ã€ŠGhost of the Countã€‹


 Prologue

    I climbed the clocktower of Bellvoir and looked down. From such majestic heights, I fought with my compulsion to view the people as anything but ants, as they flitted mindlessly. It is difficult to conceptualise how a town is but a simple design, until viewed at such minute scale. I was suddenly a child placed before a prized machine, whose mischief begs him to poke a single finger inside...just to see what would happen.

    <hr>

    Selika Montesquiou never wanted to be the one who changed history, but things had gone too far.

    On quick feet in pointed black shoes, Selika scurried through the Fosseville cemetery, and six witches followed. Their shadows thrown by lamplights and stars created twisted, cursive figures on the uneven dirt ground, bending and warping over tombstones and plinths. The sound was of an improv drummer as their footsteps skittered across the rough terrain.

    ¡°Come, quick!¡± Selika hissed. ¡°It¡¯s near!¡±

    Selika was a small yet severe woman in a black cloak and pointed hat. She had planned this night comprehensively, spent weeks putting to memory the layout of the cemetery, observing traffic through the surrounding area and noting patrol schedules. Yet she could not relax until they had secured what they¡¯d come for¡ªthe body of the Count of Bellvoir¡ªand disappeared without a trace.

    Crouching behind a bush, Selika waited for the other witches to catch up, and then turned on her heel and dashed the rest of the way to the gravesite.

    Her heartrate increased as she closed the distance between her and the grave. She became aware of the shovel in her hand, its cold handle and lofty weight. She kept it high above the ground as she moved, careful not to create any loud sounds by accidentally knocking it into something. Making frequent stops to catch her breath, she also used this time to check for groundskeepers. One thing Selika knew prior to commencing their risky heist was that the cemetery grounds were patrolled through the night, for these tumultuous times brought hooligans and all matters of scum. Scanning in the low-light, she could make out evidence of this: smashed vases, damaged tombs, statues missing limbs and heads. Yet Selika¡¯s mission tonight was nothing like tomfoolery; it was fateful.

    She saw a shadow in the distance just as she was about to get going, and immediately ducked her head. By now, the other witches had caught up and were hunkered in a narrow bend in the trail, just beneath the slope of a hill. The rasp of their breaths was the only sound except the chirping of crickets and animals stalking in the bushes.

    Selika had tensed as she watched the groundskeeper sweeping.

    ¡°Let me deal with him,¡± came a voice to her right. Selika nodded, and without another word, the witch began creeping forward. From her cloak she revealed a wooden wand, about as long as the distance between her hand and the ground, and then sped up in half-crouch towards the unassuming groundskeeper.

    Selika pushed off from her back foot and, keeping herself as small as possible (she was by no means tall to begin with, so this was not difficult), she raced further through the grounds with the other witches at her heel. She leapt vines that snaked the old paths. Her cloak caught on sticks and brambles, and by the time she had stopped again, just within talking distance from the groundskeeper with his lantern, she was covered in leaves.

    There was no sign that the other witch had cast a spell of any kind, just the damp thud of a body hitting the dirt ground, cold.

    Selika only released a breath when she reached the grave, rising now to her full height and walking until she was directly in front of it. The witches formed a semi-circle around her. Selika¡¯s eyes widened.

    As dim as it was in the moonlight, she could clearly see the great lengths the custodians had gone to in keeping the grave preserved. Even after all these years, the stone was pristine, the dirt hard and nourished. Flowers scattered about the site were well tended to, glistening with the wetness of being freshly-watered or the dew of night; and there were others potted in vases that decorated the gravesite. Yet aside from these things, there was nothing in particular marking the owner of the plot as anything prominent. Not wealthy, nor powerful. In fact, there was little indeed that differentiated his grave from the ones around him. His apparent insignificance, however, was just a fa?ade¡ªperhaps, a deterrent from would-be thugs.

    Selika stared at the inscriptions on the headstone.

    Here lies Edgar Fortestuna Lucien.

    Count of Bellvoir. 1768-1815.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Younger brother to [REDACTED] and Maria.

    Son to Odilon and Claudine.

    Lord of Witches.

    Selika didn¡¯t pay much attention to the part of it that had been scratched off (by the looks of it, violently). In the distance, a dog howled and the hairs on the back of her neck peeled upwards. Her eyes traced this inscription, the weight of it. She had seen these words before in the days leading up to this night, but it seemed different knowing what she was about to do.

    The Count of Bellvoir, as he was known in the twilight of his years, was a complicated man. It was not that Selika denied this, nor had she forgotten his (sometimes) angry, conservative and frankly misogynistic demeanour. However, there was no doubting Edgar Lucien¡¯s place as a symbol of the Black Dime Cabaret. His philosophies of witchcraft shaped every witch Selika had ever run into. But things had changed following his untimely death, thirteen years ago¡ªand not for the better. No thanks to people such as Maria Lucien.

    Ever since Maria Lucien had inherited the Black Dime Cabaret from her brother, things had gotten worse for witches. Business at just one cabaret was bad, let alone however many she had licensed out across France. And that was not to mention her restrictions on witchcraft, her selective teachings, her censoring of old texts. Where once the cabaret had been a safe and prospering space for the witches and misfits of Bellvoir, it had now become a burden. But Selika figured a turning was in sight. Yes, Edgar Lucien had founded the Black Dime Cabaret on the promise of not just existing in seclusion from the rest of the world, but on playing a leading role in it. Not just in Bellvoir, but across all of France. And tonight, Selika figured that with such a demonstration of loyalty and power, she would be the one to put them back on the world¡¯s stage. Not that she desired the infamy of doing such a thing, but because she had to.

    The days of Maria Lucien¡ªof stagnancy¡ªmust come to an end.

    Selika slammed her shovel into the dirt. The hag must go, she thought, as another shovel chomped deeper into the chasm forged by the last. The hag must go!

    ¡°THE HAG MUST GO!¡± They had chanted this in a private meeting weeks prior, defacing paintings of Maria Lucien and her sympathizers. The newspapers had picked up on their clandestine activities, calling them ¡°Lucienists.¡±

    Selika flung her shovel up and out of the earth, spraying a massive mound of mud. Several more shovels sheared into the dirt. Whoops and hollers into the night.

    Selika bared her teeth as she continued to dig. Surely somebody would hear the disturbance. Shovels into hard earth, spray of dirt, gasps and heavy breaths in the otherwise quiet night. Groundskeepers? Hooligans? Nobody came.

    It was no time at all before Selika¡¯s shovel clunked against wood. With another, her shovel penetrated into it. Her heart skipped a beat as this happened, and she peered down at the exposed coffin. ¡°He is here,¡± Selika said in disbelief.

    Shovels surged into the dirt, harder and faster than ever before. She had already copped her fair share in the mouth: cold, wormy dirt. It flew in sprays from each of the witches, their shovels gnawing like hungry beasts. Deeper, deeper. Eventually, she threw away the shovel and got down on her hands and knees, clawing and grabbing mounds of dirt from the coffin.

    Until eventually there was no more.

    Panting, Selika wiped sweat from her brow and stood back, admiring their work. None spoke, staring down at the tomb with the sense of uncertainty as to what should happen next.

    ¡°Should we...?¡± The question came from one of the other witches, just over Selika¡¯s shoulder. The rest of her question needn¡¯t be spoken, for Selika was thinking it too, and knew that this thought was shared amongst them all.

    What do you look like in there?

    Selika crouched down again, shuffling sidewards to better position herself abreast of the coffin. She felt for the edge, and unlatched it. She lifted the lid just enough to slip her fingers underneath, curved her fingertips ever so slightly for grip, and pulled.

    There was quite a bit of resistance, which was to be expected, for the coffin had not been touched, let alone opened, in the thirteen years Edgar Lucien had been dead.

    But she also felt a degree of apprehension. Selika had never actually seen Edgar Lucien before. Of course, she had known his face from paintings. Her favourite was The Limerence of Edgar and Rita, which she had looked upon and studied numerous times. But to see him in the flesh...or lack thereof. Now, this was something different entirely.

    She swallowed, taking in a deep breath.

    I¡¯m sorry for this desecration, she thought.

    Then slowly, she lifted open the coffin.

    The seven witches gazed upon the bones of the dead Count in reverence. He had been posed in furious vermilion, the material of his clothing in-tact after all these years. You could make out the handstitched thread, a weave of immaculate detail and precision; and the gold trim on his uniform, militaristic, though he was never a military man.

    Edgar Lucien lay with his head slightly-angled backwards, one arm across his chest and the other against his wrinkled ear, in total state of mummification. The only flesh remaining on his body was black and glassy.

    After a while, Selika closed the lid, flipped the latch back onto it, and then brushed her hands. She could not stop the racing of her heart.

    ¡°It is time to go,¡± she said. ¡°Help me with this.¡±

    The other witches gathered around. Slowly, and with great care and difficulty, they managed to manoeuvre the coffin out of the grave and into the cold night air. The entire group carried it together, out back the way they had come, all scurrying legs and pounding hearts. Selika did not dare look to see if anybody was watching them. There were only two things she could think of: the state of Edgar Lucien¡¯s mummified corpse, thirteen years under the grounds of Fosseville; and how much space remained between them and the exit.

    When she at last saw the escape wagons parked in the distance, she smiled, and could not control the laughter that suddenly took her. Shaking, she cackled loudly into the night. Cackled until she reached the wagon, lifted the coffin inside, and climbed after it.

    The horses pulled, and the witches vanished without a sign that they had ever been there at all, only the empty grave of Count Edgar Lucien in their wake.

 The Black Dime Cabaret

    I am an honest man, yet I am afraid the same cannot be said of half the population of this town. In particular, those whose monstrous buttocks fill its finest seats. I speak of those who control the narratives, those who wield the power of influence. Dimwits and braggarts, the lot of them; not to mention the half of those whose mouths spout never substance, merely the town¡¯s own drivel right back to them.

    <hr>

    Like an errant stroke in abstract art, you¡¯d be forgiven for not noticing it, but not much went by Maria Lucien. Her ears, though brittle and slightly-deaf from all her years at the Black Dime Cabaret, perked up to the finger-snap shatter of glass on the rugged cabaret flooring.

    ¡°Excuse me,¡± she said, mid-conversation, as she handed her rolled-up rag to Madame Hermine and exited their conversation at the bar. Neither Hermine nor their other conversation partner (a rather enthusiastic patron and supporter of the new season) flitted an earlobe, their mouths open to the beginning of, ¡°Where are you going...¡±

    Maria found the culprit of the smashed glass halfway through the cabaret. Their table was one of the last before the shallow drop to the main stage floor, their arms so close to the faux-gold balcony they could grab it. Those who attended the cabaret were often of wealthy makeup, and the couple she approached at this table was no different. Waving his hands in the air and staring at the puddle on the carpet, the man seemed to be more money than brains.

    ¡°I¡¯m, uh, oh dear,¡± he uttered. Yellow lamps holstered along the cabaret¡¯s red-wallpaper curves revealed sheen of grease on his skin as he flailed. There were glass shards on the table of various sizes, and the red wine it once held was soaking fast into the decorative floral table cloth and carpet flooring.

    Maria first picked up what remained of the glass, saving but a dribble of wine from puddling with the rest. ¡°It is fine. Oh, watch your footing, would you?¡±

    The man sidestepped farther from the table as his date watched on with a less-than-impressed expression. Maria could really not at all blame her.

    ¡°Our apologies,¡± the woman said.

    ¡°Never mind,¡± Maria responded. She caught the attention of a passing madame. ¡°I¡¯ll have somebody clean this up for you. No need to make a fuss about things. Enjoy the show?¡± When she addressed the wealthy man, he seemed just about to tumble over.

    ¡°Oh. Uh...¡± he said.

    ¡°Speechless. Wonderful!¡±

    ¡°Well, no, of course. Quite good. Quite...yes...¡±

    He truly does have soup for brains, Maria thought, wondering how, as of late, the shows had been attracting more and more of the clueless type.

    The woman had gotten up to accompany her date, forcing Maria to remark on her stunning blue gown. ¡°Thank you,¡± she responded. ¡°It is my grandmother¡¯s work. And you¡¯ll have to excuse Leon.¡± She took the man¡¯s hand and snatched him close. With an overextended smile, she said, ¡°He is prone to flabbergasting in the presence of such fine art.¡±

    ¡°Yes. He certainly seems that way. Now you make sure Leon gets his good night¡¯s sleep. The two of you will get home safe now, won¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± the woman said.

    When Hermine arrived, the two patrons were on their way out. Maria thanked Hermine for her efforts and continued towards the stage, watching her footing on the three descending steps. Tufts of cotton stuck out like ill-brushed hair strands at the edges of each step, while the burgundy carpet had turned darkish where heavy feet had trodden over the years. When she got amongst the circular tables on the main floor, she collected an empty glass from one table, stuffing inside it a used handkerchief, and took both with her.

    Jules was on his hands and knees on the elevated stage, dragging a white rag vigorously across the wood. As Maria approached, Jules glanced down at her and smiled, though his good set of bleached teeth were clenched rather profoundly.

    ¡°Maria! Just a moment!¡± Jules grunted.

    ¡°No need to rush yourself into a knot,¡± Maria responded as she continued to check around the cabaret. Lights suspended from the ceiling on long steel ropes left the pinnacle of the cabaret in darkness, while providing sufficient, diffused light to the rest of it. Despite the lack of entertainment, a healthy audience still drank and indulged in the premise¡¯s accommodations. Every now and then, a tipsy businessman or politician flirted with the curtains and doors leading through to the backstage passageways, ostensibly in need of relieving themselves, only to be rescued by a madame.

    Thoughts of those twisting, dark halls reminded her of Josephine, who she had last glimpsed vanishing behind the curtains after her last performance. Josephine had made an awful blunder right at the climax of the closing act, forgetting the scene entirely in the most embarrassing display.

    ¡°If you wouldn¡¯t mind, Jules,¡± said Maria, ¡°would you fetch me Josephine? I believe she snuck off backstage sometime right after the show.¡±

    ¡°I...Are you sure that¡¯s a good idea?¡± Jules squeaked, shoving back his stubborn blond hair and then mopping sweat with a rag from his forehead.

    ¡°Yes, and while you¡¯re there, I¡¯m certain you¡¯ll find there¡¯s something to clean.¡±

    ¡°You know what they say, Maria, about those passageways.¡±

    ¡°Oh for goodness sake, Jules!¡± Maria said, feigning a slap to the face. ¡°If you¡¯re going to start complaining about whatever imaginary ghosts the girls have been putting in your idiotic little head, I¡¯m going to stuff that rag up your backside.¡±

    ¡°Of- of course, Maria.¡± Jules scrambled from the stage and propped his wireframe spectacles back to the bridge of his nose. Maria was certain he¡¯d left an amount of his own sweat on the wood. She reached out with a long finger and examined the rounded edge of the stage, roughly six feet off the ground. The wood had started coming apart.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Somebody will catch a splinter on this,¡± she said.

    Jules slid to the carpet and checked the spot with his large blue eye. ¡°I¡¯ll have that sanded down for you, Maria,¡± he said as he ran his hand across the splintering wood.

    ¡°Perhaps also a new layer of paint.¡±

    ¡°Let me see what we have in storage.¡±

    ¡°Thank you. And remember what I said about Josephine.¡±

    Jules nodded.

    Maria felt a tap on the shoulder and turned around to face Hermine. The two of them exchanged the glass in Maria¡¯s hand, Hermine collecting it without a word on the topic. ¡°The creatives from the new play are here to see you,¡± Hermine said.

    ¡°It¡¯s about time.¡±

    Dismissing Hermine, Maria prepared herself a table by the stage, leaving two chairs slightly-jutting out from underneath it. She beckoned over the creatives, one extremely tall and skinny, the other round and overdressed for the warm weather. With the speed one might elect were they not booked for any other appointments in the next three weeks, the two women crossed over to where Maria had stationed herself and took their seats.

    Maria let Hermine fill three glasses of wine, and then be off.

    As this went on, the cabaret slowly emptied and the noise along with it. Truthfully, business these days was sparser than usual, but the trickle of patrons never fully subsided until Maria closed down at the end of service, well into the early hours of morning. Only then would she find time to properly rest. Until then, it was all business¡ªand, really, with her financial situation, she could hardly afford for it not to be. She often took her meetings during business hours, as she preferred the idle chatter surrounding them. She felt as if her mind and tongue worked better in the folds of such things.

    Maria glanced at the two creatives, eyeing the taller and more exuberant of the women. ¡°You must be Ms Goyet. And Ms Marville,¡± she addressed the second.

    ¡°It is a pleasure to meet at last,¡± said Ms Goyet.

    ¡°Yes. Well.¡± She smirked. ¡°On with it, then.¡±

    The duo had brought with them a number of pages containing diagrams, illustrations and notes, which they proceeded to spread out in front of them. Maria took them as they came, offering brief glances and digesting the information. She was used to the way these things looked and was quick to discern what was relevant to her. The rest of it, she knew she would pass on to other creative team members, so she put these aside without much thought.

    ¡°As you probably already know, Ms Marville and myself are well-established playwrights in Paris. Our most recent play, Holly Hour, which opened last season, was well-received by the critics and even won some awards,¡± Ms Goyet said.

    ¡°You should read the review in the Paris Times,¡± said Ms Marville.

    ¡°Oh, I have,¡± Maria said. ¡°And before you ask, yes, I received the show notes in the mail, as well as drafts of the script. I do believe it is good for the cabaret. The financial side of things, and creative timeline, those things I¡¯m less sure of. So let me be clear. We¡¯re looking at a short run early next season¡ªtwo weeks, very limited. You¡¯ll be contracted to eight performances across those two weeks. Of course, promotion is ours to handle, and ticket sales are ours. We offer an advance payment ahead of time, as well as promotional costs, so the way we see it, it¡¯s a fair arrangement. As for awards, well, I¡¯ll have you know I care little for such things. But we shall deal with it as it comes.¡±

    Ms Goyet and Ms Marville were quick to show their appreciation. ¡°We¡¯re okay with that,¡± said Ms Goyet. Maria asked to see the remainder of their notes and proceeded to file through them as Ms Marville explained the nuances of the show and its staging.

    By the end of it, Maria had heard enough, and had prepared items for the necessary people. While on the more expensive side to produce, the budget and finances were sound. Maria believed word of mouth on the staging and performances would be desirable, and she was not concerned about making back the money. Admittedly, they were licensing the show for a bargain, but she felt that Ms Goyet and Ms Marville would be hard-pressed to get it made elsewhere. Too small and pricy for a venue in Paris¡ªhence why they had approached the cabaret¡ªand generally too expensive for a venue out in the countryside. Maria¡¯s cabaret offered a middle ground that benefited shows such as theirs.

    ¡°Thank you very much,¡± Maria said eventually as she finalised her documents. ¡°I will endeavour to find dates with our booker and put you in touch with our prop masters and technicians. Anything else you need, please let us know. Typically we run a two to three month development cycle on all new shows, which means we will be getting a good start on this almost immediately. Might I ask, then, are you staying near Bellvoir?¡±

    ¡°Oh yes, well not in-in Bellvoir but a short way down the river,¡± Ms Marville said. ¡°There¡¯s a little inn along the riverside with lavish accommodations.¡±

    Maria nodded. ¡°Well, if you don¡¯t mind, I¡¯ll keep this with me.¡± She collected all of her required documents and rose from her chair.

    ¡°Not at all,¡± Ms Goyet said, standing up.

    They all shook on the deal, and Maria directed them over to their in-house production manager, to schedule in the next creative appointment for the following week.

    Once this was all complete, Maria wished the women farewell and took a seat. She gripped the bridge of her nose and gently closed her eyes. With a sigh, she seemed quite unable to shake the numbers from the backs of her eyelids. She doubted one could argue that it had not been a long day. But, then again, when was it ever easy business?

    ¡°Is everything okay, Maria?¡± The voice was Hermine¡¯s again. It seemed the woman had been stalking her closer than usual the past few weeks. Maria opened her eyes, blinking blearily and wondering how long she had been sleeping for.

    ¡°Yes, Hermine, thank you,¡± Maria responded. ¡°I wasn¡¯t sleeping, by the way.¡±

    ¡°By all means, you may go home,¡± Hermine said. ¡°I can handle it from here.¡±

    ¡°No, no, it¡¯s all fine. I¡¯ll wash up,¡± Maria said, climbing out of her chair.

    Hermine grabbed her lightly by the elbows and steadied her. ¡°Maria, please.¡±

    Maria shrugged herself out of Hermine¡¯s grip, the chair she had been sitting on scraping along the floor. Hermine¡¯s irises shone amber-like with steely determination. Her fingers were spread in the shape of a cage for a little bird, her long nails crimson like the cabaret walls.

