciting. I’ll be directing another episode again very shortly in December, so you’ll be seeing it in a month and a half.

IVIE: Where did your interest in directing come from?

LIU: I guess I was curious about it. Having been in this business for a while, you kind of see and get a glimpse of everything doing film and television. I think it seemed like a natural progression to go into directing, and I hope to explore more of it, because it’s very exciting and a really good way to collide all the things that you’ve known and experienced in the business and put them all into one.

IVIE: Is there an ideal guest star that you’d like to see on the show in the upcoming season?

LIU: I would love to see Mycroft come back. I really think there was a wonderful tension for Mycroft and Sherlock as well as the triangle that occurred when Joan became involved with him. There’s something very deep about that relationship, and I also think that Rhys Ifans is a fantastic actor. He commands the screen, but off-screen he’s incredibly lovely. A real treat to have on the show.

IVIE: I remember the first few episodes that I saw Rhys in, I was like, where have I seen this guy before? So I looked at his Wikipedia page and it became obvious: he was the crazy guy from Notting Hill!

LIU: Yes, the roommate! So good! Everything he does, he just kills it, no matter the role.

IVIE: And it’s always good to have some MI6 action on the show, which Mycroft provided. Some international flair.

LIU: [laughs] International flair, exactly, some added spice. Just throw some spy stuff in there to throw people off their game. You just don’t expect it, you know? It came out of nowhere.

IVIE: That whole three-episode arc at the end of the second season…

LIU: That was awesome. I was lucky enough to direct one of those episodes, which is more narrative in tone. It’s more fun in some ways, too.

IVIE: You’ve done a range of acting work for both television and film. Do you now find yourself preferring one to the other?

LIU: I love both of them equally. The lack of predictability with television is something that’s constantly changing what your perception of who you think your character is. Suddenly I have a father that’s schizophrenic, or I discovered something else, or I have a relationship with Mycroft. The things that pop up and change the game for you and always keep you on your toes. The wonderful thing about film is that you have something that has a beginning, middle, and end, and you have a concrete amount of time to shoot it. And the process of that can be longer, like editing and advertising and testing the movie, so it’s very different. Television you just continue going, no matter what’s happening outside of your world. You get lost in that vortex a little bit.

IVIE: It’s interesting that America is now embracing the “mini-series” format that has already been so heavily utilized overseas, where there are a set amount of short episodes, and that’s it. In a way, it’s kind of like a cinematic experience.

LIU: I like that, too. It allows you to have a freedom of creativity and at the same time you don’t feel like you have to be contracted to something for that long; you’re really working on a piece of art. And then you’re done and you move on, or it comes back, like Downton Abbey. You don’t know. Those things become little masterpieces. The thing about television is that you see a range of actors now that you may not have seen five years ago even, 10 years ago absolutely not, and I think now there’s no wrong about doing television. There’s no definitive category for what kind of department you fall into anymore.

IVIE: What’s a fun, secret fact about your costar Jonny Lee Miller?

LIU: A fun fact about Jonny Lee Miller is that he oftentimes does handstands on a wall before he does a take, sometimes with pushups, to get blood to his brain and get him geared up for a long monologue that he may have. He stays there, hangs a little bit, and then turns around and does the scene. Most of the time in the brownstone more than anywhere else. He’s in full costume and everything. That’s trivia!

IVIE: I wish I could do wall-handstands by myself.

LIU: Oh my god, I need someone to push my legs up and then hold me there. I’m a cheat!

ELEMENTARY PREMIERES THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30 ON CBS.

[justsomefluff]

Hello I was wondering if you could do an ateez reaction to going to a fashion show with their girlfriend 🥺❤

here it is!! sorry it’s so late!! I hope you enjoy! <3

Hongjoong:

Okay so Joong is the type to pretend he doesn’t want to go

But then love every second of it

And after your first one, he’s gonna beg you to go to more shows with him

Like every time a model comes out wearing something new, even if the entire look is hideous, he’s gonna complement something about the look

Because he knows how hard the models and designers work to make all this happen

And if there’s a look he really really loves, he’ll look at you and be like

Im gonna buy that for you

Suddenly showering you in complements

“Babe, you’d look so beautiful in that”

“Babe, you’re the most stunning person in here”

NO FAX, JUST PRINTER

And at the end of the night, you’ve both compiled a list of colors and styles you would like to see on each other

So you decide to make each other outfits for the next date you go on

And its just so cute bc Joongie really does draw inspiration from everything he sees

So he totally writes a song about this experience with you

Seonghwa:

Seonghwa is not shy about his love for fashion

Like he has his own sense of style, and he loves choosing things that he feels will express his personality

So when you guys get the chance to go to a fashion show together

OH BOY GET READY

He’s gonna grade every look under his breath on a scale from 1-10

And then he’ll tell you what he likes most about each style that is presented

He tries not to be too critical though bc he knows that everyone’s tastes are different

Will also ask your opinion on the outfits

Like “ooh what do you think of that one? I really like the textures on it!”

You will both choose your top two outfits 

like you choose them so that you have one you want just for yourself and one that you want for him

And then he does the same

You typically choose similar looks because you know each other’s style super well

And Hwa is totally the type to surprise you by buying you one of the pieces he had seen you eyeing more than the others

“Just as a thank you for coming with me :)”

Yunho:

His crackhead comes out in full force at fashion shows, believe me

I mean seriously

Every time something comes out that he doesn’t like he insults it in a really funny way

And you’re sitting in the front row so your literally biting your lip so hard to not laugh in front of all these cameras

Like a model comes out with a bunch of feathers on her outfit and Yunho’s just like 

“Heads up, everybody, Chicken Little has just hit the stage!”

Or if he sees something particularly revealing he’s like

“Wouldn’t you love to see me in that, baby”

Like would you just hush already lmao

He takes a picture of every single look that he finds funny, just so he can send them to you later with a funny caption

But he also sees one he really loves

Will take a picture of your side profile when you aren’t looking

And the model is coming down the runway in the background

He will save that picture as his background as a reminder that he is going to get you that outfit someday

But he will try not to let you find out that he was so soft about it lmao

So he tries to keep you from seeing his wallpaper

He really wants it to be a surprise, but he also cant stop looking at the picture and imagining the moment you are finally able to put the outfit on

Yeosang:

(he’s so cute I cant breatheeee)

Yeosang will sit pretty silently through most of it

But do not be fooled

NO MODEL IS SAFE

He is judging and critiquing every single look like it is his JOB

The most stone cold poker face you will ever see

Will only crack a smile if you whisper “you’d look so good in that, Sangie”

But when you finally leave he will show you any of the pictures he had taken and start a legitimate conversation about how you liked or disliked each look

Has a grading system lmao

Like you have A-F grading scale, but also categories that each look has to fulfill

Color, texture, fit, overall flow of the patterns and clothing items, etc.

And you can play along for a while before you’re finally like 

“YEOSANG, WE ARENT JUDGES ON NEXT TOP MODEL”

“We could be”

Like boy if you don’t-

But then he gives in and he’s like “just tell me which one you loved the most and I’ll tell you if it was good or not”

So you do and he’s like “THAT WAS THE WORST LOOK OF THE ENTIRE NIGHT WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT”

And then that launches a playful debate about who has better fashion sense

But overall you both had a really good time and plan on making this an annual tradition

San:

(he’s so breathtaking here im sorry I mean cmon his hair matches his sweatshirt)

This fashionista here

Sees the artistry in every look and compliments literally everything

Very genuine in his appreciation for the work that has been done

Spewing compliments the entire time

“Omg look how intricate all the stitching is.”

“That fascinator is so stunning, look at all the colors wow”

And it’s so cute to just watch him

Like he’s assessing all the models with the biggest doe eyes

He really is like a little kid at Disneyland for the first time

Just so excited and appreciative of every little thing

“I wish our next comeback could be so beautiful like this!”

“Sannie, your comebacks are always beautiful”

“BUT LOOK AT ALL THIS ELEGANCE!!”

It’s just so adorable

And when the designer comes out at the end of each parade of models, you can bet San is cheering the loudest

And he’ll be so inspired and as his makeup noonas to try and replicate some of the looks he had seen

Gets hella motivated and literally starts drawing up ideas that he has for costumes and things

He’s just a sweet baby who sees the beauty in everything and wants to make beautiful things too

And he will always ask your opinion on his drawings

“Do you like this one? Do you think it could work?”

And of course you tell him all of them are fantastic bc they are

And you guys work together to make some of his outfit dreams come true

Mingi:

At fashion shows, Mingi thrives bc models tend to be really tall for some reason

As a short person, I am offended by tall people’s clothes

ANYWAY

Mingi is just looking at the pants like “I bet those would actually fit me on the first try”

And then he’s like “baby, I could be a model”

And you’re like “I already knew that, you’ve always been pretty”

He gets blushy aww

“I’m pretty” UWUUUUUU

And now that you’ve got him going you cant just let that blush fade away I mean its too cute

Don’t squander this opportunity to make our baby blush even harder

So literally every other model your whispering “you’d look better in that”

“You’d be the best model here, Minnie”

And eventually he’s smiling so big and blushing so hard that he’s like “stoop my cheeks hurt”

So you settle for giving him a lil smoochie on his cheek

But then he shall take his revenge

Starts complementing you even more than you had complemented him

Thus begins a complement war

By the end, both of you realize that you’ve ignored the last two sets of models and had just been telling each other how much you love each other over and over

Get a room you guys I mean really

Wooyoung:

Wooyoung is a giggly mess

The entire time

Because he thinks every little thing is funny

A model’s makeup is too extreme? He’s laughing

Someone’s hair is too wild? He’s laughing

Someone looks like they rolled straight out of a dumpster? he’s laughing and saying “thats you”

Like SHUT UP lmaoooo

He’s also laughing bc he’s imagining the members in all of the ugly outfits

Like “lmao imagine Hongjoong wearing that big ole hat”

“Imagine Seonghwa wearing those balloon shorts”

Like he’s so annoying lmao

But it does have you both laughing hard enough to get dirty looks from other spectators

Once he eventually calms down and hushes himself, he actually starts getting into it and thoroughly enjoys watching the way the clothes flow when the models walk and stuff

He finds it genuinely interesting to see how each artist has fit the clothes to each specific model’s body type

But he will still fit in some snide comments here and there to make sure you’re fully entertained

Bc if he’s not laughing… is it really Wooyoung

Jongho:

Okay Jongho is definitely into fashion

Whether he is obvious about his affinity for cool clothes or not, he’s into it okay

And he evaluates every look in terms of “would I look good in that? Would bae look good in that? Would any of the hyungs look good in that?”

Very thoughtful baby

Will take pictures to send to people and be like “this reminds me of you”

Will say it directly to you too

He is also kinda cheesy and poetic about it

“The bright pink reminds me of how happy you make me”

“That blue is like the sky when you’re around: cloudless”

Eventually you’re like “oh shut up ya freak” lmao

And then he’s laughing bc he’s embarrassed that he said all that

He’s like “why am I so cheesy”

And you low-key love it so you just smile at him

But then he keeps taking pictures of the models and eventually starts taking pictures of you bc he just loves you and finds you so breathtaking awww

At the end of the night he’s so sweet to you and thanks you for coming with him and hopes you had a good time and-

You just kiss him and tell him you had a lot of fun and you should definitely do it again next time there’s a show in town

He definitely agrees bc he really just loved sharing that experience with you

[tothelasthoursofmylife]

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

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

~Cedric~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, Milton turned on the birdcage clock.

And metallic sing-song filled the air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” asked Anaïs.

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kristopher, are you sure? You…”

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

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

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

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

***

~Cloudia~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only a few more hours.

Maxime turned to her. “Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

~Cedric~

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

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

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

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

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

“In search of faeries?”

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

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

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

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

Cedric flinched and every fibre of his body sighed.

Could one not find rest in this damn château?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are being dramatic.”

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

“Not-Kristopher, sit down.”

“I will laydown and you can go.”

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

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

And started coughing.

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

“Coffee.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I realised.”

“That includes you.”

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

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

***

~Cloudia~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The nurse nodded.

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

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

“I see. What is your name?”

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

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

“One question will be all right.”

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

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

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

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

How interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

***

~Cedric~

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

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

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

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

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

“I wondered where you two were.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cedric blinked at her. “What?”

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

“He flinched when Wentworth called him.”

“And?”

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

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

I had been the cause of this plenty of times.

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

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

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

“Do you like him then?”

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

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

“And still?”

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

“And still you were almost about to tell.”

“This is ridiculous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I cannot say I have.”

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

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

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

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

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

***

~Cloudia~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh dear.

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

“Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks. We will not take long.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Laurent.”

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

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

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

“A whole loaf?”

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

“Hector Monteil.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kam, please continue,” Cloudia said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

~Cedric~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her hand in mine. Her warmth against me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

~Cloudia~

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

One step after another.

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

Then return home.

But, first, it was time for my bath…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kamden nodded. “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

Some things never changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

~Cedric~

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

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

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

If this didn’t work now…

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

If someone entered my room now…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

~Cloudia~

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

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

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

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

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

I had one now.

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

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

***

~Cedric~

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

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

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

***

~Cloudia~

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

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

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

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

It was her turn to visit him.

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

***

~Cedric~

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

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

***

~Cloudia~

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

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

***

~Cedric~

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

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

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

***

~Cloudia~

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

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

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

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

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

“Beside you?”

“Beside me, of course.”

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

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

“Even for you?”

“Even for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not,” he protested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was wrong with me?

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cloudia slightly squeezed Milton’s hand, and it seemed to help. His face twitched a little, and he closed his eyes, breathing a bit raggedly. “I… I…” Milton pressed out. “There is too much, too much… I cannot recall how it goes on.”

She smiled. “It is fine, Milton. I do. I do. ‘For the night – tho’ clear -- shall frown –/And the stars shall look not down, /From their high thrones in the Heaven,” Cloudia said and wished to have chosen a more pleasant, less heavy poem than one titled “Spirits of the Dead.” “‘With light like Hope to mortals given –/But their red orbs, without beam, /To thy weariness shall seem/As a burning and a fever/Which would cling to thee for ever.’”

“‘Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish –,’” Milton continued slowly, eyes still closed, his hand loose in her tight grip. “‘Now are visions ne'er to vanish –/ From thy spirit shall they pass/No more – like dew-drop from the grass.’”

Milton opened his eyes again and the odd far-away expression was gone from them. A little smile appeared on his lips, the kind that made it seem as if he was half-dreaming, half-awake, and Cloudia was rather relieved to see it. “Lady Cloudia, you’re here,” he said as he always did.

“I am,” she responded. “Tell me, what do you need now?”

“I want to sit down,” Milton said after some time of consideration. Without letting go of his hand, Cloudia carefully helped him to sit on the floor and lean against the wall. She sat down opposite from him, and their entwined hands hung between them as if he would float away and disappear if she were to let go.

Maybe that’s what would happen – that Milton would float away like a balloon into the sky or like a buoy out to the sea.

Milton and Cloudia sat like this in silence for a few minutes. He breathed in and out evenly to calm himself down, and she scrutinised him. Seeing Milton like this reminded her how ridiculous Cedric’s words from earlier were. Still, thinking about them again, Cloudia remembered something. The thought had lingered in the back of her mind since Lille, only she had been unable to grasp it until now. She had heard the name “Quentin Nichols” before; she was sure of it now.

In 1843, he had killed one of his co-workers. Quentin had managed to escape, and Scotland Yard had been searching for him since.

However, Cloudia could not imagine Milton hiring anyone without doing a background check first. Quentin’s crime had been in the newspapers for some time. It wasn’t an unknown case. Perhaps the Quentin Nichols she had met in Lille was not the same as the one she had heard of? That was possible. Milton surely would not employ a wanted criminal, and Quentin’s full name was “Quentin Thibault-Nichols.” The Quentin from the papers didn’t have a hyphenated surname. The Quentin from Lille might have been born a “Thibault-Nichols” or one part of it might come from his wife. As “Thibault” preceded “Nichols,” it was more likely that “Thibault” was Quentin’s birth surname.

Cedric’s absurd theories had really got to me.

“Lady Cloudia,” Milton said eventually. He still looked like he had seen a ghost, but some colour was slowly returning to his face. “I am sorry for making you see and do this again.”

“It is all right, Milton. You cannot help it,” Cloudia replied.

He smiled weakly at her, and at once, they let go of each other. Cloudia held her breath for a moment, but Milton stayed where he was.

What a silly thought, Cloudia.

Milton dug his hands into the carpet as if he too was thinking about floating away. “Thanks, Lady Cloudia.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I may need another moment.”

“Take your time. It’s fine.”

He leaned his head against the wall, and she heard him count to himself from thirty downwards. When Milton was done, he let go of the carpet and rose to his feet. As soon as they were both standing again, Cloudia heard a screeching sound behind her. Someone was running and had momentarily lost balance. She craned her head to see Anaïs hurrying towards them.

“Milton,” she said when she reached them, “was everything all right?”

Cloudia looked at Milton, and Milton avoided her eyes and replied, “Yes. Everything was all right.”

Anaïs beamed. “That’s good. You’re getting good! I feared something might have happened while I was away. And hello, Claudette! I am so happy. Now, we can go to dinner together.” She trotted ahead, and Milton and Cloudia readily followed her.

“Where did you leave your brother, Anaïs?” asked Cloudia.

“We walked into Maman on our way! He wanted to stay with her which was better anyway.”

“You ran into your mother?” Milton said. “Anaïs, you did not have to find me then.”

“Of course, I had to! I promised I would come to find you. You never break promises!” Anaïs replied energetically. “And I could not risk an incident and lose you back to the faerie realm.”

Milton smiled. “Of course. I’m sorry for saying that. Thank you, Anaïs.”

She returned his smile and then started to chatter about helping out a bit in the kitchen with Milton and the others – they had brewed some tea –, getting the item they forgot, and running into Amélie. Cloudia listened intently to what she had to say but kept glancing over to Milton. He looked fine; he thankfully looked fine. Under normal circumstances, he would have long left such a rain-heavy place, and Cloudia felt bad again to have dragged him here.

I only hoped Paris would have nicer weather.

They had almost reached the dining hall when Cloudia saw Milton putting a hand over his chest. A cold calm rushed over her, and she was about to ask if he was fine… and then, he smiled. Cloudia looked at him in bewilderment.

“It has stopped,” Milton answered her unspoken question. “The rain has stopped.”

***

Except for Cedric and the Marquis, everyone was at the dinner table today. Even Cecelia had come and was now conversing with Sylviane about something Cloudia could not catch. Jacques and Anaïs were arguing again. Aurèle was grimly eating his food, and she spotted him glaring at Milton now and then. She had to talk to him about his, to her, unreasonable dislike of Milton later. Arnaud was helping Gérard, though the little boy could eat remarkably competently for his age. On the other end of the table, Amélie was talking to her husband and brother. A few moments ago, the constellations of the conversations had been different: Anaïs had talked to her and Kamden, Jacques had asked Milton something, and Arnaud had spoken to Aurèle. Now, the exchanges and interlocutors had shuffled and Cloudia had no one to talk to. She did not mind much. This would change soon again after all, and like that, she could properly savour the delicious soup that was part of the entrée.

Cedric would be over the moon if he had it. He would swoon and then say something along the lines of “If the appetiser is this good, how would the dessert be?”

A few times, Cloudia glanced over at Kamden and Milton who were talking. They got along rather well, and Kamden seemed slightly livelier than usual when he spoke to Milton. Since the rain had stopped, Milton was looking and doing well again. He still seemed a bit shaken up, but he was almost back to normal.

By the time the main course replaced the appetiser and tea was served with the meal, Cloudia was telling an interested Anselme about her experiences during the last Season and the bit she had to endure this Season before she had been thankfully sent away by the Queen to France – not that she mentioned the latter part, of course.

It never stopped being strange to engage in such ordinary conversations in such normal settings after having looked for a murderer and inspected corpses hours before.

Halfway through the main dish, Amélie addressed Milton: “Lord Milton, I heard that you will leave us tomorrow.”

Milton halted in his movement with the sudden addressing and put down his cutlery. “Indeed, I will leave you tomorrow, Baronne, though it will not be for long. A few days, a week at most.”

“I see. For business, I heard?”

He nodded. “Yes. I have to do some business-related duties in Paris.”

“Paris?” Amélie repeated, and an odd silence fell over the other adults. “You may not have heard of this, Lord Milton, but the atmosphere in France and especially in Paris has been considerably tense in the last months. Lately, a great number of people are heading to Paris to find work. I am sure that this will not end well considering the current situation. Lord Milton, I advise you, if you haveto go, to wrap up your business quickly and return here.”

“Thank you for your piece of advice, Baronne,” replied Milton with the trained calmness he reserved for social events such as this one. “I will take care. I will do my best to complete my work there as fast as possible then.”

Amélie smiled. “You are welcome, Lord Milton.”

***

After dinner, Cloudia instinctively headed to Cedric’s room. Only halfway there did she realise that he was sleeping and that she should not disturb him. She hovered for a while in the corridor, not knowing where to go. Suddenly, Cloudia remembered that she had wanted to speak to Aurèle, and now he was elsewhere and she scolded herself for forgetting. At least, she didn’t want to talk to him about anything urgent.

Eventually, she decided to just walk. Cloudia hoped she would think of something to do while she was moving around – and that her legs would not lead her to Cedric nevertheless. Also, she had barely been in the château since her arrival; she still had so much to see and explore.

And now, I sounded like Milton. I wondered how he was doing right now. The rain had stopped before dinner, but it had bothered him all day long. It must have been awfully tiring; not that he would ever admit it.

Cloudia wandered a while through the labyrinthine château before she grew bored. The building was immensely beautiful and filled with objects that could make her talk and talk for hours – but without having anyone to talk to, it was not enjoyable at all. She had already spent years of her life talking to herself. She was not very eager to repeat the experience. Sighing, Cloudia gathered her skirts and headed downstairs. She had no idea where those stairs would lead her but they would eventually bring her to the ground floor of which she had a fairly good grasp. From there, she could go to her room, wrapping up this tiresome day even though her blood was still boiling with the desire for more. Cloudia’s entire day had been filled with the investigation; she wanted to do something for herself. The bath had re-energised her, but since dinner, she felt even more vitalised.

With nothing else to do, I supposed I would have to satisfy this want by simply reading a book. First, I would have to navigate my way through this maze though. Next time, I should ask Lisa for the Maid’s Manifesto.

Lisa.

With an idea overcoming her, Cloudia stopped on the stairs. Of course, she had been with Lisa all day long, but apart from the deadhouse and the drives to and from Nanteuil-la-Forêt, they hadn’t had an opportunity to talk. And she had barely spoken with Newman all day too. Smiling, Cloudia bolted down the stairs to the next landing and sought out the next best servant to ask which way she had to take to get to the servants’ quarters. The servant told her how to get there, she thanked him, and then excitedly went off her way.

Cloudia was almost there – only the corridor down and then through a hidden stairway – when she noticed familiar footsteps behind her. For almost a year, those footsteps had followed hers, and she would forever recognise them: His ghostly steps which came along with a soft metallic clack. She had always wondered why, but never asked.

And then, they were sometimes so ghostly I could not hear them at all. That had been the case when I encountered him before dinner.

Her smile widened a bit as Cloudia turned around to face Milton. “I had thought of you a little while ago – and now you are here as if I managed to manifest you, albeit a little slowly.”

A small, sheepish smile appeared on Milton’s lips. “I…” He took a deep breath. “It’s good to see that you are still so lively.”

Cloudia looked at him in bewilderment. “Why shouldn’t I be lively? Because my powers of manifestation are weak and lacking?”

“Oh, well.” He looked at his sleeves and fumbled with them. “I suppose my mind is still a bit muddled from today. I did not mean to blurt it out. I… Anyway, I said this because you have been so busy lately, and you also seem deep in thought whenever I see you.”

She chuckled. “I suppose my mind is still muddled from today because I should have figured that you noticed. Don’t you always notice?”

“Not always.”

Cloudia looked at him and then shook her head before she realised with a pang that, for the first time in years, they were actually all alone again. Earlier, it had been an emergency, and Milton had barely been with her in that hallway mentally. There had been much else to focus on besides the awkwardness between them. Now, the rain had cleared and they were both well and conscious and all alone again.

The last time had been on the day of the failed proposal, and Cloudia felt awkward thinking about it. Everything had become weird and fallen apart after that day. Although they had resumed their talks via letters a few months afterwards, it had never been the same again. Their written words were always laced with a certain stiltedness, one worse than the one when their little acquaintanceship or whatever one could call it had begun. Cloudia had never known how to describe their relationship.

With the others around, it had been so easy. She could have nearly forgotten that anything had ever happened at all. Now, being alone with Milton, the distance between them was palpable again. He stood only a few steps away from her, but he could have been kilometres away. Cloudia had never been a natural when it came to understanding people. She did not have the talent to look at someone and understand, see every bit of them and realise what might be hidden. She had had to acquire this skill through hard work and training, and although she was good at it now, the skill failed her every now and then.

It did not fail her now. Cloudia had intentionally not paid it any attention before, but there was always a bit of hurt in his eyes whenever they talked. He was still friendly to her, still smiled at her, had still helped her with this trip. Cloudia had been shocked and annoyed when Milton had behaved as if nothing had occurred the day his villa blew up – a month after the proposal. She also had not expected him to write to her months later.

It had seemed as if Milton had been doing well after the failed proposal, as if he had got over it well. Accepting that he was not, that he had not, made her realise with a heavy heart that they had yet another thing in common: For one and a half years, they had pushed the memory of the proposal away and pretended that all was fine although the event still clung heavily to them. It was easier like that. Even now while acknowledging everything, Cloudia’s first instinct was to push it all away. It was a bad habit, yes, but it had been a long day. A very long day. This was her hard-earned time off. She had a murderer to catch and a thief to find. She had no time and strength to deal with the remnants of the past.

Maybe one day, she would. But not now. Not now.

“Where were you heading to?” Cloudia asked, smiling as if nothing had been. “You are quite a bit away from your room. Did you get lost again?”

“I didn’t,” Milton replied. “I wanted to go see Bram.”

She blinked at him. “In the servants’ quarters?”

He nodded. “In the servants’ quarters.”

“Isn’t it funny how I planned to go to France at the same time you planned to?” she said. “And how now, again, I am going to the servants’ quarters at the same time as you are?”