    Hit with a sudden pang of protectiveness, Maria unclenched her jaw and slid the chair back underneath the table. Hermine loomed over her, no thanks to her tall yet fashionable set of heels; yet, what Maria lacked in height, she made up for in most other things. The cabaret¡¯s vast and decorative walls, its gothic yet stunning furnishings...These things were like branches extending from Maria, all-consuming and omnipotent. She knew that Hermine felt this too, for the younger witch swallowed and bowed her head in retreat. Maria might be grey and haggard on her own, but in totality she was not.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry if I am out of place,¡± Hermine muttered.

    Maria took in her hands a pinch of Hermine¡¯s straight, amber hair. ¡°It¡¯s been a while since you¡¯ve had your hair tended to, yes?¡± Maria asked. ¡°It is developing horrendous split ends.¡± She let Hermine¡¯s hair fall back on her shoulder.

    ¡°My apologies. I will pay more attention to that next time,¡± Hermine said quietly.

    ¡°Good night, Hermine,¡± Maria said, as Hermine vanished through the cavernous space of encroaching dark. Turning from her, Maria proceeded to tidy up around the stage until Josephine appeared, her cheeks puffed.

    ¡°I was sabotaged!¡± Josephine exclaimed. ¡°Somebody¡ªand I¡¯m not saying it was Madame Carlotta, though she does seem to hate me¡ªwell, somebody must have altered my scene or I had the wrong book or¡ª¡± She broke off to catch her breath. The young witch was dark in all aspects, except for her face, which was a pale, one might say ghostly, white. Her eyes were inset with heavy black makeup, her lips stunning red, and slightly smudged from the effort of her performance. ¡°Wait. Surely you do not believe I did this on purpose?¡±

    ¡°Forgetting your lines is one thing, Josephine, but what on earth compelled you to completely alter the scene? And if there are any more mentions of sabotage...¡±

    ¡°That is not true. I did not¡ª¡±

    Maria slapped her straight through the cheek, leaving an immediate crimson imprint on Josephine¡¯s ashen face just beneath her left eye. She stared, stunned. The lights surrounding her caught a single tear beginning to well, and the quivering gloss on her lips.

    ¡°You embarrassed me, and the cabaret. You¡¯re excused for the night,¡± Maria said definitively, and with but the tiniest squeak, Josephine departed.

 Happy Birthday, Antoinette

    My siblings and I were raised in a wretched household, yet our father was a wealthy man. I believe he was convinced of this idea that if we were made to suffer the same hardships as him, we would end up just the same. It is a comedy. Our father, a deeply flawed and troubled man, truly believed himself to be a standard by which all men and women ought to measure up against. Yet, as preposterous as it seems, I cannot help but laugh, for his methods did work. When I look into myself, I have become my father.

    <hr>

    When Maria awoke in the early hours of the morning, her hand was still buzzing. Sitting on the edge of her bed in a dim bedroom, she gently massaged it. A small blister had formed right where she had made contact with Josephine¡¯s soft cheek.

    Maria lived in her own property, a multi-storey house with a number of rooms rented out to girls from the cabaret. Descending the staircase to the first floor, she made porridge in the small kitchen before anybody else had woken. The house was eerily quiet save for the wind. It found ways to get into things, causing the house to whistle and creak. The walls, vibrating like a cat¡¯s content purr. The curtains remained drawn all the way, keeping the light to a minimum. As Maria ate alone at the table, her free hand flipped through the latest newspaper.

    She stopped at Charles De Kock¡¯s review from last night¡¯s show.

    ¡°If Maria Lucien¡¯s bankruptcy of original ideas is any indication of her current financial ruin of Bellvoir¡¯s ¡®famous¡¯ Black Dime Cabaret, then all who appreciate contemporary art will rejoice. A sold-out opening night proves that she is a better saleswoman than she is curator of fine arts, for there is nothing in Leonard Seurat¡¯s ¡®The Butterfly¡¯ that so much as nudges its audience to inspect nor engage with it any more beyond a miserable experience sitting in the theatre. It is an artistic death knell should Ms Lucien¡¯s cabaret continue to operate without competition another year¡ªnay, another month!¡ªfor I fear the days of such plays as ¡®Celine To Paris¡¯ and ¡®Armstrong¡¯ are long behind us. ¡®The Butterfly¡¯ is a poor and mistimed attempt at deconstructing the sexual repression of upper class wives in the modern period, and frankly, it is inappropriately self-indulgent. Ms Lucien ought to spend less time shoehorning topless young women into every play she curates, and more investigating what people really want to see. Alas, the play¡¯s writer and director, Leonard Seurat, while exhibiting somewhat commendable stage direction, particularly with his stylised instruction of line delivery, should never write another play again. ¡®The Butterfly¡¯ is one star.¡±

    Maria snatched the paper by two hands and tore it apart, ensuring no scrap remained larger than the tip of her spoon. She threw the paper rain across the table and continued to eat with her head down. That snivelling De Kock, she bemoaned. A whole lot of words that mean nothing. If you are so fearful of women, just say it! De Kock¡¯s many takes on the cabaret¡¯s shows were often less about the show and more about some sort of personal vendetta he had against them. Maria found that he had always managed to construct one thing or another to dissect and rip to shreds; but crying about seeing topless women, well, he clearly had a pip for a brain and there was nothing anybody could do about that.

    She heard the steps creak and then the sounds of two little feet approaching. Standing on the bottom step coming down into the kitchen was Antoinette, her dress cool and fashionable. She was staring down at Maria, rubbing her eyes with her full fist.

    ¡°Antoinette, your feet will freeze,¡± Maria said.

    Antoinette lowered her bleary eyes to her bare feet, then up again. She pointed with an outstretched arm to the ripped-up newspaper. ¡°Seriously, again?¡±

    Maria smiled. ¡°I have a surprise for you.¡±

    ¡°A surprise?¡± Antoinette¡¯s eyes widened with curiosity.

    Maria waved Antoinette over to the table. The young girl lifted herself onto one of the wooden seats with a loud and dramatic grunt.

    Antoinette sniffed loudly, her wide eyes scanning the kitchen surroundings as Maria languorously climbed to her feet and walked over to the cooking stovetop. ¡°Oh Maria, it does smell delightful!¡± Antoinette mused, her nostrils puffing. She reached up onto the table to catch a closer look. ¡°Cr¨ºpes?¡±

    Maria grinned as she took the pan and flipped them over. White steam lifted through the haze of light. The cr¨ºpes crackled over the high heat. ¡°Happy birthday, Antoinette.¡±

    ¡°You remembered!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not at that stage of losing my memory just yet.¡±

    ¡°Well, I just thought you would be too busy!¡±

    ¡°Too busy for cr¨ºpes? Oh, there¡¯s no such thing!¡± She collected the jar of maple syrup from the bench, placing it in front of Antoinette on the table. Then she collected a bowl of strawberries that she had chopped earlier in the morning.

    ¡°What is this anyway?¡± Antoinette asked. When Maria placed the bowl of strawberries on the table, she noticed Antoinette fiddling with the scraps of newspaper, as if trying to miraculously piece them back together. ¡° ¡®Ms Lucien ow...owgher¡ª to spend less time...¡¯ ¡± She evidently gave up, throwing it away and snatching a strawberry slice. Her blue eyes lit up as she chucked it into her mouth and chewed enthusiastically.

    ¡°Wait,¡± she asked. ¡°You said we could go to Cl¨¦o¡¯s shop, right! Yes! You said on my birthday we could see Cl¨¦o and she would make me a pair of shoes!¡±

    Maria returned to the stove where she turned off the heat. She began preparing the hot cr¨ºpes onto a plate. ¡°I did say that, didn¡¯t I?¡±

    ¡°Yay!¡± Antoinette beamed. ¡°Hermine said to me once that her first pair of dancing shoes were designed by Cl¨¦o herself. Is that true?¡±

    Maria clicked her tongue as she returned with the cr¨ºpes and set the plate on the table in front of Antoinette. Kissing her on the head, Maria said, ¡°Happy twelfth birthday, my very special girl.¡± She got herself a plate and transferred the smallest cr¨ºpe she could find onto it. She poured over a hearty amount of syrup, and using her hands, tore a piece from it. ¡°Now, Cl¨¦o does not make shoes for just anyone, you know? She only does so for the best, most hardworking and dedicated of dancers. Of course, she will ask you about these things. And don¡¯t take it so lightly, young Antoinette. You may now be twelve years old, but Cl¨¦o can spot a faker from somebody who takes their dance seriously.¡±

    Antoinette appeared anything but fazed as she chewed on her cr¨ºpes, syrup glinting on her lip as it drizzled down the side of her chin. ¡°I do take my dancing seriously.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± Maria said. ¡°Well, eat up. Surely you are not okay with eating cold cr¨ºpes.¡±

    ¡°Fiiiiine,¡± Antoinette groaned.

    Maria noticed the sounds of thumping feet, yawns and vocal exercises in the rooms above them, and it wasn¡¯t much longer before the house¡¯s other occupants began treading through the kitchen. They all bid good morning to Maria and happy birthday to Antoinette, and remarked at the fragrant cr¨ºpes. Maria made it abundantly clear that she was not about to go off and make cr¨ºpes for all of them, to the visible displeasure of the occupants.

    Josephine came down around six a.m. in her bare-minimums, giving Maria a light yet timid kiss on the cheeks and ruffling Antoinette¡¯s hair (who was still doing her best to finish her cr¨ºpes while inquiring on the latest gossip with each woman who came down).

    Maria, who had been mid-conversation with the sociable Antoinette, tested a glance at Josephine, who made no secret of avoiding her eyes as she walked on bare feet through the kitchen and prepared the coffee pot. Maria thought briefly that she ought to apologise for their encounter the previous evening, but felt that the window had too quickly passed, and so she said nothing of it, and nor did Josephine mention it.

    Another woman soon passed through the kitchen, commenting on the smells emanating from it, then shortly left through the front door. Josephine sat down across from Maria, next to Antoinette. She withdrew a small makeup kit and began applying some rouge.

    ¡°Hey, Josie! Guess what.¡±

    ¡°Hm?¡± Josephine intoned.

    ¡°Maria¡¯s taking me to buy my own dancing shoes from Cl¨¦o today.¡±

    ¡°Well, you must be very special,¡± Josephine said.

    ¡°And soon, I¡¯ll get to perform at the Black Dime Cabaret,¡± Antoinette announced, holding up a fork. The flimsy cr¨ºpe on the end of it held on for dear life, won the battle only fleetingly, before falling off onto the edge of her plate. ¡°What¡¯s it like? Is it amazing?¡±

    Josephine looked up with one eye done. ¡°Isn¡¯t it a little early for you to be dancing with the cabaret? Maria did not let me dance before I turned eighteen.¡±

    ¡°Well, I¡¯m probably better than you were,¡± Antoinette remarked.

    ¡°Oh. That explains it.¡± Josephine cackled to herself and did not quite look Antoinette in the eye as she began to work on her second eye. ¡°Arrogance runs in the Lucien family?¡±

    ¡°Josephine,¡± Maria said sternly.

    ¡°You wanna bet?¡± Antoinette roared. ¡°I can dance. You haven¡¯t seen me!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m only kidding. Relax,¡± Josephine said in a sing-song, exasperated tone. It was unclear if she was directing this at Maria or Antoinette. Her head swivelled on a neck that reminded Maria of a stage light panning across a stage, away from her small mirror and towards Antoinette. ¡°Besides,¡± she said, ¡°you do know gambling is no habit for such a young lady. Has Maria not told you this? Particularly betting against myself.¡±

    Antoinette pursed her lips, her face turning red as if she might explode at the older woman. ¡°You test me, Josie! I will show you! You will beg for me to dance for you!¡±

    ¡°Dance, then,¡± Josephine said. ¡°Come on, show me.¡±

    Antoinette bounced out of her chair and into the middle of the room. With no regard for her bare feet on the rough floorboards, nor of the limited space in which she had to cover, Antoinette began testing every dance move she had learned in quick succession. Maria bit down the admonition on the tip of her tongue and allowed herself to be humoured by the girl¡¯s enthusiasm. She even let out a smile, though she kept glancing at Antoinette¡¯s red feet.

    By the time she was finished, Antoinette was panting. ¡°Ha,¡± she managed between big, full-body breaths. Climbing back onto her chair, she stabbed her fork into a cr¨ºpe and chomped it in the most dramatic fashion.

    ¡°Well,¡± Josephine said, ¡°seeing that display, I know a fair few girls who should be quaking in their own dancing shoes right now.¡±

    ¡°Antoinette¡¯s time will come soon enough,¡± said Maria.

    ¡°By the way things seem to be going,¡± Josephine said slyly, and not breaking eye contact with Maria, ¡°it will soon be my position you take.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m finished, Maria,¡± said Antoinette suddenly, dropping her fork and sliding back off the chair. ¡°You can have the rest. Can we go now? After I get dressed, I mean?¡±

    Maria was glad for the distraction. ¡°Of course, Antoinette. Just make sure to put away your dirty dishes.¡± Antoinette gave Maria a big kiss on the cheek and then traipsed through the kitchen to clean up. Little motes of dust shifted as she waded through the soft morning light, turned on her bare heel, and hopped up the stairs.

    Maria didn¡¯t wait to finish tidying up. Josephine stayed where she was, the two of them in separate worlds. Really, the only sign that Josephine was there was the infrequent yet sharp exhales as she carefully applied the rest of her makeup.

    When finally Josephine, too, began to leave in a broad overcoat and hat, almost unrecognisable except for her most daring features, the hook-like nose and bright red lips, Maria stopped her, reaching out to touch her on the shoulder.

    ¡°Ouch!¡± Josephine cried.

    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be dramatic.¡±

    Josephine stared. ¡°What is it?¡±

    ¡°I have something to ask of you.¡±

    ¡°Hm?¡± Josephine raised a brow. A very perfectly-arched brow.

    ¡°You know Charles De Kock. He writes nasty reviews of our shows. Very predictable, it does not matter the subject nor the show itself. It would seem he has some sort of problem with us, and I would like to...send him a more stern message. I have told him before, but the message never seems to stick, or he¡¯s too dull to get the picture.¡±The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Again, Maria? We have dealt with this time and time before.¡±

    ¡°And why is that, Josephine? Perhaps because the git persists with his mockery, hm?¡±

    Josephine pouted. ¡°Why waste your efforts if you know he will not quit?¡±

    ¡°Everybody has something they care more about than their stubborn agenda. Remind our friend of such things, so he might be liberated from the sad world he makes for himself.¡±

    ¡°Not everyone, Maria,¡± said Josephine grimly. ¡°Some people are just like that.¡±

    ¡°When it concerns the cabaret, I frankly don¡¯t give a damn.¡±

    Josephine sighed indignantly. ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll do it.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡± Maria found herself watching the door until it closed, Josephine exiting the room. With everybody gone, the house had become uncomfortably quiet.

    * * *

    Josephine arrived early to the cabaret, which was a good thing, as today looked to be a long one. She greeted Lady Leroux at the front bar and took a side door with a NO ENTRY sign near it. Navigating a web of curtain fabric, she emerged in a dark room beyond the walls of the cabaret. Her hand reached automatically for a hanging light cord, and she pulled it.

    Dim yellow light illuminated the small space beyond. There were cardboard props from old shows, and baskets on baskets of fabric sitting on the floor. Two little cats, one black and the other ginger, were currently engaged in rough warfare on top of a couch, which was all but deskinned from their claws over time. When Josephine entered, the cats stopped mid-motion to watch her. The black one fluffed its tail, bared its teeth, and gave a prolonged hiss.

    ¡°It¡¯s only me,¡± Josephine said.

    She checked the door was closed properly, then strolled into the room. The white cat leapt from the couch and ran over to her, winding around her legs. Josephine tangled with it as she reached the other side of the room and opened another door there. This one led into a short corridor that ended at a portrait on the wall, then immediately veered sideways.

    Josephine left the door ajar, the cat following after her, as she walked through the corridor. She glanced only briefly at the portrait, whose narrow eyes followed her as she explored. The subject of this painting was an old dressmaker who was but one of several ghosts that walked these labyrinthine halls. Every now and then, Josephine encountered her during her forays through the cabaret, exchanged a pointless word or two, and let her be off.

    She followed the next passageway, which terminated at three doors in a triangle formation. She made for a shelf against the wall and reached for the vase of flowers on top. Gripping this in her hand, she rotated it clockwise, and heard a soft click from up ahead. She took the door to the right, turning the handle until the door swung open.

    Inside was a small square room with the strong smell of dust and mould. Old props were discarded here from as far back as the cabaret¡¯s early days, along with various wooden backdrops from old shows. Josephine locked the door and then pulled again on the light cord. She waited for a moment, her breaths filling the silent space.

    From the door, she made her way across the room to a small altar that bore a narrow opening in its face. She knelt down on the rug in front of it.

    The metallic smell emanating from this rectangular opening was copper-like and nauseating. Carved with precision, the altar itself was magnificent and pious. Tiny engravings depicting scenes followed the sinuous, gilded framing. Central to the piece was a gold statue of a bearded man with his eyes carved out, wearing a four-pointed crown.

    Josephine removed a small blade from her purse, sending it to the tips of her fingers. She then reached her wrist into the slit in the altar and, with her free hand, passed the blade through skin. Flesh rippled where it dug in. The sizzling sensation of opened skin stung viciously as blood oozed down her arms and into the cabaret¡¯s veins.

    Josephine let out a moan and her body sagged towards the floor, her face falling against the altar with her bleeding arm inside it. Her breaths became wet with saliva, and she heard each one reflecting against her. The blade fell loose, clattering on the floor.

    She glimpsed Maria in her mind. The instinct caused her to immediately slam her face into the stone so that her teeth clacked, biting into her cheek.

    ¡°Ah!¡± Stars filling her vision, she flew from the altar to her feet and grabbed her cheek, which was doubly-bruised now.

    Observing the mess she had created, she groaned, grabbing a handful of her dress and wrapping it across the bloody cuts in her arm. Then, gritting her teeth, she propped herself up against a piece of set dressing and let out a sigh. She¡¯d gotten rather dizzy and just needed a moment to compose herself. Josephine did not understand Maria¡¯s obsession with Charles De Kock. As far as Josephine was concerned, he was certainly a loud and self-important prude, but nothing more; and really, she thought it was a waste of time to keep on handling him like this.

    Recovering from her light-headedness, she carefully made her way across the wet floorboards to the centre of the room. Here, she began carving out a shape with her own blood. The honey-like ooze ran over gaps between the boards, where nails jutted from the wood, and little charcoal markings were left from years ago.

    With clumsy precision, she eventually had painted a complete symbol on the wood, and then smashed her mouth into her arm, drawing a great suck of blood.

    She exhaled, mouth gone red. She took something else out of her purse now, a lock of hair that Maria had long ago acquired from Mr De Kock. She pinned this to the floor in the middle of the symbol, ensuring it was thoroughly caked in her blood.

    If anybody had been walking through those long and twisting halls deep within the cabaret, they would have heard only the scraping of kneecaps on rough wood, and seen just the occasional burst of red light coming from underneath the door.

    * * *

    ¡°Hello, Cl¨¦o!¡± Antoinette exclaimed as she ran inside the shoe store, Maria following her. Cl¨¦o¡¯s shop of dancing shoes was a small establishment that took precisely as much space as it needed in the streets of Bellvoir, and no more. It was sparsely and plainly decorated, with couches only in the most optimal areas, walls pasted over with old show posters collected from the cabaret, numerous shelves stacked with shoes, and a workbench that was situated at the back in front of an archway sealed with a strip-curtain of multi-coloured fabrics.

    By the time Maria had reached the workbench, Antoinette was already there, reaching up and over it to ring the little tin bell.

    Ding! Ding!

    ¡°Once is enough, Antoinette,¡± Maria said as Cl¨¦o appeared from behind the strip-curtains. Cl¨¦o was the tallest, most fluid person Maria had yet met. She flowed, rather than walked, gliding through the doorway and filling the entire shop with her lustrous, supernatural presence. Her hands fell like tides against the shoreline to the bench. Her strawberry hair, which had been dyed as such in her later years, was so straight and precise Maria assumed it was almost certainly a jinx of some sort, worn by her like a long scarf.

    ¡°And so the child comes of age,¡± Cl¨¦o mused, lacing her long fingers. ¡°Madame Antoinette, it was foretold that you would come in short time. Of course, Maria has spoken of your commitment to dance, but as you ought to know, it is no small thing to ask for.¡±

    ¡°Is it true that you made shoes for all the best dancers at the cabaret?¡± Antoinette asked in a high-pitched, excited voice. She was just about bouncing on the spot, the tassels of her blue dress flailing left and right against her flowery stockings.

    ¡°I design shoes only for the best,¡± Cl¨¦o said. ¡°That is, before they were the best. Now, now, not that my shoes make the dancer, but that the dancer makes the shoe. And I have a good eye for them.¡± She winked whimsically at Antoinette.

    Antoinette stared in amazement and a little confusion.

    ¡°Come then, darling,¡± Cl¨¦o said, rising from her seat. She rounded the bench and unfurled her arm around Antoinette¡¯s back, guiding her along. ¡°I have a pair of shoes designed just for you. All it requires now are a few tiny adjustments. Of course, the shoe must fit perfectly if you are to dance at the cabaret...¡±

    Maria did not go with them, instead remained at the front of the store. It was not long after that she heard a tapping on the window, and saw, peeking inside, the wide-eye, searching face of Madame Suzette. Suzette was a young woman who worked as a stage hand in the cabaret, and often flitted about completing small tasks; so, it was not unusual to see her at any time. However, there was a look about her face this time that seemed most severe. Frowning, Maria inconspicuously slid outside to meet her.

    ¡°Why are you acting so suspicious, hm?¡± Maria asked.

    Suzette was serious. ¡°A letter came for you.¡±

    ¡°Yes? And does it wield massive fangs or something?¡±

    ¡°Well...¡± Suzette handed the small scroll to Maria, who took it sceptically. It did not take her long to realise the reason for Suzette¡¯s apprehension.

    Maria, it read.

    I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than mine.

    I have been made aware that a certain grave in Fosseville was desecrated and exhumed several nights ago, an incident we believe is related to a string of movements occurring here in Carcassonne. As of yesterday morning, we have apprehended a possible suspect¡ªa member of the Black Dime Cabaret in this great city. I hope this is not truly surprising, considering the nature of the grave that was targeted.

    As you might imagine, a likely future step will involve a hearing of sorts. If avoiding this means anything to you, perhaps your presence in Carcassonne would help to imminently quell any further developments and put your women back in line without the legal difficulties. I understand it is in nobody¡¯s interest to involve the courts in talks of such things as, well, you know what I mean.

    My sincerest apologies if you find this news disturbing.

    Yours,

    Pauline

    Although signed ¡°Pauline,¡± Maria knew that the letter was from her oldest brother, Alfred. He tended to use the names of old French women in his letters, rather than his own. Maria folded this back up and held it in her hands. It wasn¡¯t often that Alfred wrote to her. In fact, she was sure he had even missed most birthdays of hers. So, when he did write, she knew it was something she should pay attention to. ¡°When did this arrive for me?¡± Maria asked.

    ¡°Just this morning,¡± said Suzette.

    ¡°I see. Thank you, Suzette.¡± She wondered what to do next, as Suzette stared deeply at her with expectation. Maria did ponder, occasionally, what a woman such as Suzette thought of her, and if she too would pounce on her position the moment Maria blundered. Or did Suzette not dream of such things like power, content enough with the life she already had?

    Was such contentment even possible?

    Maria clicked her teeth, coming to a decision on what best to do. ¡°Ask Hermine to arrange an immediate meeting at the cabaret, would you?¡±

    ¡°As you wish,¡± Suzette responded.

    ¡°Well. Off you go, then.¡±

    ¡°Of course. Excuse me.¡±

    Maria waited until the woman had left before returning inside the dance store. For the remainder of her time there, Maria could only think of what Alfred had written to her. Truthfully, she was not sure yet how it made her feel.

    There was no question that the Fosseville grave was that of their younger brother. Though in Edgar¡¯s time he had no exceptional love for Fosseville, he had wished to be buried any place but Bellvoir; and Alfred, in Carcassonne, did not wish to share the city with the remains of his brother. So Fosseville was a not-so-distant yet obscure middle ground.

    Maria had rarely thought about her youngest brother Edgar in the thirteen years since he had been buried. She had imagined, with him so far removed (not once did Maria travel to Fosseville) that she never would have to think about him again. She felt...unprepared for such a thing. Desecrated...and exhumed? What on earth kind of reason would they have to dig up his rotten, dead body? She certainly did not care to ponder too deeply on the state it was in.

    Regarding the ¡°movements¡± occurring in Carcassonne, Maria had no clue. Yet she did not enjoy the fact it was involving members of the cabaret. That likely meant witches, and that made it her problem. But if it became somebody else¡¯s problem, then that meant the government. Not surprisingly, local councils and the cabaret seldom ever saw eye-to-eye.

    ¡°Look!¡± Antoinette said, twirling on the spot in her new pair of shoes. Maria smiled and told her they looked wonderful, still half-thinking of her dead brother¡¯s skeleton.

    ¡°Maria?¡± Antoinette said.

    ¡°Yes?¡±

    Antoinette stomped her feet and folded her arms. ¡°You¡¯re not listening, are you! Do you like them, Maria? They are a perfect fit, see?¡±

    ¡°Of course I¡¯m listening. Yes, perfect. Thank you, Cl¨¦o.¡±

    Antoinette did not seem overly impressed with her response, but seemed to accept it nonetheless, going over to Cl¨¦o and declaring that she would immediately purchase the pair. Cl¨¦o, with her flowing robes and hair, rolled back behind her workbench and sorted the payment in her ledger. Maria did all of this without thinking about it too much.

    They walked from the store holding hands, the cotton bag containing Antoinette¡¯s new shoes swinging jollily from the girl¡¯s free hand.

    ¡°Why are you being so weird?¡± Antoinette said.

    ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± Maria responded sternly. The streets were quiet in the early morning, yet soon they ought to be flooding with pedestrians, the warm sun spilling through Bellvoir¡¯s crisscrossing streets. A beautiful sunny day, was Maria¡¯s estimate, though far from how she felt.

    ¡°Who was that person you were talking to?¡± Antoinette asked.

    ¡°Hm?¡± The girl was perceptive, even at her age. It was no use lying to Antoinette; she always knew when something was not as it should be. ¡°Oh, yes. That was Madame Suzette. I¡¯m sure you must have met her once before. She merely had to relay me a message.¡±

    ¡°What kind of message? Was it bad? Was it about the show? Was it¡ª¡±

    ¡°None of your business, you nosy little girl,¡± Maria remarked.

    Antoinette growled. ¡°Meanie! You¡¯re just making me have to ask her myself...¡±

    ¡°Oh, all right!¡± Maria was smart enough to know that she was not going to be spared of this until she came through with the truth. ¡°Your uncle Alfred sent word from Carcassonne. You know him. Not that it is very often he makes an appearance in your life.¡±

    ¡°Uncle Alfred? He was here last Christmas.¡±

    ¡°I see. Alas, there¡¯s a problem in Carcassonne and your uncle has wished for me to be there, I sense, the way he does so, without really saying anything.¡±

    Antoinette simply gave off a musical sigh, the bag still swaying rather animatedly from her fingertips. ¡°Can I come, if you have to go to Carca-what-was-it?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± She spotted a carriage coming up and hailed it, the gentleman tipping his hat in her direction and guiding over the dual-horses.

    ¡°Oh come on!¡± Antoinette bemoaned.

    Maria stood on the side of the road as the carriage pulled to a halt close enough for the driver to reach out and touch the street lamp.

    ¡°Ma¡¯am,¡± he greeted them.

    ¡°Thirty-nine De Grappel Avenue,¡± Maria said. ¡°I¡¯d like to be there on the double.¡±

    ¡°On the triple with these girls.¡± He patted his two horses on their long white manes.

    ¡°Did I say triple?¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Um...¡±

    Maria sighed. ¡°On you go, then, Antoinette.¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡± She stared up with her most unpleasant face.

    Maria tore a pocket of coins from her purse and tucked them into Antoinette¡¯s small hands. ¡°Once you arrive there, find Otto. You know Otto, my friend. Don¡¯t talk to anyone else. Don¡¯t accept anything from anyone. You go to his residence and talk only to Otto.¡±

    ¡°Hang on a minute, but why¡ª¡±

    ¡°Because I said so. I have to be at the cabaret.¡±

    ¡°Well come on then, lass,¡± said the gentleman on the carriage. He carefully got off and landed with his shoes on the sidewalk, sending plumes of dirt over them.

    ¡°Pffffft!¡± Antoinette snorted.

    ¡°Oh, erm, sorry about that,¡± the gentleman said, trying to wave away the dirt cloud. ¡°Well, you ready or not? I¡¯ve got other people waiting.¡±

    Antoinette stared up at Maria with displeased eyes, appeared as if to offer her a hug, but did not, just let the gentleman help her onto the carriage.

    ¡°She will pay you on arrival,¡± Maria said to him.

    ¡°As the lady wishes,¡± he responded.

    ¡°I will come for you tonight,¡± Maria told Antoinette.

    ¡°Fiiiine. Have fun in your exciting meetings. I¡¯m sure it¡¯s going to be so fun. Meanwhile, I¡¯ll be trying on my shoes and becoming the best dancer in Bellvoir. And when I¡¯m that good¡ªbetter than all your other dumb dancers¡ªyou will simply have no choice but to accept me into the cabaret. Or, I¡¯ll just wait until you turn into a skeleton and make me the next boss. Yes, I can¡¯t wait. Antoinette Lucien, queen of the cabaret!¡±

    Antoinette Lucien. Her saying that name aloud made Maria grow cold. Antoinette had, of course, not yet been told about her exact relation to Edgar Lucien, and certainly Maria had no intention of doing so¡ªas far as the near future was concerned. In Antoinette¡¯s mind, her association with Lucien was not by blood but only in name. Yet, in truth, she was Edgar¡¯s only daughter. If Maria had her way, Antoinette would never seek to associate with the Lucien family name at all. She felt that doing such a thing only served to curse the young girl for life.

    Slowly, Maria came out of her revery, noticing Antoinette looking out at her from inside the small carriage box with those innocent, blue eyes. ¡°Farewell, Antoinette,¡± Maria said sternly. She waved, and the gentleman pulled the shade over Antoinette.

    In a kick of dust, the horses began down the road, the carriage pulled behind it. Fading into the distance, Maria heard only the retreating cry from Antoinette: ¡°Byeeeeee.¡±

 Secret Libraries of Bellvoir

    Our father was a studious man, and as such, impressed the importance of good education on us from a very young age. I learned to read and write as early as I could. During the few times our father did acknowledge us, he brought home little stories that we read together before going to sleep; and then, in the dim light of a candle, I continued to read late into the night, when nobody else was awake.

    <hr>

    Maria arrived at the cabaret a few hours before it opened for business, so it was uncharacteristically empty. The first person she saw was Jules with his broom and a smattering of grease on his face. Maria raised an inquisitive brow.

    Jules responded with a rather defeated look. ¡°Oh, so it¡¯s bad, then?¡±

    ¡°Keep it off the finery, would you?¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Of course, Maria! Besides¡±¡ªhe ran his index finger over his charred skin, and then examined the residue¡ª¡°it seems to have gotten stuck quite firmly.¡±

    Maria sighed, wondering why she continued to keep him around, and remembering that the reason was his immense lack of social life¡ªand his tight lips, which was a fairly good trait for somebody managing the cabaret¡¯s hidden spaces.

    ¡°I assume the others are here?¡± Maria said.

    Jules pointed, and Maria followed his stick-like finger. She often thought he must have played a good fiddle with those long, lithe fingers, but she kept this to herself.

    Hermine and Josephine were seated around a table near the stage. Maria had only covered half the distance towards them when the main doors opened again, letting in a blade of light that bathed the visitor. Clad in full suit and pants (albeit, both slightly too large for him), he removed his bowl hat and limped to Maria, extending his hand and offering the most surefire smiles. ¡°Ms Lucien, good morning,¡± he said. ¡°And to the others.¡±

    ¡°Erm. Are you looking for something, Mister Compte?¡± Maria asked. She did not take his hand, and so Compte returned it to his side where he gripped a handkerchief, using it to wipe his large, sweaty forehead.

    ¡°I was alerted of an urgent matter,¡± he responded.

    ¡°I¡¯m just wondering why you¡¯re here, is all,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Is it not my prerogative to be privy to such things?¡± He stuffed his handkerchief back inside a pocket in his suit. ¡°Remember, we had a deal.¡±

    ¡°Oh spare me. And wipe that snarky smile from your lips, Josephine.¡± She met the girls at the table and took her seat. Compte sat across from her in the last free seat, uninvited. ¡°Hermine, please enlighten me, what precisely is Compte doing here?¡± Maria asked.

    ¡°He¡¯s not wrong. We have an agreement, no?¡± Hermine explained.

    Maria rolled her eyes. She hated the politics of these things. It was no wonder it was not at the forefront of her mind¡ªor anywhere close.

    ¡°You have my attention for ten minutes,¡± Compte warned importantly. ¡°I have another meeting I ought to be present at. So speak up, what are we all doing here?¡±

    ¡°Thank you, Denis,¡± Maria said. ¡°We¡¯re blessed, we are.¡±

    ¡°It is all right, is it not, for him to be here?¡± Hermine asked.

    ¡°Thank you, Hermine. You¡¯re right. He is entitled to be here. And he is here now.¡± Maria took a glass of red wine from the table and drank. ¡°How much does he know?¡±

    ¡°He? He! I¡¯m right here,¡± Compte said. ¡°I know nothing. Carcassonne, something about Carcassonne, and that somehow despite the natural ways of things, it involves your more-than-decade-deceased brother, that self-righteous rat, Edgar.¡±

    ¡°Yes, unfortunately even in death, he finds a way,¡± Maria said, taking another sip of wine. As she returned the glass to the table, she said, ¡°I imagine I will be leaving by the morning to take care of matters over there. My life¡¯s become a habit of cleaning after my brother¡¯s mess.¡±

    Compte cleared his throat in a way that closer resembled a beast you would find in a swamp. ¡°He, erm, is still...This sounds silly, but he is deceased, correct?¡±

    ¡°Only in body, it seems,¡± Maria said resignedly.

    ¡°Well what is the full story?¡± Compte asked.

    She let Hermine explain it, while Maria waited. When she was done, and Compte appeared well-fed with information, Maria said, ¡°I will have Hermine take care of matters at the cabaret in my absence, if she can handle that?¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± Hermine said.

    Maria looked at Josephine, then, the woman disengaged from the conversation. ¡°And if Josephine will not deny my request, I would have her join me in Carcassonne?¡±

    Josephine shrugged. ¡°If you say so.¡±

    Maria clicked her tongue, satisfied with that. It was not that she wanted the additional company in Carcassonne, but it was long ago ruled that witches of the cabaret move in pairs, if not groups, when venturing from Bellvoir. Maria was no exception to this, even if she did make exceptions for other things. Slowly, she turned her gaze from Josephine to the pallid-faced Compte, who seemed to be growing more restless by the minute.

    ¡°Now, as you are well aware, Mr Compte,¡± Maria intoned, ¡°my previous absences from the cabaret have been seen as opportunities to cause a mess. For example, expensive parties late into the night, and that one time an unauthorised performance of Short Unreal happened. I¡¯m safe in assuming this will not be the case this time? No sneak attacks from your end, I¡¯m hoping.¡±

    ¡°Well.¡± Compte chortled, his brows kneeling inward as he looked around at the women, and raised his hands in surrender. ¡°Well, no, of course not, Ms Lucien. How long do you anticipate your absence being? There is the matter of the new season, of course.¡±

    ¡°Why do you care so much about the season?¡± Josephine said. She looked more interested in her glass of wine, which she lifted to the light before taking a sip.

    ¡°Not to be blunt,¡± said Compte, defiantly, ¡°but I don¡¯t. I care that it is money in my pockets. And I do enjoy watching my pockets fill with money.¡±

    Josephine groaned aloud. ¡°Imbecile.¡±

    ¡°We should not be gone longer than a week, Mr Compte,¡± Maria said. ¡°But Hermine can run things in my absence. She has done so before.¡±

    ¡°Very well,¡± Compte said. ¡°Just...do whatever you have to. We done?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s all,¡± Maria said. Compte threw back his seat and grabbed his bowl hat from the tabletop, putting it back on his head. Pushing in his chair, he proclaimed to the party, ¡°I wish you safe travels, and that whatever¡¯s in Carcassonne provides little trouble for you. I will be awaiting to hear back upon your return. And say hello to the baron for me.¡± He walked off.

    Maria was the next to stand, gathering the remainder of her wine and downing it in a last gasp. As soon as Compte was gone, she declared, ¡°We shall leave tonight, then. Josephine?¡±

    ¡°Fine by me,¡± Josephine said.

    Hermine stood, running hands through her long amber hair, the way she often did when she was overwhelmed. ¡°I do hope it is quick.¡±

    ¡°As do I,¡± agreed Maria.

    ¡°How is the cabaret there?¡± Josephine asked as she joined the others on her feet.

    ¡°Bella runs that one,¡± Hermine said as she straightened her dress fabrics. ¡°It¡¯s smaller than ours, though does well-enough for itself. Bella is rather popular, I hear, and has run unchallenged for the past two elections, so there¡¯s at least some stability.¡± Hermine looked at Maria. ¡°You must know all of this, Maria, yes?¡±

    ¡°Unfortunately.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps a dumb question, but why was Edgar Lucien buried in Fosseville and not in Bellvoir?¡± Josephine inquired. ¡°I can¡¯t be the only one who thought he was buried here.¡±

    Maria felt irritated at having to discuss her younger brother. These were not conversations she had needed to have with people prior to this, and she had liked it that way very much. ¡°My brother, I suppose¡ªand this is not exactly protected information¡ªbut he was not the greatest fan of the people, and particularly Bellvoir. You heard Compte, he regards Edgar as, I quote, ¡®a rat.¡¯ And he was; it¡¯s one thing perhaps that Compte and I can agree on. Edgar would have despised having to remain in Bellvoir for eternity. Why Fosseville, though? He enjoyed it, in his time. No witches, nobody really who cared about the name. It¡¯s a peaceful town. And my brother never had much peace in his lifetime.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s sick what they have done to his body,¡± Hermine mused. ¡°Let a man rest, for God¡¯s sake.¡± And with that, she gave a large sigh.

    Maria addressed Josephine. ¡°Perhaps return to the house and start packing,¡± Maria said. ¡°There are other matters I must attend to before our departure. Oh, and Hermine, please, come with me. We¡¯ll discuss pressing matters for the cabaret.¡±

    ¡°Precisely, Maria,¡± Hermine said.

    ¡°As you say,¡± Josephine said. ¡°Maria. Hermine.¡± She took off, walking past them and out of the cabaret. Maria watched her go, the door swinging shut behind her.

    #

    Antoinette jumped out of the carriage and walked begrudgingly to the small building where Otto lived. Otto, whom Antoinette had met a number of times, lived in a small tenement set in a bland-looking housing block. It was the sort that attempted to host as many residents as possible while occupying as little space as necessary. As far as Antoinette was concerned, she would rather live on the streets than in such a dull and uninteresting place.

    Sighing all the way to the building, she eventually rose up onto the tips of her toes and pulled open the front door. It was dimmer inside than it was out, by a margin, the lighting limited and hazy. With her bag of dancing shoes swaying, she crossed the entry hall to the elevator. ¡°Mister Hesse¡¯s office,¡± she said to the man operating it. He offered a cautious expression back, looking around apparently to see if there was anybody else with her.

    ¡°My mother put me on a carriage and sent me here to go with my uncle, Otto,¡± Antoinette said in a lazy drawl, not looking at the operator. ¡°So, here I am.¡±

    ¡°Very well,¡± the operator said sceptically.

    He opened the gate (it did not open quietly) and walked into the elevator with her. This was the only elevator that she knew of that was in Bellvoir. When she had asked Maria once about this, Maria suggested that she had never thought about it before.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    The ground was shaky underfoot. The operator forced the gate closed and then wrapped his hands around the crank. Antoinette observed his hands; they were big and callused and wrinkly, like he was wearing three pairs of winter gloves over them. You could even see where the grease from the metal had actually become ingrained in his skin, staining it blackish.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you ask questions?¡± Antoinette asked.

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± he said, starting to turn the crank, lifting the elevator upwards.

    ¡°Well, am I really here to meet Mister Hesse? Or are you even worried about my safety? Lots of bad people around Bellvoir, you know?¡±

    The operator shrugged, and kept looking out at the passing bricks as they ascended the shaft. His big hands continued turning the crank, sweat shining in the tar.

    ¡°I¡¯m a dancer,¡± Antoinette said, showing the shoes.

    ¡°Interesting,¡± the operator responded.

    ¡°My mama runs the cabaret. Well, she¡¯s not my real mama. She adopted me when my real mama died when I was a baby, but I don¡¯t really know much about her. I don¡¯t even know my father, to be honest, but apparently he was quite boring, a gardener or something. I¡¯ll leave Bellvoir when I¡¯m old enough and become a dancer. What do you do when you¡¯re not here?¡±

    ¡°Hmph,¡± he responded.

    ¡°Do people ever ask you to be quiet? You¡¯re awful talkative.¡±

    ¡°Whatever, little girl.¡± They reached their destination and the operator seemed to be in a hurry to open the gate, yanking it aside with such force for a moment Antoinette thought the whole elevator might fall down, like he¡¯d forgotten something.