Milton chuckled. “It is indeed quite funny,” he said and walked towards her. “I guess you know the way?”

“Yes, a footman told me. Do you?”

“Yes. I…” He hesitated. “I have been charting the château.”

“Huh?”

“Did I never tell you?”

“No, never,” Cloudia told him.

Cedric’s words came to my mind: “You can know people for decades and still discover new aspects of them. It happens.” And now I had found out two new things about Milton in a single day.

Milton smiled bashfully. “I like to create maps for buildings, make my very own blueprints. It’s an old habit of mine, and I know it is strange but…”

“There is so much to see, so much to explore even in a building?” Cloudia continued, smiling.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Yes.”

“You are becoming predictable, Milton.” She put her hands on her waist, content that she got at least that. “Also, when I said that I was thinking of you – and unwittingly conjured you by doing so – I thought about this exact thing.”

Milton closed his eyes. “‘There is so much to see, so much to explore. Roads to travel, people to meet, mysteries to unravel.’ Right, I said that to you.” He reopened his eyes, and they began to walk, side by side, down the corridor and to the hidden stairway without any of them having to indicate to do so.

“Mysteries,” said Cloudia; the word alone brought excitement with it, and she hoped she did not sound too eager as she continued. Not that Milton had ever seemed to care for that. “Have you found any on your most recent travels? Where have you been last again? Sweden?”

“Yes,” Milton replied, paused, then added: “Yes, I’ve been to Sweden last. I’m not sure about mysteries though. There has been the occasional misplaced document, but that’s not really a mystery, isn’t it? And while this is also not a mystery – after all, I know how this came to be – there is this mistake I have to fix and for which I have to go to Paris. Maybe you could call it a bit of a mystery still… the Paris part at least. I need to go there to find something out; however, I don’t quite know what will await me there. I cannot measure the extent of what I will learn there and…” He fidgeted with his right sleeve. “I mean I knowmore or less what will await me. It’s just the details, you know? Perhaps it’s more of a ‘surprise’ than a ‘mystery’ though. I am not sure.”

Despite our commonalities and Milton’s odd little habits, he was still so amusingly ordinary. My mystery was a serial murder in the nearby village. His, a company-intern mishap.

“Let’s call it a mystery,” declared Cloudia as they descended the narrow stairs together. He let her go first and followed her. “It sounds better like that. And it’s not quite a ‘surprise’ if you know that you will find something out, isn’t it? Only the content of the information will be a surprise, but that’s essentially what a mystery is anyway.”

“You’re right,” Milton said. “Of course, it cannot be a surprise when I am expecting it.”

“Your mind is still really quite muddled. Are you okay?”

He nodded. “It has been a long rainy day. I should be completely normal again by tomorrow.”

Cloudia threw a glance over her shoulder at him. The light was so dim here that he looked quite ghostly. “Speaking of today… how was spending time with the Duke?”

“It was lovely,” Milton replied. “Kristopher is so kind to have kept me company despite being unwell himself. I’m glad that he could finally find some sleep. I hope he will sleep well and sound. Kristopher was very patient with me all day, and he defeated me in every round of chess we played. He is really talented.”

“He sure is,” said Cloudia, remembering the countless days they had spent playing chess together and how Cedric had beat her in every single round without fail. He would always tease her for being so bad at the game. She was not even that bad; he was simply very, very good.

“Kristopher surprised me quite a lot of times today,” Milton continued. “Not that I believe that he was incapable of any of the kinds of prowess he showed today, of course. I simply have not met anyone with such chess skills in a very long time. Or anyone at all who, I suppose, correctly guessed that when it rains and my senses act up, I anchor myself by focusing on all kinds of details – often details concerning people. I have never thought about this myself before. It’s usually just Bram and me on rainy days after all.”

Cloudia halted on the stairs and turned around to him. “Oh, he did that?”

Milton stopped too, and she noticed that he had been walking a few stairs behind her to keep his distance. “It was a remarkable observation. Kristopher did not believe that you would believe him, so I wanted to let you know.”

“He did not make you say so?”

“No. He…” Milton paused. “He did say I should be the one to tell you, but what I am saying is not a fabrication. Kristopher cares a lot about what you think of him.”

“The Duke? Caring for what I think of him?” Cloudia laughed. “I assure you, Milton, that this is not the case at all. He does not care for anyone’s opinion of him or he would not walk around the way he does. He cares for mine the least of all. If he truly did, would he do me such a disservice with the way he dresses and carries himself? And have you ever seen him dance? It’s like watching a chicken hobble about.”

Cloudia felt Milton’s eyes scrutinising her. As if he was searching for something specific. Then, he smiled.

“Is something?” she asked, and he shook his head. “No. It is just that…” His gaze softened. “I’m just glad for you.”

Cloudia blinked at him, then turned and continued to descend the stairs. “Milton, the storm had gone on for very long today. Your mind is still all scrambled. Are you really fine?”

“Yes,” Milton replied, sounding a bit merrier than before. She heard him following her. “I am perfectly fine now.”

They walked for a while in silence, but the silence soon became stifling. The stairs seemed unbearably endless, and Cloudia felt herself suffocating under the stillness and her overflowing energy. “Milton,” she said to break the silence open and be able to breathe again, “the clock you’ve repaired – do you think you can show it to me before your departure? I am interested to see this birdcage clock of tales. I have heard of Jaquet-Droz clocks but never seen one in real-life.”

“I can show it to you on the way back from the servants’ quarters if it has not become too late by then,” Milton replied. “I have to head out so early tomorrow; I doubt I will find the time then. Though I will return in a few days or a week at most anyway. Thinking of it… maybe, if it does not work out later, it may be better if one of the children showed it to you.”

“I can wait if it does not work out. I want you to show it to me so that you can tell me what you fixed and how.”

“Eh,” blurted it out of Milton, and Cloudia smiled to herself. “I, uh,” he stammered. “You are interested in this?”

“Yes, I am. Very much so. I have never been very adept at creating or repairing anything, so I am quite fascinated whenever someone can. I am actually a little bit mad that you have never mentioned this talent of yours before, Milton.”

“It’s… it’s not a talent. It’s just… something to pass time with. A little hobby. I am not even very good at it.”

“Let me be the judge of this,” Cloudia said. “How many know of this ‘little hobby’ of yours anyway?”

“Not many. Before today, only my family knew. Now, everyone here knows too,” Milton told her the very instant Cloudia reached the end of the staircase and arrived in front of the door that would open up to the servants’ quarters. She waited until Milton was caught up with her before she put her hand on the doorknob.

“Lady Cloudia,” Milton said then, and she stopped her action and looked at him. “I will not ask for specifications regarding the matter that is keeping you busy,” he continued. “All I want to say is that, if you require my help, I would be happy to offer my assistance in any way. And if it is a mystery you are busying yourself with and at which you are stuck… at times, it is best to take a short break and think of anything else, do anything else. Sometimes thinking too intensely is the problem: It often blocks your mind. Letting your mind wander to different places, you may be able to think of possibilities you have not considered before.”

Cloudia’s gaze softened. “Thank you, Milton. Let’s see if whatever chaos my servants will hand me behind those doors will ease me up,” she said and opened the door. They stepped into a hallway with multiple doors left and right that led to the servants’ personal rooms. Newman had told her before that Lisa’s, Wentworth’s, and his rooms were those closest to the door and that there was a community room at the end of the corridor. Cloudia knocked on Lisa’s and Newman’s rooms and Milton on Wentworth’s. When they got no response, they walked to the community room.

“… to Nanteuil-la-Forêt today,” said Lisa when they entered. She was sitting at a table with Wentworth and Newman, some biscuits and sandwiches spread out before them. There was a pot of tea on the table and everyone had a cup in front of them. “And I tell you: Denis Cuvier attempted to kill us – what other reason could he have to race into the village with such speed? Gallop there if you want, but don’t drive a wagon like that, least of all one with people in it. Mr Emyr was rather green throughout the entire rides.”

“Telling everyone about our adventure in Nanteuil-la-Forêt, aren’t you?” Cloudia said, and everyone turned to her and Milton. From the corner of her eye, she could see Milton’s gaze wandering to Newman before he discreetly looked away.

“Our disgustingly wet misadventure, Lady Cloudia,” Lisa replied and shuddered. “I took a bath and still feel cold. I’ll be counting the sponges I waste trying to scrub off the moistness that seemed to have sunk into my very flesh and bones.”

Newman stood up and bowed to Cloudia and Milton as a greeting before he turned to Lisa. “Shall I fetch you a jacket if you are still so cold, Lisa?”

She patted his hand. “That would be nice if you can be bothered, Al. Maybe a blanket would be even better.”

“I can always be bothered for you, Lisa,” Newman said with a small smile. “I will go and get a blanket from your room at once.” He looked at Milton and Cloudia. “If you may excuse me for a moment.” Cloudia nodded, and Newman left the community room.

Lisa grinned at Cloudia. “I see you are wearing the yellow dress.”

“Yes. I surprised myself by picking it today,” Cloudia replied and looked down at herself. “I didn’t expect Cecelia to be at dinner for once, so she has seen me in it. Until now, she wasn’t able to say anything to me about it, but the time will definitely come…”

Lisa chuckled. “It had to come to this. You don’t look as silly as we imagined you would though, Lady Cloudia.”

“That surprised me too.”

“You do indeed look very lovely, Lady Cloudia,” Milton said and immediately blushed and looked away. Lisa rolled her eyes.

“Thank you, Milton,” Cloudia responded. Then, Wentworth stepped to them and bowed to Cloudia before he asked, “Master Milton, are you all right?”

Milton took a deep breath to compose himself and then smiled at his butler. “You asked that earlier already, Bram. When Lady Cloudia, Miss Greene, and Emyr returned, and we all met in the entrance hall.”

“The rain didn’t stop until shortly before dinnertime. A lot could have changed between the chain-reaction machine’s demonstration and dinner. Between dinner and now.”

“I promise that it did not,” Milton replied, and Cloudia was surprised that he lied to Wentworth like that. Though perhaps he didn’t want to disclose what had happened before dinner to Lisa?

“What I told you before still holds true,” he went on. “Kristopher and the children helped me, and I have been doing well because of that. And since the rain stopped, I have been even better.”

“Albeit your mind is still a bit muddled,” added Cloudia, and he looked at her. “Indeed.”

“I am glad, Master Milton. It was a strong storm today,” Wentworth said. “Even with the support you received, I was worried. Forgive me if I am overstepping my boundaries, but my duty is, first and foremost, to ensure your well-being, Master Milton. Next time, I will not leave your side; today was an exception I do not want to make a rule.”

“I’m sorry to have worried you, Bram. I…” Milton fumbled with his sleeves. “I should not have asked for that.”

“It is also my duty to worry about you all the time, Master Milton. You do not have to apologise for something that cannot be helped,” Wentworth replied, and Cloudia could see Lisa grimacing in the background again.

“I have returned,” Newman announced as he stepped into the community room, a blanket in his hands. “I apologise for having kept you waiting.” He walked to Lisa and gently draped the blanket around her.

“Thank you,” she said, and his cheeks roused a bit. Pulling the blanket tighter around her, Lisa said to Cloudia, “Not that I oppose your presence, but why have you come here, Lady Cloudia?”

“To see how you and Newman are doing, and what you are doing,” Cloudia replied and sat down at the table where Lisa was sitting. “And to talk to you for a while.”

“Is His Grace still asleep?”

“Very much, but I might have come here anyway.”

Lisa scoffed. “Very well, Lady Cloudia. Do you maybe want to play something then? To pass the time and have something else to do while we talk?”

“Why not?”

“Great,” said Lisa and took out a deck of cards from beneath the blanket. She was always carrying playing cards with her, eagerly awaiting the first available moment to take them out and make someone cry.

“Milton,” Cloudia said and turned to him. “Would you like to play too?”

Milton blinked at her, taken aback by her offer. “Oh. Sure. Thank you,” he responded and sat down – keeping a chair between them free.

“How about we play poker?” suggested Lisa while she shuffled the cards. A mischievous light shone in her eyes.

“Still taking every opportunity to practise, aren’t you?” teased Cloudia, and Lisa scowled at her.

“One day I will return there and be victorious.”

“Return where?” Milton asked, puzzled.

“Earlier this year, Lisa lost to someone in poker,” Cloudia said and earned a dirty glance from her maid. “Apparently, I am forbidden to say more on this matter. Anyway, she taught me how to play poker afterwards so that she had more people to play with. Lisa already taught the servants at the manor as they regularly arrange game nights.”

“That sounds interesting,” replied Milton. “Miss Greene, I wish you the best of luck that you will win against that person one day.”

Lisa nodded at his words and kept shuffling the cards. “Lord Milton, have you heard of poker?”

“I have, actually.”

“And can you play it too?”

“Yes,” said Milton, and Lisa was surprised by his answer – and so was Cloudia. After all, poker was still very unknown in Europe.

“Of course,” Cloudia said when the realisation hit her. “You have told me you travelled often to the States.”

“Do you want to play poker with us then, Lord Milton?” Lisa asked with a little sly smile on her face. “I can guarantee that this will not be a pleasant game to play as a newcomer, and it may be better if you found something else to do.”

“Every game is not a particularly pleasant one if you play with Lisa,” Cloudia interjected. “She is quite passionate and competitive when it comes to games.” At her words, Lisa’s little smile became a wicked grin.

Milton smiled sheepishly. “I do, in fact, know how to play poker,” he told them and worried at the hems of his sleeves. “However, I have not had an opportunity to play poker for quite a few years. Or to play any card game, to be frank. Playing cards is common at social gatherings of a more familiar nature, but as you know, I do not really attend such gatherings or any at all as I have been on the road for the last year and…” He cleared his throat. “I want to say that I do know how to play poker but I may be a bit rusty.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, it is good that you know, but I hope you don’t expect us to play kindly for your sake, Baron.”

“Oh, I would not want that,” Milton replied. “I think that no game can be enjoyed if the participants do not give their fullest. I will try my very best. I simply wanted to inform you that I’m not very good even at my best.”

Lisa shrugged. “Well, not that you would have had a chance if you were any good,” she said, and he chuckled.

“Wentworth, do you also know how to play poker?” Cloudia enquired.

“I do, Lady Cloudia,” the old butler replied.

“Then, do you want to join us?”

“I am thankful for the invitation, but I will have to decline. I have only played the game once myself and have mostly watched others play. I do not want to slow the game down and would rather spectate.”

Cloudia nodded. “I see. Feel free to watch then, Wentworth.”

“But you’ll have you watch from a place where Lord Milton can’t see you but I can,” interjected Lisa. “I do not want to outright accuse anyone of cheating – not before we have even begun playing at least – but I want to make sure that it does not happen at all.”

“I can do this if it eases your nerves, Miss Greene,” said Wentworth.

“Thank you.” Lisa smiled at Cloudia. “See? Manners.” Then, Lisa craned her head to Newman who was still standing behind her as if he was her butler and not Cloudia’s. “Al, you’ll play too, won’t you?”

He bowed his head. “As always, Lisa.”

She smirked at his words, and Newman sat down next to her.

“If I am recalling correctly,” said Wentworth, “chips are needed for this game.”

“Yes, of course,” Lisa replied. “I put a bag of them on my nightstand. Could you fetch it, Mr Wentworth?”

“Of course. I will hurry.” Surefooted and quick for someone his age, Wentworth left the community room.

“I’m glad that you play too, Mr Newman,” blurted it out of Milton whose eyes lingered a bit too long on Newman yet again. Cloudia frowned. She would have been a fool if she had not noticed Milton staring at Newman back in Dover, but she thought that, by now, the initial surprise would have waned. Apparently, it had not. At least, Milton was seemingly trying to suppress his staring.

“As it is said,” Milton continued, fidgeting with his hands, “‘the more the merrier.’ How well can you play poker, Mr Newman?”

Lisa chuckled and distributed the cards. “Trying to find out if you will have any chance at all, Lord Milton?”

“Not at all, Miss Greene. I only wanted to ask,” Milton replied. “I do not care whether I win or lose as long as the game will entertain everyone.”

Lisa rolled her eyes which Milton, fortunately, didn’t see as his own eyes were fixed on Newman who answered him, “I am not as proficient as Lisa, though she assures me that I still play fairly well.”

“Definitely better than Thomas,” said Lisa. “Which isn’t that hard, but still.”

At this moment, Wentworth returned with the bag of chips which he handed to Lisa before he went to sit at a nearby table, a bit away but still close enough to spectate. Quickly, Lisa distributed the chips and then smiled. “Let’s begin.”

***

They had not agreed to bet actual money. Lisa had never asked, and Cloudia thought that she might not have wanted to be overly brash, though she was still very brash, to Milton even if he likely would not have minded playing for money. Still, Lisa grinned like she was doubling and tripling her monthly wages with every won round and envisioning retiring early. Although Lisa was triumphant in every round, they had great fun playing the game. Milton had said that he might be rusty as he had not played poker in years, but he was a surprisingly good bluff. He was almost as good as Lisa. However, here and there, his façade would crumble: His mouth would twitch, his eyes would betray the truth… Cloudia caught it twice.

I wondered whether this was normal or a product of the fact that Milton had not fully recovered from today’s “phantom pains.”

Lisa was better at that and relentlessly played everyone to the ground. It was past midnight when everyone decided that it had become too late for another round.

“That was fun,” said Milton with a smile on his face and stood up. “Thanks for letting me play.”

“You are such a strange one, Baron,” Lisa replied and closed the bag with the chips. She did not have to do much collecting as the chips had naturally wandered to her anyway. Newman, on the other hand, had to walk around the tables to collect all the cups and the empty teapot.

“All smiles although you have not won a single round this evening,” Lisa said.

“It is only a game. I don’t particularly care if I lose or fail.”

Lisa huffed. “Well, once or twice you were fairly close to winning.” “I was?”

“Yes. It was quite a surprise – you are not half as bad as I thought you would be.” Lisa grimaced at her own words, and Cloudia chuckled at Lisa’s anguished appraisal. Then, Cloudia stood up too.

“The evening ended as expected,” she said. “Nevertheless, that were some good games. I’ll head to bed now. Tomorrow will be a long day again.” Cloudia looked at Milton. “And didn’t you say you will leave very early in the morning?”

He nodded. “Yes, I will.”

“All the more reason to return to our rooms now. You need to be well-rested for tomorrow’s gruelling carriage ride to Creil.”

“That would be good,” replied Milton and fumbled with his sleeves. “Good night, Miss Greene, Mr Newman, Bram.”

Everyone returned the “good night” and Cloudia gave her own before she and Milton left the community room and walked down the corridor and back to the château’s main area.

Unlike when they had gone to the servants’ quarters, they were silent now as they ascended the stairs. This time, Cloudia was too tired to perceive the silence as suffocating or awkward and attempt to pierce it. Upstairs, they walked around until they found a servant still wandering the halls to ask for directions and then headed to a forking the maid had referred them to. According to her, they could go to their respective wings and rooms from there.

“Until here and not farther,” Cloudia said when they arrived at the forking and halted. “Well, at least, not together.”

Milton smiled at her. “Good night, Lady Cloudia. I suppose we will not see each other tomorrow, so I guess this is also goodbye for a little while.”

“Seems like it. I wish you well in Paris, Milton. Don’t forget that you will have to show me that clock upon your return, and good night.”

His smile brightened. It was like sunshine after a long grey day. “Thank you. I will not forget this, and I wish you all the best for your mystery. Speaking of mysteries… we haven’t finished the poem earlier: ‘The breeze – the breath of God – is still –/And the mist upon the hill/Shadowy – shadowy – yet unbroken, /Is a symbol and a token –/How it hangs upon the trees, /A mystery of mysteries!’”

***

I could not sleep.

I had not looked at the clock since I had laid down, but I was sure that it had been about two or three hours since I had said goodbye to Milton at the forking. I had tossed and turned in a desperate attempt to find some sleep. I needed to be rested for the day. However, the energy and restlessness that filled my body did not allow me to sleep.

I needed answers, I wanted answers.

This needed to be over.

I had told Yvette to barricade everyone inside for the night, to huddle them together, to keep them safe. But that had not worked before.

One slip-up would mean another dead body. Another web of strings I had to investigate.

Lives and time were running through my fingers, and I was sick of it.

Cloudia kicked away the blanket and stood up from her bed. She had to go back to Nanteuil-la-Forêt. The murderer had made the worst mistake to come here, and she was dead-set to show this to them.

A stakeout was something I had not done yet.

It was time to wait and watch from the front row.

It was time to catch the culprit red-handed.

Cloudia went to her wardrobe and pulled out some clothes she could wear as “M Gauthier.” When she was done changing into them, she let her skull pendant necklace vanish beneath her shirt. She had not taken it off before going to bed. She never did as it soothed her mind to have someone on close-call in case of an emergency. Cloudia only ever removed it when she bathed, but still kept it close to her then.

Of course, this only worked if Cedric wore his necklace all the time too. And I had no idea if he did.

Afterwards, Cloudia took off her blue Phantomhive ring which she also never removed before bedtime and went to her jewellery chest. She wanted to wear it on her finger all the time, but could only ever do it when she was at home or exclusively around family. Nobody knew that the ring was in her possession – it was, after all, “Earl Phantomhive’s.” Not that this mattered now, of course. After all, Cloudia would go to Nanteuil-la-Forêt as Gauthier, and it would be rather eyebrow-raising if a simple detective’s assistant wore such a fine piece of jewellery.

Cloudia opened the chest but did not put the ring inside. She did not like to leave it behind, and in cases she could not wear it openly, she wore it on a chain around her neck. Behind her clothes, it would be concealed for all; only she would feel the ring’s comfort against her skin.

She rummaged in the jewellery chest until she found the chain and then slipped the ring on it. Just as Cloudia had finished putting on the chain, she spotted something in the chest. Smiling, she took it out and inspected it.

The four-leaved clover necklace Cedric had given her for her seventeenth birthday was a piece for which she rarely found an occasion to wear. It was too simple to wear at balls and gatherings, and Cloudia generally disliked wearing two neck-pieces at once. She only, begrudgingly, did an exception for the Phantomhive ring. The clover necklace had no place next to the skull pendant one.

However, Cloudia sometimes put the clover necklace in her pocket if she had any. Skull pendant around her neck, ring on her finger, clover in her pocket – it was a bit like a spell. But then, the clover necklace was supposed to be a good luck charm on its own anyway.

Cloudia pocketed the necklace, grabbed her cloak, and left the room.

She had gone down to the stalls often enough to know the way herself, and she went there with quick, silent strides. Denis should be fast asleep now, and a wagon would be too bothersome to bring to Nanteuil-la-Forêt anyway. A horse would do; Cloudia would tie it to a tree before going to the village.

Cloudia pushed open the door to the outside and was relieved to see the sky dark and clear above her. No rain clouds. She had seen enough of them already.

She hurried to the stalls. There, while she was looking around, trying to find a suitable horse to borrow, a voice said behind her: “Cloudie?”

Surprised to hear it here and at this hour too, Cloudia turned around and saw Kamden standing at the doorsill to the stalls. The moonlight left him as a shadowed silhouette – except for his hair which shimmered a bit under the light. Lisa was right: Kamden just looked odd with blond hair.

“Kam, what are you doing here?” Cloudia wanted to know.

“I had the weird feeling that you would be here,” he said, and she smiled. “Cloudie, have you slept at all?”

There was no use lying to Kamden. “No. I have tried for hours, but could not. I am too restless to sleep.”

Kamden nodded. “Then let me accompany you. We can take a wagon then: I can drive, and you can take a nap until we arrive.”

There was no use fighting back either. Especially not when it was already so late and time was tight. “Okay,” Cloudia said. “Let’s go to Nanteuil-la-Forêt.”

***

~Cedric~

Cedric was woken up by Jacques and as soon as he saw his face, he groaned.

“Your Grace,” said Jacques while Cedric sat up and glimpsed at the clock – six in the morning, brilliant. “It is a clear day today. It is time to visit the Clockmaker.”

***

Somewhere, United Kingdom – May 1843

~Cloudia~

They had guided her into a room where she could wait while they released him. Cloudia had not expected much of this process – in fact, she had barely thought about how exactly Oscar’s actual release would go – but having now waited for over an hour, she admitted to herself that she had hoped that someone would have simply opened his cell’s door right after she was done talking to him. Right then and there. If they had done that, Cloudia could have been on the road home now. Instead, she was waiting in potentially the least shabby room the wardens could find for her, twisting and turning her father’s sketchbook in her lap.

I hoped they had at least informed Clifford that it was taking so long. I would not want him to worry whether or not the Yard Ripper had killed me on the spot after being released or not. But then, I supposed, the wardens would certainly tell him that.

Cloudia drummed her fingers on the sketchbook and looked at the clock whose hands seemed to move painfully slow. Sighing, she flipped open the book. Since she had found it in a secret passage in Phantomhive Manor three years ago, Cloudia had looked through it a million times and every time, it gave her a warm, comforting feeling. She loved the soft brushstrokes, the precise lines made with pencil and coal. Nobody had ever told her about this hobby of her father’s, and looking at his drawings made her feel closer to him than she ever had before. It was a solace Cloudia sought out whenever the days were especially bleak or she was hit with yet another wave of loneliness, though this had been happening less and less frequently since she met Kamden.

Cloudia thumbed over the landscape drawings and went to the one that had brought her to this place. She had stared at this portrait of Oscar Livingstone for three years and wondered who and where he was. Now, she looked at it and wondered how much he had changed since Simon Phantomhive had immortalised him on paper.

Not that I even knew how exactly Oscar had looked back then. The portrait was uncoloured, a quick sketch in black coal. His hair was drawn black in it because of that, but maybe it was not that dark at all. His eyes had not been filled in, so, I thought, they must be of a light colour. Blue or green? Maybe grey?

Cloudia closed the sketchbook. Soon, she would find out. She only hoped this “soon” would not break the word’s definition. Cloudia leaned her head back, looked up at the tattered ceiling, and kicked her legs back and forth. A year ago, her feet had hovered above the floor when she sat properly on a chair. Now, her feet reached the ground, and when she kicked her legs, her feet scraped the floor – click-clack like a pendulum.

Had so much time passed that I had become my own clock?

Then, the door opened, and someone entered. Cloudia had thought at least one of the wardens would be with him, but, apparently, they had only escorted him to the door and allowed him to enter the waiting room on his own. He was truly her problem now.