    ¡°Whoa, whoa, whoa!¡± she said, skipping out as soon as the gate was open. The operator walked out behind her, avoiding her eyes; though, to be fair, it was a very long way down to find them. He checked the corridor both ways as Antoinette stared up at him.

    ¡°You just, uh, watch yourself,¡± he grumbled.

    ¡°Why thank you, you¡¯re very thoughtful,¡± Antoinette responded.

    She began to skip down the hall with her bag swinging. When she arrived at Otto¡¯s room, he looked as prepared for guests as someone who had put a ¡°no guests¡± sign on his door. His clothes, though fine, were not anytime recently ironed or, it seemed, washed; his hair was a right warfield, all tangled and spider-webby; his face, full of scruff.

    ¡°Maria didn¡¯t...mention¡ª¡± Otto said.

    ¡°No, well, it was very last-minute.¡± Antoinette showed him her dance shoes on the way in, as she peered around at the state of things.

    Otto¡¯s tenement was not by any means tiny, but smaller than what Antoinette was used to. No individual room was very large, yet each one joined straight with the next via high arches without doors. Tall bookshelves lined every wall except where Otto had carefully, or not so carefully, placed a fruit bowl painting. These things Antoinette looked at but didn¡¯t pay much attention to. None of the decor seemed particularly significant, most of it likely purchased at cheap from an auction or store.

    And thus she found herself throughout the evening working with Otto on a project that he seemed quite unwilling to let loose much information on. Her job was primarily in the furthest room of the tenement, a dusty and wretched-smelling space with boxes full of books, and a blackboard in the corner covered in things she didn¡¯t have the slightest clue how to understand, but occasionally looked at for distraction from the books and to entertain herself.

    ¡°There are books in those boxes,¡± Otto had told her. ¡°I want you to take them out of the boxes, get rid of any duplicates¡ªthose go in this box here¡ªand sort the rest of them onto those shelves in order of subject, and then by author. These are inscribed on the inside of the front cover, so you¡¯ll have to check each one before you put them back. And please, Antoinette, don¡¯t make a mess of them. Unfortunately I just don¡¯t have the patience nor the eyesight anymore to fix them. And don¡¯t worry where they came from, all right?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Sure. Okay,¡± Antoinette responded.

    By about an hour into the job, her hands were hurting and she was tired from constantly getting up and sitting down. The pain was mostly in her wrists, and her eyes were going all funny. Natural History. French Politics. Romance Literature. Every now and then, something grabbed her attention and she turned several more pages past the cover, only to be met with exhaustive lines of text that made her dangerously close to falling asleep.

    ¡°Tea, Antoinette?¡± Otto asked, appearing in the doorway.

    ¡°Why won¡¯t you tell me where they all came from?¡± Antoinette asked, at last taking a break and sitting inside one of the empty boxes, poking out her neck.

    ¡°Well, it¡¯s a complicated thing. They are varied. How do I say this, they are from many different places¡ªeven from around the world in some cases.¡±

    ¡°How do you get them here?¡± Antoinette asked.

    ¡°Again, that is a complicated thing,¡± Otto said. ¡°Most of the ones you see here, I had previously in my house in Germany, where I come from. Do you know where Germany is? It is quite far from here. I had to put them on a boat. As for new deliveries, well, people send them sometimes. Or rather, I arrange with, how do you say, business partners, maybe. It¡¯s all very complicated for a little girl to understand, you see.¡±

    ¡°Do you ever read them? Have you read any of them?¡±

    ¡°Some of them,¡± he said with a shrug.

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand why you have so many!¡±

    ¡°Well, value in a book is not just to do with whether or not it is to be read by myself. Possessing such books is its own value, particularly many of these. Think of them as being...collectable. Yes, that¡¯s a good way to put it. You collect anything?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t collect anything,¡± Antoinette said.

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t understand, then. Anyway, would you like tea?¡±

    ¡°Okay, thank you. Any will do.¡±

    Otto nodded, though delayed for a moment. He picked up a book that was sitting on a shelf and glanced at the cover, flipped it over. ¡°Ah yes,¡± he said glumly. He tossed the book on a pile that immediately crumbled, and walked out. Antoinette watched the collapsed tower of books, more of them falling in a disorganised scatter on the dusty floorboards.

    ¡°Are you kidding,¡± she muttered.

    She picked up a few more books and stacked them. Then sighing, she put them down and jumped out of the box, weaving out of the room. She heard Otto starting the fire in the kitchen, so she knew where not to go. Taking the other direction, Antoinette began wandering through the apartment on her quietest ballerina feet.

    Let¡¯s see what I can find in here, she thought. Into a cramped sitting room, she saw, again, little but bookshelves and the same boring decorations. Geez, give me something good.

    She gently pushed on a closed door, peeking through the slit. Hazy sunlight lit the room like murky water in a pond. Her eyes darted, catching more and more things as slowly she creaked the door further. She saw a desk come into view, with a lamp on it. This must have been Otto¡¯s private study, where she had never stepped foot in before. Usually he kept the door locked, or if not, kept his eyes on her so as not to let her wander too far. Then, if it wasn¡¯t Otto keeping a watchful eye, it was Maria, who rarely sent her off alone.

    ¡°What do we have here?¡± Antoinette said.

    Before she knew it, she was stepping inside with the door closing behind her. Her feet took her across the red rug in the middle of the room to the desk, where she went en pointe and peeked over the top, checking the contents of his table.

    She slid a manuscript page from the table and looked at it.

    To the attention of Mister Hesse,

    The latest shipment contains several high-value copies of note. A number of manuscripts (7 of 55) contain reduced accuracy, although remain at or slightly above acceptable levels. As always, the complete inventory list is attached separately. These are being made available for distribution immediately.

    As an aside, Dubose says there was an incident with a distribution house in Cristueux being investigated. Remember to maintain secrecy with your clients, and that we operate via word of mouth only. Please alert me should you believe your work is compromised.

    This shipment contains the long-awaited Chateaubriand novel, which was delayed due to missing chapters. We believe this will be a popular release.

    Antoinette¡¯s lips formed the words on the page, and then she immediately threw it back on the desk, her eyes going wide. She glanced to the door, still closed.

    She side-eyed the paper she had just finished reading.

    This really made her feel like a cool detective. And, by the sounds of it, Otto was doing something very shady. Were all of these books...copies? Fakes! But what made him so important to be the one to have so many?

    I feel like I should tell Maria about this. She jumped onto Otto¡¯s chair and picked up some other bits of paper scattered around. She didn¡¯t understand all of it. There were a lot of numbers, and where he¡¯d made complete sentences of things, she couldn¡¯t really read his handwriting. But there was something fishy going on, that was for sure. It was not normal for someone to have so many books, and now she had a feeling where they were coming from.

    The floorboards creaked outside the door.

    Heart jumping, she threw herself from the chair and ducked underneath the desk, nearly banging her head on the top. At around this moment, she heard the door open.

    ¡°Antoinette, are you here?¡± Otto called.

    She held her breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

    Otto remained at the door for a while, then eventually walked away, and Antoinette released her pinched breath. She climbed back up and slid from the table one of the pieces of paper, scrunching it deep into a pocket in her skirt.

    When she returned to Otto in the kitchen, he had just finished brewing the tea and had two hot cups on the table. Antoinette seated herself opposite him, noticing he was writing something on another piece of paper. She tried, unsuccessfully, to peek at it.

    ¡°Where were you?¡± Otto said.

    ¡°I was just in the bathroom. Are you going to tell my non-existent mother?¡±

    ¡°Hmm.¡±

    ¡°Do all old men just go around saying ¡®hm¡¯ all the time? That¡¯s exactly what the guy downstairs kept saying, like he had something stuck in his throat.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not old,¡± Otto complained. ¡°As for the elevator man, well, he is up there.¡±

    Antoinette took a sip of tea, and hissed. ¡°Hot!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s just off the stove, of course it is.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s just off the stove,¡± Antoinette repeated.

    ¡°Okay, little girl, I¡¯m not going to play this game.¡± He drank an ungodly mouthful of tea and put his small glasses back on, continuing to write.

    ¡°I like your glasses,¡± Antoinette said.

    ¡°Oh, thank you,¡± Otto said without looking up.

    Antoinette looked around, thinking about the various things in Otto¡¯s kitchen. What she hadn¡¯t noticed before was the clock, which looked antique and old, standing up against the wall. She also hadn¡¯t noticed many other things, such as how the view outside the window was actually quite nice to look at, framing big trees and red roofs. A line of white birds stood perfectly along the steeple of one nearby, and she could have sworn they were watching her.

    ¡°Where is Maria, anyway?¡± Otto asked.

    ¡°Doing some cabaret thing. Her brother sent from Carca-whatever and I think she¡¯s going to have to go there. You don¡¯t have to worry, though, she¡¯ll take me with her. Because last time she didn¡¯t, and she promised she would take me next time. Which is this time.¡±

    ¡°Carcassonne?¡± he asked. ¡°I wonder what that must be about.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Same. She never tells me anything, that woman.¡±

    Otto raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

    By the time Maria returned to collect her, it was dark outside, and most of the books were organised on the shelves. Antoinette was tired, and while her hands had hurt before, they were incredibly sore now. She was lying down using some books as a pillow; her small, skinny legs kicked up in the air with her brand new shoes gleaming in the lamplight.

    ¡°Antoinette!¡± Otto called.

    Antoinette climbed excitedly to her feet and ran out of the room, meeting Otto and Maria at the front door. ¡°Finally!¡± Antoinette cried, throwing her arms around Maria. ¡°Please, take me out of this crazy man¡¯s home. He¡¯s made me his slave!¡±

    ¡°Hey, don¡¯t tell such lies!¡± responded Otto.

    ¡°Thank you, Otto,¡± Maria said. ¡°I appreciate you keeping her here while I was away. I hope she behaved herself. Did you listen to Otto, Antoinette?¡±

    Antoinette jumped backwards, stepping lithely on her dancing shoes. ¡°Yes. Like I said, I was basically his slave for the whole day. You know how many books he has?¡±

    Maria was looking around. ¡°Yes, I imagine plenty.¡±

    ¡°She mentioned your brother sent word?¡± Otto said.

    ¡°Yes, well, I shouldn¡¯t be surprised that she told you. My dull-headed brother requires me, but it¡¯s nothing you or anyone need to be concerned about. I will see that I¡¯m there as soon as possible to clean it up. You know Alfred, utterly incapable of solving anything himself.¡±

    ¡°Pardon me for prying, but what exactly might the nature of this be?¡± Otto asked. ¡°Far as I have gathered, it is quite unusual for your brother to call your assistance.¡±

    ¡°It is a matter of witches, that is all.¡±

    Otto groaned. ¡°Hmph.¡±

    ¡°Can we go?¡± Antoinette asked, already at the door.

    Maria and Otto said something else about coming back later that night so he could show her something before she left. Then, after a little while longer, as Antoinette slowly crept towards the front door, Maria turned from Otto and walked away. She gave Antoinette a look that indicated all-clear to depart, and Antoinette did not wait around.

    They stood a few paces away from the carriage as the driver extinguished his cigarette and fed his horses some fat apples under the dim gas lamp glow.

    ¡°Antoinette, I will be leaving with Josephine first thing in the morning to Carcassonne,¡± Maria said quietly in the dark and empty street. ¡°You will be staying in the house during this time, and if you are lucky, they will teach you a thing or two at the cabaret. You would enjoy that, won¡¯t you? Perhaps one of the girls can teach you some dances?¡±

    ¡°Huh, but you said¡ª¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Maria bit back. ¡°I will not be taking you to Carcassonne. I¡¯m sure you can understand that the business there is not simple. You wouldn¡¯t enjoy it.¡±

    ¡°I would! I don¡¯t want to be stuck here again.¡±

    ¡°Antoinette, that is my final word on it.¡±

    ¡°Well you can¡¯t stop me. I¡¯ll just catch a train.¡±

    ¡°You will not.¡±

    ¡°But ma¡ª¡±

    ¡°Antoinette, stop it. I said no, and that means no. If you keep on fighting with me, I won¡¯t let you come along next time, either, or the time after that.¡±

    ¡°Oh, like you would anyway!¡±

    Maria gave off a hmph, same as the elevator man and Otto. They were all the same, all these old people. Angry and no-fun and treating her like she was no good at anything.

    Antoinette crossed her arms and stamped her feet.

    The carriage driver opened the door, soft yellow light spilling out onto the side of the street and illuminating Maria¡¯s outfit. ¡°Ready for you!¡± he called.

    ¡°I¡¯m not coming,¡± Antoinette pouted. ¡°You said.¡±

    ¡°So you¡¯ll elect to remain here all night?¡± Maria said. ¡°Where will you sleep? Cuddled up on the hard rock ground? And it gets miserably cold, too, but if you insist.¡±

    Maria strode confidently to the carriage and did not look back as she vanished inside. The driver stared at Antoinette, and Antoinette stared at him, waiting for Maria to acknowledge her, to come get her and tell her to come in after all, but Maria did no such thing.

    ¡°Little one, I¡¯m not waiting all night,¡± said the driver.

    Antoinette lowered her eyes, her dance shoes hanging from her fingers, as she walked through the darkness to the carriage and got in. She did not look at Maria the whole ride back, staring out the window at the passing scenery, which became darker as they went.

 The Witches Take Flight

    I spent much of my eighteenth year travelling abroad throughout Europe. It was while passing through the south of Italy that I made acquaintance with the beautiful seductress Rita Galeazzi. Our initial encounter was largely playful, even flirtatious, and we shared the night together (my first with a woman). The following morning, Ms Galeazzi invited me to spend the day at the institution she ran, in the mountains. It was here that I would spot, for the first time, my father¡¯s work outside of our home.

    <hr>

    Maria crept into Antoinette¡¯s bedroom late that night and kissed her gently on the forehead. ¡°Goodnight, Antoinette,¡± she whispered. In the corner of the room, bathed in a square of moonlight, she saw Antoinette¡¯s packed bags with a chosen outfit on top.

    Maria felt a pang of unsteadiness, retreating from the bed. Her slippered feet on the floorboards made a languorous creak. Yet, the girl did not stir, sunken into the deepest of slumbers, the sort only young children had. Maria returned her eyes to Antoinette, watching her for a moment, then left the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

    When she reached the estate stairwell, which connected every floor of the house, there was a deep quiet. She considered how this silence made her feel. The building was heavy around her, the walls large and cumbersome, the expensive details in the stone more ostentatious than functional. When her younger brother had died, a significant sum of his wealth had ended up with Maria and Alfred¡ªnot to say either of them were particularly in need of the money, but this was how things had fallen. With a portion of the inheritance, she had paid a deposit on this once-ramshackle estate, and for the next two years made a project out of it. Now it served as a lodging spot for witches, who each paid Maria a small fee.

    Hugging her burgundy nightgown around herself, she walked down the stairs.

    On the first floor, she was greeted by Caterina, who was carrying an empty washing basket with her, and a broom. Caterina was older than most at the estate, but she worked hard and was reliable when it came to keeping the house tidy.

    ¡°Evening, Caterina,¡± Maria said softly.

    Caterina smiled gently as she lugged the basket onto a bench and withdrew a scrunched-up piece of paper from her breast pocket. ¡°This was recovered from Antoinette¡¯s clothing. I admit, I was curious, and glanced at it. Sembra un problema.¡± She handed the small piece of paper to Maria, who frowned deeply as she took it.

    Reading, she could not help but sigh.

    Oh, Otto, she thought. Of course, Maria was aware of his work; she was not involved, specifically, but she did make use of his library. She found that it was important to keep an eye on the manuscripts passing through illegal channels, for some information was not meant for the public to consume¡ªinformation concerning witchcraft, for example.

    Folding it back up, she handed it to Caterina and told her to dispose of it, say nothing to Antoinette. ¡°It got lost in the washing,¡± she suggested to Caterina, and so this was the story they would go with. Perhaps she would speak with Otto about it later on. After all, when they had spoken earlier, he had requested as much. She wondered, then, if Otto had spotted anything circulating that might relate back to her brother¡¯s recent exhumation. Such things tended to manifest in unexpected and unconventional ways.

    ¡°Is that all, Caterina?¡± Maria asked.

    ¡°Yes, Maria. Good evening.¡± Caterina picked up her basket and disappeared through the house. Maria continued on her way. Earlier that evening, she had finalised the documents pertaining to the cabaret and had them handed off to Hermine for the interim. The cabaret was in a moderately stable period, so nothing much to worry about. There were meetings to be had with creative teams, and others to be rescheduled for Maria¡¯s return. She had signed off on a few things in advance to start ticking boxes, but trusted Hermine with ticking off others. Hermine dealt with a lot of this stuff anyway, and she generally was of a similar mind with Maria, or at the very least, knew how Maria liked to run things.

    While at her desk in the study, Maria checked over her last correspondence with Alfred and continued to re-read the first line: I have been made aware that a certain grave in Fosseville was desecrated and exhumed several nights ago. It exhausted her, more than anything. But perhaps it was also the heaviness of the long night folding in around Bellvoir and taking the day¡¯s energy with it.

    She read downwards. As of yesterday morning, we have apprehended a possible suspect...

    This referred to a member of the cabaret, hence Maria¡¯s duty of involvement.

    A likely future step, her brother had written, will involve a hearing of sorts. If avoiding this means anything to you, perhaps your presence in Carcassonne would help to imminently...

    Her brother was cryptic at times, but he was making no attempt in this letter at being subtle. I understand it is in nobody¡¯s interest to involve the courts in talks of such things as, well, you know what I mean. Their youngest brother did a number of things in his time. One of these was making witchcraft practice acknowledged and even popular in places such as Bellvoir and Carcassonne. He had heralded ¡°witch law,¡± which, as the term sounded, helped separate those who identified as witches from the general legal bodies of the state.

    This did several things, but most of all it enabled key members of the witch¡¯s jury to punish and trial people for ¡°crimes of witchery.¡± It helped avoid public scrutiny and keep witch practice out of the public eye, which as far as Maria was concerned, was always for the better. She had found that the general public tended to sensationalise such things, and misunderstand it at the best of times, which made for dreadful results.

    But different processes for different places. Maria knew Carcassonne leaned anti-witch in the modern day, and this showed in their legal process. Alfred¡¯s offer for her to come and resolve the matter before it was heard by the courts seemed to be more a personal favour than anything officially recognised by those who ran the legal system. But, if it meant keeping one witch from facing severe punishment, it was worth it to her.

    Maria¡¯s eyes skipped from the letter to a hardback tome on her table. Its title in gold foil was Principles of Witchcraft. Her brother had written this manuscript following an expedition to Italy one year. It was her opinion that Italy had not done this family any favours. Ever since Edgar had gone there, studying mysterious teachings, her life had been hard work.

    And now more so than ever. She wondered, would the day ever come when she¡¯d no longer be left cleaning up this family¡¯s mess? Most of all, Edgar¡¯s.

    Several hours had passed and Maria entered the living room where Josephine awaited her on a red velvet couch. She sat there with a distant gaze, her hands clasping the armrests. Flames churned in the hearth, an all-encompassing warmth invigorating the room.

    ¡°Brighten up,¡± Maria said. ¡°Carcassonne is not that bad.¡±Stolen novel; please report.

    Josephine looked up at her across the room, and shook her head. ¡°I¡¯m not thinking about that. I was thinking about when you first brought me to the girls¡¯ shelter on Du Boir street all those years back. Do you remember it, Maria? I was only fifteen when I arrived there. I was about the same age as most of the girls. We bunked in threes or fours. I remember the days quite vividly. You didn¡¯t introduce all of us to witch theory. Dinah, for example, she wished to learn but you never allowed it. How did you choose?¡±

    Maria frowned, wondering what Josephine was getting at. Maria did not think often about the times gone, certainly nothing much earlier than when her younger brother died. The girls¡¯ shelters in Bellvoir still operated, but Maria had not been involved for many years.

    She sat down on the single-seat couch and stared into the fire. The effect of the heavy curtains over windows and creaking timbers of the house was a feeling of detachment from the rest of the world. ¡°I find it difficult to recall the details of older times. I saw Dinah again a few years ago. She was with a child, and frankly, happy. When I saw that, I decided that whatever I had been thinking back then, the right choice was made.¡±

    ¡°I hated you for a very long time,¡± Josephine said.

    ¡°I bet,¡± responded Maria bluntly.

    ¡°I really hated you. For the things that happened back then.¡±

    Maria smirked in a testing way. ¡°Are you trying to send me a message, Josephine? If you still have those feelings towards me, you are not the only one. I hope you know, it makes no difference to me whether or not you despise me. But since I¡¯m not keeping you prisoner, and you have not yet walked away, I¡¯ll assume we have an understanding.¡±

    Josephine sighed. ¡°I did what you asked me to about De Kock. Made sure he won¡¯t trouble you any longer. At least, if he¡¯s smart. Is he smart, Maria?¡±

    ¡°Pfft!¡± Maria didn¡¯t even have the words.

    ¡°For my sake, I hope he is.¡±

    Josephine pulled the ends of her sleeves down around her hands; her long fingers with painted nails clung to them tight. The younger witch looked askance and met Maria¡¯s eyes across the room, her expression biting. The firelight glowed against her skin and red apple lips in the same way it might against a lacquer.

    ¡°Shall we be departing then?¡± Josephine asked.

    ¡°I imagine you have sent forward our luggage?¡±

    ¡°As requested.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, Josephine.¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡±

    They walked together out of the living room, through the parlour of the empty house, and then out the door. Maria took in a lungful of the night air, the frost on the wind like a soothing inhale of mints. The rest of the street was quite empty, little movement except for things rustling in the breeze, and burning of gas lamps.

    Maria examined her feelings towards leaving Antoinette behind. She would have felt worse if she had made any promises about taking her anywhere, but she hadn¡¯t. No matter what Antoinette thought of the situation, she could not say that Maria promised anything.

    She risked a final glance at the house, standing amidst a block of other houses.

    ¡°Calm night,¡± said Josephine, snapping Maria from her reverie.

    Maria nodded. Winds were still. She licked her lips, but there was no taste in the air. She would predict good weather and fair travels to Carcassonne.

    ¡°Before departing, there is something else I must attend to,¡± Maria said, thinking of what Otto had told her earlier, that he had to show her something.

    Josephine raised the most inquisitive brow. ¡°Do tell?¡±

    ¡°It is not what you¡¯re thinking. It¡¯s business with a friend.¡±

    ¡°I should have figured.¡± She appeared disappointed.

    Maria sighed. ¡°I will see you in Carcassonne, then.¡±

    Josephine nodded, and with a flash as easy to miss as a streetlamp flickering, Josephine had metamorphosised into a black bird and set off into the night sky, her clothes falling in a neat pile on the side of the street.

    Sickening, Maria thought glumly, her stomach tilting. How I truly hate doing this. The only reason she had elected for such a mode of transport was the speed and secrecy it provided.

    She stepped towards the pile of clothes and gently nudged it into the shadows with her foot. She then collected the handlebars of a bike that leaned against the brick wall, and half-mounted it, hauling it in the direction of the street. Then she rode.

    #

    Maria arrived at Otto¡¯s tenement, having left her bicycle at the front, and knocked at his door. Otto slowly but surely appeared, dishevelled yet (Maria knew this for a fact) not from sleep. In fact, he was wearing shoes, and carried with him a book even now.

    ¡°Come in quick,¡± Otto said. ¡°I know you must be off soon.¡±

    Maria walked inside and Otto closed the squeaky door behind them. His residence was dimly-lit, the curtains all drawn, the bookshelves providing a complicated maze that seemed unnecessarily difficult to navigate in this darkness. ¡°Did you realise Antoinette nicked one of your inventory sheets?¡± Maria asked, proffering the stolen page to him.

    Otto took it, frowned. You couldn¡¯t see much in the low light.

    ¡°How...?¡± he began.

    ¡°You ought to take better stock of such things.¡±

    Otto grumbled, putting it on the nearest shelf. ¡°That thief. Thank you, Maria.¡± He went into his study, and came out again with a small and flimsy saddle-stitched manuscript with embossed leather covers. She took this, flipped through it, and immediately seized up.

    ¡°A chapter from my brother¡¯s book,¡± said Maria. ¡°How did you get it?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not an official copy. Of course, Maria, you¡¯ve the only one officially. Somehow, it appears, the texts have been stolen and are being reprinted.¡±

    ¡°How did this happen?¡± Maria asked. There was one possibility she immediately knew of. Contrary to what Otto had said, there was one other copy of this book that had been published. However, only Maria knew where it had ended up, and the idea that such a thing would fall into public hands was unlikely. However, if these pages had been stolen from the tome in Bellvoir, it meant that somebody in the cabaret had leaked them. She could tell that this copy was a bad impression, not done by a steady hand. Somebody trained, but if she was right about her brother¡¯s expectations, not something he¡¯d be impressed with.

    ¡°Someone had access to the book, copied it precisely¡ªwell, as much as one can¡ªand then it was circulated,¡± said Otto. ¡°It was not necessarily the same individual performing all three of those things. But there is no way to really trace where it came from.¡±

    ¡°So you purchased this?¡± She waved the pages.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Otto said. ¡°Why, I had to. But now it¡¯s off the market, at least.¡±

    Maria cursed under her breath, handing it back to Otto. ¡°How much did you pay?¡±

    ¡°Evidently, more than its worth,¡± Otto said. ¡°The problem is, in this business, information like this is valuable. Somebody will pay a good price for it. And unfortunately, on this occasion, I am the fool who has lined the criminal¡¯s pockets.¡±

    ¡°Have it destroyed,¡± she grumbled. ¡°How many have you found? This is but a single chapter. I will assume there are, or will be, more?¡±

    ¡°Actually, I own several different chapters.¡±

    ¡°Have them all destroyed. Any you can find. Where are they even from?¡±

    ¡°Black market bookstores. Manuscripts are moving all the time. I hardly have the ability to intercept them all, although I have many eyes and ears around France. If there are whispers of more pages from your brother¡¯s book, I will follow them up.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Sorry for telling you this at such an inconvenient time.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps not,¡± she said. She wondered, could there be a connection between these manuscripts and her brother¡¯s corpse being stolen? Both things must have occurred at a similar time. It would not be the worst idea if Otto kept an eye on any developments regarding this.

    Her brother¡¯s book was not written to be read by anybody outside of the cabaret, hence why he¡¯d only created the two copies¡ªone of which had been stolen by his mistress following his death. But to not just steal the secrets for one¡¯s own gain, but reprint them widely? That suggested it was more of a business move, rather than distributing it to anybody specific. Collectors or scholars, not would-be witches. To this end, it bothered Maria less, but it was still no good to have out in public. The more people knew about the cabaret, the worse for them.

    ¡°Keep me informed,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°As much as I can. Before you go, can I offer you tea?¡±

    ¡°No, I shouldn¡¯t.¡± She did not wish to overstay her welcome; and besides, it was still many hours to Carcassonne and she ought not to be waiting around. ¡°If you can, Otto, please keep an eye on Antoinette for me. Check in with her?¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± he replied.

    ¡°If I may.¡± She walked through the residence and out to the balcony. The cold air washed over her as she moved to the edge of the railing, gazing out across the small town. Fine mist rolled in the breeze, over brick roofs and chimneys. A sheen of dew clung to the ugly architecture. Otto followed, but stood in the doorway, looking out.

    ¡°Is there a trick to this?¡± he said. ¡°A...vanishing act?¡±

    Maria began to remove her cloak, continuing to stare across the town. She lifted the fabric slightly off the goose-bumped skin of her shoulders. ¡°Well, you have quite an amount of my brother¡¯s book now, don¡¯t you?¡± she said to him, only half-looking.

    Otto scoffed. ¡°Shall I give you privacy?¡±

    ¡°Do as it pleases you,¡± Maria muttered.

    With no hesitation, she let her cloak fall off her shoulders and an instant later metamorphosised into a swallow, spreading her wings and letting loose into the midnight sky for a long-delayed family reunion.

 Interlude: The Fisherman

    Remy Gardel was a simple man, with simple routines. He woke up early every morning (before the sailors set out across the lake), brewed a pot of tea, and drank it on his veranda looking across the sparkling lakes of Bonpoi. His boathouse was at the end of a pier, which he enjoyed, as it offered a degree of isolation from the town itself. Not that he was not fond of Bonpoi, but he did very much enjoy having his own space.

    After drinking tea, Remy washed himself in the lake waters. By this time, other fisherman were awaking and getting on with their days. Once he was cleaned, Remy checked his equipment, selecting his rods and his baits, before preparing his boat and setting off across the lake.

    Bonpoi was one of several small fishing towns in a verdant countryside spotted with a number of large lakes, the biggest of which bordered Bonpoi. This was where Remy sailed most mornings. The waters were still today, and sailing was smooth. Remy drew a lungful of beautiful morning air. Birds squawked overhead, crossing the teal sky.

    That¡¯s the good stuff, Remy thought, smiling.

    Once he was sufficiently out in the water, Remy lowered his sails and gathered his bait from the wooden bucket he had brought with him. He attached a fat worm to the hook on his fishing rod, then moved to the edge of his boat and cast it over the edge. The bait landed with a tiny splash, sending squiggly ripples along the water¡¯s surface.

    Life in Bonpoi was simple. Far enough from any notable cities, there was little traffic, and few strangers to keep eyes on. Remy had lived in Bonpoi all his life. When his older brother had died, he had inherited the boathouse, and never thought about leaving. Of course, this meant the days were fairly uniform, with little things of interest occurring.

    Not that this bothered Remy much. He had his books, and he had fishing, and between those things, there was little else a man could want.

    He was softly singing to himself when he felt the tug on the end of his fishing rod. ¡°Whoa!¡± Remy yapped, grounding himself against the boat as it pulled at him. He leant back, keeping his eyes on the tremoring spot in the water where he had hooked something.

    ¡°Careful there.¡±

    It pulled again.

    Remy grit his teeth, the strength of the hidden fish dragging him to a squat. ¡°Aye!¡± he shouted. His hands grappled at his rod so as not to lose it. ¡°Aye! Let up now!¡±

    How was it this powerful? Remy thought he was fairly strong. He was built good for a fisherman, with big arms and toned thighs that enabled him to steady himself even on the shakiest of boats. But even he could hardly hold onto his rod here.

    Remy grunted, rooting himself in position, and attempted to reel it out. Whatever this was, he knew it was going to be big. Perhaps even valuable.

    ¡°I got you!¡± Remy snarled. ¡°Come on, now.¡±

    He growled, bearing his gums. ¡°Arggggghhhhhh!¡±

    With a crack, his fishing rod snapped in two and Remy was thrown to the stern of his boat. Pain shot through the middle of his back, knocking the breath right out of his lungs. His boat went with the momentum, thrown away from whatever he had been reeling in.

    Gasping for air, he slowly climbed back up, and looked around, dazed. He was still holding onto the end of his fishing rod. There was little left of it but an unusable stub.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    What on earth? Remy thought.

    He stayed remarkably still, feeling something moving underneath the surface of the lake. It was nothing like he had felt before, something massive. For a split second, he glimpsed a gargantuan shadow moving through the water, before sinking into the depths.

    Remy¡¯s eyes remained wide.

    When he returned to his house, he was still sore in the back and shoulders, throwing what remained of his fishing rod onto his workbench and then rubbing some heat oil through his hands. Sitting on the edge of his rough bed, he began massaging the oil into his muscles, and thought about what he had seen out there. The memory of it disturbed him such that he felt that he may not return for the remainder of the day; though, he had to admit, he was intrigued. Some sort of sea monster, perhaps? he thought, fantasizing about the encounter. Surely, its strength was undeniable. Stronger, even, than myself. No fish could do that.

    Finishing with the oil, he tidied up and changed into a decent set of clothes. Then, after spending a little bit of time systematically going through a stretching routine, he collected some money and went into town to search for repairs for his fishing rod.

    ¡°Remy!¡± called a stocky bald man as he walked through the docks. Maxime was smiling at him broadly, his crooked teeth on full display inside his capacious mouth.

    ¡°Max, you won¡¯t believe it. I broke my fishing rod this morning attempting to reel in quite the fish from the lakes,¡± Remy said in a slightly-concerned tone. When Max heard this, he raised one of his thick eyebrows, and folded his meaty dark arms.

    ¡°Just a fish did that?¡± Max asked.

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s what I¡¯m wondering.¡± He didn¡¯t mention seeing the shadow in the water, though he was not sure why. Perhaps it made him feel a little silly.

    ¡°You know what, it is not the first time I¡¯ve heard of something like this,¡± said Max. ¡°A few days ago, Julius came to me saying he was hit by something while sailing. I don¡¯t know, Remy, maybe there is something out there in the lake.¡±

    ¡°Hmm.¡± Remy thought about what they would do if there was something there, something they couldn¡¯t see. He helped Max lift pounds of clams in wagons away from the docks and to the marketplace, as they were both heading in that direction; and throughout the morning, though he distracted himself with tasks, Remy could not shake what he had seen.

    By midday, he had finished purchasing the parts he required for his fishing rod, and was about to return home when Max grabbed his shoulder with his impressive hands. Remy turned towards the big man, his hairy chest exposed underneath a loose shirt.

    ¡°What is it?¡± Remy asked him.

    ¡°My friend, I was told to keep this a secret, but it has been eating at me all day,¡± said Max in a distressed tone of voice.

    ¡°You can tell me,¡± said Remy.

    ¡°Well, it¡¯s Jane. She and I will be getting married next season,¡± Max admitted. ¡°Remy, my friend, I would very much like you to join us for it.¡±

    Remy smiled. ¡°Of course, Max. That is wonderful news. I thought it only a matter of time until the two of you became husband and wife. Congratulations.¡±

    Max laughed maniacally, grabbing Remy in his arms and squeezing him tight. ¡°My good friend, it will be the greatest event in Bonpoi¡¯s short history, no doubt!¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t doubt it, Max. Not at all.¡±

    ¡°Ah, but there is one more thing.¡± Max pushed Remy out of his arms, the smile not gone from his face. ¡°Well, Remy, we have had a long history together, you know? You are a brother to me, and I was wondering if you would be my best man for the wedding?¡±

    Something about this caught Remy off-guard. Although the men had been friends for a long time, Max was also quite a popular man. ¡°Is it that nobody else was available?¡± Remy asked.

    ¡°No! What?¡± Max¡¯s voice projected loud across the street, and a few people looked at them. ¡°Remy, you are my best friend. It wasn¡¯t even a question for me. Or are you joking?¡±

    ¡°No, no, no. It¡¯s just that that¡¯s a very large and...kind request.¡±

    ¡°Well, you are my friend,¡± Max said.

    ¡°Oh, Maxime. I would be delighted.¡±

    If Max¡¯s smile could get any wider, it would have fallen off his face. He gripped Remy in another tight hug. ¡°I love you, man,¡± he said, kissing Remy on the top of his head. ¡°I must go now and give my fianc¨¦e a big kiss! I will tell you more later!¡±

    ¡°Farewell, Max,¡± Remy said.

    As Max walked away from their interaction, a spring in his boots, Remy felt as though the breeze had become colder. And the smile on his face, which had been, of course, most genuine before, suddenly seemed to weigh as much as the fish he had encountered this morning. Max turned around, again, waving at him, and Remy waved back.

    It was not until Max was long gone, that Remy let the smile go.

 Antoinette Alone

    I went for lunch with my older sister today. During our conversation, she broached the topic of our father, along with his old documents. We agreed it was best that they were destroyed.

    <hr>

    Light hit Antoinette¡¯s eyelids, and she woke with a great rush of butterflies in her stomach. Throwing off her bedsheets, she pounced with such urgency she could have spewed out said butterflies and have them completely fill her room. First she shot out with her feet, then dashed from the bed and pulled open the curtains, letting the sun splash inside.

    She lunged for her perfectly-made stack of clothes on her bag and began, as quickly as she could, replacing her pyjamas. These, as she threw them off, went all over the room, bits on the bed, bits on the window sill.

    ¡°Maria!¡± she cried as she struggled with a sock. ¡°One moment! Maria! Don¡¯t go yet! Wait for meeeeee!¡± She yanked on her last sock, buttoned up her blouse and then skidded to her bag, neatly packed from the night before.

    ¡°Ahhhhh!¡± she groaned, looping her hands through the bag handles and picking it up. The bag was super heavy, but Antoinette was strong. She lifted it up and barely squeaked out another, ¡°Ma-Maria, waiiit for m-meee!¡± before hauling herself and her bag out the bedroom and rapidly down the stairs.

    When Antoinette made it into the kitchen, there was nobody there. This was a terrible sign. The house was too warm. The sun was too bright. The birds were too loud!

    It was far too late in the day and she had slept in!

    She let go of her bag with a great exhale, sending it to the floorboards. The only things inside it were clothes, her favourite toys, and her favourite toothbrush, so as it thudded to the floor, it sounded like nothing more than a dull pillow landing. ¡°Maria? Hello?¡±

    The weird thing was, it hardly looked like anybody had been down here all morning. Maybe it was earlier than she thought. Could Maria still be asleep? And miss the train!

    Oh no! Oh no, oh no, oh no! She pirouetted around and ran back to the stairs, hurdling her bag as she did this and almost falling over the first step.

    ¡°Mariaaaaa!¡± she cried.

    She emerged onto the second floor landing and skidded to a stop in front of an opened door. Prim was there in an almost absolute state of undress. Behind her, Antoinette saw a dim room with lots of plants and herbs growing in little pots. Prim rubbed her eyes and looked down at Antoinette. ¡°What is going on? Racing about like you¡¯re being chased?¡±

    Antoinette half-covered her eyes. ¡°So sorry, Prim, need to find Maria.¡±

    ¡°Well can you try not to twist your ankles, An?¡±

    ¡°Sorry!¡± She bit her teeth lightly together and slowly began to remove herself from Prim¡¯s line of sight, as the door eventually swung shut and locked. Back in the hallway, she continued her pursuit of Maria skilfully, navigating the tall multi-level house light on her toes.

    Antoinette wasn¡¯t really allowed to go inside Maria¡¯s room usually, so she approached the door with trepidation. It seemed larger than it normally did, but already slightly-ajar, which was odd.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    Antoinette pushed it open and peeked her head inside.

    ¡°Maria, we¡¯re going to miss the train!¡± she said. Through the small gap created, she saw several spherical mason jars on a shelf, some of them filled with odd concoctions, others empty. Those were Maria¡¯s spell jars. Surely if she had left, she would have brought some of those with her. Then again, Antoinette doubted she¡¯d notice if any were missing.

    She guided the door open a fraction more, checking for signs of Maria¡¯s bags, any sign that she had either left without her (unlikely) or was still here, somewhere (likely).

    She¡¯s definitely not in her room, she thought.

    Antoinette spun around, pulling the door shut, and descended back down the stairs to the kitchen. Once here, she picked up her bags and flew out the front door into the breezy street. A quiet hubbub of people roamed the neighbourhood, little bells going off, feet scratching the cobbled roads. The bicycle that was usually here against the wall was gone, and most strangely, in a pile against the brick wall were clothes.

    ¡°Someone left their clothes here. Weird.¡± Releasing the ache on her shoulders, she dropped her bag again and shook out her arms. Okay, fine, the bag was heavy.

    Her attention turned to the train station. As long as she ran there as fast as possible, she would not miss Maria and could get on board the train. Why Maria had gone without her, it was a question she¡¯d have to answer later, but there was no time to hang around.

    ¡°Come here, you gigantic heavy thing,¡± she said to her bag. Slipping the handle through her arm and over her shoulder, she hefted up the bag and took off.

    Before she¡¯d even made it to the end of the street, she got tangled up in her own feet and fell forward, bag flying. ¡°Ugh!¡± She doubled over her bag and rolled off it onto the sidewalk, scraping her skin on the hard ground. Come on!

    She found her knee, used it to help herself back up, collecting the bag on the way. It was as if the damn thing kept getting heavier. She looped the handle over her shoulder and ran. There was blood starting to come through where she¡¯d scraped her skin.

    She took the many winds and bends of Bellvoir for what seemed like forever, legs aching and completely winded by the time she arrived at the station. The platform was empty. It never was very busy; few were going in and out of Bellvoir, particularly at this hour of morning. But if Maria wasn¡¯t here, then could she have already taken the train?

    Antoinette was glad to finally put down her bags and run up to the ticket booth, peering up at the man behind the bench. He was mid-yawn when she reached him.

    ¡°Was there a woman here? She¡¯s quite ol...¡± She didn¡¯t want to say ¡°old.¡±

    The man jumped. ¡°I didn¡¯t see you there. What was that?¡±

    ¡°Was there a woman here, stup¡ª¡± She stopped herself from saying ¡°stupid.¡±

    ¡°No. There are no passenger trains running today,¡± the man replied.

    What? How could that be? Unless...I have the day wrong?

    ¡°What about to Carcassonne? I mean...There has to be one. Otherwise, it makes no sense! Why are you here if there are no trains, huh! Double check it!¡±

    ¡°Little girl, there are no trains on Thursday.¡±

    ¡°There must! We were meant to go there today. She said I could come along!¡± But the more she tried to convince herself of it, the more she started to realise, Maria had never planned for her to come along at all. No matter what she said. No matter anything!

    The man briefly double-checked by looking at some charts in his little office, but by ¡°briefly¡± double-checking, it was more like pretending to.