“They took their time arranging the final steps of my release,” said Oscar, “but here I am now.”

With a pounding heart, Cloudia tore her gaze from the crumbling ceiling and sat up properly on her chair. Her imagination of him was replaced by reality, and she hoped she did not stare as she scrutinised him.

Oscar Livingstone towered over her in the truest sense of the word as he was fairly tall and broadly built. He seemed robust and steadfast although he was not well-nourished: His cheeks were sunken and his skin taut. If he had not been so broad, his clothes would have hung on him like laundry on a washing line. He was only forty-four, but his black hair had largely faded to grey, and it hung long and wild over his shoulders. Oscar’s beard was also long and unkempt. Despite the wardens’ efforts to shield her eyes from the other patients in the asylum, Cloudia had been able to glimpse at some of them. Unlike Oscar, their heads had been shaven. She wondered if he had resisted when they tried to shave him, or if the staff had been too frightened of him to ever try.

But it was not the fact that Oscar looked like he had not spent the last six years of his life in an asylum but hidden away from the world in a forest that surprised and fascinated Cloudia. It was his eyes which were a beautiful light blue and which, despite the last few years, were still sharp and shone with life. They also provided such a stark contrast to his hollow body.

Looking at the rest of him, she might not have stared, but she feared that she was staring at his beautiful blue eyes now. Cloudia blinked, shook herself out of her amazement, and wrinkled up her nose when her focus was broken and her senses were not directed to one thing anymore.

“You need a bath,” Cloudia said.

[loruleanheart]

Desired Fate, Chapter 6

Read on ff.net

Read on AO3

Master Kohga, Sooga, and the Harbinger were waiting as Astor emerged from the Lost Woods.

“Well? Don’t keep us in suspense, three eyes. Did you manage to kill the princess?”

Astor ignored Kohga, staying silent. Astor’s attention was drawn to the Harbinger. It was emitting malice like a smokestack. The little black Guardian gave an ear-piercing shriek that made all three men cover their ears. It scuttled over to Astor, giving him a swift and stinging slap to the knee with its mechanical leg.

“Oh!” The prophet recoiled more in surprise than in pain.

“Ha! Now I HAVE to hear what happened!” The Yiga leader crowed.

“Fate intervened and saved the girl,” Astor stated, in a matter of fact way. He wasn’t even disappointed he had failed to end her life. Not even a little… And that’s what really scared him.

The Harbinger gave a series of enraged distorted beeps at the prophet.

Sooga gave a small laugh. “Ah, yes… Fate is fickle…”

“Well... there will be more opportunities... As long as the deed is done before she can unlock her power,” said the prophet, trying to sound as convincing as possible, although he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

“We’re never going to let you live this down. Not after the way you spoke to us before. And it looks like your Harbinger sees likewise. Lord Ganon’s chosen or not, you are not one of us. The Yiga Clan is not to be trifled with or strung along with your delusions of grandeur. Do I make myself clear, seer?”

“You tell him, Sooga!” Kohga chimed in.

Astor was growing exasperated. He couldn’t believe he was going to have to beg and manipulate these two degenerates to continue to ally with him. The prophet bit his tongue. “We are bound in the name of Calamity Ganon and by fate. We will need each other’s help if we are to achieve Lord Ganon’s grand purpose.”

The Yiga Leaders seemed uninspired by the prophet’s words.

“Alright. Let’s call it even then! You sure are terrible at prophesying your failures, little lord malice.” Kohga chuckled.

The three began to walk. The Harbinger continued to smack at the backs of Astor’s knees with its mechanical legs. Astor tried to stay a few steps ahead of its reach. As they walked, he explained at length what happened, embellishing the fight, and leaving out the part where the princess had asked her knight to spare his life. He couldn’t make sense of it. He never would have foreseen she would do something like that, nor could he understand why. He had nearly killed her after all. Young and full of sweetness and Hylia’s light she may be, no one was that forgiving. And then he thought about what he’d do if she and the knight had succeeded in capturing him.

So she thinks she can stop me from carrying out my destiny and convince me to turn against the Calamity? There is nothing that foolish girl can do to stop the Calamity, apart from finding her power...

And there it was... Deep down inside he knew the truth. The Calamity would still happen with or without him, and that was such a crippling thought.

“Good job, Three-Eyes! You may not have killed the princess, but at least you broke her widdle toy.” Kohga clapped his hands in a slow sarcastic manner. “I bet that took the wind out of her sails.”

“It did actually... Although I barely got to savor the look on her face. That Guardian was capable of a great deal. And now, thanks to my efforts it won’t cause further interference.”

“Like what? Playing a tune when she’s feeling sad?” Sooga challenged.

Kohga laughed. “A banana peel could do a better job of killing her than prophecy man here! I could throw it at her feet and she’d fall and crack her skull! Boom! Done! Game Over!”

Astor gave a sardonic scoff. “And yet, you already had your chance and you didn’t.  Nice try… Trust me when I say that now that the Guardian is no more, the future will proceed as it must, according to fate’s design.”

oOo

Impa and Princess Zelda closed in on the Royal Tech Lab, an imposing stone structure with an oversized Sheikah telescope on the roof. The Royal Tech Lab had only come to be in the recent past, having been built specifically for research of Guardians and other ancient Sheikah technology to oppose the resurrection of Calamity Ganon.

Impa looked down at the box she carried with a somber expression. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I miss the Guardian already.” 

Zelda acknowledged this with a nod of her head. “All isn’t lost yet.”

The two entered the Royal Tech Lab, transitioning from being in brilliant sunlight into the more subdued dimness of the laboratory. 

Purah and Robbie surveyed the wreckage that was the mysterious Guardian, it’s parts grimly but neatly arranged to make sure it was all there.

Robbie shook his head. “Oh, the one of a kind Guardian model…” He said in a rather dramatic fashion.

Zelda hesitated. “A-are you saying it can’t be repaired?”

“Oh, no,” Purah corrected. “I think it can be done. But it’s going to take some time.”

“I see…” Zelda gave a relieved sigh. “Then I have an additional favor to ask..”

“What’s that, Princess?” Purah blinked. The older sister of Impa was more worldly than other more traditional Sheikah women, having painted fingernails and a red streak through her naturally snow-white hair.

“If you find any additional data within the Guardian, please let me know right away, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

“Will do, Your Highness. Not a problem.” Purah reassured. “I’ll just need the Sheikah Slate so I can transfer any potential remaining data.”

“Oh...” Zelda hesitated. “Alright. Um...” Zelda pushed back a lock of hair behind her ear. “The images that you initially extracted from the Guardian’s memory…” Zelda reached into her pouch for the Sheikah Slate. It was a longshot of an inquiry, but Robbie and Purah were researchers. Maybe they might know something after all. “Do you… know anything of this man? Perhaps, any accompanying data about him from the Guardian?” Zelda handed Purah the Sheikah Slate. 

Robbie and Purah took a long hard look at the man Zelda had come to know as Astor. Even Impa was craning her neck over Purah to try to see. Zelda stood by anxiously as they scrutinized the image.

Purah grinned slyly, studying Zelda’s expression.

“What….?” Zelda asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Can’t say I know anything, but it seems to me like you know more about this mystery man than you’re letting on. Am I correct?” Purah asked playfully.

“Well…”

“Your Highness…?” Impa took on a serious expression upon hearing her elder sister’s tone. “Why is this the first I’m hearing about this? This sounds like most crucial information.” Impa half-joked, although she sounded slightly cross.

“Well… his image was on the Sheikah Slate and I had a run-in with him yesterday… His name is Astor. And well, he is our enemy… He said he was chosen by Calamity Ganon and  from what I can tell, he can harness the Calamity’s power with an orb he carries.”

Impa rubbed her chin, seemingly confused by Zelda’s tone and demeanor. “I can’t help but worry for your safety, Your Highness… I’m just relieved you lived to tell. But you seem... excited to learn more about him…. Which is… bizarre, but I guess that’s the scholar in you.”

Zelda blushed. It wasn’t a completely inaccurate assessment. “Well… If I can manage to stop Astor, maybe the Calamity can be averted.”

“Hmm, I could easily believe he is some sort of fanatical follower of Calamity Ganon... He certainly gives off that vibe,” Robbie observed. “So, was it this... Astor who broke the Guardian?” Robbie enunciated the name oddly. Making a sort of double entendre. 

“Yes…” Zelda confirmed.

Robbie shook his head and grabbed a nearby box, beginning to scrape the pieces of the Guardian into it. “ALL HAIL CALAMITY GANON! HE SHALL PROVIDE!” Robbie said, doing his best Astor impersonation given what little information he had.

Zelda couldn’t help but giggle. It wasn’t that far off the mark.

“And I’m sure we can provide a repaired Guardian and perhaps even the information you seek… Just give us some time.” Robbie said, in a normal tone of voice.

“Thank you, Robbie. I appreciate it. “There’s also a strong possibility that this Guardian is… not one of a kind. There have been at least a few incidents of a Guardian like this one leading an attack on Rito Village.”

“Interesting…” Robbie remarked.

Purah was still watching Zelda’s reactions and smiling at her incredulously.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Purah, or I’ll do it for you.” Impa hissed. “The Princess could have been killed!”

“Woah, calm down, sis. I was just trying to humor the Princess.”

“It’s alright, Impa, really....” Zelda offered nervously. 

“But, Your Highness…”

“I guess we should head back now. The Champion’s garments aren’t going to sew themselves.” Zelda sighed and headed for the door.

“Take care, Your Highness. Hope you get your man!” she called in a sing-song intonation, giving a brief wave goodbye, before being cut off by Impa’s stern voice.

“Ok, that's it!” Impa charged at Purah. Soon Impa was chasing Purah around the lab, using the main work table to keep distance between them.

“You WILL show respect to Her Highness!”

“‘I only meant it as ‘hope she can bring him to justice.’” Purah placated, innocently.

Robbie and Zelda shared a disconcerted look between them.

“Sisters...” Robbie crossed his arms, leaning back slightly against a wall to spectate. “Do you think they’ll still be fighting like this when they’re old and grey?”

[liliesoftherain]

My Hero Academia Main 3 Boys x Reader

Ch. 7 The Big Day is Here!

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6

Here’s the next part!! Finally we get some action(: I hope you all enjoy and I’m sorry for nay mistakes! Thank you all!

TAG LIST: @rizamendoza808​ !(: @iris-suoh​ !(: 

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

You spent the last two weeks training extensively, focusing on how to use your quirk while trying keeping up your stamina up and your heat down. You felt confident when the time for the sports festival rolled around, especially since you were able to train with your father whenever he had the time. Training with him was always nice, because he was a strong man who didn't hold back, too much anyways. 

So when you found yourself in the locker rooms in the arena, you didn't understand why you were feeling nervous. Maybe it was because you'd be on every television screen in the country? Or that'd you'd have to go up against classmates? While it could have been both, you also believed it was due to your dad watching you from the crowd. Even if he didn't care if you placed, you wanted to make him proud.

"Awh man!" Mina's whine ripped you from your thoughts, " I was totally hoping I could wear my costume!"

"At least everyone will be in uniforms," Ojiro smiled, "That'll keep things fair right?"

"Some people have costumes designed to help enhance their quirks, and the other students who aren't in the hero course don't have costumes at all, so it would make it an even bigger disadvantage for them."

"Oh that's true, I guess you guys are right." She huffed at your words of wisdom, still wanting to wear her costume because she wanted to be cute.

"I wonder what they'll have in store for us in the first round." Sato asked in a nervous manner, he didn't look so confident.

"No matter what they prepare we must persevere ."

"Right."

Iida busted through the door, screaming as always, which caused everyone to turn to him.

"Everyone get your game faces on! We are entering the arena soon!"

You let a small smile grace your lips, hoping it would somehow wash the nerves away. 

"Modoriya." Todoroki called out to the kid, stopping to be face-to-face with him.

"Hey Todoroki, what's up." You all looked on at the boys not really caring that it was almost like eavesdropping, they were talking out in the open after all.

"I think from an objective standpoint, it's fair to say that I'm stronger than you."

"Uh! Um, well yea.." Izuku trailed off, brows pulling downwards.

"However, you've got AllMight in your corner helping you out. While I'm not here to pry about what's going on between you two, just know that I will be the one to beat you, even if you have his help."

The stare between them caused high tensions to fill the room, Denki tried his best to to lighten it up but it did nothing.

"Yea what's the big deal, why are you picking a fight all of a sudden?" Kirishima added, putting a hand on Todoroki's shoulder before the said boy threw it off, not even turning to him when he responded back.

"We aren't here to be each other's friends. Don't forget this isn't a team effort."

"Wait a sec Todoroki," Midoriya called out to him, halting Todoroki from leaving.  "I don't know what's going through your head or why you need to tell me that you'll beat me, and yea you're better than me, you probably have the best potential out of everyone in the hero course.."

"Midoriya maybe you're being a little hard on yourself, and the rest of us too.." 

"No, he's right you guys. All the other courses are coming at us with everything they've got. We really need to do what (y/n) told them we would that day, and bring our best. And fight to stand out. And I'll be aiming for the top too, using no one's help but my own, that means even AllMight's." Izuku finished his speech, eyes set firm in determination, staring straight into Todoroki's cold eyes. 

"Fine." Todoroki turned his back on him, looking at you instead, "we've all got secrets and help, even if we don't want to admit it."

"Excuse me?" You questioned, not liking his tone.

"You heard me Hakamata, do you believe I have no idea who your father is?" Your eyes narrowed, standing quickly to look him down, which didn't do much because you still had to look up, but you felt it was now a more level playing field.

"You think you know me based on my father? Even though I know who your father is too, I never once said anything about you being his son. I never accused you of "getting his help" whatever that's supposed to mean. I don't know about you but I'm fighting to prove myself, by myself, just like everyone else here. And I'm not going to let my father's fame blind everyone around me." You jab a finger in his chest.

"Even if they know who I am, I'm going to show everyone I'm more than just my father's daughter. You too should be wanting to prove you're nothing like yours." You saw his eyes open for a moment, before you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room, heading down to the opening of one of the arches that lead to the field. 

You were told you had to wait here, and could come out once you've been announced by Present Mic, and from under the cover of the large opening, you saw his face pop onto the screen 

"Hey welcome to the U.A sports festival! Make some noise you rabid sports fans! Get your cameras prepped and ring your horns because this year we're bringing you some of the hottest performances in sports festival history! I've only got one question before we get this show on the roll, ARE YOU READYYYY?! Let me hear you scream for these awesome students!"

Being told to go out in groups, the first one being your class, you were huddled together to wait for the right time to go out. You made sure to stay away from Todoroki as possible, ignoring the side eye he was giving you, as well as all the other looks from your class. Now was not the time to get distracted. You had a festival to win.

"While these up and coming stars fight for the chance to win it big and get first place, this first group who you'll have the pleasure of seeing is the group all know and love, who are no strangers to the spotlight, the ones who withstood a villain attack, the famous hero course students from CLASS 1-A!"

Everyone began to walk out, almost blinded by the light and made deaf by all the screaming. It was incredible to see so many people here for the first year fight, normally the arena was only this crazy for third year students. 

"I didn't know there would be so many people!" Izuku stuttered, his head whipping around to look at everyone around them.

"I hope we're still going to be able to give a good show with all these eyes on us."

"That's what heroes have to go through every day Iida, the public eye watching and demanding. It's no different form now." You responded with a smile, turning away and looking forward.

"Present Mic sure did talk us up a lot, kinda makes me nervous." Kirishima was doing the same thing as Izuku, just less intense as he was scanning the crowd. You put a hand on his shoulder, and gave him a reassuring smile before turning to Bakugou.

"How are you feeling Bakugou?" 

"Yeah man, you look a little.." Eijiro trails off, seeing Bakugou looking at the ground, a little surprised when he lifted his head with a dark smile on his face.

"I'm not worried, this makes me wanna win even more!" 

As Present Mic announced all the other students, you couldn't help but try to look for your dad in the crowd, even though you knew you'd never be able to spot him from here. Filing into rows, you tore your gaze away from the crowds, and looked to the announcer standing on the podium.

"Now for the introductory speech!" The R-rated Hero Midnight stood tall, an interesting choice of a weapon in her hand. She winked and blew kisses before getting serious.

"Silence everyone!" She smacked her whip-like object and you felt yourself blush. Was this really appropriate for this kind of event?

"For the student introductions, we have Katsuki Bakugou!" You turned to look behind you and moved slightly so he could walk by. You shared a look with Momo who shook her head.

"This is going to be a disaster.."

"He's the first year rep??"

"Well I guess that hothead did finish first in the entrance test."

A large sigh was made at your right, and you saw a girl from the gen ed studies. She looked at you all with annoyance in her eyes and arms crossed.

"He only placed first in the hero course exams."

"Oh right, sorry." Midoriya apologized, Sero leaning closer and muttering to all of you,

"That girl seems to really hate us."

"Yea and we've got Bakugou to thank for that." Denki pouted.

Your eyes rolled at his pouts and looked to see Bakugou walking up the steps to stand in front of the microphone next to Midnight. Silence rang throughout the crowds, spectators and students alike holding their breath to see what he would say.

Bakugou stood with his hands in his pockets, looking over the students.

"I just want to say, I'm going to win." You along with everyone else in your class sighed at his words, hearing the boos come from other courses. Bakugou simply threw a thumbs down, uncaring as he called everyone a stepping stone.

"He may be brash but he is strong, I don't think it's over confidence, just him being rude as always." You whisper to Kirishima.

He only mumbled an agreement, not wanting to get trashed talked any more than the class already was. Bakugou walked back to stand behind you, and you turned your attention to the screen. The words  "First Game" in large writing stood out.

"Anyways without further ado, it's time to get going! This is where you students really begin to feel the pain!" Midnight pointed her whip at the crowd.

"The first fateful game of the festival is..." The board spun and spun till it stopped. "Tada! An obstacle race!"

"All 11 classes will participate in the dangerous race, the track being 4Km going all around the stadium. I won't restrain anyone, at least in this game." A sinful grin crossed her lips. 

"As long as you don't leave the course you're free to do whatever your heart desires! Now then, take your places contestants!"

The students walked over, and you managed to snag an area towards the front, but not good enough. If you thought this through, you knew everyone would be rushing, and it would be packed just like how it was when the students panicked the day the reporters broke through the school walls. You had to make sure you weren't caught in their swarms. 

The lights started to dim one by one, and you prepared your body, waiting for the last light to dim so you can sprint off. You took in a breath, as you heard the last buzzer.

"BEGIN!" And you were off, shoves from other students threatened to send you to the floor but you weren't budging. 

"And we're off to a racing start! How about some commentary Mummy man?" 

"How did you talk me into this?"

"What should we be paying attention to this early in the race?"

"The doorway."

The yells from everyone around you made your head pound as you pushed people aside to get through. You used your power almost like stilts to push you up, making you slightly taller than the people around you before you dropped your power to start running on them. You felt bad, of course you did, your shoes were probably painfully digging into their shoulders and heads while using them as push off points.

Many kids tried to knock you down and many almost succeeded, it was hard to use living beings as a runway after all. Yet you always were able to land on someone else for support, and even though you wanted to apologize you had no time to do so. Next thing you knew a blast of freezing cold air came through the tunnel, and you saw the students you were running on unable to move. 

You were outside of the area now, and saw Todoroki speeding away while leaving everyone else stuck to the ground. You used some kids shoulders to jump off of, seeing the ice unable to let him fall, and skidded after Todoroki. 

The ice was slippery but you caught yourself on solid non-frozen ground, using your quirk to quickly speed after him. Hearing shouts from your classmates behind you made you smile, until you locked gazes with the half-and-half boy as he looked to see who wasn't caught in his trap. You stared at him hard, a smirk coming to your lips as his eyes narrowed before looking ahead.

"Nice trick Todoroki!" Momo shouted.

"I WON'T LET YOU TWO AHEAD OF ME SO EASILY YOU BASTARDS!" Bakugou yelled after the two of you, and you felt pride swirl in from getting ahead of the boy.

Although it didn't last long as he used his quirk to get ahead of you by blasting himself in the air, and while it was hard to tell you assumed he was. It was amazing that Mineta actually jumped by you with incredible height, surpassing both you and Bakugou. You watched as he was going to land on Todoroki, till the boy was knocked from the air by a giant robotic arm. 

You watched him fly back, nowhere near you guys anymore. You came to a halt, breathing heavily while trying to see what was going on. Giant robots from the entrance exam blocked your path, and you felt more students stop behind you, as you stared ahead.

"OH! Looks like we're in for a treat here, enemies showing up out of nowhere! A test of strength and cunning! IT’S THE ROBO INFERNO!"

Shouts around you about the disbelief that hero course students had to take these on during the exam were drowned out as you looked for any point of passing by them without getting too physical. You remembered your battle during the entrance exams, and the zero pointers were definitely better to avoid than to attack head on. Not that they were too challenging, you just needed to save strength for the rest of the race and couldn't afford to get overheated here at the beginning.

One attacked, and Todoroki was quick to freeze multiple at once.

"I wished they put in more effort, seeing as my dear old dad is watching." You heard him grunt out while looking in shock about the force behind his ice attack. There was an opening between the legs of the robots and you wondered why he created a path. He must've had done so for a reason, no way he'd leave the opportunity for everyone to cross.

He ran off and you waited while everyone tried to follow, it was a trap. He was going to set everyone up. He confirmed your suspicious and he let them fall haphazardly towards the ground, and you used your quirk to launch yourself up as soon as they did. By willing the light in your feet to shoot out, it gave you a boost to send you up while everyone was running back, giving you a heads start from the others besides Todoroki.

"That's Shouto Todoroki from class 1-A pulling ahead to an early lead with a devastating display! Amazing! He's the one we should be watching, it almost seems unfair!"

"His attack was both offensive and defensive-"

"NO WONDER HE WAS LET IN ON RECOMMENDATIONS! He's never even fought those robo infernos before, but even still they didn't stand a chance for those jaw dropping moves!"

More robots came through the dust cloud that was created by the others falling. You grit your teeth as you were heading straight towards it, no way to dodge it unless you wanted to fall back flat on your ass. Best chance you had was to keep going, and land on the robot to either slide down his back or do another jump. 

"Eijirou Kirishima from class 1-A makes it out from under the scraps of metal, SHEESH talk about a breakthrough debut for this rookie! WOOOOH TETSUTETSU FROM CLASS 1-B WAS ALSO STUCK UNDERNEATH, going beyond!"

Once you landed on one and had no time to think as you launch yourself off of that one to the next. They tried to swing at you but you dodged, using your quirk to help your speed and make you jump more swiftly. That led them to miss you while they swung for you. 

Once the last row of robots was cleared, you saw the ground come at you faster and faster, and you had no good way to brace your fall. You sucked in a breath and encased yourself in light, hoping it'd take off some of the sting. You landed with a hard thud, and felt yourself rolling. You tried to catch your breath when you finally came to a stop, grunting at the pain. You'd have to work on it if you ever wanted to do something cool like that again.

"Class 1-A's (y/n) Hakamata is launching herself over the big hunks of metal! What a genius! As the number 2 in this race right now, we should also try to not let her out of our sights! GO GO GO STUDENTS!"

You pushed yourself off the ground, running through your pain. You didn't have time to sit around, you knew students would be coming soon.

"ANOTHER 1-A STUDENT, KATSUKI BAKUGOU, IS LAUNCHING HIMSELF JUST LIKE MISS HAKAMATA. She's such a trendsetter! But she better pick up the pace if she wants to stay in her number 2 spot, otherwise she may have it stolen right out from under her!"

"Thanks for the idea glitter bomb!" You heard Bakugou yell, and used your quirk to try to give you some more speed. While you only heard him because let's face, it he was loud, you knew it was only a matter of time before he'd take your spot. Just like Present Mic said.

You saw the next obstacle approaching and stopped just in time, spotting Todoroki's back facing you. He gave a quick glance back unfazed before jumping onto the rope, allowing the ice to bind his feet to the rope before sliding all the way across. 

You felt stuck, unsure of what exactly to do, but you needed a plan before you fell behind.

You decided to try something you never thought of before, and willed your light to solidify in your hands, and melded it into a hook of some sort with a strap. You let this strap wrap around your wrist and you connected the hook to the icy rope Todoroki made. You let yourself fall and yelped as it hurt to hold yourself up with one hand.

You brought your other hand up bracing yourself as you used your feet to push off, using the rope as a zip-line. Thankfully the rope didn't snap from the heat, all thanks to the ice acting as a barrier. 

Reaching the end of the rope where it connected with another dirt pillar, you brought your feet up to stop yourself from slamming into the side. Reaching up with one hand to the top, you pulled yourself up with difficulty and unhooked the claw from the rope. You panted, looking to see you still had quite a few left, but you'd be fine as long as you stayed on the path Todoroki took.

You heard popping sounds and looked up, seeing Bakugou fly over you and all you did was curse as he made a snide comment.

"Thanks for sucking enough to let me pass, I'll look down on your from the winners podium shitty glow worm!"

You picked yourself up and continued your half-ass attempt of a zip line, noticing other students starting to make their way to the beginning. 

"For those of you who thought that task was easy, let us see how you feel about the second one! If they take a spill down they're out, to pass this test they'll have to get creative!"

You ran up to the last one, but you jumped down too fast and screamed out as a searing pain made its way down your arm. You couldn't lose focus, unless you wanted your light to turn back into its regular form and have you drop into the abyss.  So despite the pain you still held on, using your other hand for support as you made it to the other side. But when you reach the end, you couldn't pull yourself ups, it hurt your right shoulder too much.

'I must've dislocated it!' You thought in a panic, trying to figure out a way to move unless you wanted to go down. 

No. That wasn't an option. You bit your lip through the pain as you began to swing your body, feeling tears make their way down your cheeks as you finally had enough momentum to kick you legs up and use that as a leverage to use your good hand to pull you up the rest of the way. 

You clutched your arm, not knowing what to do. You looked back and saw students already at least a third of the way, so you ran on, still clutching your arm to make sure it wasn't jostled too bad while you did.

"In the world of heroes, it can be hard to get popular without a flashy quirk, right EraserHead?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about idiot."

"Looks like Todoroki is still skating by easily! And it looks like Bakugou has taken over second place from our little miss Hakamata-Oh what's that? It looks like she hurt herself! Whatever will she doooo!??"

"Obviously keep going, she's still in third place isn't she. She managed to pull herself up with a hurt arm and all, she wouldn't let herself quit now."

"YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY RIGHT, KEEP FIGHTING GIRLY WE'RE CHEERING FOR YOU!"

They were embarrassing you, and letting others know you had a weakness right now. You ran on glaring at the ground in front of you and grumbling. 

"And now that we're approaching the last obstacle, so when everyone else catches up, you better tread carefully cause, YOU'RE STEPPING ONTO A MIND FIELD!!! If you look hard enough, you can see where each little bomb was placed, so you don't have time to look around, keep those eyes on the ground! YEAH!"

"You better tell them the disclaimer."

"RIGHT! Keep in mind folks these were designed for the game, so while they may be loud and flashy, they're not that powerful.."

"Good."

"JUST ENOUGH TO MAKE YOU WET THOSE PANTS!"

"Oh get a hold of yourself.."

You came up to the 'DANGER' sign and looked behind, noticing people running to catch up to you, since you weren't as fast as you wanted to be with your shoulder the way it was. You kept your eyes down and tried to speed walk, being swift but as careful as possible. One bad move and you could be blown away, that wouldn't help at all.

At first all you heard were little explosions caused by Bakugou's quirk, before explosions from behind you drowned it out. People were rushing and acting carelessly, trying to make it to the lead. You wondered if it would be worth it to try to make those light rays into stilts again, even though your body was already warming to an uncomfortable level, it was still bearable. 

You looked and saw those two weren't that far ahead, and if you tried hard enough you could take them both. You felt heat pool at your feet, extending it till it solidified and you grew taller. You were even more careful now, making sure the bottoms had no chance of touching any bombs.

"You made your declaration of war to the wrong guy!" A blast followed Bakugou's shouting rang out and you saw he was attacking Todoroki!

"JUST LIKE THAT A NEW STUDENT TAKES THE LEAD! The crowd is going crazy, there's nothing we love more than an upset! Hey hey hey, the rest of the competitors are catching up too! C'MON HAKAMATA KICK IT INTO HIGH GEAR IF YOU WANNA STAY IN THE TOP 3! "

"You're supposed to be unbiased.."

"Uh... AND WHAT'S THIS !? CAN OUR TWO LEADERS FIGHT EACH OTHER AND STAY IN FRONT OF THE COMPETITION?"

You were getting close to them. you planned on sneaking past them while the were too busy fighting and running into the lead. You were right behind them now, only a couple steps behind, when an explosion larger than any other went off. You snapped your head back and saw something, someone, soaring through the air.

"What was with that explosion, that's way more powerful than it should of been!? WOAH LOOK AT THAT, INCREDIBLEEEE! Whatever just happened, it caused class 1-A's Izuku Midoriya to be suddenly in hot pursuit of first place!" 

He zoomed passed you guys, and you felt your eyes widened in disbelief. 

"AND JUST LIKE THAT THE LEAD IS MIDORIYA'S!"

Even though he was still cutting through the air, you saw his momentum slow and Bakugou took off after him. 

"DEKU, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING HUH?" 

Todoroki created an ice path, before sprinting off, it seemed he didn't care to try to keep from unintentionally helping the others, he just wanted to catch up to the boys. You quickly used that to your advantage and willed your stilts to go down, just leaving enough heat to grip the ice as you raced off after them. 

You were trying to catch up, the pain becoming numb as your body was ignoring it while adrenaline ran through your veins. The only sounds you heard was your heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears as you continued to chase the three.

"LOOK AT THAT PLOT TWIST, THOSE TWO AREN'T FIGHTING ANYMORE, THEY'RE CHASING MIDORIYA! Having a common enemy will do it for ya in this type of competition! This fight is far from over!"

Izuku was falling fast, looking as if he was about to headbutt the two boys while coming down face first. You were only a few steps away and you willed your legs to pick up the pace.

"Dammit!" You cursed, trying to hurry. Izuku twisted in the air and swinging down his large piece of metal, hitting the ground causing an explosion to go off and you ran straight into it. You were tossed up and yelled in pain. You somehow were pushed forward by the explosion, and landed clumsily on your feet. You stumbled, holding your arm tighter as pain shot through it once more. Two blurs raced by out of the smoke and you bite your lip so hard you began to bleed.

'I refuse to lose!'

You raced after them but it was no good, even though you cleared the minefield you were now pretty far behind them. 

"With another stunning move, Midoriya has blasted by his classmates from 1-A, I don't believe it but he cleared that minefield in an instant! EraserHead, your students are amazing! What the heck are you teaching them?!"

"This has nothing to do with me, each of them is powered by their own drive to succeed."

"There you have it, EraserHead is a terrible teacher!"

"I'm what?"

"Who would've imagined at the beginning of this race that the climax would be so thrilling! The first to make it back to the stadium is the winner!.."

You were in the last stretch, begging your body to keep your fast pace, using your quirk to try to pass the boys. Already feeling the sweat pouring down your face as your tried to breath in. It was almost impossible and you felt like you were drowning with not enough oxygen. You entered a hallway, the finish line up ahead. But you were too late..

"Izuku Midoriya is our champion!"

You slowed down once you have passed through the doors, your hand on your knee as you gasped in breath, trying to calm your wild heart and cool your body down before it hit unsafe zones. 

Other students began to pile in after you, and you smiled nonetheless. You came in fourth, and there is nothing wrong with the number 4.

You arm was still hurting and you knew you had to pop it back into place somehow. You were going to ask Bakugou, but he seemed too upset, probably at the fact he lost to Midoriya. 

Speaking of Izuku, he was most likely the best person to ask.

"Hey Izuku, can you help me?" You motioned towards your dangling arm, he squeaked at it. 

"W-WHAT HAPPENED?!" 

"I dislocated it, can you help me pop it back into place?" 

"I uhm yea I guess uh, how do I do that?" You felt uneasy, maybe he wasn't the best person to ask. You'd do it yourself but you didn't have the time to sit through the pain, you needed someone to do it for you.

"The contestants are pouring in one after the other, let's hear a round of applause for all of our competitors as we get the results ready!"

"Here." A gruff voice spoke out, grabbing your good arm and dragging you away from Izuku as Ochaco and Iida came up to him. Izuku looked at the two of you surprised, trying to call out but his attention stolen by his other friends. You were just as surprised to see Todoroki of all people, especially after what had transpired between the two of you in the waiting rooms. You eyed him carefully, and he saw you were hesitant.

"Do you want help or not. I'm most likely the only one here who knows how to do this." As much as you wanted to be stubborn and walk away, you nodded. You did need the help.

He made you let go of your arm and slowly began to lift it. You hissed, the pain sharp and hot as he slowly raised your arm. Both of his hands held onto your wrist as he made slight up and down motions while going continuing to lift. 

Once your arm is about a 90 degree angle, Todoroki makes small circular movements for a bit, before titling your arm towards your head, you let out a whimper and he stopped. You looked up at him and saw he was staring back to ask in a silent way if you were okay.

"I'm okay, keep going please." So he did, moving it by your head to make about 120 degree angle, still rotating your arm till you both heard a pop. It hurt, just like when you dislocated it the first time, but now the pain faded and you were left with a sore feeling, you went to rub the muscle when ice touched it.

"Icing helps." You didn't know what to think of this guy. He acts like a total dill-hole one second and a perfect gentleman the next. 

"Yea.. Uhm, thanks Todoroki. Look I'm sorry about-"

"Don't. I still meant everything I said. I'm going after Midoriya.." He stopped, looking away and taking his hand off your shoulder. 

"But I too, want to prove myself. So be ready because I wont lose to the daughter of Best Jeanist, even as you fight as your own person. I'll be the one to take you down too." His eyes narrowed at you, but this time you looked past the malicious intent in them and saw the eyes of a boy trying to be something greater than himself.

So you just smiled, giving your sore shoulder a roll, even though it still hurt it was feeling much better now that you can move it. Staring right back at him, a similar look in your own eyes.

"And I won't lose to you, as you fight just as Shoto Todoroki."

"The first game for the first years is finally over and what a game it was! Let's take a quick look at the standing shall we?"

You both looked at the board as Midnight yelled out, interrupting your conversation and pulled up the results:

1: Izuku Midoriya

2: Shouto Todoroki

3: Katsuki Bakugou

4: (y/n) Hakamata

5: Ibara Shizoki

6: Juzo Honenuki

7: Tenya Iida

8: Fumikage Tokoyami

9: Hanata Sero

10: Eijiro Kirishima

The rest of the students were announced but you were still staring an awe at the top 10. Poor Bakugou looked done as he placed third. You'd trade him spots if he wanted to complain.

"Only 42 students made it into the next round but don't be upset if you didn't make it, we have made other ways to help you guys bask in the spotlight hehe." Midnight smirked.

"Now the real fun is about to begin, the chance to move yourself into the limelight. Give it your best shot!" She cracked her whip, which made the screen start to roll in deciding what the next round was going to be.

"Let's see what we have in store for you next! Let's see... Ah, prepare yourself for this young ones!"

'Calvary Battle' popped up on the screen, and you wanted to groan. Now you'll have to take part in a team, which wasn't bad but now you'll have other people to worry about more than just yourself.

Midnight explained the rules revolving the silly game, but added a twist.

"Each player has been assigned a point value based on their results from the race. It starts from the bottom for example, the 42nd place is worth 5 points, and the 41st is worth 10. Till you go up and up, and 1st place is worth... 10,000,000!!!"

You all looked at Izuku, his face going white in shock as he processed his information. Some were in disbelief, some were starting to plot. Everyone was going to go after the first place winner to get those points, no doubt about that. 

"That's right, it's the chance for those at the bottom to overthrow the top! Let's get started!"

[shatteredglassanimated]

Shattered Glass Animated Season 1 Episode 5 - Nice To Melt You

The resistance receives a distress call from their spy in Sumdac’s ranks. With the help of the Decepticons, will they be able to get him out in time?

Overlord Sumdac was not having a good day.

The robotic creature he’d had restrained in one of his labs had gone into some sort of internal lock-down after his first accessing of it’s database, making the retrieval of new data nigh impossible. Not to mention the weeks it had taken to to clean out his private laboratory after his first disastrous attempt to re-animate the robotic head. The cleaning drones he’d sent were efficient and quick (he had designed them after all), but even they could only do so much.

He hadn’t been able to work on any private projects for a week and it would cost him a fortune to replace the equipment lost in the failed extraction-attempt. The resistance kept eluding him and his police-bots proved utterly incapable of tracking them or any other giant, metallic creatures.

If he had been able to, Overlord Sumdac would have isolated himself in his private quarters for the rest of the day, doing nothing but working on simpler, smaller robots as he had often done in his youth when the world seemed determined to undermine his efforts.

Alas, today marked the final test run of a batch of new and improved police-drones. Taller, sturdier and with much more advanced recognition software. For the moment, they were his best bet for nailing the resistance-scum. And thus, too important a project to leave overseeing the tests to one of his underlings.

Especially to one specific underling.

Standing behind the railing of the platform overlooking the assembly hall, Sumdac took a sip from his coffee, noting with annoyance that it was rather cold already. From up above he could see the human workers, scurrying about like mice and throwing nervous looks at him every now and again. They knew he was in a bad mood. And it was never good when Overlord Sumdac was in a bad mood. The only smile in the room came from Fanzone, who was standing to his left, eyes wide with anticipation, like a child about to receive birthday presents.

“Man, this is exciting! Those machines are gonna do so much good on the street sir, I can tell! Dunno what my wife keeps whining about, I’ve never seen those bad boys target anyone they weren’t s’posed to-”

Sumdac did his best to blend out the man’s ranting, gave half-hearted wave. “Begin the final test run.”

The scientist working the console to his right, a nervous man with blond, long hair that made Sumdac keenly aware of his own bald crown and ridiculous sunglasses turned to push a few buttons.

The light signaling the drones being active flared up and the machine straightened from it’s motionless slump and raised its arm cannons. It’s build in police sirens blared as it moved forwards toward the target set up for it across the room. Sumdac huffed approvingly. At least some machines wouldn’t disappoint him today.

But then it happened.

The drone twitched, stopping in it’s advance. Then, all of a sudden, it began to turn away from the target, arm canon still raised.

Sumdac frowned. Fanzone nervously shuffled his feet next to him.

“Deactivate it,” Sumdac ordered, pointing at the malfunctioning drone.

A few hasty typing-noises came from behind.

The drone didn’t stop. Instead, it’s canon whirled to life and fired - right at the wall behind the terrified spectators. Bullets tore through steel and metal, sparks flying everywhere. Workers screamed in a panic, running for the emergency exists.

Sumdac barely managed to dodge a shot. He heard Fanzone give a panicked screech as he dove down.

“What are you doing you incompetent buffoon?” Sumdac barked at the scientist. “Deactivate it!”

“I’m trying, Sir! It’s not reacting!” the man yelled back, frantically pushing button after button on his console.

He needn’t have bothered. The drone suddenly stopped dead in it’s tracks. Sparks flew out of it’s joints, making it’s body twitch. Smoke billowed out of it’s back, followed by a small explosion that made it jerk forward, before, with a last, pathetic creak, it fell in on itself altogether, a sad pile of burning, sparking, smoking metal.

Sumday watched it all, the grip on his mug getting tighter with every second. A small crack formed itself on the mug as the robot burned away.

“How could this have happened?” he growled, slowly turning around to the scientist on the console.

The man flinched under his boss’ piercing glare. “I-I don’t know, Sir. Probably a glitch. I’ll have it disassembled an thoroughly checked for bugs!”

“I’ll do that,” Sumdac snapped. “Evidently I am the only scientist around here worth his salt!” He whirled around, heading for the exit, ignoring Fanzone who was currently whimpering on the floor in a fetal position, mumbling something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “I’ll never doubt my wife again.”

Sumdac snorted. How easily humans were cowed by minor setbacks. He would never have gotten so far in the world, had his enthusiasm been as easy to curb as his chief of police’s.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Prometheus Black watched his ‘boss’ leave, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted off his back. Sumdac hadn’t suspected a thing. He’d been worried he’d been too obvious this time.

Though he suspected most of his luck in that regard was due to Sumdac being utterly uninterested in keeping up with his human subordinates beyond the most necessary interactions.

It was this attitude that had gotten Black into several high-ranking position in the first place. He’d merely had to show enough aptitude to be promoted and simultaneously be subservient enough to not get Sumdac’s attention too much. It was easier than it sounded. And it certainly made his job as a mole all the easier.

Though his latest maneuver might have possibly changed that. Prometheus wasn’t really happy with it. The new police drones would have proved disastrous to the rest of the resistance if he’d allowed them to be released at this point in time. He rarely got away from his job long enough to see to Aaron’s equipment and Cyrus’ mutation-device often enough these days. Penny was a good student and did maintenance well enough whenever he wasn’t available, but she was still only a child and it would have been irresponsible to put the work on her full-time. So he’d decided to take one for the team by risking his anonymity - and sabotaged Sumdac’s latest work.

It hadn’t been easy. It had taken him days to develop the acid he’d carefully applied to the drone before the final test and he hadn’t anticipated that it would affect the thing that much. The acid was developed from the blood (?) of the giant metallic creature Sumdac was currently housing in one of his bigger labs. Prometheus had snuck some of it away while his colleagues hadn’t been looking, after witnessing how some of it eat right through one of the toughest surveillance drones patrolling around the body.

Thinking about it now made him remember that his own laboratory still contained the vial he’d used to concentrate it. He’d have to clean that up first things first. Sumdac never visited his employees at their workplaces, but now was probably not the time to rely on a tyrant’s bad habits. Especially when said tyrant had loudly announced that he would investigate the matter himself.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Failures! All of them!”

Sumdac brought his fist down hard on the table, shaking up the pieces of metal in front of him. At his orders, the drone had been disassembled and delivered to his private laboratory. He no longer trusted the scientists from combat-drone development to not completely muck up their investigation. And the ever-growing suspicion of sabotage had flared up again as well.

The drone had been working perfectly before the fateful test run this morning. It simply could have been bad luck that a machine that would have brought him closer to wiping out his fiercest enemies just happened to  break down on the day he’d wanted to determine if it was actually suitable for field deployment. But only fools believed in abstract concepts like luck. And Sumdac was anything but.

And so he examined. Upon closer inspection he managed to isolate a foreign substance unlike any of the fuels used to power the rest of his army. But no matter how he analyzed it, what methods he used to determine his origin, he  found nothing. It was like the substance had appeared form thin air. There was nothing on earth even closely resembling it’s structure, no components that seemed in any way familiar. It was maddening!

“This is hopeless,” he grumbled, letting himself fall back on his chair and massaging the bridge of his nose. “There is no being on earth who knows of this substance.”

“I do.”

“Well, no being on earth but you-” Sumdac stiffened. He whirled around, eyes wildly searching the room for an intruder - only to land on the disembodied head behind him, still hooked up to a multitude of cables. It’s eyes were glowing a piercing red. And it was watching him.

Sumdac blinked. “You... you spoke.”

It wasn’t his most astute of observations, but it was the only thing he could think of at the moment.

The head’s eyes narrowed a little and Sumdac got a feeling if it’s mouth had still been complete it would have given him a derisive smirk. “I did, Professor Sumdac.”

Sumdac felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine. “You know my name?”

“I know a lot of things,” the head answered nonchalantly. “Things that would surely benefit you. For example, that fluid you spend the last two hours analyzing. It’s concentrated energon.”

“And you know this how?” Sumdac asked, frowning.

“Because it’s an essential part of every cybertronian. Cybertronians like me or the Decepticons. And those last ones, for your information, are the ones that have been causing you so much trouble as of late.

“Fortunately for you, I have a score to settle with them. Specifically with their leader. So we’re currently, as you humans would say, in the same boat. You need information about... everything, really. And I need a body, so I can rip Megatron apart with my own servos. I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this.”

Sumdac was silent for a moment. His mind was reeling. In just a few seconds, this talking head of an alien creature a, a “cybertronian” had answered almost every burning question that had plagued him for over ten years. And it was offering more. Still, his paranoid self remained skeptical.

“And how do I know,” he said slowly. “That you aren’t in some way associated with those ‘Decepticons’? That you’re not just feeding me lies, to trick me into repairing you and then have your big friends out there break in and tear my empire apart?”

The head made a sound that sounded a  lot like a snort. “I would have to care about your empire to want to break it.” It’s eyes flashed for a moment. “And do not compare me to the Decepticon-scum! My name is Optimus Prime and I am an Autobot. We are infinitely superior to them.”

Sumdac nodded and allowed himself a small smirk. Interesting. There was more to those aliens than he’d realized. Evidently some sort of conflict took place between the two factions, the ‘Decepticons’ and the ‘Autobots’. And his guest seemed very invested in it. It was not much information to go on, but he’d built his empire from less. For now, he would have to gauge how serious ‘Optimus Prime’ was about cooperating.

“Let’s say I believe you,” Sumdac started, getting up and walking towards the head. “It still seems as if you are more dependent on this relationship than I am. I will need something from you, to know you really are as useful as you claim to be.”

“I can tell you the identity of the spy in your ranks,” Optimus replied.

“And how would you do that?”

“You’ve connected me to your entire network when you first tried to wake me up. My audials and optics are practically everywhere in this building. And they just so happened to pick up how one of your trusted employees sabotaged that primitive drone you tested this morning.”

Sumdac’s eye twitched at the insult to his robotics, but he suppressed his anger and kept his face neutral. “Tell me more.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Prometheurs sighed. cleaning back in his chair. It was still hours until he could call it a day and he steadily found himself more nervous. He’d had no time to remove what remained of the acid from the drone before it had been delivered to Sumdac’s private lab. There was nothing about it that could have linked him to the failed test, but he was still on edge.

Sumdac would find it, that was for certain. Meaning he’d have to think of another way to keep the new drone from release. Maybe he could plant a signal-disruptor on it, to mess up it’s recognition software? Behind him, the leftover acid dripped away into a chemical waste container. It would take some time until he’d be able to dispose of it safely.

A blip sounded from his computer. Prometheus frowned and turned to face the screen. On a normal Sumdac-device, the sound would have been a reminder to get his computer to maintenance. Prometheus had tweaked his a little. Now it was connected to a private encrypted channel that would allow him to safely contact the outside world and be contacted safely in turn.

He pressed a few buttons and a video chat opened, showing a frowning,rotund man in his fifties wearing blue sunglasses and a grey suit.

“I was just informed that the new Sumdac Police Drone failed it’s final test run,” he said, not even bothering with a greeting. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

Prometheus sighed, dragging his hands down his face. He should have anticipated a lecture, really. “Look Mr. Powell, if those new drones would have gotten released, we would have been in big trouble. Their recognition software-”

“Prometheus,” Powell interrupted. “I’m well aware you wouldn’t take such risks unprompted. But I need you to realize what’s at stake here. Currently you’re our only inside man. And we’re thinly staffed as it is. I think Sumdac’s been suspecting me as of late. If he gets wise to you, I won’t be able to help you. Do you understand?”

Promtheus gulped. “Yes, Mr. Powell.”

“Watch your back, Prometheus.” The video call ended before Prometheus could answer.

Only a second after, a blip on the official message channel for Sumdac-employees popped up. Prometheus stiffened, before forcing himself to relax. It was most likely nothing. Probably a subordinate asking for advice. He would get those every now and again. He had a reputation for being surprisingly lenient for one of Sumdac’s inner circle.

His hopes were dashed as soon as he opened the channel and was met with Sumdac’s grinning face.

“Professor Black,” Sumdac said, tone cordial enough to make the hairs on Prometheus neck stand up. “I am afraid some issues have come up with your personal file.”

“R-Really?” Prometheus gripped the arms rests of his chair to keep his hands from shaking.

“Indeed,” Sumdac nodded. “I will need you to report to my office.”

Prometheus knew an order when he heard one. His left hand wandered into his pocket, coiling around a small quadrangular device with a single button on it.

“Sir, I really think I should supervise the reconstruction of our new drone model-”

“I did not ask what you were thinking,” Sumdac cut him off waspishly. “And neither do I care. You will report to my office, now. Do not make me wait.”

The video feed was cut off. Prometheus wasted no time. He pressed the button. He had approximately a few minutes before Sumdac would send security drone to collect him. If he hurried, he’d be able to grab a few of his makeshift emergency weaponry and fend them off enough to escape.

Prometheus turned around, only to stop right in his tracks, eyes widened. Unnoticed by him, the acid had eaten itself through the container, to the point the ground was about to give in. And it did. Warning sirens flared up as the acid hit the ground, noxious gas rising into the air and engulfing the lab.

Prometheus coughed, feebly trying to close his nose and mouth with his hand at the same time. He felt the gas seeping into his skin. It burned, a thousand times worse than any of the burn- wounds he’d ever gotten while working on gadgets for Sumdac or the resistance. It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming. Teeth clenched he frantically felt for the door, stumbling into the corridor, one hand still clasping the frame.

He couldn’t die yet. Who would supply Cyrus with the vitamins he needed to keep his body stable? Who would do maintenance of Aaron’s bow? Who would read stories to Penny? With newfound determination, Prometheus let go of the door and stumbled onward, unaware that the part of the frame he’d gripped had started dissolving.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Several miles away, in an abandoned mine in the woods, in the Decepticon’s medical bay, Aaron Archer looked at his communicator with a worried frown.

“Is something wrong?”

Aaron looked up at Megatron, who had made his way over upon seeing his on his human ally’s face.

“I feareth it is so, friend,” Aaron said gloomily. “Our scout stationed in the despot’s castle haseth send me a distress call on a secure channel. He would not doeth that, unless he was in dire peril.”

Cyrus gave an apprehensive grunt and looked over his partner’s shoulder. “If the prof’s in trouble, so are we. Our equipment’s been lagging behind for a while now. We’ll be hanging out dry if Sumdac get him into his hands.”

Blackarachnia, who until that point had been busy knocking a dent out of Lugnut’s leg, perked up at that. “You think he’s been compromised?”

“Optics on the repair-job, woman!” Lugnut snapped, nervously eyeing the small but solid hammer hovering over his leg.

“I should tell you that,” Blackarachnia fired back, turning back to him. “What kind of malfunction was your processor having for you to think exploring one of the oldest, most broken  tunnels would be a good idea? You’re lucky you’re heavily armored or you’d have been scrap-metal when it came down”

The bigger ‘Con huffed. “I was participating in an honorable organic ritual with the young organic, called ‘hide-and-seek’. That tunnel seemed like an ideal hiding place.”

Blackarachnia chose not to comment on that and went back to her work.

“What will you do now?” Megatron asked.

“Get him out, what else?” Cyrus growled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Won’t be easy though, ‘specially if Sumdac’s already gunning for him.”

Megatron nodded. “We will support you in any way we can. I will inform Blitzwing and  Starscream as soon as they and Penny return from their ‘hide-and-seek’-ritual in the woods.”

“The woods!” Lugnut shouted, smacking the medical berth with a servo. “Of course! Why did I not think of that? Truly, the small organic called Penny is a genius of strategy.”

“No, she’s just not a complete bolthead,” Blackarachnia mumbled, finishing up the repairs.

A few hours later, the Decepticons were standing outside the entrance to the mines, waiting for their two human companions to finish their preparations. Cyrus and Aaron had agreed to fly with Lugnut and Blitzwing respectively, instead of their own vehicle.

“He has no way to track us and we are sturdier than your glider,” Megatron had told them. “If we have to confront Sumdac’s forces in the air, you will be safer flying within one of us.”

Penny stood by the entrance, arms crossed and tapping her foot, Miles standing by her side quivering anxiously. He still didn’t fell safe around the Decepticons without her and even with her present he had a hard time keeping it together.

“Why can’t I come?” Penny questioned, pouting. “Miles and I can fight too!”

“We needeth you here to protect the metal knights’ base, Penelope,” Aaron said, giving her a smile. “Someone haseth to protect it from Sumdac’s metal fiends!” I wasn’t entirely a lie. In an emergency, Penny would have the skill needed to use the base’s defenses to their full effect. And she’d be as far away from Sumdac as possible.

“Transform and rise up!” Megatron called.

The Decepticons transformed, and the humans entered their partners’ vehicle mode, while Blackarachnia used a thread hold onto Lugnut. They took off Penny waving at them from the ground until she was out of sight.

After a few minutes of flying, the Sumdac Tower came into view.