    ¡°Nope. No trains to Carcassonne today,¡± he said.

    Antoinette¡¯s stomach dropped. Why would she just go? She said! Was it because of something Antoinette had done? She began to think about everything that had occurred up to this point. It had just been her birthday, too! They had purchased shoes. She even helped Otto for a whole day! Maria had been distracted (Antoinette was not exactly sure of what was happening in Carcassonne) but that was not Antoinette¡¯s fault.

    She sniffed, but held in her tears. She could still get to Carcassonne. It was just a train away, even if that meant she had to wait here until tomorrow.

    ¡°Well then,¡± she said indignantly, her neck starting to hurt from looking all the way up to where the man¡¯s head poked out. ¡°Get me a ticket for the next train. I¡¯ll wait here.¡±

    ¡°But...seriously?¡±

    ¡°Yes! Now!¡±

    ¡°The next train to Carcassonne isn¡¯t today, I already said. You¡¯ll be waiting here a while, little girl. Well, you¡¯ll probably be waiting until tomorrow morning.¡±

    ¡°You heard me!¡± Antoinette snapped.

    ¡°Oh, to have such time to waste. If you say so.¡±

    He wrote out a ticket and Antoinette took it from his hand, before storming with her bags to the closest bench and sitting down. She was not tall enough yet for her shoes to meet the ground. She sat here, and crossing her arms, she waited.

 The Baron of Carcassonne

    My older brother¡¯s first speech at the Bellvoir Biannual Tea Party was a success. I found that my lips made the shapes of each word as he spoke. You could say I that had them rehearsed as much as he, the past three nights spent agonising over turns of phrase, days sitting on benches around the town, listening. A speech is merely a conversation with the people, yet the other political prospects don¡¯t even seem to get this. He who cannot speak the language of the people, cannot lead them.

    <hr>

    Maria rested only once on the way to Carcassonne, perching in a large oak tree just off a dirt path leading to a farmhouse. She slept here long into the night, maintaining her form as a swallow, before awaking pre-dawn and continuing on her way.

    Just as the very first light spread its cape across the French countryside, she laid eyes upon the massive fortress of Carcassonne. The city was well-hidden in the morning haze. She did not venture into the fortifications themselves, but descended before this, down into the surrounding towns among the trees and lakes.

    As she dipped lower, the surrounding countryside became obscured behind brick buildings and large tree canopies. Convenient dirt roads wound about housing, but were predominately untravelled at this early hour save for a small number of food and resource wagons.

    Maria landed at a spot behind a textiles factory. Here, she was obscured by brick, hills and trees; the spot was inaccessible to most people. She immediately metamorphosised back into her human form, naked. As soon as her bare feet touched the grass, she doubled over and vomited all over the ground. Hanging her neck, she pressed the palm of her hand into the brick wall and blew hard, controlled breaths to steady herself.

    Travelling like this messed with your head. Straight lines became wavy, the sky a faint shade of green. She could not quite make out how far her own hand was from the front of her face, nor if a person was real or hallucinated.

    Get out of it, she urged herself, slapping her wrist against her leg. She first tried to straighten herself, and then walk from the spot. Once she could, she identified a little satchel at the base of the tree, tied with rope. Collecting this, she opened it up to reveal a full set of clothes, and dressed herself as quickly as possible. She quietly thanked the mysterious person who had left it for her.

    It took a bit of tugging, but she eventually forced it to fit her. The trousers and overshirt were plain yet high quality, if a little beneath her usual size. She threw on a cloak over the top of this, and then from a leather sleeve standing against the tree, she took her wand. The firm, thin wood ran from her hand to the ground; and, where it met the grass, curved slightly. She slid the wand into a loop band on the inside of her cloak. Finally, she withdrew from a little satchel in the breast pocket a hair band, which she used to pin back her black (yet greying) hair. Once this was taken care of, she left everything where she had found it and made her way from the textiles building, back to the main road.

    Josephine was sitting alone at the inn when Maria arrived. The building was quiet, the only other person besides Josephine being a short man who was ostensibly the establishment¡¯s owner. He was in the corner showing little interest in what Maria and Josephine were doing, except to occasionally glance up at them over his ledgers and tankard.

    Josephine slid a fruit cake across the table as Maria joined her. It was topped with strawberry icing, with chunks of fruit sticking out of the fluffy form. Her stomach churned with hunger and she did not waste any time getting into it.

    ¡°You certainly know my appetite,¡± Maria said. ¡°Safe travels?¡±

    ¡°Yes, it was rather boring,¡± replied Josephine. It appeared that she had already finished her own fruit cake, and was left with nothing to do but watch Maria ungraciously consume hers.

    ¡°One should not complain that her travels are boring,¡± said Maria.

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t complaining.¡±

    Maria shrugged, focusing back on her cake.

    Josephine rolled her eyes, and began picking at her hangnails.

    ¡°Is it only me who feels as though she has spun around thirty-odd times when she metamorphosises out of animal form?¡± Maria asked.

    Josephine continued picking her nails. ¡°Only the first time I did it.¡± She stopped picking, looking up at Maria with gorgeous dark eyes. Her painted lips twitched briefly into a smile, then back. ¡°Could not walk for days after that, and swore I¡¯d never do it again.¡±

    ¡°You are talking about metamorphosis, still?¡± Maria said.

    Josephine huffed loudly. ¡°Who knew you were such a dirty woman.¡±

    After a brief breakfast, Maria and Josephine took the main road up the spiralling hills of Carcassonne to the citadel, where Maria¡¯s brother Alfred resided.

    The citadel was heavily-fortified and well-trodden. The air was cooler in these heights, yet smelt less of trees and more unpleasantly of stone and rock. With the tall fortifications (mostly abandoned) and narrow roads, Maria did feel a slight unease caused by mild claustrophobia. Their journey ended at the town hall. This was a complicated yet striking building with a sense of grandeur that smelt greatly of her brother¡¯s wallet. Its blue and gold painted walls opened into a reception with branching corridors.

    Maria and Josephine went to the administrator¡¯s box, where Maria told the lady there that she was here to meet with Alfred. After some waiting, the lady returned and said that Alfred would be down in a moment, right after he came out of a meeting.

    ¡°Do you want me there or shall I wait somewhere else?¡± Josephine asked in a quiet voice as they drifted from the box into the middle of the waiting area. Maria saw somebody walk past with a bundle of papers in his arm, and a cigar from his lips. He did glance briefly at the two women, but made no gesture or indication of acknowledging them.

    ¡°Since you are here,¡± said Maria, ¡°you are, of course, to be privy to our conversations. Should you feel the desire to have an opinion, feel free to judge its pertinence, and if you will, tickle the lion.¡±

    ¡°Did you just say ¡®tickle the lion¡¯?¡±

    ¡°My brother.¡±

    ¡°Why...am I reminded of navigating a really complicated labyrinth every time you speak?¡± Josephine said in a tone that Maria couldn¡¯t quite decide between being genuine or sarcastic.

    She did not respond. Instead, changed the subject. ¡°Did you know that Alfred provides significant funding to the cabaret, still? I¡¯m sure he doesn¡¯t meet much with the witches, so it will do us well to represent the cabaret positively. It is possible, and potentially even certain, that my brother will speak or act in ways you will find dishonourable and unkindly, but you must not let your temper get the better of you.¡± Then, in a quieter voice, and as she heard the clacking of shoes descending the stairs, she said, ¡°I might do well to consider mine.¡±

    ¡°I shall conceal my fangs,¡± said Josephine.

    Alfred reached the bottom of the stairs, and upon seeing Maria, smiled. He was not so impressive a sight, but what Maria found was that he surrounded himself with things that were impressive, which created a myriad of illusions. He wore a flat-brimmed brown hat, the same colour as the rest of his drab attire, and did not remove this as he approached. His shoes continued to rap loudly against the floor, as though they were tap shoes. Maria actually checked that they were not, just to be sure. How she would have teased him about it.

    ¡°Madame Lucien,¡± he said loudly. ¡°Or should I forgo the name?¡±

    ¡°Well, that is my name,¡± Maria responded, unimpressed. ¡°And you?¡±

    ¡°Baron of Carcassonne, as usual.¡± He held Maria and gave her a rough kiss on the cheek, before turning his attention towards Josephine. ¡°Who is this?¡±

    ¡°Josephine,¡± Josephine said. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, you don¡¯t need to pretend around me; Maria has told me plenty. And I will definitely not call you Lucien.¡± She winked.

    Alfred grumbled, but did not say anything. Reaching into the folds of his large coat, he withdrew a cigar and a lighter, sticking the large thing in his mouth. ¡°It is good that you came, Maria. It is a true mess. Follow me to the gardens, would you? I am in desperate need to be out of this building and take in some air.¡±

    #

    Maria and Josephine followed Alfred into the gardens behind the town hall. Alfred had lit his cigar and smoked it bountifully. Around them stretched verdant greenery dotted with stone sculptures and columns, every now and then a pond or a fountain. In the distance you could see the large walls of Carcassonne citadel, and between gaps in the obnoxious plants, there were the brick and stone sides of buildings, reminding them that this was far from nature.

    As they began their laps of the expansive gardens, Maria quickly found herself becoming more at-ease. ¡°I can only imagine what I will discover in this god-forsaken city, Alfred, but the reality of it had better be worth my time.¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have disturbed you so if it weren¡¯t,¡± he responded, giving her a fleeting look as they continued side-by-side along a stone path. They weren¡¯t entirely alone here, but anybody else present was too preoccupied in their own unending work to have the time nor the care to pay attention. ¡°You read my letter, did you not? Did the things I spoke about not alarm you enough? Do you require more?¡±

    ¡°More than our brother¡¯s body being exhumed and the possibility of illegal witchcraft being performed?¡± Maria said. ¡°By the way, pages of his books are on the black market.¡±

    ¡°Uh, uh, uh!¡± Alfred said, checking to make sure nobody heard. ¡°He wasn¡¯t my brother, you senile old woman. Do you think anybody heard that?¡±

    ¡°Oh, come off it,¡± Maria said, hitting his arm.

    ¡°Very well, just keep your voice down about those things. If anybody knows I¡¯m connected to that rabble¡ªno offense¡ªeven the ants will not take me seriously.¡±

    ¡°Can I ask, why is it such a big secret?¡± Josephine inquired.

    ¡°He would claim that it is not politically-wise to be associated with Edgar Lucien,¡± said Maria before Alfred could interject with something more roundabout and confusing.

    ¡°Oh Maria, it is good to see you after so long!¡± Alfred said in a thunderclap voice. The smile he feigned was deep and artificial. ¡°It must be nearly a year since we last spoke like this.¡±

    ¡°You mean, business? This is what this is, after all, business. My oldest brother would not invite me because he enjoys my company, would he?¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    ¡°There¡¯s that word again.¡±

    ¡°What word, you crazy person?¡±

    ¡°Brother.¡±

    ¡°And I¡¯ll scream it out if you keep annoying me about it,¡± Maria said with widened eyes. ¡°Anyway, where is this witch suspect you have imprisoned?¡±

    ¡°In jail. I will, of course, arrange transport for you and Josephine in due time. However, a friendly conversation never hurt either?¡±

    Maria stopped where she was walking, her eyes catching something ridiculous. ¡°Alfred, what on earth is this?¡± They had discovered a stone statue of moderate size amongst all the gardens¡ªthat is to say, much of the greenery had been carved away in order to accommodate it. The statue could have been sculpted based on Alfred¡¯s appearance today, stoic and grumpy-looking. ¡°Alfred,¡± she said, amazed. ¡°You¡¯re quite full of yourself, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    Alfred sighed as he looked up at the statue. ¡°Oh, that...¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not exactly brightening up the place.¡±

    ¡°You know how it is, Maria, Baron of Carcassonne and all that. It¡¯s storing here for a while, but they¡¯ll put it somewhere more fitting, I hope.¡±

    ¡°You store things in a warehouse,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°That¡¯s what I told them!¡± Alfred responded.

    ¡°I actually like it,¡± said Josephine.

    ¡°Well, I would take credit. You can ask Maria, of all the things I enjoy taking, credit is quite high, but I promise this had nothing to do with me. Now don¡¯t quiz me on his name, but it was a sculptor of some sort commissioned by the arts committee. It provides culture, apparently.¡±

    Maria sighed. ¡°Do you even have an arts committee?¡±

    ¡°Actually, yes,¡± Alfred said in a surprised tone.

    They walked away from the statue.

    In Maria¡¯s opinion, her oldest brother had inherited the same sense of grandeur and over-importance from their father that Edgar had, and the fact they¡¯d made him Baron of Carcassonne simply served to bolster that. He was never a subtle man, nor would he ever let a trophy or accomplishment be merely half-stated. He enjoyed the spotlight, and while that could certainly be said for all three of the siblings, she felt that the degree to which Alfred enjoyed his spotlight was stronger than others. Or, she thought to herself, perhaps ¡°stronger¡± is not the right word. More desperate. Like he¡¯d been living under his younger brother¡¯s shadow for too long.

    True, Alfred was smarter than Edgar, and to a degree even more so than Maria herself. He had gone to a prestigious university and studied hard. But Edgar had always been the more ambitious. Alfred was more political, duelling politicians and ministers up the government ladder; the others had bent the rules to get where they were.

    That was something that had always bothered Maria, how simply straight and plain Alfred was, like a butter knife in terms of the family of utensils. But she had to admit she was impressed he had reached such dazzling heights despite this.

    ¡°I do enjoy my time here, Maria, though I know you doubt it,¡± Alfred said as they continued to walk through the gardens. ¡°I always found Bellvoir as smelling of stale bread.¡±

    ¡°I cannot leave Bellvoir, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re getting at,¡± Maria said. ¡°There¡¯s too much for me to do there. I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ll be there until the day I die, and even then, there will be more work left.¡±

    ¡°Edgar is dead, Maria. You don¡¯t need to continue cleaning up the mess he left over. Come to Carcassonne. It is much better here. They have my head as a statue.¡±

    Maria smirked but it threatened not in the least to become the sort of laughter the siblings once shared. ¡°They will wonder why you¡¯re spending so much time with a plain old woman like myself, perhaps start asking questions.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not worried about that,¡± Alfred said. ¡°In fact, they will sooner believe I am having an affair with you than they would that I am related¡ª¡± He feigned a cough, looking around. ¡°You know what I mean. A politician having an affair is not a major issue in Carcassonne.¡±

    ¡°You sicken me,¡± Maria said as they came to a stop near their starting place. ¡°Anyway, where is that witch? And, if I may ask, is there anything else you¡¯ve dug up in the meantime? When I mentioned that I¡¯d learned of our brother¡¯s books being on the black market, you were not surprised.¡±

    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll let you find that out for yourself.¡±

    ¡°So either it¡¯s a waste of my time or something truly awful.¡±

    Alfred did not respond to this, and in fact seemed unable to look her in the eye. ¡°Whatever. Anyway, I know I said otherwise, but perhaps to be on the safe side, I shouldn¡¯t be seen with you for too long. I will arrange a transport for yourself and Josephine to visit where the woman is being held. Her name is Selika Montesquiou. Once you have all the information, we can talk about how we¡¯re going to deal with it. If that suits you?¡±

    Maria sighed. ¡°Selika Montesquiou. Very well.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t know her, do you?¡± Alfred asked.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know the witches in Carcassonne.¡±

    ¡°Pity,¡± Alfred said, outwardly disappointed. ¡°Benoit! Benoit!¡± He led Maria and Josephine from the gardens back into the town hall, where he drew the attention of a man who seemed unoccupied. ¡°This is Maria, she¡¯s from Bellvoir. I¡¯d like you to arrange for her to be taken to the witch at the earliest time. As for myself, Maria, I have meetings to attend to, unfortunately. By the way, welcome to Carcassonne.¡± He turned on his squeaky heel, and tap-danced away.

    #

    Alfred had not been known by his family name since well before his brother died, only to those who had known him before. He felt that it could only negatively affect his political and social ambitions. To openly share the same bloodline as Edgar Lucien, that was not a good look. It was not that Edgar had spent much time in Carcassonne in particular, but he was well-known to be politically unhinged and problematic. The man had put a bad name on them all, that was it. He was surprised Maria still allowed herself it. But then again, he figured the morals of witches differed substantially to those of regular people.

    Well, that was to say, witches had none.

    Breaking in the tea room following his latest meeting, Alfred took slow and measured breaths and occasionally rubbed at his chest with the back of his knuckles, hoping for the pain to abate. His doctor said it was a congenital heart defect, one that perhaps had contributed to his father¡¯s death many years prior. Of all the siblings, he thought for sure he¡¯d be the first to see the other side, but Edgar had beaten him to it. This was just one of many ways Edgar had surprised him in his time.

    I really cannot wait to be through with this day, he thought to himself, watching and smiling as people swam about the room. Their conversation was minimal, little of it on any actual work, but rather the usual comings and goings that occurred in Carcassonne this time of year.

    Walking carefully through the tea room, he moved his hand from his chest and into the pocket of his coat. He took from a table a small chocolate-coated biscuit with his other hand. These biscuits were his favourite. Not too crumbly so as to cause a mess on the hall¡¯s fresh carpet, but with enough crunch to make each bite highly satisfying. Ahead of him, the loud and opinionated Gaston, who was the newly-appointed junior minister of finance for the city, made as if to initiate conversation, but Alfred said he was in a rush and hurried away.

    He found that when he was not busy with meetings, he couldn¡¯t help but think about his younger sister¡¯s appearance in the city. Of course, he had known well in advance of her coming here¡ªhe¡¯d invited her¡ªand yet her arrival after such a long time did strike a strange nebulous blow to his wellbeing. Maria always had this way about her. The very nature of her presence in his city served as a reminder that all things lived in a precarious state, and could be toppled or changed at any instant. No matter how much he ran from it, things such as his name and history did not go away so simply. Stubborn, just like his siblings.

    His skin crawled at the thought of what the next few days might bring, let alone weeks, with that wretched witch being held at the jails. These matters (and he wondered why Maria persisted in them) he preferred not to become entangled in. Nothing good came of witchcraft; surely his brother had been a good enough indicator of that.

    He was glad to finally run into his assistant, Clara. Clara was one of the brightest people Alfred knew in Carcassonne, not only bright of mind, but in personality too. No matter what tasks he threw at her, Clara¡¯s smile and cheerful demeanour remained a constant. She knew what he wanted, and, to be honest, she knew what he needed. She also knew how to get these things for him. Sometimes, admittedly, Alfred did not even know how she accomplished some of these things, like acquiring for him a very peculiar snack he had tasted once before, or finding a pair of shoes previously suggested to be unavailable.

    Greeting her good day, she expertly excused him from the tea room and back through the corridors of the town hall. In the most efficient way possible, she began reminding him of last week¡¯s meeting minutes ahead of his next appointment.

    Alfred was rather excited about this meeting. They had been negotiating the development of Carcassonne¡¯s first printing press for several months. This would cause a significant revolution in the way news was circulated not only in Carcassonne, but the French countryside, where theirs would be the only printing press thus far established. It would provide Alfred with a high degree of control over information, the likes of which had never been seen before. They would be the first to present news by days¡ªand this was not even taking into consideration the monetary gains to be had from printing quicker and in larger quantities. There were some amendments to the plan, which was fine, and then the only thing left to do was draw his signature and make it so.

    Clara reminded him of all this as they walked. Once arriving in the corridor outside Prosper Cary¡¯s office, Clara gestured. ¡°After you.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± Alfred said. ¡°Why don¡¯t you head back to my offices? You¡¯ll find a stack of papers there that need following up on.¡±

    ¡°Will we see you for lunch?¡± Clara asked.

    ¡°Yes, no, maybe, no promises. We¡¯ll see how my meeting with Mister Cary turns out, and then I¡¯ll be there in good spirits, or I¡¯ll be somewhere you can¡¯t find me, sulking.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t forget, you have another meeting with Mister Coulon this afternoon.¡±

    ¡°Oh, yes, that one will have to be rescheduled. I have an appointment then. I¡¯m sure you can come up with the specifics.¡± He winked at her.

    ¡°Sure, Al.¡± Clara wrote this down on the back of the paper containing the meeting minutes. ¡°I won¡¯t keep you from Mister Cary. Just remember, he already doesn¡¯t like you much so keep your temper in check. And...that should be everything.¡±

    ¡°I have a temper?¡± Alfred said with a smile.

    He went into the meeting already in moderate spirits, his chest pains abating.