“I say we break right through!” Lugnut shouted, immediately ramping up his thrusters.

Blackarachnia yelped, digging her legs into the metal to hang on.

“Lugnut, wait!” Megatron called.

Before he could react, Lugnut crashed into what seemed to be an invisible wall and slammed down on the ground, almost flattening Blackarachnia, who managed to jump off his back barely before he hit the ground.

Lugnut’s cockpit opened and Cyrus stumbled out, falling to his knees and taking deep breaths. “That’s it, I’m flying with the red one next time,” he wheezed.

“What the spark was that?” Lugnut complained, transforming back into robot-mode and rubbing his helm.

Blitzwing, who had touched down behind him and transformed as well after letting Aaron out, walked over to the sizzling blockade and laid a servo on it, frowning.

“It appears to be a force field. And it looks like it is going around the whole tower.”

“Pardon us, dear knights we shouldeth have told thee,” Aaron said sheepishly. “The tyrant possesseth an automatic shield that activates whenever his tower cometh under attack.”

“Great,” Blackarachnia grumbled, ambling to the group and rubbing her posterior. “Because we didn’t have enough trouble already.”

“Worry not! We hath prepared for just this instance!” With an elegant movement of his arm, Archer pulled out a small, rectangular card from his tunic. “Our noble scout hath given us this to trick the fiend’s foul, dark magic! It shouldeth allow us to break a hole int his shield and enter with nary a scratch!”

“That’s awfully convenient,” Starscream remarked. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is that it only works for maybe half an hour,” Cyrus replied, having mostly recovered from his nausea. “After that we’ll be trapped like rats, unless we can turn it off for good.”

“Then we should not waste time,” Megatron said. “We will look for your scout, collect him and evacuate immediately.”

Archer nodded, then walked towards the field, pressing the card against it. A small current of electricity sparked up from the area around it and in the next moment, a small hole began to expand from the card, growing bigger until it was about ten times the man’s size.

“Err, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that doesn’t look big enough for us,” Starscream pointed out.

Megatron frowned, kneeling down next to the opening. “It will have to do. Blackarachnia, you and the humans will enter first. The rest of us will transform into our vehicle modes and try to enter that way.”

“I think not,” a heavily accented voice said.

The group collectively jumped, before realizing it had come from a loudspeaker attached to the front of the building.

“Sumdac,” Cyrus snarled, clenching his fists.

“So this is the famous resistance I’ve heard so much about?” the voice said, sounding amused. “How disappointing. Though I would be lying if I said I’d ever had any interest in you. Humans, even insolent ones, are beneath my attention. Your companions, however, are another matter entirely. ‘Decepticons’. What a silly name for such an advanced species.”

The Decepticons stiffened. Blitzwing’s face shifted to Hothead who gave a menacing growl, Blackarachnia’s stingers twitched, Starscream readied his blasters and Lugnut’s optic narrowed.

“How do you know of us?” Megatron demanded, keeping a calm face, but reaching for his swords.

“Ah, let us just say I was ‘ahead’ of you this time,” Sumdac chuckled. “You will have ample time to figure it out - once I have you in my possession.”

“Thou wilst not lay a hand on the metal knights!” Archer shouted. “We shan’t allow it!”

“I thought so,” Sumdac said, voice taking on a disinterested tone. “Which is why I will have you disposed of first. And do not count on your little spy to save you. I have already send my drones to take car of him.”

With a crackle, the loudspeaker turned off, leaving the group to let Sumdac’s words sink in.

Archer turned to Cyrus, shaking slightly. “Cyrus, do you believeth-?”

Cyrus shook his head. “If the prof was dead, he would’ve lorded that over our heads. He said he send drones after him. That means he could still be alive. We’ve gotta get in there, now!”

With that he dashed through the hole in the shield, not waiting for any of them to follow. Blackarachnia groaned.

“What is it with my allies and running helm-first into danger?” With a bit of difficulty, she maneuvered her body through the opening.

Just as Archer was about to follow, the sound of screeching metal pulled everyone’s attention to another part of the tower. Another door had opened, admitting a swath of police drones to exit the building. The drones headed out of the force field and opened fire.

Blitzwing jumped forward, scooping Archer up in his servos and carrying him out of harms’ way.

Lugnut roared, bringing his explosive servo down on a cluster of drones. But he misjudged. The explosion destroyed the drones, but the recoil threw him backwards - right towards the hole. His body went half-way through, then stopped.

“This was not supposed to happen,” Lugnut snarled, trying and failing to pull himself out.

“Move your overgrown thrusters!” Hothead shouted, grabbing Lugnut’s arm and pulling. “You’re blocking our only way in!”

“What do you think I am trying to do here?” Lugnut snapped back.

“It’s no use, “Megatron shouted. “Blackarachnia, you will have to help Cyrus on your own.”

“Lucky me,” Blackarachnia murmured. She turned around to Cyrus. “You heard him, it’s just you and-”

The human wasn’t there anymore. When she looked up she could see the entrance door was open.

Blackarachnia ex-vented. “This just isn’t my solar cycle.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cyrus ran through the halls, doing his best to blend out the blaring alarms and not sure where exactly he was going, but also to angry to stop. Every now and again he’d rip open a door, find the room behind either completely deserted or out of spare parts and then slam it closed again. He finally screeched to a halt in a circular room, a huge elevator in the middle. In front of the elevator stood a sleek, white reception desk, with, Cyrus noted with annoyance, a robot behind it.

“Identify yourself,” the machine said in a monotone voice.

“Yeah, sure,” Cyrus growled, approaching the desk and cracking his knuckles. “Lemme just hand you my calling card.”

The robot gave a peep. “Voice scan does not match up. Intruder identified. Calling security.”

Cyrus froze. “Aw, slag.”

Suddenly a stream of a dark green acid hit the robot, immediately melting it down to a clump of deformed metal.

“Have a nice daayyyy...,” the robot slurred, before it’s voice box liquefied as well.

Cyrus jumped back, eyes wide and slowly turned his head into the direction the attack had come from. In front of the now open elevator door stood a human-shaped.. thing.

It was smaller than Cyrus (then again, most of his allies were) and seemed to consist of a slimy green fluid. It was wearing t remained of a modified lab coat with a  ridiculously wide collar and a pair of goggles where Cyrus supposed it’s eyes were.

“I dunno what kind of sick Sumdac-goon you are,” he sneered, assuming a fighting stance. “But you picked the wrong day to mess with me, buddy.”

The thing took a step back, holding it’s palms up. “Cyrus, wait! It’s me!”

Cyrus eyes widened and he abandoned his stance. “Professor?”

Before either of them could say anything more, a white stream of web shot up from behind Cyrus, pinning the thing he now knew to be Professor Black to the wall.

“Do organics just have no survival instincts whatsoever?” Blackarachnia snapped at him, running into the room. “That thing would have slagged you, if I hadn’t found you in time! What were you thinking, running ahead?”

“Hey whoa, chill spider-lady,” Cyrus said, quickly positioning himself in fro of Professor Black. “Sorry for ditching you, but this guy’s on our side! He’s the spy we told you about!”

Blackarachnia gave Professor Black a skeptical look. “That’s him? No offense, but are humans supposed to look like that?”

“Normally not, no,” Cyrus admitted, turning around with a frown. “What’s the story behind that, Prof?”

“It’s not something I’m proud of,” Prometheus sheepishly. “But I think we should focus on getting out of here first. If you would please tell the nice lady to cut me down, then - oh, wait, I suppose that’ll take care of itself.”

While he was speaking, the acid that made up his body had managed to eat itself through Blackrachnia’s string, allowing him to drop down to the floor again.

Balckarachnia whistled, impressed. “That’s some pretty strong stuff.”

“I could do without it,” Prometheus replied sourly, making his way over to the reception desk. “Cyrus, come over. I’ll need you to press the buttons for me. We have to deactivate that force field, if we want to make it out.”

“U-Uh, yeah! Coming!” Cyrus stumbled after the professor, awkwardly standing beside him on the other side of the desk. A multitude of buttons, levers and dataports greeted him when he glanced at the desk’s surface. Professor Black already seemed to be searching for something in particular, though how he could make out any sense of coherence in this overly complicated device was beyond Cyrus.

Eventually, Professor Black pointed at a specific lever. “This one.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Outside, the rest of the Decepticons and Archer were still fighting off the drones.

“They just keep coming,” Starscream shouted, blasting a drone that had just attempted to shock him to smithereens.

“Let them!” Hothead snarled. “I nee to let off some steam!”

A yelp came from behind them.

“Either I am growing bigger, or this shield is growing stronger,” Lugnut grunted.

Megatron hastily put a servo to his helm. “Blackarachnia, whatever you are doing in there, stop it! You are strengthening the l!”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

“It’s not working,” Blackarachnia told Cyrus. “Try something else!”

Prometheus tsked impatiently. “He must have changed the layout.One moment, I’ll have this figured out...” He leaned over the panel, eyes scanning the different levers, until they landed on a specific one, a little to the left of the on he’d told Cyrus to pull. “This one! I’m sure this time!”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A slight buzzing noise was the only warning Lugnut got before the force field holding him up flickered and disappeared, letting him drop to the floor.

“It’s open! We should move!” Blitzwing called.

“No! These drones keep on coming,” Megatron answered, shooting a couple of drones attempting to surround him. “If we retreat inside, they’ll block the exit. Lugnut! Go and help Blackarachnia and the humans! We will hold Sumdac’s forced off here and secure our escape route!”

Lugnut gave a curt nod, then stomped into the building.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That should have done it,” Prometheus said, satisfied. “Now we should be able to-”

The rattle of metal joints interrupted him mid-sentence. A swath of security drones spilled out of the adjacent halls.

“Aw, slag,” Cyrus cursed, instinctively putting himself in front of the professor.

“Guess I didn’t interrupt the call fast enough,” Prometheus said, awkwardly putting his hands up. “I don’t think I can melt them all.”

Blackarachnia’s optics flipped between the crones and the panel. Ina few seconds, she made a decision. “You won’t have to.”

The drones got into position. Blackarachnia jumped forward and planted her servos on the panel. Her upper arms sprouted devices reminiscent of magnets. She lifted her arms towards the drones and just as they started to fire, a barrier closed around her and the two humans.

“Fascinating!”Prometheus exclaimed, watching her with awe. “You duplicated that advanced technology in less than a second? Just by touching it?”

“It’s kind of my thing,” Blackarachnia replied. “Any idea how we get out of here?”

Before Prometheus could answer, loud thundering footsteps rang down the hall and in the next moment, Lugnut entered the room, clearly in a bad mood and smashing every unfortunate drone in his way.

“Well that takes care of that,” Cyrus remarked.

Balckarachnia lowered the shield and Lugnut came to a halt in front of them. When he noticed Prometheus, his optic narrowed. “What is that?”

“The spy,” Blackarachnia cut in, before Cyrus or Prometheus could answer. “No time to explain, I bet there’s more of those things-” she pointed at the smashed drones on the floor,”-already on the way.”

Lugnut nodded. The four quickly made their way through the hall and back outside. The other Decepticons moved out of the way a Blackarachnia’s urging and she erected a barrier similar to the one she’d use inside, protecting them from the drones’ gunfire. Now in a safer environment, Megatron, Lugnut, Starscream and Blitzwing transformed into their vehicle modes, with Cyrus and Archer entering their previous rides.

Prometheus hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll be able to board any of you in my current-”

He felt a light buzzing under his feet and yelped when he was lifted up in a bubble consisting of the same material as the force field in the next moment.

“Already thought of that,” Blackarachnia called, steering the bubble on top of Lugnut and positioning herself beside it. “Can’t melt what you can’t touch!” She wasn’t looking forward to making the ride back in robot-mode, but in this case she’d just have to bear it. She knocked on Lugnut’s armor-plating. “Hurry up! I don’t know how long my download’s gonna last!”

The Decepticons took off, leaving the tower and the drones behind them.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sumdac watched his foes slip from his grasp on the monitors, shaking with rage.

How? How could this be??? He’d had the advantage this time! Victory should have been his! The resistance should have been crushed then and there! And yet they had again managed to elude him!

Snarling, he wiped the documents from his desk. For a moment, he considered activating the canons on top of his tower to try and shoot them down. But they were already too far away and he didn’t want to waste ammunition. Besides... he was not completely beaten yet.

Sumdac smirked. he still had an ace up his sleeve. Slowly, he stood up from his chair, calling upa  few cleaning bots and then making his way to his personal labortatory.

Optimus Prime was following him with his eyes as he entered the room. Sumdac tried not to let him see how much he still unnerved him.

“The information I gave you turned out to be correct,” Optimus said. It wasn’t a question. “So? Do we have a deal?”

Sumdac didn’t answer immediately. He took his time comfortably settling himself in his chair, before looking up at Optimus with a sinister smile on his face. “Yes. Yes we have.”

[anangelicday-mrwolf]

Wolfsbane : Noblesse Fanfic (post-ending)

(previous chapter)

Chapter 32 – Wings of Trouble

“Oof... I am so sorry... Sorry I’m such a pain in the... Ooof...!”

“Save your apologies. This is nothing for us. We are simply doing what we should – tending to the legitimate visitor of Lukedonia. After all, we are the proud Central Knights.”

A Central Knight with a slick pair of sunglasses replied, his stance tall and solemn.

He was carrying Yuhyung on his back, to deliver the grievously exhausted human to his bedroom.

Several Central Knights they ran into on their way would flicker their eyes at their behind, surely a strange sight in their homeland.

The moment an unknown error occurred upon activation of QuadraNet, Yuhyung had to fling his arms here and there, like a visual designer who received a request for editing with only 10 minutes left from deadline.

At the end of a marathon of toil came a knockout for the human researcher.

He was not really knocked out; he was both conscious and awake.

Nonetheless, he did not respond to name-calling and shakes the surrounding spectators offered, as if he were under a sleep paralysis.

And nobody posed a question or reprimand at the man.

Everyone knew that the virtual beast was not completely at peace; they have merely put it under a stun.

Which means Yuhyung would have to cross off from his calendar the day he is allowed to fly back home.

Not to mention nobody knew how much more work would be waiting for him for the duration of his prolonged stay.

To add to his burden, Lukedonia boasted not a single soul they could assign for Yuhyung to help him, so he was to be entrusted with the entire labor.

Perhaps that was why Yuhyung could not orient himself back to his usual self, which is why Lascrea had to call upon one of her Central Knights to take him back to his bed.

“You have done well.”

Said Rael, who had been tagging along from the communication chamber.

He volunteered for an escort that was not needed at all.

It was his duty to attend to Lukedonia’s official guest, as the ambassador of nobles.

At least that was the reason he gave.

When Yuhyung finally hit the comfy bed with his back, the Central Knight walked outside, as suggested by Rael when he said he can take care of the rest.

That was when the blonde noble pulled out what he really wanted with his guest.

“I have something to tell you.”

Instantly Yuhyung stopped whining upon the elegant blanket.

Rael had to add on to what he said, for the human’s eyes bloated and began rolling like crazy upon hearing that there was something Rael wanted from him.

“No, you’ve done nothing wrong. You said you did not see this trouble coming at all.”

However, that did nothing to pacify Yuhyung.

“Uh... Uhm... So... W-w-what can I d-do for you...?”

Now the researcher was shivering as if he were met by a pack of ravenous wolves.

Which is why Rael felt guilty as hell.

He knew what he was dumping on Yuhyung, since no one else was supposed to know what he was about to unleash.

However, he knew he could not undo this; his honor, dignity, and life as the head of the Kertias were at stake.

“This would sound outrageously sudden, but... Do you remember what happened the day we left KSA?”

“Uh... Oh, yes! Of course I do. I was trying to safekeep the gas KSA was once developing, but it crashed and... But why would you ask me about that?”

“Have you ever tried that gas on non-humans?”

“Non-humans? Uh... No, I haven’t. I mean, it was supposed to be a top secret, and it was targeted towards modified humans in the first place. So nobody ever thought of using it for non-human creatures.”

Yuhyung was rubbing Rael’s face with his eyes as he spoke, making it very conspicuous that he had no idea why the Kertia would pull out this topic at this moment.

Checking very carefully – perhaps too carefully – that there was not a soul around, Rael started to explain as calmly as possible.

He told Yuhyung that he cannot summon his soul weapon, and he has not the faintest idea why.

Since he has never brought up Grandia after he was exposed to Yuhyung’s creation, for now he decided to presume the gas is the cause of such phenomenon.

And Rael made extra-sure that his words were cautiously chosen, so that he would not offend the human.

Nevertheless, he wished his speech were a little better, because Yuhyung’s body shriveled as he continued, to ultimately grovel at his feet.

“I-I-I am terribly sorry, sir! I... I did not expect you to go through such trouble because of me...!”

“Uh, we don’t know for sure if your gas is to really blame. No need to apologize already.”

“Already...? So you’re saying you expect to see me apologizing someday! So allow me to do that right now! Please, just go ahead and kill me, sir!”

Rael kneaded his forehead, holding quite a fabulous showcase of a bow and confession.

“Please don’t do this, I pray you. Right now I need your knowledge. Is there any possibility that gas could affect a noble like me...?”

“Uh... I don’t know. Right now the answers I can give you are limited. It’d be best for me to analyze the components of the gas to deduce the result, but...”

Rael knew that Yuhyung must stay at Lukedonia until the unidentified issue with QuadraNet is thoroughly mapped.

‘Does that mean I have to just sit and wait?’

Rael could feel terror and discomposure rushing through his veins.

He could not tell when his name will be taken off from the waiting list. And what if in the meantime, somebody sees through what has bound him?

At the same time, Rael could picture the patriarchs of Kertias, taking him apart with vicious speech as if they have waited for all their lives.

However, coercing Yuhyung to do something about this will not take him anywhere.

Knowing that made Rael’s chest clench harder, but there was nothing else he could do.

“Very well. Thank you for your time.”

“Uh... I’ll try to see if I can come up with any possible reason why. No, I’d rather start my research at this...”

“No, please. No need to do that. QuadraNet is all that matters right now, so please concentrate on bringing it back to life. We can handle my soul weapon later.”

Stating the exact opposite of what lay in his heart, Rael told Yuhyung to get some rest before he left.

Yuhyung could not remove his eyes from the door for a while even after the noble ambassador’s departure. He managed to move only when his waist dispensed a sound.

Which made him scowl so hard he looked like a completely different person.

<You hear me? Don’t tell me you already fell asleep.>

Yuhyung’s face turned darker at the dreary voice from his walkie-talkie.

But he knew he should not waste his time in answering.

“N-no, sir. I’m here.”

<I just checked that the Kertia made it back to his mansion. And I know you were the last one he was with. What did you talk about?>

Yuhyung nipped at his lips, as if he could not believe what he was about to do.

He was, however, powerless against his party’s demand.

At the end of Yuhyung’s tale came a hoard of maniac laughter.

<Yes, this is it! At last, the Illiness clan will see the light!>

Yuhyung ground his lips together as Deneb cackled, seemingly oblivious of the human.

Yuhyung apparently was hating himself that he has actually done it.

*****

As invisible skirmish was whirring to life in Lukedonia, Frankenstein was in no better situation.

‘Just what is the problem...?’

He had been pondering ever since Tao relayed to him what had happened with the QuadraNet.

At first he landed on the same page as the three modified humans of RK: Union may be behind all this.

As for Frankenstein, he had a good reason to suspect the Union.

He could still see how the man in the iron mask stood in the werewolf realm.

And now that Tao sent a troubleshooting report that there might have been an attempt of hacking, his suspicion started to spread like wildfire on a field of reed.

He thus coordinated his train of thoughts the same way Tao did.

If there really was an attempt of hacking from within, and if the Union is to actually curse for it, the ones responsible would be the ones with history of contacting the Union.

‘Which would be the werewolves.’

He did not feel like he was being too dramatic, because of the new facts Tao shared during their briefing.

Frankenstein frowned and shook his head as he was thinking of the brown-haired werewolf doctor.

‘Fine. Dr. Adne walked under Maduke’s wings on his own feet to serve as lead researcher in several of his projects. However, that does not serve as a proof that he is in alliance with the Union.’

And even if Adne is still dreaming of being a scientist, that did not put him in alignment with the Union, Frankenstein thought.

‘It’d make more sense for him to side with us. I mean, from a scientist’s point of view, I doubt he can find any other project more mouthwatering than the QuadraNet project.’

Frankenstein was trying his best to soothe himself, and his effort was made to naught due to an ominous idea that decided to poke him out of blue.

‘Things would change if his interest lies in biotechnology instead of IT. That is one thing now no one among us can provide.’

And if Adne really is an affiliate of Union, that would mean they have exposed their most confidential project to their worst nemesis.

Frankenstein grit his teeth tight in order to stop his head from losing control.

He even had to mumble to himself to accomplish the feat.

“You’re rushing, Frankenstein. Yes, you are. Even if he was once pledged to serve Maduke, it’s too soon to make him the culprit for all this.”

Frankenstein repeated similar statements a few more times before he reached for a plate of sandwich to fill his stomach.

He did not cease his skimming of documents as he was eating, which was why he failed to realize how the monitor – which he definitely turned off after talking to Tao – was blinking with light.

How it was turned off by itself promptly afterwards, as he continued to make his eyes and mouth busy, exhibiting nothing more in particular that could be spied from him.

(next chapter)

Do you remember how in Chapter 17, Rael thinks to himself that Yuhyung’s bag felt lighter than he last held it? Now you know the reason why. This fic is still in the stage where small troubles slowly build up into a crisis. It’d be a headache for me coordinate all the microscopic plots once I reach the crisis part, but I’ll do my best. :)

[no-d4y-but-tod4y]

A continuation of the first kiss fic! Unfortunately I’m on mobile so I don’t think you can link to posts, but Part One is called Close Encounters if anyone fancies having a nosey.

What else do you do during this quarantine. Enjoy!

———

A Talk In The Morning

Alma woke up late that morning.

Her mind had not stopped racing enough for her to fall asleep for hours. It was as if a broken film reel played endlessly inside her head, producing pictures and words and thoughts and feelings all at once with no chronological sense or obvious pattern. They moved too fast for her to comprehend all of them, but the general gist of her imagination last night boiled down to this:

I kissed Frankie.

I mean it certainly took long enough.

Frankie kissed me.

It was even more amazing than I thought he would be.

We kissed.

I really like him.

I really really really like him.

What the fuck do I do now.

Eventually her mental and physical fatigue became too much and she drifted off with a pleasant knot in her stomach and a big dumb grin on her face.

But that was last night. Everything looked different in the daylight.

Alma decided she’d better get up and dressed. Today’s itinerary didn’t start until noon, but these hours of free time were obviously supposed to be used for networking with the other patrons, showcasing your own portfolio and achievements, and generally just a chance to make a good first impression. More fool any overnight guest who used the late start as an excuse to stay in bed.

Ignoring the urge to tear out of her room to find him, Alma took her time getting ready. She showered, dried her hair properly rather than towelling off the excess and letting plaits a la Pippi Longstocking do the rest, and stood in front of the wardrobe still wrapped in a fluffy towel.

She had packed all of her best outfits - after all, she wanted to look smart - but now, even the one or two designer pieces in her collection looked shabby. What would Frank be wearing? The image was vivid in her mind, surrounded by the luxury of his private suite.

Perhaps he’d go more male coded, with a velvet blazer over a white shirt with a ruffled collar tucked into a pair of high waisted trousers - she pictured pleather but couldn’t be sure - complete with a pair of black crocodile printed patent leather boots. He would tame his hair just a bit, but not so as to lose his distinctive curls. She saw him using a cane, retratctable with a large brass bulb fixed atop the handle. He’d have enourmous fun with that. tapping shyer guests on the nose, twirling it like a baton and making it seem alive with the skill with which he danced with it, and inevitably thwacking various guests on their backsides.

Or maybe he’d take advantage of a wonderfully new group of people to shock, and lean towards his signature habits to the extreme. A rich black corset fitted as tight as Frank’s organs would allow, blinding to its spectators with thousands upon thousands of Swarovski crystals. A few tassels probably wouldn’t go amiss, unless the hotel proprietor owned any cats. Meshed gloves to match, frilled delicately at the cuffs to match the fishnet stockings everyone knew so well. Frank didn’t strike Alma as the type to treat complete strangers with an entirely new wardrobe, so perhaps he would wear thigh high boots with this look. Shiny, dagger-like, ridiculous. She hoped he’d brought his fringed jacket with all his personal decorations. She especially liked the Union Jack flag on the back. If he slung that on over his arms he’d probably wear a cap. Pseudo-pilot style. Leather, of course, studded, complete with a glinting badge on the front, sporting crimson lipstick marks and reading “SEXY”.

She liked that hat.

But never mind the drool - what about her?

Keep it simple, she thought to herself. Don’t try so hard.

She pulled a black ribbed polarneck over her head, layered underneath a pretty blush pink pinafore dress. A pair of black tights and comfortable suede ankle boots and that was all she needed.

She spritzed some of Frank’s favourite perfume across her neck and collarbone.

Someone knocked at the door. A familiar voice trilled ‘Housekeeping!’

Her heart leapt. She bolted across the room and opened the door before she could even think about playing it cool.

Frank gave her the warmest smile when she opened the door. It made her glow from the inside out. ‘Hello, darling.’ She stood there, not quite sure what to say. Still mesmerised. ‘I brought you breakfast. May I come in?’

She stepped back immediately, letting Frank pull a small maids cart on wheels behind him like a suitcase. The cart was full of all her favourites. Pancakes, waffles, cereals, toast, fruit, cheese, preservatives and conserves and of course heaping piles of chocolate pastries.

Frank unloaded all the food onto the table in the corner of the room with cutlery, drinking glasses and warm plates. The sustenance also included orange and cranberry juice (though not in the same bottle) breakfast tea bags and instant coffee.

Alma ventured closer to the table - closer to him - to look at the spread. ‘Frankie...you brought all of this for me?’

‘Why of course I did, sunshine!’ When Frank moved quickly, his hair didn’t look attached. It followed along behind him like a video game lag, giving the impression that he wore a wig. Don’t be shy now, have whatever you like.’

‘I’ll never be able to eat all of this.’

‘I’ll take whatever’s left back downstairs.’ He giggled. ‘I stole it from there anyway. Tuck in then, before it gets cold.’

‘Frankie, I...you’ve set the table for two.’