    Prosper was not pleasant and Alfred didn¡¯t make too much personal conversation, but the deal was important. Prosper passed a handful of documentation to Alfred. There were some changes, which had been outlined together on the second page. ¡°The deal is positive,¡± Prosper assured him, while watching intently but with optimism. ¡°Our investors are in row, all that¡¯s left is to sign on our end and I think it will go through.¡± He began to smoke a fat cigar in front of him. ¡°You¡¯ve done well, Alfred, to get it this far.¡±

    There was, from Alfred¡¯s point of view, no reason for the deal not to go through. Yes, there were still a number of hoops to jump through, but there was no sense that anybody was opposed to it. From most of their perspectives, nobody had the extreme desire to cause a fuss about things. Construction permits to build the printing press, the finances, these were all secured. The opportunity for jobs was high, albeit with the caveat that many would be out of work. Yet, things like these were inevitable; Alfred was simply doing it first.

    ¡°So what do you think? You¡¯ll sign it?¡± Prosper said.

    ¡°I¡¯m still reading. Usually I have my assistant do these things for me.¡±

    His eye was stuck on one amendment in the print.

    ¡°Says here,¡± Alfred said as he held his index finger on the passage, ¡°the Americans want restrictions placed on witches. Extensive ones.¡±

    Prosper craned his neck as if trying to see, pretending he hadn¡¯t been aware of any such amendments made to the documents. ¡°Ah, is that what it says? Oh, I do recall that. They¡¯re not fond of particular aspects of our culture, and indeed...¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t like witches, Prosper,¡± Alfred said.

    ¡°Mhm. Well, I wouldn¡¯t say you¡¯re alone in saying that.¡±

    ¡°However, to put that into law...it¡¯s a different thing. Seems...unnecessary.¡±

    ¡°Oh, come on, Alfred, you know that most people in Carcassonne share that point of view. Besides, they¡¯re proposing laws against the practise of witchcraft, not exactly against witches themselves. You know America. There were anti-witch trials and the whole thing is a difficult conversation. America...it is not like here. But of course, we do have to partner with them to bring the equipment over to Carcassonne, it¡¯s just our only option.¡±

    Alfred sighed. The Americans who were bringing a new innovation to the printing press to Europe (first and foremost to Carcassonne), did indeed come from far-off lands where witchcraft wasn¡¯t, at least to Alfred¡¯s knowledge, very prevalent. He supposed it was perfectly within reason for them to feel negatively towards it. Hell, it wasn¡¯t much different to their own views here in France. And yet, Alfred knew that putting regulations¡ªmore specifically, bans¡ªon the practice would inevitably foreshadow a long string of changes across Europe, result in some backlash; and, of course, there was the thing with his sister. But, with that in mind, there was no progress without sacrifice.

    By any means, he imagined he¡¯d be able to deal with those things as they came. So he shrugged, signed the document and handed it back to Prosper. Eager to be out of there, he stood up from his chair and blew out a deep breath, preparing to leave.

    He thought about what his younger brother Edgar would have done. The fact that he thought this made him cringe. He threw it from mind and wondered why he should care about a dead person. Edgar had been ambitious, sure, but not exactly intelligent. His fate was evidence enough of that. Drew enemies, scorched alliances. Won deals, sure, but at what cost? So here Alfred was, in such a position Edgar never could have imagined finding himself. Soon, he would have the fastest and most efficient printing press in France, and he who controlled the news controlled everything.

    ¡°This will go through this evening,¡± Prosper said. ¡°As long as the Americans don¡¯t back out on the deal, we should have construction beginning on a new printing press as early as in two months¡¯ time.¡± He shot out his hand for Alfred to shake it. ¡°This is an exciting time in our history, Alfred. New technologies such as this, and many more, believe me, will serve well to those who embrace them first.¡±

    Alfred shook on it, but was most unwilling to engage in lyrical waxing with the man. He left the meeting and spent some time walking the corridors, going from one place to the next, and only very occasionally stopping to think of his sister, and the trouble they were facing.

    In his opinion, it was probably for the best all this talk of witchcraft and dark magic was forgotten about sooner rather than later.

 Montesquiou

    I am becoming dissatisfied with my work. Where previously, my scrawl has been precise and accurate, I find it rather amateurish in more amounts than I would regard as being acceptable. I feel, perhaps, it is the cold weather. The best work is seldom achieved in the grips of such things.

    <hr>

    ¡°I don¡¯t know why, but I don¡¯t mind him,¡± said Josephine in the carriage to the jail. Maria was watching the surroundings pass by like set dressing between scenes. All the unique shops and storefronts and people hauling goods on curvy, slightly-treacherous roads.

    ¡°I suppose it¡¯s because you¡¯re not related to him,¡± Maria responded.

    ¡°I¡¯m delighted to have the experience of learning more about your family, Maria. My, my, Edgar the anarchist, anti-social, misogynist, idiot. Smart if he has the chance to plot. Utterly stupid when challenged on the spot. And Alfred, simply out of his element, daft, manipulative, backstabbing, self-important. When the girls talk about you three from back in the day, there is a real storybook feel about it. I just wonder what it is about you that comes from being in their bloodline.¡±

    ¡°Careful what you say next.¡±

    ¡°Cold, detached...are words that come to mind.¡±

    Maria scoffed. Josephine¡¯s dark eyes, ever-narrowed from the gleam of sun, betrayed a testing machination. ¡°Spare me, Josephine.¡±

    ¡°Why, you¡¯re not denying it though.¡±

    ¡°Of course not, it¡¯s true! I am cold. And I am emotionless. You are not wrong there. But I will have you know, my younger brother spent jail time; and Alfred, he is in politics. At least I¡¯m not so self-important to have entered into that.¡±

    ¡°The politics of the cabaret doesn¡¯t count?¡±

    Maria groaned, but found that Josephine was smiling. ¡°You get off on this, do you, terrorising an old woman such as myself?¡±

    ¡°Actually, yes, I enjoy it very much.¡± Josephine smiled more earnestly than Maria ever had seen her. The glint of sun in her eyes gave off a burst of youth, even as she tried to shield them. ¡°What I do not enjoy is this damn sun.¡±

    Maria looked carefully at Josephine. She hadn¡¯t noticed before how much she truly reminded Maria of a grown-up, more rebellious version of Antoinette. So stubborn and headstrong, and at this age!

    ¡°You will become decrepit sitting like that,¡± Maria told her.

    Josephine over-exaggerated the most graceful sitting position. ¡°Better?¡±

    The carriage turned, rocking Maria from side-to-side. She gripped the edges of her seat to sustain herself from falling over. An apple cart barrelled down the road towards them. The carriage driver began cursing at the woman hauling the cart, steering his horses to the side, and looking backwards with a face of disdain until she and her apples were out of sight.

    ¡°Idiots!¡± he grumbled.

    There is something off about this city, Maria thought. Gazing out the window, she did have to commend her brother¡¯s work in upkeeping this part of Carcassonne. The streets were clean and well-ordered, no poor or homeless on the sidewalks, nothing amiss. And yet, Maria could not shake an unnatural feeling despite it all, putting her at unease, her fingers anxiously tapping.

    She envisioned Edgar as the last time she¡¯d seen him, the day before his murder. There had been political movements happening between the cabaret and the council, and Edgar had been unimpressed. Most of all, he had appeared anxious for things to proceed in a quicker manner, as if he sensed his impending demise. Alfred had left Bellvoir prior to their last conversations, not in the best of spirits, to meet abroad with shareholders of the cabaret. Maria figured things often went wrong at the best times. And her thoughts darted suddenly to Bellvoir, to Hermine, whom she had placed in charge.

    Oh, how she ached for a drink.

    #

    When they exited the carriage, Josephine popped open a wide parasol to shield herself from the sun. Maria glanced at her. ¡°When did you find that?¡± she asked.

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t just sitting around doing nothing while I waited for you to get here,¡± Josephine said, raising her eyebrow. ¡°You¡¯re welcome to snuggle closer with me.¡±

    Maria clicked her tongue. ¡°Let me under that.¡±

    Josephine smirked as she shuffled aside, allowing Maria underneath her parasol. It was not necessarily cozy, but Maria had to admit, it was a lot more pleasant than being in the hot sun. ¡°Just don¡¯t look too smug,¡± Maria said with a side-eye.

    ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± Josephine said cheerfully.

    The jail house was a nondescript building not far enough from anything to appear distinct, yet with a stale air about it that conveyed the impression this was not a place you¡¯d want to wind up in. The stone against the blue sky created a picturesque, almost surreal feeling as Maria examined the building¡¯s heights. Its harsh shadow stretched across them.

    The main building was square in nature, while beside it, a little taller, was what Maria assumed was a guard tower, with a cylindrical structure and pointed, steeple roof that was fashioned in the vein of a long pike.

    She imagined the scene of transporting the witch here. The cautious, aggressive yet uncertain breaking in of her estate, or the cabaret¡ªwherever it had taken place. Their not knowing of how dangerous she really was, and what she was capable of. Binding her at the wrists. Chaining her. Did they sedate her even, like an animal?

    Needless to say, Maria found this whole debacle of throwing her into jail to be overkill, but she did not necessarily expect any different.

    A portcullis opened, admitting them through to the courtyard within the stone walls. In the rocky entranceway, all strict and rigid angles, there was little greenery to be found but for scatter-cast weeds and dead grass. The women were almost instantly happened upon by a stern man in heavy leather garb, with a massive baton hanging from his hip. Something about him reminded Maria of a domino piece. Josephine snapped her umbrella closed as they entered the shade.

    ¡°Ms Lucien?¡± said the man in a deep growl.

    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s me,¡± Maria responded.

    ¡°Come on then.¡±

    Maria and Josephine exchanged a look, before the man led them through the jail grounds. There were partitioned cells both left and right of the courtyard, but the watchman did not take them to these. Rather, he went straight for where the jail house met the watchtower. A spiral staircase enclosed in a white cylindrical gate beckoned them. It seemed to go as deep down into the earth as it went upwards. The watchman descended.

    ¡°I am aware there is to be a hearing soon,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Yes. Sooner rather than later, I hope,¡± responded the watchman, not looking at either of them. His footfalls were loud and heavy on the metal steps. ¡°But if you can take her off my hands sooner than the council deals with her, by all means. It will stop me looking over my shoulder, wondering if the tickle on the back of my neck is just the wind, or a witch.¡± He grunted loudly after saying this. ¡°A whiff of the woman is enough for me to make up my mind about her.¡± The three of them stopped at the bottom of the stairwell and the watchman looked at them closely for the first time. ¡°She is in there.¡± He signalled to an immediate door on the right, bolted shut.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± Maria said.

    The watchman eyed them both curiously, lips stuttered as if to say something, but it appeared he thought better of this. He opened the door, leading them in.

    The room on the other side was dark and dank. The cold was visceral, like ice on skin. ¡°Take care of your matters quick,¡± said the watchman as he waited by the entrance.

    Maria let out a long breath that wobbled from the amount she was shivering, and walked inside. Their footsteps made no sound on the solid ground. The door squealed shut, but the watchman remained by the entrance on the inside, standing guard.

    The furnishings were minimal, the witch¡¯s cell containing little but a rough pallet and a sink. Maria reckoned somebody half her age would be able to cross from one end of it to the other in a single leap. Lying on the pallet was the young witch. She had beautiful dark skin and loud blue eyes. From her hair hung wooden beads in various shapes, gold rings pierced in her small ears. A haze of dusty light danced around her face from a grate in the ceiling, causing this assortment of jewellery to glitter in a most dazzling fashion.

    Maria turned back to the watchman. ¡°Actually, leave us. The girl is more likely to be agreeable if there are less people in the room, no matter a watchman.¡±

    The watchman grunted, his jaw bulging. ¡°If it will be of help.¡± He bowed his head to the witches, turned and opened the door again. His stocky frame struggled through the gap, but as soon as he was out, the door slammed shut behind.

    It was this second clang that awoke the witch. Or maybe she had just been waiting for him to leave. Maria started walking towards her, feeling in her cloak for the wand.

    Selika Montesquiou yawned as she sat up on the pallet. Her eyes blinked blearily at them, but in record time, cleared up. She raised a single brow, pouting her full lips. Then, eventually, she smiled, sliding onto the edge of the pallet and rocking her head. ¡°Finally,¡± sighed Selika. ¡°Somebody to get me out of this wretched place.¡± Her voice was soft and high. Her accent prevailed, but the drunken speed at which she spoke gave no difficulty in making sense of it.

    ¡°Not quite,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Shame.¡± Selika sagged where she sat. ¡°Here just to taunt me with your shackless feet?¡± Maria noticed her ankle was secured by a chain to one of the legs of her bed.

    ¡°I assume you must know who I am, considering your obsession with my brother.¡±

    Selika grinned. ¡°Of course I know who you are.¡±

    ¡°I heard about his body, exhumed from his grave. Now, I¡¯m not so fond of him these days, but certainly, it¡¯s a vile thing to hear nevertheless. To hear somebody has dug up your brother¡¯s dead body...And you begin to wonder why.¡±

    She imagined this now even as she said it. The graveyard where they¡¯d buried him, dirt caking under fingernails, shovels in wet earth.

    Edgar¡¯s face under a sheet of lightning.

    Selika cackled, leaning forward with interest.

    Approaching her, Maria drew the wand from her cloak. Selika¡¯s eyes followed it, her smile becoming wider, as if an invisible blade was tearing her face in two.

    ¡°Why did you dig up my brother?¡±

    ¡°How sad, to be buried like that for all these years? I thought Edgar deserved better than that, don¡¯t you, after everything he did for us?¡±

    ¡°He wanted it,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Why do you even care? You never cared about Edgar Lucien, never in his life, only now that he is dead. True, ever since he died, you have made every effort to undo the work he devoted his life to. I¡¯m not wrong, Maria. Is it out of spite, or do you just hate him that much?¡±

    ¡°How dare you speak to me like that.¡± She stepped closer to Selika, her shadow looming. ¡°Nobody can know of what you have done, you hear me?¡±If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    Selika tugged on the hair in front of her face, pulling it to her teeth and chewing on it behind the haze of light astorm with dust. ¡°Our deeds are not a book that can be simply closed and put away, Maria Lucien,¡± she said in a mad, lilting voice. She chuckled. A nervous, schoolgirl kind of noise.

    ¡°What is so funny?¡±

    Selika licked her lips as they parted to speak, but then she shook her head and relaxed. ¡°Nothing.¡±

    ¡°It isn¡¯t a nice look when things like this happen. It upsets certain people.¡±

    ¡°Maybe that is what this world needs.¡±

    The way she said these things angered Maria. It went against everything she and the cabaret stood for. Indeed, it did remind her of Edgar and everything she despised about him. ¡°I demand for you to tell me now, so that we can bury this before it gets out of hand, what have you done with his body and who else is involved? No secrets!¡±

    ¡°All you ever care about is how it all looks, Maria! She cares about nought but optics. They used to say that the Count of Bellvoir has secrets, and I know we can all agree that he did. But what of his sister? The one who would never be seen with him in public. So many rumours about who you were. But you schemed...when nobody was looking.¡±

    ¡°What are you on about?¡± Maria said.

    ¡°At least Edgar let people know what he believed in.¡±

    ¡°Pfft!¡± Maria spat. She is fanatical. Selika didn¡¯t know Edgar. None of these girls did. He wasn¡¯t honest with anybody, hardly even with his direct family, and certainly not the people.

    It all just spoke to an utter madness.

    ¡°This is a dangerous line of thought,¡± Maria said. ¡°If you know what¡¯s good for you, you will leave this city by the morning, or I¡¯ll see to it that you live out the rest of your days miserably. And if you think you¡¯ll be let off by some miracle, you can forget about it. Striking the fear of witches back in people will get us nowhere, only serve to see the lot of us exiled. Is that what you wish? There are rules now.¡±

    ¡°Rules?¡± Selika exclaimed. ¡°Oh, but I bet they don¡¯t apply to you, hag!¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t speak to her like that,¡± said Josephine. For what must have been the first time, Selika looked at Josephine, her expression becoming sinister.

    ¡°Clearly you are brainwashed by her. But honestly, just by looking at you, that wouldn¡¯t surprise me. It¡¯s probably that you¡¯re so agreeable and smitten that she brought you here.¡±

    ¡°Shut up,¡± Josephine snarled.

    Selika¡¯s eyes sparkled, enjoying this.

    ¡°That¡¯s enough,¡± Maria said. Selika¡¯s mocking smile vanished in a puff, her eyes becoming dark again. Maria straightened as she cleared her throat. ¡°Do you wish to be punished, is that it? To be sent to jail, put to death? I assure you, if this becomes a matter for the council to decide, they will treat you far worse than I ever will. Now, what I suggest is you will be gone in the morning, and we will never cross paths again. Do you hear me?¡±

    ¡°Hmmm.¡± Selika put on her best inquisitive expression. ¡°I¡¯ll consider it.¡±

    ¡°Is it really the best idea to let her go?¡± Josephine asked.

    ¡°You heard me,¡± said Maria.

    Selika smiled maliciously. Maria felt goose bumps flare up along her arms, and she was glad that they were both covered entirely with her fabrics. She could not, however, stop the breath from becoming caught in her throat, searching the witch¡¯s dark eyes.

    ¡°Is there anything else?¡± Selika asked impatiently.

    Maria sneered. ¡°Just consider it. For your sake.¡±

    #

    In the watchman¡¯s office high up in the tower, Maria sat in a corner chair looking out the window.

    ¡°We found these in her residence,¡± the watchman said, handing Maria a bundle of papers and then sitting back down behind his desk. ¡°Mean anything to you?¡± Maria pursed her lips, holding the pages up to the light and beginning to examine them.

    These were from Principles of Witchcraft, Edgar¡¯s book.

    ¡°Selika had these?¡± Maria asked.

    ¡°When she was arrested, yes.¡±

    Josephine wandered over to her, standing over her shoulder. ¡°How did she even get these?¡± Josephine asked. Maria handed them to her as she finished examining each page.

    ¡°Black market,¡± Maria said. ¡°Somebody¡¯s copying pages from Principles of Witchcraft and distributing them. I just don¡¯t know who would do such a thing. You can even tell by looking at the ink, how it¡¯s a poor attempt at copying his style. See the lettering, it¡¯s unprecise. Cheap¡±

    Then, she froze. Handing a sheet to Josephine, the page underneath it was something she had not expected to see. In fact, should not have been there at all. Its lettering was, indeed, more precise than the others, but that alone was not what frightened her so. It was that the last time she had seen such a page was prior to the publication of Principles of Witchcraft, and her deciding with Edgar that such a page ought not to be published at all.

    There were others like this in existence, things they deemed unsuitable, branches of witchcraft that Maria pressed should not be taught widely. Even Edgar, as foolhardy and stubborn as he was, could agree that there were limitations to what should be practised.

    The page in front of her, therefore, was never published.

    ¡°Maria, are you all right?¡± Josephine asked, her hand outstretched still in a way to take the rest of the pages. Her expression was concerned as she tried to see what Maria was looking at.

    ¡°No. This one¡¯s different. It shouldn¡¯t exist. We...destroyed it.¡± Maria looked up and around, in deep thought. The cramped nature of the office did little to let her mind fully breathe, with little d¨¦cor and mostly wood. A fire burned inside a coal pit, sending smoke up through piping into the Carcassonne sky. Stacks of books were littered about in a mostly-chaotic way, reminding her of Otto¡¯s own cavernous dwelling.

    Reminding her of Otto, and how he had shown her copies just like these. But something they never published at all, that was a problem. Well, a bigger one.

    ¡°If you say you destroyed it, how is it here?¡± Josephine asked.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Before my brother published his book, we went through it and decided that certain things should be taken out. This page¡±¡ªshe shook it violently¡ª¡°was one. There were others. It concerns me that they, too, could be out there among the rest.¡±

    ¡°What does it say?¡±

    Maria folded it up so that nobody in the room could see it. She, herself, felt sick looking at it. She shook her head to tell Josephine to give it up. ¡°I¡¯m keeping it with me, and if I¡¯m smart enough, I will have it destroyed so that nobody gets to see it.¡± She looked across the room at the perplexed watchman, and said, ¡°I assume that will be all right.¡±

    ¡°Be my guest,¡± he responded.

    Maria shoved it into her cloak, thinking about who could ever have had possession of something like this aside from her and Edgar. He had scribes, of course, but that seemed outrageous.

    There was Rosalie. She was the only one who had been with him the night of the fire¡ªhis assailant. She had gotten off with a portion of his wealth, including the only other published copy of the book. She could have stolen these, too. But...why?

    Maria didn¡¯t have the means to locate any of them, anyway, as all this was some time ago now. What she did have was Otto, and Otto knew things like this.

    ¡°This was everything?¡± Maria asked the watchman.