She couldn’t believe it had taken her that long to cotton on.

He made an elaborate gesture of turning back to the table and pretending to appear surprised. ‘You know darling you’re absolutely right. Why ever did I do that?’ He made himself comfortable and tucked a napkin into the front of his top (her suspicions had been only half right. He wore a mid bust corset under a sheer long sleeved top, dark, and embellished with rhinestones, with the classic stockings and high heels. It would have looked tacky on anyone else, and in the right lighting Alma could see his nipples) and fanned it out over his chest like a bib.

He extended his arm out towards her, palm upturned. Long arms into long hands into long fingers. Another dashing smile.

She’d only kissed the man once and was already hopelessly in love with him.

‘I suppose we’ll just have to eat together.’

All of a sudden she finally snapped out of her trance and found herself moving again. Right towards him with no fear or insecurity or inhabition. She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting on his lap and kissing him before she realised it. At least he was kissing her back.

Even so she jerked away, surprised at herself.

‘I’m sorry Frankie I shouldn’t-.’

‘Shh. Don’t.’ He placed his fingers over her mouth and traced the shape of her lips soothingly, stroking her neck and shoulders with his other hand. She wished she wouldn’t tremble so much.

He could peel the pinafore from her frame and the rest of he wanted to, and she would let him, but they both knew it wouldn’t come to that. Yet.

She wanted to cup his face or stroke his hair, start returning the favour for all those other times. Having Frank touching her was not a new thing: a very tactile and physical person, he was always holding her close, stroking her hair, kissing her knuckles and very occasionally caressing her face. Always careful, always gentle. But despite the obvious reciprocation, this was still strange and frightening.

‘You can touch me, darling, it’s okay.’

She suppressed a whimper. How did he do that?

He gently grasped her wrist and brought her hand up to his face, leaning into her palm. For a moment, he sighed and closed his eyes.

‘See?’ He murmured, turning his face to kiss her palm. ‘Five fingers still in tact.’ He squeezed her hand and smiled at her. ‘Go on now, budge up. Can’t very well enjoy the most important meal of the day like this.’

Alma moves away and sat opposite him, not that she wanted to. At least her hands had stopped shaking.

She had to at least try to eat, although her stomach was already full with knots. There were so many thoughts screaming and running around in Alma’s brain that she didn’t even know what she didn’t know. But Frank has gone to so much trouble to keep his word and protect her privacy at the same time, the least she could do was enjoy it. Even if she did have to watch Frank slather his toast in Marmite.

In the end, they managed to eat about half of it. One small nibble of toast made her suddenly ravenous, and she packed away more than she expected. Three pancakes, two rounds of toast, a chocolate crossaint a slice of watermelon and three glasses of orange juice more, in fact.

Frank plucked a gleaming red apple from the selection of fruit and took a large bite. Looked at her for a while, chewing.

‘Wouldn’t it be funny if I threw this at someone?’

Willpower gone, she just fell about laughing. It felt good to get a rush of emotion out, even if it was hysterical giggling.

‘Oh Frankie I’m so full up.’ Alma sighed, leaning back in her chair and pushing her plate away from her. ‘I couldn’t possibly eat another bite.’

‘Mm. I think you’re right there, sunshine.’ Frank patted his stomach. What stomach, Alma scoffed, he didn’t have a stomach. He could eat anything and have it go right through. He had a body akin to chiseld marble. ‘Here, darling, you wash the glasses and I’ll take this outside.’ She leapt up and gathered the glasses and cups in her arms as Frank stacked the plates and stored them in the cart.

She precariously carried the dishes over to the sink and turned on the water. She hoped she hadn’t been staring.

After cleaning the utensils and wiping down the surfaces, Frank came back in, which surprised her, and collapsed onto the sofa with a relieved grown. She stayed by the sink, unsure whether she was allowed to go to him or not. Weren’t they supposed to be back downstairs?

‘Are you planning to stand there all day?’

She cursed to herself under her breath. Frank really did have eyes in the back of his head.

‘Come here, darling. I don’t bite.’

She crossed the open plan area and stepped over Frank’s legs - thank heavens she didn’t catch her foot and trip over them - and perched on the cushion beside him.

‘Oh for the love of-.’ Frank hoisted Alma on to his lap and adjusted her legs so she was straddling his waist. ‘There.’ He grinned and tapped her on the nose. ‘Isn’t that better?’

She was so overcome she didn’t say anything. Her face was on fire. She must have looked really attractive.

Frank sighed, a little exasperated. ‘You mustn’t be so bashful, sunshine. What is it? Hmm? Don’t you want to be close to me?’

‘No, that’s not it. I just-.’

‘See, you won’t even touch me now. Put your arms around my neck and see what happens.’

She did, and shuffled a bit closer. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, rather than leaving them danglng in mid air and having her feet go to sleep.

‘See? Easy, isn’t it?’

She chuckled softly but didn’t say anything.

‘Are you embarrassed by me?’

She shook her head.

‘Do I frighten you?’

‘No.’

He cupped her cheek in his hand and she instinctively leaned into his palm. She loved the feeling of his smooth skin and long fingers, particularly when he stroked her cheek gently with his thumb.

‘You like me.’

She took hold of his wrist to keep him there. Her voice would not give a straight answer.

‘Alma, you can’t keep staring at me in silence. You have to tell me what you’re thinking.’ He exhaled gently, the familiar smell of him muddling with her comprehension. ‘Do you want to take things further with me?’

She couldn’t look at him. She nodded.

When Frank spoke, his voice was incredibly soft. ‘Then what’s stopping you? It’s almost like you’re scared to admit it.’

‘I am,’ she whispered. Keeping her gaze firmly on Frank’s knees, she continued, ‘I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how. Everyone will know. And they’ll wonder. And they’ll stare. No one would believe someone like you would choose to be with someone like me. I’ll ruin it, I know I will. Once you get to know me properly you’ll realise you made a mistake. I won’t be what you thought you wanted, I won’t be able to satisfy you in the way you need, I won’t be what you deserve. You deserve so much better. And I certainly don’t deserve you. I’m too anxious, I’m too intimidated, I’m too average. You’re intelligent and attractive and confident, in nothing like that. Nothing like you, even though I wish I was. There’s an entire world of people who’d fall over each other to get to you and it can’t be the right decision for you settle for me.’

They sat in silence for a few moments.

Frank gently pushed her head down to his shoulder and stroked her hair soothingly. He rocked her in his lap like a baby, and his lips caressed her hair when he spoke.

‘You already know I don’t understand why you think like that. But you forgot to mention one other thing.’

Alma could barely hear her own voice. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You forgot to ask me what I want.’ He pressed a lingering kiss to her temple. ‘And believe it or not, sunshine...I want you.’

She buried her face in the crook of his neck and tried her hardest not to cry.

‘Come on, sit up. Let me look at you.’

She hid her face behind her hands. ‘I can’t...’

‘No, don’t cry,’ Frank said rather firmly. ‘You can, you’re just feeling a little overwhelmed.’ He wiped away the tears as they fell all the same. ‘What do you need, my darling? Would you like me to come back later?’

She shook her head resolutely. She managed a feeble, ‘Stay,’ and burst into floods of tears.

‘Oh, sunshine. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He peppered her in gentle kisses, hushed her, reasoned with her but nothing seemed to be working. He couldn’t work out whether she was overcome with tears of joy or utter dismay that a weirdo like him had fallen for her. ‘Okay, darling, come on. That’s enough now.’ He stood up, hoisting her to his waist and plonking her into her own seat. He got some tissues and a glass of water and knelt down in front of her. ‘There we go, try and calm down now. You can blow your nose in this but don’t give it back.’ She managed a tearful giggle and he smiled warmly in return.

‘I’m sorry Frankie I just-.’

‘Shh. None of that, darling. I know.’ He winked reassuringly. ‘Now, it’s completely up to you whether you want to stay and finish the day, or you want to go home. I don’t want you getting over-excited.’

She sniffed. ‘I want to stay with you.’

‘You won’t get in trouble if you leave early.’

‘I want to stay,’ she repeated, much firmer this time.

‘Alright, darling.’ He reached out and stroked her hair behind her ear, running hid hand down to the back of her neck and grazing his nails over the skin there. ‘May I kiss you?’

She let him kiss her on the mouth. She responded with an endearing level of gentle tenderness. Like she was afraid of hurting him. He was delighted to discover she had own endearingly shy way of showing romantic affection.

They sat together with their foreheads touching.

‘You have a bit of mascara on your face.’

She laughed and pushed him away from her to go to the bathroom. When she emerged having pulled herself together, Frank offered his outstretched hand.

‘Come on then, darling,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

[duhragonball]

Dragon Ball Z 151

Last time, it was up to Piccolo to stop Cell from achieving his perfect form and... he’s dead.   Well, shoot.

Vegeta and Trunks can’t step in because they’re still training in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber.   Goku and Gohan can’t go because they’re not strong enough to do any good.   Gohan tries to go anyway, so Goku has to hit him to get him to see reason.

So the world is screwed.   17 still hasn’t figured out that he needs to run away.   He can barely dodge Cell’s attacks, but that’s about all he can manage.

The only Z-Fighter on the scene is Tien, and he can’t do anything.   Piccolo was much, much stronger than he is, and look how far he got.    Z stands for the end.

But not yet.   Bulma has a remote control that will shut off the androids, making them easy to destroy, which will foil Cell’s plans for good.   She just has to get it into the hands of Krillin before it’s too late.    At the rate we’re going, there won’t be any androids left to use it on.

Cell works over 17 some more, just to make sure he doesn’t squirm too much when the time comes.    

At last, 16 tells 18 to save herself, while he remains behind to fight Cell.   I’m not sure why he waited so long to step in, although 16′s been reluctant to fight anyone but Goku so far, so maybe he’s finally accepted that no one else is going to show up and save the day.  

I always loved this scene where he says his goodbyes to 18 as he marches off to war.   The whole show has completely gone off the rails.   The Z-Fighters have fallen so far behind their enemies that now the bad guys are fighting each other.   Tien’s a former martial arts champion, once considered one of the “earth’s special forces” to repel the Saiyan invasion, and now he’s reduced to a mere spectator.  

For my money, 16 vs Cell is the best fight of this arc.   I’ll admit, Piccolo vs. 17 is probably superior in terms of animation, choreography, and star power, but I like the heightened stakes of this bout.   Piccolo was our last hope, and he’s been brutally beaten, so now fate has to scrape together one last defender, an it’s a guy we know almost nothing about.   This is the only fight 16 ever gets in the whole series. 

So Cell has 17 beaten, and he leisurely expands the needle of his tail into this giant funnel shape.   Dude’s gonna swallow him whole, only he’s not even going to use his mouth.   No, I don’t know a lot about Cell’s anatomy, but I’m pretty sure we’re looking at his butthole, somehow.   His tail actually comes off of his upper back, but whatever.   Cell eats people with his ass.   

Can you believe there are people who actually think Frieza is the best DBZ villain?    Does Frieza even have a butthole?   He probably can’t even fit one android up there, let alone two.   Cell is awesome.

So 16 jumps in and saves 17, and he and Cell have a wrestle.   18 wondered how he could hope to survive this battle, but 16 claimed that his power is roughly equal to Cell’s, so if anything, he ought to do better than anyone else.    Actually, let’s lay it all out: Android 16 has been the strongest guy on the show since he first appeared.  He just didn’t say anything because he’s so modest.  

Much of the fight is these two guys trying to outmuscle each other, like this shot where they ram their heads together as hard as they can.  

Then Cell manages to stab 16 in the neck with his tail.   He tries to absorb 16, the same way he consumed all of his human victims, but...

... It has no effect on 16 at all.    

At last, Cell realizes that 16 is wholly mechanical, as opposed to a cyborg model like 17 and 18.  

16 swings him around by the tail, and we get a look at Cell’s ridiculous cat teeth.    This guy is just ridiculous from head to toe.    Was Gero drunk when he designed this guy?   Wait, I forgot, his computer did all the work, so Cell is like one of those AI programs that tries to name cats and come up with movie titles.  

So Cell uses his tail again, this time to hold 16 steady while he blasts his head off with an energy beam.  

But 16 has eye lasers, and they burn holes in Cell, apparently damaging him enough to get him to let go.

With Cell down, 16 stomps on his tail and...

RIPS IT THE FUCK OFF.   Holy shit!   This is why I love this fight.   Not too many battles in DBZ ever go this far.

16 tosses the severed tail aside and it keeps wriggling.     Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.     The only thing missing is a bunch of blood spurting out of the wound.  

And that seems to solve everything.   Even if Cell can beat 16, he can’t absorb 17 and 18 because he no longer has the means to do so.  Check and mate.

Tien’s pretty happy about this.   He has no idea what 16′s deal is, but at least he saved everyone’s butts this time.  

Ah, but Cell isn’t worried about this at all.   See, he has Piccolo’s DNA, remember?   That means...

HE CAN JUST GROW HIS TAIL BACK!    AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH CELL RULES!

So we’re right back where we started.  If that was 16′s best move, he’d better start getting creative....

[ralph-n-fiennes]

RALPH FIENNES LOOSENS UP - GQ MAGAZINE

Well, loose for Ralph Fiennes, anyway. The actor and director lives a life of high culture like practically no one else alive. Lately, he's been making us laugh, too.

Ralph Fiennes seems both parodically English and consummately European, the way classical music isn't bound by borders, either. In addition to all measure of British, he has played, to my count: Austrian, Irish, French, German, Hungarian, Russian, and unspecified Balkan—as well as American (both WASP and serial-killer varieties), and Snake. He appears to carry with him, among many other charms, a cache of words, phrases, and proper pronunciations of non-English languages, like a deep pocketful of pre-Eurozone coins. It is very fun to listen to him talk in movies—and in person in London, as I did, for a few hours in late January.

I say all this to help explain why Fiennes registers to many interested in his life and career as one of our ultimate cosmopolitans. He is, just to list some of his culture bona fides, one of the living actors most associated with Shakespeare. He has said that he and his six siblings grew up listening to vinyl recordings of poetry recitations. He has often acted in films based on the acclaimed novels of major-prize-winning authors. He has said the talent he would most like to have is playing the violin. He has said that when he travels for a film, he always does so with the complete Beethoven piano sonatas, a “talisman” and “safety net for when one is feeling a bit bruised or battered.” He has described the greatest love of his life as “having a transforming encounter with a Work of Art, either as a listener, viewer, reader, spectator, or participant.” He is fluent in painting styles and the names of museum directors and the great theaters of both the East and the West. He is fluent in ballet now, too, since he's just directed a movie about the Soviet dancer Rudolf Nureyev. He enjoys hopping on the Eurostar to Paris from his home in London. He enjoys short flights to European capitals. He enjoys picking up his rental car in Umbria so that he may drive—the only time he drives—to his “tiny farmhouse” in the Italian countryside, where he goes “to read.” He has said his idea of perfect happiness is “swimming naked in the sea.” He has said that when and where he was happiest in his life was “swimming in Voidokilia Bay in the southern Peloponnese.” While we were together, he sounded most like Ralph Fiennes when he said European-sounding nouns, like “Peugeot” and “Tchaikovsky” and “salade niçoise.” He pronounced the little tail thing on the c, and, as a Fiennes character might direct him to, he pronounced it trippingly.

This cosmopolitanism seems to have sort of become the point about Ralph Fiennes in recent years. Wes Anderson may have been the first to recognize a new use for this caricature: that in the post-heartthrob Fiennes, a filmmaker could mine middle-life pathos, as well as levity and humor; that if a character were to possess an arch knowingness about the fact that he was being played by Ralph Fiennes, it might be really, really fun to watch.

Actually, maybe credit belongs to Martin McDonagh and In Bruges. The joke there was that Fiennes—the very high culture of his cells—could play the antithesis of so many counts and kings: an irritable East End gangster with a Shakespearean facility with fucking fuck fucks. Maybe that was the pivot?

Or, scratch that, too—perhaps it started earlier, with his first nose-less “Avada Kedavra!” in a Harry Potter movie. Maybe that was when we felt the options expand.

Regardless, there's been a slow shift, iterative at first, and then all at once wholly present, in a new series of roles for Fiennes over the past decade or so. There would always be the bedrock of English/European-set drama (Schindler's List, The English Patient, The Constant Gardener, The End of the Affair, Sunshine, just to name some acclaimed heavies), but there was space now for a fresh kind of on-screen presence. You get the Oscar-nominated talent and the self-awareness, too.

Take Luca Guadagnino's A Bigger Splash, for example, where Fiennes plays a motor-mouthing cocktail of taste and devil-may-care that could be reduced to something like: Ralph Fiennes type—but with all of the shirt buttons unbuttoned. Ralph Fiennes type—but with a Jagger falsetto and breezy linen. There's a scene in which Fiennes's Harry Hawkes leads his compatriots to a no-tourists dinner spot on a secluded hillside on an Italian island, doling out por favores and grazies as he gracefully inserts himself into the hospitable hands of the locals. I remember thinking in the theater, or on the plane, or wherever: This. This is what you get when you strip off the uniform of haughty propriety, but still have all the knowingness—all the language and command and wisdom amassed from a lifetime of moving fluidly across European borders. The result is very funny and very cool.

When we met in January, Fiennes had just finished a 76-show run of Antony and Cleopatra at the National Theatre in London. He'd spent the previous day—his one and only day off between the play and a new film shoot—reading books and responding to e-mails. (He'd been journaling when I first approached our table.) Fiennes still had his beard from the play, but it would be gone by that evening. He made reference to “what little hair I have left” on top, a style that changes often. The fixtures of his face were plenty there, though. The prominent nose and brow. The sticky-outy canines. The sensitive pale eyes, ticklish to the light—ever-present in the heroes and the villains alike, the same pair on Count Almásy as on Voldemort. The eyes were so familiar. As was the voice. His voice sounded exactly like Ralph Fiennes.

Sometimes actors make choices to pivot their careers. Other times those choices—those theories about their work, the sort of I've just laid out above—are more arbitrary, connecting unrelated opportunities in an effort to make sense of them, the way we trace weird animals out of the stars. Fiennes has said that, at times in his career, he felt people presuming that he only did a certain kind of dramatic role. I asked him if the run of films including In Bruges and The Grand Budapest Hotel and A Bigger Splash felt like a pivot.

“It did feel like that,” he said. “I cannot tell you how thrilled I was when Wes asked me to be in the film. And when Martin McDonagh approached me to be a kind of London gang boss. Which is not my obvious casting bracket.… And then Luca came to me with that great part, and it felt exciting to me, that ‘Oh, great, I'm not being seen as, I don't know, English intellectual or sort of cool, crisp bad guy.…’ The thing that people were responding to was the comedic, or the humorous, that was clearly in Wes's script, and Martin's, and in A Bigger Splash, and also the wonderful scene I was asked to do in the Coen brothers' film [Hail, Caesar!].” (Would that i' t'were so simple...)

I told him I'd been wondering how active he was in the pursuit of that pivot, since it's difficult to know how much an actor's hands are on the wheel.

“I think it's a very valid question. And I think sometimes actors are absolutely going: I want to do this and this.And other times it comes to you. All the stuff I've loved doing most has come to me. Sent to me.”

In the case of A Bigger Splash, Luca Guadagnino, who'd made it “an aim” of his to work with Fiennes ever since seeing Schindler's List and Quiz Show, told me he knew the actor for Harry “had to be somebody who could carry a complete buffoonish, clownish character combined with melancholy—and there was no doubt Ralph was the right person for that.” At the time, Fiennes had done The Grand Budapest Hotel, Guadagnino continued, and a trailer had just come out: “And I saw him briefly in a pink tie, being suave and swarthy in that little clip, and it was, ‘See, he's perfect.’ He's not only a master of shades of brooding-ness and melancholy, but he can also bring a levity and a capacity of likability that is really unique.” That well-worn heavy, and the new light. Perfect.

Fiennes is a voracious reader, and many of the films he's best known for have been adapted from the works of renowned authors. Michael Ondaatje. Graham Greene. Peter Carey. Shakespeare and Dickens. Even with the more genre-y, it's the best of the genre: Ian Fleming, John le Carré. I asked him if there was any intentionality to those clusters, to working with material from notable novelists.

“I know, I've been asked that before,” he said, seeming to consider it fresh. “But I think I'm responding to the film. And I've been happy to do things that are not based on a book, like In Bruges or The Grand Budapest Hotel.”

I asked if “his people” know what he's going to go for at this stage.

“I believe they know what I respond to,” he said. “But I'm actually not a good reader of film scripts. I'd rather read… I mean, I think I try the patience of the people who represent me.” He laughed knowingly. “If there's a book to read, and they're both sitting there…I'll go to the book, I'll read the script later.… If a certain amount of pressure is put on me, I'll go, Sorry, sorry, I'm doing it.”

I asked Tony Revolori, who played Fiennes's teenage co-lead in The Grand Budapest Hotel, if he remembered what Fiennes was reading on set. “A book of Shakespeare's sonnets,” naturally. Revolori said that Fiennes taught him “the proper way” to read those sonnets and then presented him with a “beautifully designed book” of those poems at the end of the shoot. On set, there were discussions of diction with director Wes Anderson. Tongue twisters were introduced. She stood upon the balustraded balcony inimicably mimicking him hiccuping while amicably welcoming him in. “Tongue-twister battles” ensued. (I would be disingenuous if I described any of this as being shocking.)

From a distance, it is hard to see Fiennes's life as anything but full and packed wall-to-wall with high culture. I asked if he, as a Known Culture Person with a love of things like theater and opera and classical music and art, worried there was something “slipping” in culture?

“I think, 'cause the National is fresh, I can talk about that with a bit more—I can know my thoughts more about the National more than…”

“Than all of culture, like I'm asking you?” I said.

He laughed. “It may be nostalgia, it may be how I'm choosing to remember, but you felt that within the National Theatre—and certainly at Stratford it is the case—they have to function as the company. I think it's probably impossible to do that now because of the way the entertainment business works, and the way actors need to be a part of—the pay is not high—so you have to make money on television or doing voice-overs. But maybe I have a romantic sense of the company.”

Fiennes's first big break came in 1988, in Stratford, with the Royal Shakespeare Company, the company of companies. “I wanted to be an actor because I was excited by Shakespeare. It was thrilling and moving. I don't know, I had a quite naive infatuation with Shakespeare. I thought, What a wonderful thing to be in the Royal Shakespeare Company, or the National—and I didn't really think about films, because that seemed like another world.”

Shakespeare led to his first films, which led to a meeting with Spielberg and a role as an Austrian Nazi. In 1993, he was nominated for his first Oscar and embarked on the 25-year movie career that's followed. “If he picks the right roles and doesn't forget the theater,” Spielberg said of Fiennes at the time, unwittingly providing a useful blueprint, “I think he can eventually be Alec Guinness or Laurence Olivier.”

Fiennes didn't forget the theater, and he returns to Shakespeare frequently. The plays were his first love. And despite all forces pushing younger actors toward other kinds of work, he finds that that same infatuation endures with a new generation. “Even just walking back from our last-night Saturday, across the bridge to a party we were having [to celebrate the end of the production], one of the younger female members of the cast, a tiny part, but a lovely presence…she was saying, ‘I just wanted to do Shakespeare. I just love it. I just…’ And she expressed what I had felt. I was so touched, actually, because she said it with such ‘I just love Shakespeare.’ ”

“I know the film asks questions; I don't know that it answers them. I don't know that a film should answer. I like films that provoke me to think.”

Walking back across the bridge. I love that. Every actor, unknown and galactically famous, leveled out, in it together, the intimacy with one another, and with the city where they performed each night. It was fun to get a glimpse of Fiennes in London. It'd almost be a shame to encounter him anywhere else. We walked around Covent Garden for a bit, and he pointed out the grand theaters of the West End. That's where Eliza Doolittle sells flowers in the beginning of Pygmalion. That was Dickens's office. Fantastic. He delineated the precise border of the City of London, pointing at “that church-y thing over there,” a critical marker. We ended up facing the National Theatre—across the very bridge he'd mentioned—and it was sort of like being Ouija-ed by a drunk back to his favorite bar. The theater felt like home position, like all wanderings might wind up back there. Fiennes has lived and worked mostly in London all his career. I asked him if he ever thinks about elsewhere.

“I love London. I think London is a great city. I think it's got fantastic things. I don't know, I guess I've thought about elsewhere but haven't done it, because if it's working, why fix it?” he said. “I'm at a funny time, and I keep wanting to make a shift in the way I, where I live or how I live. I live in London, I've lived in London all my adult life, I live in the East End Shoreditch area, before it became über-hip, I bought a place in 2000. I've got a very lovely place in New York, which I love going to. But most of the work I get tends to be based out of here. And the theater work… I keep going back, because I miss it, I miss that thing.”

Fiennes has the rest of the year “chalked up” already. Five new films: a Kingsman prequel, a new Bond (“I'm waiting to get a Bond script; I'm hoping for a sexy location”), and three-ish other interesting-sounding dramas. Plus the release of The White Crow—Fiennes's third film as director—about a young Rudolf Nureyev, the famed Soviet dancer, and his defection from the USSR to France in 1961.

The White Crow features several scenes that capture those “transforming encounters with a Work of Art” Fiennes has described as the loves of his life. In one flashback, a young Nureyev—born on a trans-Siberian train to poor parents—is taken by his mother to the theater. We don't see what's transpiring onstage, only what's transpiring across his face. We see it happen again when Nureyev, older now and in training in Leningrad, stands before the Rembrandts at the Hermitage Museum. And then, once again, when he wakes up early one morning, to make sure he's the first person at the Louvre, so he can have Géricault's The Raft of the Medusa all to himself.

Again and again and again—“transforming encounters with a Work of Art.”

I read Fiennes's words back to him.

He laughed in recognition. “Yeah, okay. I'd forgotten that.”

I asked him about those scenes in the film.

“Those scenes,” he said, “the one in the Louvre and the one in the Hermitage, with the Rembrandt, those were the scenes that really moved me. Because the engagement with the Rembrandt… I thought The Prodigal Son, looking at it, when we shot that, I was so emotional, I wasn't crying, but on the inside… Those were holy days for me.”

I told Fiennes I knew he'd answered this question after directing his first two films, but I wondered if the answer had evolved during his third: Among the directors he'd worked with, had he cobbled together bits from one or another to help inform him, or was he standing on his own now?

“I don't know that I'm consciously taking from the films I've been in, in terms of visuals, in terms of cinematography,” he said. “But I certainly, in terms of ways of working…I'm often interested in Spielberg, whose energy, vocal… He's not a quiet sort of monosyllabic, quiet-voiced director. He's just direct. ‘Just go here.’ ‘Just put this lens on.’ ‘Come sit down.’ ‘Do it quickly.’ Very clever. Totally positive. And you can feel it. I remember the set, people loved it, because there was a sense of momentum. I think generally actors and crew love it when they feel this forward momentum and, along with it, good work.”

“Deliberate intention,” I said.

“Deliberate intention,” he said. “Wavering, wavering on the set is…” He chuckled darkly. “Too much wavering is worrying. And, like, Anthony Minghella [during The English Patient] was brilliant with actors. A gentle provocation towards looking for something other… It was in my lack of experience that I thought he was wanting me to ‘hit it,’ to ‘nail it.’ But I think actually, quite rightly, he's looking for ‘What else is there that I can get that this actor can own so that they're not contriving something to satisfy me?’ ”

“The pleasure is that I see a French film and meditate on what it, being an Englishman, what it says to me...it offers up new provocations, and also confirms common identity of being a human being.”

After lunch, we walked a short distance to the Royal Opera House, where Nureyev had danced and where a large black-and-white portrait of him hangs in the wings, hovering above the dancers as they step onto the stage. The Royal Opera House is also where Fiennes took ballet lessons of his own—eight or nine, he says—with a dancer in the Royal Ballet named Bennet Gartside, in preparation to play the legendary Soviet ballet teacher Alexander Pushkin. Once, and only once, in my presence, Fiennes did that incredibly weird thing where an actor transforms his head and face and body into another human being in a flash, a total magic trick, while showing me the way Pushkin did something or other.

The White Crow centers on the 1961 trip to Paris by the Kirov—the famed Leningrad ballet company. Nureyev is played by the Russian dancer Oleg Ivenko, who leaps and spins throughout as tightly as the threads of a screw. The film builds to a masterfully suspenseful climax at Le Bourget Airport in Paris, where Nureyev has to choose between defecting to the West or being sent back to the Soviet Union to face some unknown—but likely terrible—fate.

“It's not an easy decision as he sits there in the room. We've seen the love of the mother, we've seen the support of Pushkin, and we've seen those friends—it's not just the oppressive evil empire, it wasn't stifling,” Fiennes said. “When we shot Leningrad, the Soviet scenes, I wanted it quite classically framed, and ever so slightly, we bring the color up. We don't want to confirm the cliché of the gray Soviet world. And when I tried to look at color stills of the Soviet era, they're quite hard to find, but when you find them—bang!—I mean everyone, the women, the red, red being the political color, but red is everywhere. But it pops! And we see so many black-and-whites, it's so weird what this very basic visual thing does. Yeah, I just…it's complicated.… I know the film asks questions; I don't know that it answers them. I don't know that a film should answer. I like films that provoke me to think.”

When I met Fiennes in London in late January, politics was on the surface. Theresa May's Brexit plan had just been rejected by Parliament. And Fiennes had recently given a little-seen speech at the European Film Awards, in which he had spoken about film's role in Europe, and Europe's present relationship to Britain. The speech was economically rendered, but urgent and unequivocal in its diagnosis of political crisis in Europe and the U.K., and of film's role as a remedy:

In anticipation of this occasion…I couldn't help but reflect on what it is to consider oneself European. Is it an instinct? A feeling of belonging? Can I be English and European? Emphatically: Yes. That is my feeling in my gut.

There is arguably a crisis in Europe, and our feeling of family, of connection, of shared history, shared wounds, this feeling is being threatened by a discourse of division. A tribal and reactionary vocabulary is among us. It is depressing and distressing to witness the debate in my own country about who we are in relation to Europe. In England now, there is only the noise of division.

But film, filmmaking, the expression within a film, can be a window for us to see another human being, another human experience, and we can celebrate our differences of language, culture, custom, and our common humanity at the same time. But the act of seeing, seeing another, seeing through the lens, carries in it, I believe, the vital act of bearing witness. Perhaps if we truly bear witness, there can be a true connection, and a better understanding.… Our films can be songs, crossing borders and languages with melodies and harmonies in the form of light and sound and narrative patterns.

We discussed the speech, and his intentions with it. I asked him how much some of the ideas in The White Crow—the way ballet could move across borders, like the films he describes—were on his mind when he delivered the speech.

“I just had an instinct, that I wanted to say how much, how important I felt the community of filmmakers are, and given what this was, I would really be meaning European filmmakers, at the time when my own country is divided about what it means to be linked to Europe,” he said. “Not that countries have to make films that express [exclusively] their culture.… The pleasure is that I see a French film and meditate on what it, being an Englishman, what it says to me…it offers up new provocations, and also confirms common identity of being a human being. And I do feel, I suppose it links what I hope is identifiable in the film: [that he is] being moved and therefore changed by exposure to a work of art. It's a dialogue.”

There are the works of art in The White Crow, I said, and also the cities themselves. Before Nureyev sees the performances or the paintings, he's walking about first Leningrad and then Paris, experiencing that new feeling of somewhere else, letting it in. Fiennes doesn't shy away from his comparable feelings for Russia. The feelings you discover when a place becomes for you the people who live there and not just the political systems that dominate headlines.

“I've formed over the years a handful of friendships in Russia, a handful who are very important to me, and I love going there. And I'm aware of the… I mean the authoritarian nature of their regime that's in control of mostly all the press, and the creep of censorship and control, is very disturbing. But when I'm there, I sort of: There's life going on. I see amazing theater plays, and I have friendships with people.… What interested me was the common humanity underneath the ideological, political fisticuffs.”

I said that hearing about his friends in Russia reminded me of the same dynamic in the United States, the dissonance between the noise of American politics and the lives of most Americans, how most people have nothing to do with the political headlines, how most people are trying to do their best, to generally be kind to their neighbors.

“That's it. Exactly. Exactly. I'm sure that, you know… I mean, nothing that I read about Republican politics makes me think I would ever be sympathetic…but I'm sure that I could go to a Republican community in America and be welcomed, and looked after, and treated with extraordinary generosity and decency and kindness, and those people might go support a Republican candidate the next day.”

That continued exchange between human beings, whether ultimately fruitless or not, seems critical to Fiennes. And art continues to be one of the pre-eminent currencies of at least the exchange of culture.

“Ballet, not being connected to any spoken language, is an extraordinary communicator.… And as an audience member, whether it's a film, or a ballet, or a play, it feels so important to me that we have the privilege of being exposed to these things.... This is the one area, cultural interaction…where we can talk to each other. So when that's impacted, it seems serious.”

We discussed performers and companies struggling to get visas.

“I'm not saying that they're not coming anymore, but it is a challenge that you have to get a visa to go to Russia. And it's funny, isn't it, that I think the cultural interchange, interaction, exhibitions, theater, ballet, coming, that is where we can be like—”

Fiennes threaded his fingers together, hopefully, like hands in prayer.

Daniel Riley is GQ's features editor.

A version of this story originally appeared in the April 2019 issue with the title "Ralph Fiennes Loosens Up."

PRODUCTION CREDITS: Photographs by Scandebergs Styled by Jon Tietz Grooming by Ciona Johnson-King Set design by Zach Apo-Tsang at Magnet Agency Produced by Samira Anderson/Mai Productions

Huge thanks to the amazing @tessa-quayle for helping me out with this impossible-to-open article

[ej121]

Candle

Words: 2,225

Description: The hero has another confrontation with his villain, it doesn’t go how either of them expect it to. (Inspired by this prompt)

Trigger warning: Attempted Suicide

The day began cold and dark, waking him up with a thunderclap, a flash of lightning and a heavy feeling in the air that almost clung to him as he began his usual morning routine.

Maybe that should have been the warning the hero noticed – the first sign that today was definitely going to hurt. If he was superstitious, he might have given the storm a second thought, but even if he was, he probably would have gone out anyway.

It was his job, as the hero, to help people. Rain or shine, it was up to him to save lives and bring out the best in the people of this city, and that wasn’t something he’d give up over a thunderstorm.

Hero costumes weren’t waterproof.

Maybe some others were, but his? His definitely wasn’t. He didn’t have some giant corporation secretly backing him or supplying him with fancy technology to help him do his job. He didn’t have special abilities that allowed him to be unaffected by the cold or keep him from getting soaked to the bone, but he would always do his job, it didn’t matter to him how wet he got in the process.

If he caught a cold, so be it, if he was able to help someone, it was worth it – more than worth it.

He hadn’t counted on the villain choosing to make a move today.

Usually, it was almost as if he knew – knew that the hero wouldn’t be on his A-game in the rain and chose to let the hero get off easy on days when he would be tired or weak.

The villain had never – not even once in the two years that they’d been fighting –   attacked more than once a fortnight and he always kept their battles solely focused on the hero, nobody else was ever put in the line of fire.

But today, something must have changed. Maybe the villain was having a bad day, maybe someone had hurt him, maybe it was just the day that the hero’s luck was destined to run out.

It started with the villain yelling his name. It wasn’t his usual arrogant, chipper tone, this one was broken, a yell with no levity, no energy, no soul, just agony and anger and hatred.

Their fight began with falling rain; bullets spattering into the puddled streets, the hero was weaker than usual; barely able to stay ahead, struggling to trade blow for blow as the villain cycled through his arsenal.

That was another thing that was different today. Usually the villain would unveil each weapon one at a time, catching himself up in the theatrics of it all, giving the hero more than enough time to figure out an attack strategy to avoid it.

But today the villain quickly shifted between weapons, no announcement, no evil laugh, it was like the passion had been stripped from his actions, almost as though he’d lost all will to fight fair. He yelled, swinging his sword to leave angry marks on the hero, tearing his outfit, rain cleaning the wounds before they could turn red.

Normally the villain would play around. Normally he’d let the hero miss, let the hero slip. The hero got the sense the villain liked the attention, enjoyed the game – the dance of the fight – more than he wanted to win it. But today, something was different. The villain’s attacks weren’t intended to wound, like they normally were.

These were intended to kill.

The hero must have spent too long on that thought – too long looking into his villain’s eyes, searching for what had hurt his usually energetic foe.

(The villain had introduced the new weapon to him last week with a smug grin on his face, he’d gleefully cackled about how exciting it would be, to see the hero impaled by his newly-crafted boomerang knives.

Of course, what the villain really meant was he knew the hero could, and would, be able to dodge them. The hero knew that as well as he did. The introduction was so they didn’t catch the hero off-guard, because his villain always, always, played by the rules.)

He felt warm blood running down his back, moments before the burning agony caught up to him and he fell, barely able to hold himself above the ground as the villain sneered, holding a gun.

It looked wrong.

His villain would never sneer.

His villain would never use a regular gun – he thought “such straightforward weapons” were below him.

And yet, there he was, holding what was unmistakably a boring, black gun. Nothing special about it, no special designs, no introduction, nothing, just metal.

Then he turned it on the crowd of spectators who had gathered in anticipation of the villain’s defeat, ready to watch the battle come to its usual conclusion. They were too far away to hear. They were too far away for the hero to save them.

“Well, what’s it going to be?” The villain chuckled, ready to fire the gun. “You didn’t really think I’d be stupid enough to rely on my powers alone, did you? Well, I suppose you heroes really do tend to believe everyone follows your adorable notions of fairness and justice.”

What was the villain talking about? He didn’t have powers – neither of them did! And every time they fought, the villain played by the rules even more than he did! He, not the hero, was the one who had gotten angry when they first fought and the hero saw him as enough of a threat to feel the need to fight dirty!

“You, you monster!” The hero spoke through grit teeth.

What are you doing? It went unsaid, but hung in the silence between them as the hero let out a despairing laugh. It was so broken, so pained – it was almost as if he had been told his life’s work was for nothing.

“I’ve heard that one before, yes. Now make your choice, little hero. Your life, or the lives of the innocent?”

He sounded... desperate.

The hero gritted his teeth, getting up to his feet. “I won’t let you hurt them!” He managed, before falling into a cough.

The villain laughed dryly, mocking the hero’s tone, “’I won’t let you hurt them!’ Hah! You can’t even keep yourself from getting hurt! You can’t save anyone! You will die tonight, hero, and your pointless legacy of lies and deceit will die with you!”

The villain wore a snarl on his face, it wasn’t like his normal smirk or grin, it was something truly evil, and the hero found himself wishing he could have the villain would normally meet for their regular battles back again.

“What happened to you?” He pleaded.

The villain laughed, but the hero wasn’t fooled. He saw the tears that were threatening to fall from the corners of his villain’s eyes. He vowed that when... no, if he got out of this, he would teach whoever hurt his villain a lesson.

“I learned something today, Hero!” The villain admitted. “I learned that they all think I’m a monster, they all think I’m a despicable, evil being! And I learned that they know who I am, or... they will, anyway.”

The villain held his head in his hands, “A reporter figured out my identity. There’s no going back for me now, Hero!”  He let out a defeated chuckle as the last of the fight visibly left him.

“They’ll publish it on the eleven ‘o clock bulletin in a few minutes, and then I’ll be locked up for my crimes against this great city.” His voice was dry, a little hoarse, and biting with sarcasm. The villain hated their city – he’d told the hero many times of how the buildings were dull, of how he felt like their society was a pointless farce.

He sighed, “I thought I wanted to kill you. That’s what this was supposed to be. Our Final Battle, where I would win... or die trying, anyway.” The villain admitted.

“But... winning doesn’t feel satisfying, Hero, breaking you like this... it just hurts... I guess I never wanted to win, not really, I just wanted to spend time with you, and to make everyone else see you how I do – an amazing person, best hero this dumb city ever had!... But I always knew you’d never let me do it as me.”

The villain frowned, taking a seat, gun now resting between his hands, “I tried to keep my identity secret, I should have tried harder, but I guess it’s too late for that now.”

The hero shuddered, trying to make his way over to his villain’s side. “No, I... I can help you! I’ll find a way to help you! There is always a way!”

The villain let out a weak laugh, “Of course you want to help me. Even after I hurt you like this, you’re still trying to lighten up my life like a god damn candle.”

He sighed, “You make this city a brighter place, Hero. Your attitude, the way you work to make everyone happy... you glow and I love watching it – it’s... just about the only thing that’s kept me here.”

The villain gave the gun in his hands a contemplative look. “I was going to die, you know? That was what I was going to do the day we first met. You were a hero, I was a monster... at least, everyone I knew called me that. You stopped me, and I was furious.” He laughed, “I was furious that you interrupted me – of all the days and all the people you could have saved, why did it have to be me, you know?”

The hero didn’t miss the tears that fell from his villain’s face, lost in the rain on the ground. He was too weak to make his way over quickly enough to take the villain off-guard, the only thing he could do was plead.

“Villain, please listen to me! I know things seem bad, but they will get better... I promise you things will get better.” He tried, the repetition, reassurance for him as much as it was for his villain.

The villain frowned, meeting the hero’s eyes. His eyes were empty and his voice weak, trembling. “No, they won’t, Hero. That’s why we’re here, in a cold city that only cares about you and nothing about me, not arm in arm riding off into the sunset or whatever lame fantasy it is you’re thinking of us doing together.” He sighed sadly, hearing the sound of police sirens in the distance.

The billboards on the other end of the square flashed, 11:00am news. They both knew what that meant. It was too late.

The hero pleaded with the villain to stay, reaching for him, the villain didn’t run, or bat his hand away. Instead, he took it with a gentle smile, a strange kind of adoration on his features.

The villain sighed, “It’s time for me to go, hero... it’s been fun, though.” He gave the hero a lopsided grin that was completely detached from what he was about to do. “I’m glad I met you, you’ve made my life so, so much better over these last few months.”

A weak laugh rumbled from his throat, “I always told you I’d go out with a bang, didn’t I?”

There was a long pause.

“I don’t want to let go, hero...”

The hero wasn’t completely sure where from, but he found the strength to rise to his feet, pulling his villain into a gentle hug. “You don’t have to, Villain. I know the consequences will be bad, but... you’ve said why, and if you’re willing to face a jury, I think the sentencing might be more lenient.”

The hero smiled softly as he held his villain’s tearful gaze, “I don’t think you’re a monster, Villain, you’re just another man who got hurt.” He laughed a little, “I’ve wanted to save you for a while, actually... really save you, not just defeat you in battle or stop you. But to give you something to wake up for, something to enjoy.”

There wasn’t much after that, the rain still falling around them on all sides, as the hero held the sobbing villain in his arms, his villain tearfully thanking him, the gun having long-since clattered to the floor.

The police cars arrived a few minutes later, and once the villain was in-cuffs, arrested, most of the city was prepared for things to finally go back to normal.

For two of its inhabitants, however, their lives were changed forever.

It had been a few days since that day, and the villain, having followed his wonderful hero’s advice and confessed promptly, had been given a reduced sentence. The sentence was still thirty years... which had hurt... but this villain was nothing if not patient!

...Yeah, I know, he thought, I’m lying. I’m the opposite of patient.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his cell door. “Villain, you got mail!” The prison guard called, “Nothin’ much, just candles, by the looks of things.”

As they were placed in his cell, despite himself, the villain felt a smile crossing his features and a warm, fuzzy feeling in the bottom of his heart.

This was a dark, cold cell, but even in here, his hero’s light still shined bright.

[arigathanksgozaimuch]

can you do n.59 with renjun?

59. “Wow.”

At what age do girls become pretty?

That’s the question you ask yourself as you try on thefourth – or was it the fifth? – dress you had with you in the cramped fittingroom.

You thought you’d be pretty at 15, because Tyra Banksstarted modeling when she was 15. But at that age, you were still in yourhybrid emo-and-gothic phase (because just being either wasn’t hardcore enough)when you wore only black everything and didn’t think much about how you lookedlike.

You thought maybe, just maybe, you’d be pretty when youreach the age of 17. Because that’s when your older sister got all the boyswalking her home every other day. But you were 18 now. A year late and the onlyperson you can trust to walk you to anywhere at all was your overly protectivedad.

Your last hope was three years from now, when you’re 21.Because that’s the age when your mom had the first of her many beauty pageantwins.

When you don’t become pretty by then, well… You were mostprobably adopted. Or, as in any family, you were just the ugly duckling.

Maybe you should really just consider plastic surgery. Orsatanic rituals. Or magic.

“What’s taking you so long? I’m hungry.”

From outside, Renjun pounded on the door. You were onlyrealizing now how it was a bad idea to bring him dress shopping with you.

“Just a sec.”

As you zip yourself up from the back, you ran your handsdown the velvet material of your floor-length dress and inspected your reflectionin the mirror, avoiding making eye contact with yourself.  

“Come on, let me see.”

Sighing, you slightly adjusted the straps over yourshoulders while you twisted the lock and opened the door. Renjun was standingright outside the fitting room, making you almost bump against him.

“What do you think?” you asked, doing a slighttwirl.

“Wow.”His eyes widened as they scanned you from head to toe. “This is theone.”

You rolled your eyes, already starting to close the door onhis face. “You’ve said that with the previous dresses. Am I supposed tobelieve you?”

“No, really! I mean it this time.”

Quickly, you unzipped the back part and slipped out of thestraps in one go. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re bored now.”

There was a pause on his end, and you almost laugh. It wastypical of Renjun to avoid saying things as they are as much as possible. Thismade him the perfect person to bring with you to your sister’s wedding.“Well, yeah. But if you’re going to wear something nice that isn’t toofancy that it steals everyone’s attention away from the bride but still ispretty at the same time, that’s thedress you need.”

You hung the dress back together with the rest of the piecesyou’ve tried on and sighed. None of them looked nice on you, contrary to whatRenjun is saying. So once you wore your clothes back on, you threw the dressesover your shoulder and stepped out of the room.

“So? Which one are you getting?” He took theclothes from you and carried them against his chest. “The last one – theblue one – would be perfect. I could wear my blue tie so we could match.”

“Nah.” You led him back to the racks and startedreturning the dresses where you got them. “I’ll just wear one of the stuffI have at home. Or borrow your red plaid shirt. That’d look nice with my blackjeans.”

Renjun took a few steps back, effectively placing thedresses away from your grip. “But why? You looked pretty in them.”

“No, I don’t.” You attempted to snatch the clothesfrom him, but he dodged your advances in time. “Now, hand them over so wecould eat.”

He only stared at you, making you almost scared at the sternlook on his face. It made you feel self-conscious for some reason. “Whynot? But you’re pretty.”

“So I’ll only look pretty when I’m wearing thedress?”

He only blinked back in response, looking like a deer caughtin the headlights. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You frowned. “Can you just let it go? Let me put themback quickly so we can eat.”

“Not before you tell me you think you’re prettyfirst.”

“Okay. I think I’m pretty. Now, can we go?”

It was Renjun’s turn to frown. “You don’t mean it. Youhave to mean it. You have to believe in it. You have to be convinced of ityourself.”

“But I’m not really pretty!” you whined, flailingyour arms in exasperation and eventually deciding to leave Renjun behind. Youwalked out of the store and began walking aimlessly, distracting yourself fromthinking by focusing on your hunger and letting it lead your way. You didn’tneed to be reminded of your insecurities by someone else when you could verywell remind yourself.

Renjun caught up with you not long after, slipping his armthrough yours, but you avoided looking his way. “Hey, I’m sorry,” hesaid, watching your face for any reaction that would mean he’s forgiven. Hefound none.

But the thing about being best friends with Renjun was thatneither of you ever needed to say sorry to be forgiven. So after a while ofawkward silence, you eventually caved in and talked to him about the newlyreleased Marvel comic book you saw on a newspaper stand you passed by. Excited,he made you drag him back there, and the incident about your prettiness waslong forgotten. Because it made you upset, you assumed Renjun would drop thesubject matter completely and avoid it like the plague until you both died.

He didn’t.

On the day of your sister’s wedding, Renjun arrived at yourdoorstep looking like he was only going to the supermarket to buy milk.“What ever happened to your nice tuxedo with the blue necktie?” youasked, leaving the door open so he could come in. Not that he needed anyinvitation.

“But I wanted us to match,” he said, looking downat his blue plaid shirt and ripped black jeans. “We’re not going to thewedding to look pretty or handsome. We’ll let the bride and groom be that. Usspectators, we’re just going to look cool.”

You snorted. “Cool?”

“Yeah.” He opened your fridge and picked up a canof Red Bull. “Cool.”

And, sure enough, both your mothers reprimanded you forlooking too casual on a supposedly formal event. Many times, your own motheroffered to give you one of the dresses brought for backup in case any wardrobemalfunction happened, but you refused. Renjun laughed when you told him why.You just didn’t want to trade your duct-taped Chuck Taylors for high heels.

Being in the wedding wasn’t as stressful as you thought itwould be (excluding your mother’s constant nagging). Far from it, you had purefun. Contrary to what you were expecting, you didn’t gawk at your sister’spretty friends in their pretty dresses. You didn’t embarrass yourself beingslack jawed when your mother introduced you to her beauty queen amigas from herpageant days. You didn’t feel the slightest bit bad about yourself. Instead,you felt cool, just as Renjun had said.

You thought you’d be pretty at 21 when you’re way past thepuberty phase and you can confidently wear fancy dresses and designer shoes.But you were 18 now, and maybe being pretty is overrated. You’d very much preferto be cool.

[missingverse]

Missing Chapter Twenty Six

So by now the fic has moved quite far from the original idea and is moving closer to the issues surrounding the rest of Arnold and Helga's lives. I'm wondering if I should make this and the next chapter the last two and start another fic about the aftermath? What do the readers think?

Note: Obligatory suggestion to check out my novel on Kindle if you like my work: The Hothouse Princesses by S.A. Hemstock.

…..

Three months on:

Arnold knew his grandfather wasn't happy about letting Ambrose and Helga move into the boarding house, but financially he wasn't really in a position to refuse a paying customer. It looked like the adoption process was going through with no problems, and thanks to Helga's many donated funds she was able to get a ramp installed in the back of the house, as well as repairs done on the ground floor. Even Phil had to admit that it was a relief getting some of the old fixtures replaced.

Curtis Waring's trial was coming up, and although Helga was able to walk with a cane now she couldn't walk for long and would have a permanent limp thanks to a shattered ankle she sustained during her catatonia. It was decided for her own safety that she would stay in the hospital for the duration of the trial, to prevent any backsliding in her condition.

Ambrose moved into the two room apartment without her, and set about making it habitable for a man and a young girl. It hadn't been touched since the last person who lived there moved out seven years before, and had been neglected by both Phil and Arnold since they had all the other rooms to service. Ambrose stripped the dingy wallpaper, tossed the old moth-eaten furniture and gave the whole place a new coat of paint. By the end it barely looked like it belonged in the boarding house.

“Is Helga's trust fund covering all this?” Arnold asked when he stopped by to bring Ambrose a glass of iced tea.  

“I didn't touch none of her money,” Ambrose told him from the ladder he was using to paint the wall sconces. “I have plenty of my own.”

He drove back to his old apartment to collect his furniture and his dog, an old bloodhound named Della. Arnold helped him carry the stuff in, and he was struck by how many classic antique pieces Ambrose owned. Ambrose caught him staring at a particularly fancy chair, and laughed.

“Ed picked out most of this stuff,” he explained. “I didn't care so long as I could sit on the porch of an evenin'. But I figured Helga would like that chair.”

A set of pictures went up on the walls, most of them Ambrose's deceased partner or the two of them together with Della lying in front of them. Arnold liked the look of Ed; a chubby middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a quirky grin. It really was a shame that they'd never been able to adopt together, but he knew Ambrose felt like Ed had sent Helga to him so in some way she was their daughter.

“Ed would've loved her,” Ambrose said once. “He always wanted a little girl, especially a little spitfire.”

Ambrose was as good with Arnold's grandmother as he was with Helga. He was patient with her nonsense rambling, which had just gotten worse since the stroke, and he often helped her out with cooking in the evenings. Phil had been quiet, cautious around him at first, but even he came around eventually when Ambrose offered to take a look at any of the broken fixtures in the house.

“I'll take it out of your rent,” Phil offered. “Since you're saving me a repairman's bill...”

“Nah, keep it,” Ambrose shrugged. “I like to keep busy. Let Della warm herself in the kitchen and we'll call it even.”

But what was best about Ambrose moving in was that now Arnold had a lift every time he visited the hospital, instead of having to make the long journey by bus and staying in that crappy motel overnight. Phoebe hopped in with them sometimes, and even Patrick tagged along though he had a car of his own and was busy with college.

Helga was doing well. She had a good, safe place to live when she got out of the hospital, someone to take care of her the way she deserved and her friends nearby. She would have everything she needed. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Nothing.

…..

On the first day of the trial, reporters showed up on Arnold's doorstep and peppered him with questions as he and Ambrose were trying to leave. He heard at least one ask about him finding the murder scene and a few mentions of the words 'crime forums.'

“No comment,” he managed to remember to say as he barreled through them to Ambroses' truck.

They were worse at the hospital, and were wise to the trick of sneaking Helga out the back. Officer Plaskett covered her with his coat as Ambrose pushed her chair, and by the time they got her into the truck she seemed a little freaked out.

“They had cameras,” she murmured. “I thought they weren't allowed take pictures of me?”

“The gag order is up because you waived anonymity,” Plaskett explained. “Unfortunately, that's what it's going to be like for a while. I'll keep you under wraps as much as I can but realistically a few pictures are going to be released. This case is very high profile.”

Arnold saw her swallow, hard.

“Don't be too nervous,” Plaskett continued. “The defense has been warned to stick to certain topics and not to grill you. The judge will interfere if they get goady, and if you feel like you need a break you just ask for it. Don't push yourself too hard.”

The court was mobbed with reporters, onlookers and a handful of people holding up signs of support or condemnation. There was a pretty shocking amount of people that thought Helga was lying about Waring, and that his other victims were just human garbage that the world didn't miss. The court police cleared a path but they had to carry her up the steps, and Arnold had a feeling that that was an image that would show up on the news that night: Ambrose carrying her bridal-style up the stairs while Plaskett and Arnold lugged her wheelchair behind them.

They were allowed into the courtroom early, to make sure Helga was comfortable and ready. The judge even came in plain clothes to talk to her privately. He looked nice, a grandfatherly type of man, but Plaskett had warned that he was a hard man with a poker face you could never interpret. Waring's lawyer, wearing another painfully expensive suit, came in early too to discuss with the judge.

The jury trickled in, a distinct mix of young and old, men and women from all walks of life. Two black, three vaguely Hispanic, one Asian, four white. According to Plaskett that was a good mix. Spectators and support filled the benches, court reporters took their seats, the prosecuting lawyer arrived too late to talk to Helga but at least looked smart.

Finally, Waring was brought in. In a suit, not even handcuffed, groomed and trimmed to look as normal and nonthreatening as possible.

Even so, Arnold heard Helga draw in a ragged breath and saw her hands clench under the desk.

…..

For three straight hours, Waring's lawyer built up an image of a man who had been accused of nothing more than a misdemeanor. He painted a picture of a shy and quiet man whose desire to keep to himself and live a back-to-nature life in the woods lead to him being accused of murdering prostitutes. He made it sound like the girls who had gone missing from Pocaselas had brought it upon themselves by entering the notoriously risky job of streetwalking.

The prosecution brought up his dishonourable discharge from the military, but even this was dismissed as a petty act by a vengeful ex. By the time Helga was called to the stand, Waring was being painted as a saint with some spiteful enemies.

But even Helga's presence in the court dimmed the lawyer's hard work. The jury looked on sympathetically as she wheeled herself to the bench and was sworn in.

“Could you state your full name for the court, please?” the lawyer began.

“Helga Geraldine Pataki.”

“And, how old are you, Helga?”

“Sixteen.”

“How old were you when you claim to have been involved with my client?”

“I was eleven when he caught me.”

“Caught you? Am I to believe there was a struggle?”

“Yes, he threw something over my head and knocked me to the ground. Then he jabbed me with something.”

“That's a little vague...could you elaborate?”

“A needle. He jabbed me with a needle. Whatever was in it knocked me out.”

“I see....could you tell us where he caught you?”

“In the woods, the hills just outside Hillwood.”

“And what were you doing out there? According to your statement, this was just after dawn, am I right?”

“It was about 8am, I was trying to get downtown early. I spent the night up there.”

“You spent the night in the woods?”

“I had a hideout there, I slept up there sometimes.”

“I see, and what did your parents think of you sleeping in a cave in the woods?”

“They didn't know.”

Helga was impressively stoic on the stand, but Arnold's irritation with the lawyer was building. His rapid-fire questioning was clearly designed to knock her off balance.

“Is it safe to call you a runaway, in that case? Because you had gone hiding somewhere without your parent's knowledge?” he continued.

“I suppose so,” Helga shrugged.

“That's a risky thing for a little girl to do.”

“No riskier than staying at home, I thought.”

“Were you aware that there were other people in the woods at that time of day?”

“No. I'd been staying up there a long time, I hardly ever saw anyone else. It was rough terrain.”

“But the area was open to the public, so indeed anyone could have stumbled across you.”

“I suppose, but they would have had to try very hard. They would have had to been watching me for a while.”

The jury murmured, and the lawyer just about suppressed a frown.

“Let's go back; you were staying overnight in a public area without your parent's knowledge. That's a fact you have in common with a lot of these missing women.”

“I suppose so.”

“Would you have said you were a difficult child, Ms Pataki?”

“Depends on what you mean by difficult.”

“Well, I have some reports here....they use words like hostile, uncommunicative, defiant, rude....I could go on. Would you agree with those statements?”

“To that person, then yes. Maybe.”

“You had a habit of hanging around older boys, am I right?”

Arnold heard Patrick, just behind him, suck in a breath.

“What do you mean by 'hanging around?'” Helga asked.

“You were often seen in the company of older boys.”

“I was on the baseball team with a lot of older boys, so yes, I guess.”

“But outside of baseball, you saw some of these boys socially.”

“Mostly just one, the others I saw in passing if we were all doing the same thing. I was the only girl on the team so they looked out for me.”

“Forgive me, but it's a rare kind of boy that wants to be in the company of a younger girl without getting something in return, would you agree?”

“Then I was lucky, because the ones I knew treated me like a younger sister. Maybe the boys you knew were different.”

A wave of soft laughter echoed in the courtroom. Red spots of annoyance popped up on the lawyer's cheeks.

“Still, running away and hanging out with older boys, that's not a usual thing for an eleven year old girl, is it Ms Pataki?” he prodded. “That combined with these reports suggests you were pretty troublesome back then. Is that fair to say?”

“I didn't realize having crappy parents was such a crime,” Helga quipped.

Now, the courtroom didn't attempt to suppress their amusement; they laughed openly. But when the laughter died down, one person was still loudly chuckling. All eyes in the room turned to him.

Curtis Waring.

He had been blank-faced throughout most of the proceedings, but now tears of laughter ran down his face. When the judge banged the gavel and commanded him to be quiet, he calmed down, wiped his eyes. And then he looked directly at Helga and mouthed three words to her.

That's my girl.

[easyfoodnetwork]

In Pursuit of the Perfect Bowl of Porridge

A porridge creation by Swedish competitor Per Carlsson | Clarissa Wei

Each year, gruel fanatics from around the world compete for the Golden Spurtle trophy in the small village of Carrbridge, Scotland

In 2015, Lisa Williams was vacationing in Scotland when she stumbled across a glitzy bagpipe procession and a line of people in aprons holding flags from countries around the world. She took a closer look, inquired around, and discovered it was a porridge parade, celebrating the contestants of a world porridge championship.

“And then you go into the village hall [where the competition is held], and it’s decorated in tartan and heather and with all the flags from all the people and their countries,” she says. “It was amazing. I was hooked. I just said to my husband that I want to take part in this. I want to do it.” Four years later, Williams returned to Scotland, and her porridge was crowned the best in the world. “When they called my name out, I was absolutely stunned,” she says.

Like Goldilocks chasing down that perfect bowl, Williams is among a dedicated class of professional and amateur cooks around the world who compete each year to serve the best bowl of, essentially, gruel. They gather in the small village of Carrbridge, Scotland, on the edge of a national park in the Scottish highlands, for the Golden Spurtle World Porridge Making Championship. Judges for the competition, which is split into “traditional” and “specialty” categories, are mostly recruited from the culinary industry, and rank each bowl by color, texture, hygiene, and taste. The “golden spurtle” refers to both the traditional Scottish utensil specifically designed for porridge-stirring, as well as the shape of the trophy awarded to winners.

James Ross

The bagpipe parade to kick of 2017’s Golden Spurtle championships

What began as a tourism initiative in 1994 to attract winter crowds to the quaint, 700-person Scottish town has grown into an institution, drawing in hundreds of spectators and up to 30 competitors each year. “I read about it in the newspaper and thought that if this isn’t a joke and it’s for real, it’s the most silly and insane thing I ever heard,” says Saga Rickmer of Sweden. She signed up immediately, and went on to compete in the 2016 world championships and ultimately win the Swedish Porridge Competition, a national spinoff competition, in 2019.

This year, due to COVID-19, the competition will move online, with competitors submitting short video recipes and winners announced over social media on October 10 — World Porridge Day. But while the thrill of softening stodgy grains in real time might be missing, the weight of the endeavor seems to resonate more than ever. Anyone who has been cooking and recooking the same simple meals from pantry staples during the pandemic will understand the quest for the platonic ideal of gruel.

The 2020 competition will also be slightly different in that it will focus entirely on the specialty category, where pretty much anything goes. Competitors can add a bunch of milk, shape the oatmeal into tapas, brulee it, steam it, or bake it. Per Carlsson of Sweden snagged the 2017 specialty win with a cloudberry-liqueur porridge brulee. Neal Robertson from Scotland won in 2011 with a cinnamon and nutmeg-spiked porridge topped with a blueberry compote. Other wins have included a mushroom porridge torta in 2012 and a sticky toffee porridge in 2014.

Nick Barnard of London, a two-time winner in the specialty category, says the key to dressing up an award-winning dish is knowing what the judges like. “The Scots love sugar, salt, and fat,” he says. “So I’ll give it to them in spades.” Barnard won in 2019 with his maple pecan porridge, a mix of pecan butter, maple syrup, dry milk powder, and cream, all topped with pecans sauteed in ghee.

Clarissa Wei

The tattoo on Carlsson’s forearm reads “Porridge Champion”

This year’s competition won’t include the traditional category, but normally competitors in this genre are required to make porridge with just three elements: oats, water, and salt. Minimally processed oats are a prerequisite; precooked oats like instant and rolled oats are not allowed. Almost everyone who has won has used steel-cut oats and soaked the porridge overnight.

While it may seem simple by comparison, the challenge — and honestly, the fun — of the endeavor lies in elevating what’s widely recognized as an archetype of culinary austerity into something worth awarding a large spoon-shaped trophy to. Many home cooks believe all oatmeal tastes mostly the same, but it’s a point of pride for a porridge connoisseur to rise above this stereotype to make a truly distinguished bowl of oats.

“Many older people have grown up with this traditional, gloopy porridge and have a distaste for it,” says Carlsson, who also won the traditional category in 2018. “But I usually give them a sample of my porridge to try, and they say, ‘This isn’t porridge. This is something else!’” At his bed and breakfast in southern Sweden, Carlsson used to rotate porridge duties with two friends, and guests always complimented their meals on days when he cooked. Now Carlsson is behind the stove nearly every morning. A small corner of the dining room is also demurely decorated with porridge paraphernalia: a spurtle, a ladle, Swedish porridge merch and slogans, plus Carlsson’s own book of recipes.

Fans generally believe that the ideal oat porridge should be thick enough to offer some resistance, but smooth enough to go down easily. There should definitely be salt, but not enough to make you reach for a glass of water. It should be thick enough, but not at all watery. Not too much, and not too little. Not too cold, not too hot — just as Goldilocks would have it.

“It’s fascinating. In a competition, porridge is cooked 24 different ways, and they all taste different,” says Robertson, who has competed for a decade and occasionally judges at the Swedish Porridge Championship.

courtesy Saga Rickmer

Saga Rickmer read about the competition in the newspaper and went on to compete twice since

James Ross

Everyone is pushing for the coveted Golden Spurtle trophy, shaped like the ultimate porridge-making tool

Competitors cook porridge every day for months, even years, to drill down the minutiae of the stuff. “You start preparing pretty much the day of the competition for the next year,” says Williams. Carlsson even recruited outside help from Dr. Viola Adamsson, a medical doctor and food nutritionist who has written several books on porridge and made porridge for the Swedish Olympic ski team in 1998 and 2002. “She practically has a doctorate in porridge,” jokes Carlsson’s wife, Catarina Arvidsson. Carlsson and Adamsson trained via Skype and telephone several times a week for a month, perfecting the water-to-oat ratio.

Among niche porridge circles, conversation often lands on four critical elements: oat-to-water ratio, type of oats, and salt. “One part oats to three parts water,” Williams insists. “Soak the oats overnight and use more salt than you think you would. I use Maldon sea salt — the same salt the queen uses.” Williams prefers half steel-cut oats and half stone-ground milled oats from Hamlyns of Scotland. “You get a nutty texture, but it’s not completely nutty. It’s more of a smooth nutty,” she says.

Robertson agrees on steel-cut oats from Hamlyns, but he does one part oatmeal to 2.5 parts water. “I tend to use sea salt,” he says. “It’s a bit softer and a bit more forgiving. And you should always stir it anti-clockwise. It keeps the devil at the bay.”

Carlsson does one part oats and 4.5 parts water. “I cook it for at least 25 minutes, then it is allowed to swell,” he says. Unlike Williams and Robertson, Carlson uses Swedish steel-cut oats from Saltå Kvarn, which are creamy but toasted for a “nice burned flavor,” he says.

In opting for Swedish oats, Carlson throws down the gauntlet in a nationalist sub-debate among porridge cooks. “Countries mill their oats in different ways,” says Anna Louise Batchelor, who won the specialty title in 2009. “Bob’s Red Mill [in America], they sell a really lovely rolled oat that’s very coarse. It’s very shiny and flat and it takes a long time to cook. Scotland loves their salty oats. And in Sweden, their milling is quite rustic.” Batchelor prefers coarse oats from English brand Mornflake.

Even the namesake spurtle is a topic of debate. Unlike spoons, spurtles allegedly don’t drag and prevent lumps. Many swear by them. “If you want to whip porridge in a pan without getting it all over yourself, the spurtle is the best tool,” says Barnard. “It brings air and stops it from overheating at the bottom of the pan and distributes the salt.” In 2016, Bob Moore, the founder of Bob’s Red Mill, won using a handcrafted myrtle spurtle from Oregon, where he lives.

Charlie Miller, the current organizer of the competition, says more eccentric attendees often bring specialty equipment too. Pressure cookers, microwaves, and bain-maries are commonly spotted in the competition hall. “Neal Robertson one year brought water that he claimed came from a stream that fed his local whisky distillery,” Miller recalls. In 2018, competitor Lynn Munro brought oatmeal she milled herself and cooked it with water she harvested from the loch at her childhood home. One woman even grew her own oats for the competition.

“Some people are so serious, it’s quite charming,” Barnard says. “The Swedish dress up like Swedish milkmaids and make a lot of noise. Some people have spreadsheets. It’s a circus, really.” But competitors are accepted into the fold regardless of skill. “I met one man at the competition who had never prepared a bowl of porridge in his life,” Miller says, laughing.

Robertson commemorated his 2010 win with a tattoo reading “World Porridge Champion 10.10.10,” rousing envy among friends and competitors. “Neal Robertson had [a tattoo] and walked around showing it off. Then I thought I should get one as well,” Carlsson says. Shortly after his own win, Carlsson shocked his children by getting his forearm inked with the words “World Champion” spiraling around a ladle.

But beneath the braggadocio and heated competition, the Golden Spurtle is, at its heart, about a bunch of people hanging out in a room cooking oatmeal. “It’s just the best time,” says Rickmer, who often visits her fellow Swede, Carlsson, as a guest chef at his bed and breakfast. “Competing in porridge is so cozy and cute. Everyone is so nerdy, which I love.”

Even this year, as competitors dive deep into their individual porridge pots, in their own kitchens, in their own countries thousands of miles apart, they are bound by a shared appreciation of well-cooked grains and what they symbolize. “It’s an ancestral food,” says Barnard. “All cultures around the world have a type of gruel.”

As with any competition, there are plenty of tears and laughter. “When I won, I was absolutely stunned. My face was bright red and I almost burst into tears,” Williams says, beaming as she holds up her trophy. She says she plans on going back to Scotland as soon as the competition is held in-person again, this time to add a specialty category win to her victory in the traditional category. “I have my china all picked out already.”

Clarissa Wei is an American freelance journalist based in Taiwan.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/35tYL5K https://ift.tt/35rwxIB

A porridge creation by Swedish competitor Per Carlsson | Clarissa Wei

Each year, gruel fanatics from around the world compete for the Golden Spurtle trophy in the small village of Carrbridge, Scotland

In 2015, Lisa Williams was vacationing in Scotland when she stumbled across a glitzy bagpipe procession and a line of people in aprons holding flags from countries around the world. She took a closer look, inquired around, and discovered it was a porridge parade, celebrating the contestants of a world porridge championship.

“And then you go into the village hall [where the competition is held], and it’s decorated in tartan and heather and with all the flags from all the people and their countries,” she says. “It was amazing. I was hooked. I just said to my husband that I want to take part in this. I want to do it.” Four years later, Williams returned to Scotland, and her porridge was crowned the best in the world. “When they called my name out, I was absolutely stunned,” she says.

Like Goldilocks chasing down that perfect bowl, Williams is among a dedicated class of professional and amateur cooks around the world who compete each year to serve the best bowl of, essentially, gruel. They gather in the small village of Carrbridge, Scotland, on the edge of a national park in the Scottish highlands, for the Golden Spurtle World Porridge Making Championship. Judges for the competition, which is split into “traditional” and “specialty” categories, are mostly recruited from the culinary industry, and rank each bowl by color, texture, hygiene, and taste. The “golden spurtle” refers to both the traditional Scottish utensil specifically designed for porridge-stirring, as well as the shape of the trophy awarded to winners.

James Ross

The bagpipe parade to kick of 2017’s Golden Spurtle championships

What began as a tourism initiative in 1994 to attract winter crowds to the quaint, 700-person Scottish town has grown into an institution, drawing in hundreds of spectators and up to 30 competitors each year. “I read about it in the newspaper and thought that if this isn’t a joke and it’s for real, it’s the most silly and insane thing I ever heard,” says Saga Rickmer of Sweden. She signed up immediately, and went on to compete in the 2016 world championships and ultimately win the Swedish Porridge Competition, a national spinoff competition, in 2019.

This year, due to COVID-19, the competition will move online, with competitors submitting short video recipes and winners announced over social media on October 10 — World Porridge Day. But while the thrill of softening stodgy grains in real time might be missing, the weight of the endeavor seems to resonate more than ever. Anyone who has been cooking and recooking the same simple meals from pantry staples during the pandemic will understand the quest for the platonic ideal of gruel.

The 2020 competition will also be slightly different in that it will focus entirely on the specialty category, where pretty much anything goes. Competitors can add a bunch of milk, shape the oatmeal into tapas, brulee it, steam it, or bake it. Per Carlsson of Sweden snagged the 2017 specialty win with a cloudberry-liqueur porridge brulee. Neal Robertson from Scotland won in 2011 with a cinnamon and nutmeg-spiked porridge topped with a blueberry compote. Other wins have included a mushroom porridge torta in 2012 and a sticky toffee porridge in 2014.

Nick Barnard of London, a two-time winner in the specialty category, says the key to dressing up an award-winning dish is knowing what the judges like. “The Scots love sugar, salt, and fat,” he says. “So I’ll give it to them in spades.” Barnard won in 2019 with his maple pecan porridge, a mix of pecan butter, maple syrup, dry milk powder, and cream, all topped with pecans sauteed in ghee.

Clarissa Wei

The tattoo on Carlsson’s forearm reads “Porridge Champion”

This year’s competition won’t include the traditional category, but normally competitors in this genre are required to make porridge with just three elements: oats, water, and salt. Minimally processed oats are a prerequisite; precooked oats like instant and rolled oats are not allowed. Almost everyone who has won has used steel-cut oats and soaked the porridge overnight.

While it may seem simple by comparison, the challenge — and honestly, the fun — of the endeavor lies in elevating what’s widely recognized as an archetype of culinary austerity into something worth awarding a large spoon-shaped trophy to. Many home cooks believe all oatmeal tastes mostly the same, but it’s a point of pride for a porridge connoisseur to rise above this stereotype to make a truly distinguished bowl of oats.

“Many older people have grown up with this traditional, gloopy porridge and have a distaste for it,” says Carlsson, who also won the traditional category in 2018. “But I usually give them a sample of my porridge to try, and they say, ‘This isn’t porridge. This is something else!’” At his bed and breakfast in southern Sweden, Carlsson used to rotate porridge duties with two friends, and guests always complimented their meals on days when he cooked. Now Carlsson is behind the stove nearly every morning. A small corner of the dining room is also demurely decorated with porridge paraphernalia: a spurtle, a ladle, Swedish porridge merch and slogans, plus Carlsson’s own book of recipes.

Fans generally believe that the ideal oat porridge should be thick enough to offer some resistance, but smooth enough to go down easily. There should definitely be salt, but not enough to make you reach for a glass of water. It should be thick enough, but not at all watery. Not too much, and not too little. Not too cold, not too hot — just as Goldilocks would have it.

“It’s fascinating. In a competition, porridge is cooked 24 different ways, and they all taste different,” says Robertson, who has competed for a decade and occasionally judges at the Swedish Porridge Championship.

courtesy Saga Rickmer

Saga Rickmer read about the competition in the newspaper and went on to compete twice since

James Ross

Everyone is pushing for the coveted Golden Spurtle trophy, shaped like the ultimate porridge-making tool

Competitors cook porridge every day for months, even years, to drill down the minutiae of the stuff. “You start preparing pretty much the day of the competition for the next year,” says Williams. Carlsson even recruited outside help from Dr. Viola Adamsson, a medical doctor and food nutritionist who has written several books on porridge and made porridge for the Swedish Olympic ski team in 1998 and 2002. “She practically has a doctorate in porridge,” jokes Carlsson’s wife, Catarina Arvidsson. Carlsson and Adamsson trained via Skype and telephone several times a week for a month, perfecting the water-to-oat ratio.

Among niche porridge circles, conversation often lands on four critical elements: oat-to-water ratio, type of oats, and salt. “One part oats to three parts water,” Williams insists. “Soak the oats overnight and use more salt than you think you would. I use Maldon sea salt — the same salt the queen uses.” Williams prefers half steel-cut oats and half stone-ground milled oats from Hamlyns of Scotland. “You get a nutty texture, but it’s not completely nutty. It’s more of a smooth nutty,” she says.

Robertson agrees on steel-cut oats from Hamlyns, but he does one part oatmeal to 2.5 parts water. “I tend to use sea salt,” he says. “It’s a bit softer and a bit more forgiving. And you should always stir it anti-clockwise. It keeps the devil at the bay.”

Carlsson does one part oats and 4.5 parts water. “I cook it for at least 25 minutes, then it is allowed to swell,” he says. Unlike Williams and Robertson, Carlson uses Swedish steel-cut oats from Saltå Kvarn, which are creamy but toasted for a “nice burned flavor,” he says.

In opting for Swedish oats, Carlson throws down the gauntlet in a nationalist sub-debate among porridge cooks. “Countries mill their oats in different ways,” says Anna Louise Batchelor, who won the specialty title in 2009. “Bob’s Red Mill [in America], they sell a really lovely rolled oat that’s very coarse. It’s very shiny and flat and it takes a long time to cook. Scotland loves their salty oats. And in Sweden, their milling is quite rustic.” Batchelor prefers coarse oats from English brand Mornflake.

Even the namesake spurtle is a topic of debate. Unlike spoons, spurtles allegedly don’t drag and prevent lumps. Many swear by them. “If you want to whip porridge in a pan without getting it all over yourself, the spurtle is the best tool,” says Barnard. “It brings air and stops it from overheating at the bottom of the pan and distributes the salt.” In 2016, Bob Moore, the founder of Bob’s Red Mill, won using a handcrafted myrtle spurtle from Oregon, where he lives.

Charlie Miller, the current organizer of the competition, says more eccentric attendees often bring specialty equipment too. Pressure cookers, microwaves, and bain-maries are commonly spotted in the competition hall. “Neal Robertson one year brought water that he claimed came from a stream that fed his local whisky distillery,” Miller recalls. In 2018, competitor Lynn Munro brought oatmeal she milled herself and cooked it with water she harvested from the loch at her childhood home. One woman even grew her own oats for the competition.

“Some people are so serious, it’s quite charming,” Barnard says. “The Swedish dress up like Swedish milkmaids and make a lot of noise. Some people have spreadsheets. It’s a circus, really.” But competitors are accepted into the fold regardless of skill. “I met one man at the competition who had never prepared a bowl of porridge in his life,” Miller says, laughing.

Robertson commemorated his 2010 win with a tattoo reading “World Porridge Champion 10.10.10,” rousing envy among friends and competitors. “Neal Robertson had [a tattoo] and walked around showing it off. Then I thought I should get one as well,” Carlsson says. Shortly after his own win, Carlsson shocked his children by getting his forearm inked with the words “World Champion” spiraling around a ladle.

But beneath the braggadocio and heated competition, the Golden Spurtle is, at its heart, about a bunch of people hanging out in a room cooking oatmeal. “It’s just the best time,” says Rickmer, who often visits her fellow Swede, Carlsson, as a guest chef at his bed and breakfast. “Competing in porridge is so cozy and cute. Everyone is so nerdy, which I love.”

Even this year, as competitors dive deep into their individual porridge pots, in their own kitchens, in their own countries thousands of miles apart, they are bound by a shared appreciation of well-cooked grains and what they symbolize. “It’s an ancestral food,” says Barnard. “All cultures around the world have a type of gruel.”

As with any competition, there are plenty of tears and laughter. “When I won, I was absolutely stunned. My face was bright red and I almost burst into tears,” Williams says, beaming as she holds up her trophy. She says she plans on going back to Scotland as soon as the competition is held in-person again, this time to add a specialty category win to her victory in the traditional category. “I have my china all picked out already.”

Clarissa Wei is an American freelance journalist based in Taiwan.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/35tYL5K via Blogger https://ift.tt/2DQpX2Y