    ¡°Yes. Well, you are by all means welcome to investigate further. These pages were the only thing of note we had found. Granted, it wasn¡¯t the most detailed investigation. But you won¡¯t find me stepping anywhere near that place. So, again, you are most welcome to it.¡±

    ¡°How did Selika¡¯s name come up?¡± Josephine asked, scratching her chin with one hand and holding the papers with her other. ¡°How¡¯d you know it was her?¡±

    ¡°There was a letter. Somebody ratted her out.¡±

    ¡°And went to the council? That¡¯s unusual, isn¡¯t it?¡± Josephine said. She looked at Maria. ¡°That¡¯d be the last place I would go to in regards to a witch¡¯s matter.¡±

    ¡°That depends,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°On what?¡±

    ¡°How many people are involved, or might be, in the cabaret.¡± She changed course with her train of thought. ¡°Do you still have the letter?¡±

    The watchman checked briefly, and came up with the small tear of manuscript paper. Maria walked over to his table herself, collecting it from him. It read:

    I have learned of a plot perpetrated by witches of the Black Dime Cabaret, to rob a powerful witch lord¡¯s grave and obtain secret documents that have been leaked on the black market.

    I am not sure why, or what they intend to do. All I know is there are possibly many people involved. One of their names is Selika Montesquiou. I confronted her about these rumours I had been hearing, in confidence, and she immediately threatened terrible things on me.

    I do not know who else is involved.

    The witches of the Black Dime Cabaret here in Carcassonne cannot be trusted. I don¡¯t know what they¡¯re trying to do, but I know that they are mad.

    I don¡¯t know who else to tell.

    Maria folded up the letter, asked to keep it, and the watchman seemed more than glad to be rid of it. She handed it to Josephine.

    ¡°You mentioned her residence,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Yes. 14 Cheri Street,¡± the watchman said. ¡°You will need this.¡± He handed her a key.

    Maria took it, noting the address. She needed to pay the residence a visit, and see if she could find anything else that helped reveal the bigger picture of what was happening here. Parts of it didn¡¯t connect, and others were simply too vague to make anything of. Like, why had they taken her brother¡¯s entire grave, and where were they obtaining his manuscript pages from?

    ¡°What are you thinking?¡± Josephine asked.

    ¡°I hope I¡¯m wrong, but I get the feeling they were trying to establish a new sect,¡± she said. Certainly, by effectively manufacturing their own archive of her younger brother¡¯s teachings, they would have the means to do so. And if there truly were many witches involved...

    ¡°Like another cabaret?¡± Josephine asked.

    ¡°In a sense. But one we don¡¯t know about.¡±

    ¡°And that¡¯s a problem because?¡±

    ¡°Imagine hundreds, maybe thousands of people just like Selika. It¡¯s even worse now, with the fact they may also have access to those pages that even Edgar agreed should not be published. Not to mention, the means to discover things for themselves. Goodness, Josephine, it¡¯s bad enough most days knowing where all the witches are.¡±

    Josephine¡¯s eyes glanced at where Maria had folded up and concealed the unpublished page earlier. ¡°What sort of things are we talking about? When you say that there were things that both you and Edgar agreed shouldn¡¯t be in the book?¡±

    Maria sighed. She did not want to discuss this with Josephine, but she thought that she would not be able to get away from the topic so easily. ¡°Curses, worse even than things you¡¯ve seen. Death spells. We ruled out many things on the basis of ethics, even. It¡¯s not that hiding these things means nobody will ever stumble on them, but that¡¯s part of why it¡¯s also important to know who¡¯s practising witchcraft. So, you see how this will threaten all of that?¡±

    ¡°I guess. Then, what do we do about it?¡±

    ¡°If you would send word to Bellvoir, first I¡¯d like to open communication with Otto regarding the watchman¡¯s leaked pages. Even though it¡¯s bad enough that these unpublished chapters are here, only somebody with direct access to my brother could have gotten them. I want to know if this is something Otto has come across.¡±

    ¡°And you will investigate Selika¡¯s residence?¡±

    ¡°Yes, perhaps I will discover something else that helps it all make sense.¡±

    ¡°Certainly,¡± said Josephine.

    The watchman had gotten up from his seat and was crossing the room between the two women. ¡°How do you know the Baron anyway? He seems to trust you women more than he does most.¡± Maria noted a hint of suspicion in his tone.

    ¡°We are acquaintances,¡± she responded.

    She followed the watchman, with Josephine close behind, out of the tower and back to the streets where their carriage awaited. Before he departed, the watchman said, ¡°Good luck. I¡¯m not a fan of witchcraft, but I will be pleased when the matter is resolved.¡±

    ¡°I bet you will,¡± Maria said.

    The watchman scoffed, then departed back inside the jails.

    #

    There was nothing significant about the place where Selika had been staying. The small housing unit was squeezed beside others in lower Carcassonne, had several jars hanging along the eaves outside, and some potted plants stacked on a wire shelf by the door. Maria walked from the carriage, went up the stairs and knocked on the door, before waiting.

    While on the top step, she observed the view over the street behind her. All was sloping and irregular, in a way similar to Bellvoir, but less dirty. Children played on the wide street, and on the other side was more housing. She found that most used bicycles and carriages to get around the city, the ringing of bells and wheels frequent.

    When nobody answered the door, Maria opened it with the watchman¡¯s key and stepped inside. The air was cool and the light soft and dispersed. Small windows kept the residence dim, yet provided enough lighting for her to see. She immediately noticed overflowing bookshelves, portraits and paintings (some hanging by nails from the walls, others lying about tables and shelving), and various incenses, some of them still burning. The scent was strong and botanical. Maria found a vial of some concoction, held it to her nose, and grimaced. The smell was not any that she was familiar with, like sewage and tobacco.

    She¡¯s been experimenting, Maria thought, returning the vial to the shelf where she found it, and kneeling to examine some books on the tops of piles. Authors of the sciences and philosophy. Scrolls on scrolls, and who knew where she¡¯d obtained some of them. A voracious reader, Maria thought. Or just stockpiling, like Otto...

    There was no indication that anybody else lived here. Maria walked into the sole bedroom, a small room with a crude double bed, and some folded clothes on the end. A chest sat at the foot of the bed, burnished bronze bordering good wood.

    Maria checked the lock but couldn¡¯t get in. Letting the woman keep some degree of privacy, she instead went into the washroom and found a detangler strewn-through with chewed-up raven hair. Maria plucked a few strands from the instrument. They were still slightly-wet to the touch. She enclosed the hair within her hand and gave the room a final look-over, catching her reflection in the standing mirror. Her appearance was unprovocative, her cloak glittering slightly with imbued crystals. Her blue Lucien-esque eyes traced lines back and forth across the mirror¡¯s surface, eventually leaving it for the woman¡¯s nightstand.

    Maria followed her gaze over to this spot, picking up a little playing card with shiny ink across it. It was the Jack of Hearts, but there was a message written on it.

    Lucien is coming.

    The handwriting was indicative of a member of the cabaret, but could also have been somebody else of good schooling. Young girls entering into studies of witchcraft were often highly-educated in all matter of arts, including writing. She flipped over the card, but there was nothing on the other side. She looked back at the message on the front.

    Who was this referencing? In truth, it could have been any of them. But if it were her, then the card must have been placed here after Selika¡¯s arrest. Which meant somebody else must have been here. Maria felt a chill on the back of her neck. She became distinctly aware of how quiet it was inside the house, and for the first time noticed how it creaked.

    Was there somebody else in there with her now?

    ¡°Hello?¡± she called in a hesitant voice.

    There was no response. Unnerved and ready to be out of there, Maria¡¯s eye shifted to the bathing tub. Pocketing the playing card, she walked over to the tub, peering down. Water puddled in places within it, glinting in the meagre light coming from the next room.

    Yes. There have been others here until recently, she thought.

    Before leaving with the bundle of hair still clasped in her hand, Maria did one final survey through Selika¡¯s small house but found nothing particularly of note. She decided it was quite likely that whoever had been here earlier had since gone. Somebody had told them that Maria was in Carcassonne, and maybe it had scared them off.

    She just wished there was something else here.

    She looked at the tangle of hair she had obtained. It was still wet, which meant it probably wasn¡¯t Selika¡¯s, after all. However, she could use this to find the others.

    Sloppy of them, Maria thought.

    She stood there for a while, letting her mind run. This was undoubtedly magnitudes worse than she had wanted it to be. She needed to clean things up soon, or risk the council getting involved. Things like this did not reflect well on the cabaret, and could only make matters worse for all of them.

    Cleaning up Edgar¡¯s mess. How could it be, that even in death, her younger brother would cause her family such plight.

 Interlude: One Who Reads the Waves

    As night fell upon the fishing town of Bonpoi, Remy followed a path he had taken on many occasions. One, which he seemed to be travelling now more often than before.

    That morning, he had been fishing on the lake when he encountered something underneath the waves. The unseen terror had destroyed his fishing rod, and if he had been any unluckier, perhaps it would have destroyed his boat, too.

    This continued to play through his mind all day. That, along with what Max had told him, about how Julius had also felt something in the lakes.

    Venturing deep into the town, he soon reached the hut of Madame Carlotta Ruspoli. Her hut sat on the bank of an inlet that ran from the lakes to the deep town. All one was required to do was follow the small stream of water until they reached her. Often, residents of the town sailed small lantern boats along the stream, containing wishes, which Madame Ruspoli praised.

    But Remy had not come here for that. Wishes for money, romance and good health were not the only things that the Waveseer dealt with.

    A small light flickered inside her hut, which suggested to Remy that she was still awake, and willing to hear. Remy knocked on her door several times, before creeping to the small arch window nearby it, and calling, ¡°Madame Ruspoli, it is Remy. I have an appointment.¡±

    He had not even returned to the front door when the diminutive woman opened it, and looked around for him. When her eyes met his, Remy felt a shock. There was something always so unnerving about the way her eyes glowed blue with such intensity. It was almost like looking up at the stars and seeing bright blue planets.

    ¡°Good evening,¡± said Remy. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯ve been running late to everything of recent. I hope you will still hear for me tonight.¡±

    Madame Ruspoli grunted, beckoning him inside her hut. Remy followed, ducking through the entrance and then into the dim interior. Madame Ruspoli closed the door behind him. The river continued inside her hut, ending at a small circular pool bordered by glittering stones. There was a single cushion next to it, and a lantern. As always, another person was present, the Waveseer¡¯s guide, a spindly bald man with a tattooed face. He was on his knees, on another cushion, with a towel draped over his shoulder.

    ¡°Tea?¡± Madame Ruspoli inquired. She was walking over to the tea stand on the opposite end of the room. Remy could see that it was already steaming.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± Remy said.

    Madame Ruspoli proceeded to pour him a cup, and Remy sat down on the cushion next to the pool of water. Once she was done, she walked over to him and placed it in his hands. Remy thanked her again. The Waveseer then stepped out of her slippers and dropped her robes to the floor. Remy drew his eyes away from her, until she had submerged herself completely inside the pool. The water came up to her shoulders, lapping against her wrinkled skin.

    Remy lifted the cup of tea to his lips and drew in its vapour. The tea smelled of rose petals, and vaguely of orange peels. He took a sip, then exhaled the day¡¯s stress. He was not sure what the tea was made of, but it always seemed to have this calming effect on him.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°The Waveseer awaits you,¡± said the guide, to his right.

    ¡°I was fishing this morning,¡± Remy said, once he had lowered the cup back down to his lap, ¡°when I suddenly caught on something large, hidden underneath the waves. Now, you could say it was junk, or something inanimate that happened to be down there, but whatever this was, it actively worked against me. And it was no fish, I can be sure of that. I am no weakling, as you may be able to tell, and it was stronger even than I.¡± He thought for a minute, staring down into the swirling waters of his tea. ¡°I saw its shadow move, for but a moment. I caught it with my eyes. I wonder, what threatens our town in the lakes?¡±

    The Waveseer hummed, as she floated in the pool.

    Remy noticed the tea in his cup ripple like a small stone had landed in it, but he had never been sure if this was an effect of the Waveseer, or just his nervous hands.

    ¡°Something does stir,¡± said Madame Ruspoli, her azure eyes staring blankly. ¡°It upsets the waves greatly. Yes, I hear its calling. A great, tormented monster. It comes with the storm. It comes with the storm.¡± She twitched her shoulders, spasming in the pool. A spot of blood oozed from her left eye, and began trickling down her cheek. ¡°Foolish boy, you have upset it.¡±

    Remy nearly spat his drink. ¡°What do you mean, I upset it?¡±

    ¡°Something that has been done. The world put out of balance.¡±

    Remy scrunched up his face. What was this woman talking about? He had not brought this beast here!

    ¡°This spirit is not kind,¡± said Madame Ruspoli. ¡°It stirs in the deep lakes, testing the waters, but will only emerge with the storm. The storm comes. It is mere days away.¡±

    This was also odd to hear, considering there had not been a storm in Bonpoi for many months. It was not the season for such a thing. And, days away? Taking in the information, he frowned and drank from his swirling teacup. When he was finished, he asked the Waveseer, ¡°What can we do to prepare the town for this storm?¡±

    ¡°I cannot answer that,¡± she responded.

    Remy sighed. Of course. The Waveseer was always selective in what she was able to reveal. She seldom was able to offer advice, aside from what she heard in the waves.

    ¡°I am afraid the Waveseer must soon be put to bed,¡± said the guide, who had remained on the side of the pool, knelt on the cushion with the towel in his arms.

    ¡°Then that is all for this evening,¡± said Remy. He took another sip of his tea, and then stood up, somewhat despondent. As he turned around, Madame Ruspoli spoke again, unprovoked.

    ¡°You are clouded tonight.¡±

    Remy startled, turning back around to see her still in the pool, watching with her inhuman eyes. This was new. Madame Ruspoli was never one to initiate a statement or question of her own. ¡°How do you mean?¡± Remy asked her.

    ¡°I refer to your friend.¡±

    ¡°Who? Max?¡±

    ¡°The one whose stories you read at night.¡±

    Remy, who had worn a half-smile at the ridiculous notion that he was for some reason or another preoccupied with thoughts of Max, now stood expressionless. His smile had sunk somewhere in his chest, which was suddenly burdensome.

    ¡°Oh,¡± he said, face burning scarlet. His head was filled with a flurry of imagery from the pages he had read the night before. He hoped that the Waveseer could not read his thoughts in that moment. Yet, his embarrassment was short-lived. Righting himself, Remy said, ¡°These are simply things to pass the time with. I have no feelings towards my old friend. Do you call somebody a friend who abandoned you, and has not spoken in years?¡±

    The Waveseer hummed. ¡°If that is what you believe.¡±

    Remy¡¯s mood had soured. He glanced at the Waveseer¡¯s guide, who had not moved, still awaiting there on his knees with the towel. ¡°Well,¡± Remy said to the both of them, ¡°I bid you good evening. Thank you for your ears, Waveseer.¡±

    And he left the hut.

 Things Best Left Unsaid

    I returned to the institution in Matera one year after my brief affair with Rita Galeazzi, seduced by the prospect of learning more about my father¡¯s work¡ªthe bulk of which I had not been privy to during his lifetime. I learned quickly that he had been corresponding with Ms Galeazzi and the other scholars at the Institute, assisting in research and experimentation of these most unnatural things. I fell in love with the work¡ªand with Rita. Though, she was quite fervently against revisiting that one summer night.

    <hr>

    After a long day, Maria retired to her room at the inn, Josephine in the next one over. She dimmed the light and pulled the curtains over the window. It was not far from one end of the room to the other, with a modest bed taking up much of the space. There was a standing mirror like the one in Selika¡¯s room, but this one had no special ornamentation, in fact seemed rather cheaply made.

    She first washed up and then, in her sleeping outfit with the night cowl sloping off her head like a giant sock, set about with the lock of hair she had taken from Selika¡¯s residence.

    Maria carried this into the dark gardens outside, hunkering down behind the bushes and brambles. From her rucksack she took out the necessary ingredients to put together a concoction. Hair torn from the scalp of Selika, dash of melted tree sap, ribcage from an amphibian that had suffered an immensely painful death. Her rucksack also contained several other vials filled with essences. These were mixed in oils. Blood of self-mutilation, bone dust of murdered male, semen collected from inhabitants in a brothel.

    These were items which were not all easy to come by, but Maria had her ways of collecting such things. She mixed all of this together in a small ceramic bowl and then kindled a fire with flint and twigs, and began to gently broil it. Tangy smoke drifted into the cold night sky, the horrible scent becoming quickly lost, and nobody around to smell it or see what she was doing. The licking amber of the flames lit the surrounding gardens, revealing apples on vines, berries in thatches. Her precise fingers worked, pale skin faintly laced with thin greying hairs.

    The words uttered from her lips were verbatim from her younger brother¡¯s manuscript pages. Words that were rooted in no language even she had heard of, jumbled letters and odd phrasing. When she said them, her lips contorted in strange ways, more animal than human.

    Eventually, she began to make out a diaphanous scene in the middle of the smoke cloud. She saw an alleyway, and every now and then, another woman clad in burlesque drifted into frame. She saw the woman whose perspective she was in draw a cigarette and light it. Another cabaret performer floated into view, but her details were hazy in the roiling smoke.

    They¡¯re at the cabaret, Maria thought. Either on break, or they have just finished a shift. She continued to watch. As the perspective smoked her cigarette with her back against the brick wall, one of the other performers walked off, disappearing down the alley.

    End of shift, Maria thought. But she stays.

    The image began to flicker, before eventually fading altogether. Maria had seen enough, anyway. She patted out the flames and spilled the horrid concoction into the soil, where it was soaked up as any mixture of bodily fluids would be. Forgotten about. She collected her things, took a look around to see if anybody had been watching her, and found that she was, as predicted, thoroughly left alone in those dark, quiet gardens.

    That night she slept jarringly, frequently awoken by strange dreams involving Selika and Edgar. In one such dream, which turned out to be more of a vision of their childhood, she saw herself as a teenager. She and Edgar had gone to milk the cows and found that one of them was keeled over on the ground with flies buzzing around it. The cow was dead¡ªhad been for a while, too. But strangest of all about the scene (and she couldn¡¯t remember if this had actually happened or was just a fabrication of her dream), the cow seemed to look at her, continuously blinking.

    She then saw the deformed shape of a calf, its arms and legs clawing through the mother¡¯s gut like a child unwrapping presents on Christmas morning.

    Maria turned to her younger brother, who would have only been ten or eleven, dressed in a good set of farmhand clothing their father had purchased in town.

    ¡°What should we do?¡± Edgar said with no expression.

    Maria was too scared to do anything, just watched the movements inside the cow until, slowly, it stopped, and the cow no longer blinked. Yes, it had been dead all along, Maria thought to herself, and the blinking was surely part of the dream. The calf must have been a part of the dream, too, as a thing like that was not possible, was it?

    ¡°Maria?¡± He tugged on her clothing. ¡°Is Father going to be mad?¡±

    Maria looked to her younger brother. ¡°Did you do this, Ed?¡±

    ¡°What? How could you suspect me? I hardly ever take care of the cows!¡±

    ¡°Then...maybe their food was bad,¡± she mused. ¡°Or a disease?¡± She looked around and saw several other cows, watching them. One even mooed, a sound that reverberated so deeply she felt it in her feet. Edgar looked like he was about to cry.

    ¡°Help me bury it,¡± Maria said.

    Edgar did not question this, and somehow (perhaps by dream magic) they pulled the cow, dug a hole, and threw it in. By the time they were finished, both Maria and Edgar were covered in flies and blood.

    When she awoke following this dream, she was at first disturbed, and then confused. The dream was simply a dream; she was not even certain that something like this had ever happened before. Yet still, as the night wore on, sleep was elusive. Perhaps it was the small room with its unfamiliar darkness, or just the stress of the situation in Carcassonne.

    It was late into the night when Maria was awoken by the sound of quiet muttering. Sitting up in her bed, she blinked and looked around.

    Josephine? Her eyes landed on the wall that separated the two bedrooms. What is she talking about? The girl¡¯s jumbled words were impossible to decipher; all Maria could make out was the frenetic pace of it, and the repetition of sounds as a low murmur. She imagined Josephine in the next room, her lips moving, clicking with each draw of breath.

    At first, Maria tried to ignore it and go back to sleep, but she could not. She lit the candle on her bedside and climbed out of bed. The air inside her bedroom was bitingly cold, and as her socks hit the wooden floorboards, a chill wracked her body. She took the candle and walked over to the wall separating their rooms. Every now and then she heard a loud grunt and more mumbling, becoming more and more aggressive in nature.

    Curiosity piqued. ¡°Josephine,¡± she hissed, with similar intensity to the noises. Then, she tried a little louder: ¡°Josephine!¡±

    The talking stopped.

    Maria gulped, going as still as her bedframe. Crazy girl, it¡¯s the middle of the night! she thought. But if only she could have caught a little more of what she was mumbling on about. The idea of not knowing struck Maria sharply. She didn¡¯t like not knowing things.

    ¡°What do you want?¡± Josephine said, her voice muffled by the wall.

    Maria wet her lips, but stopped herself from saying something else. She simply nodded and retreated from the wall, the absence of the candle light darkening the space between them. Maria whispered beyond hearing of the girl, ¡°Good night then, Josephine.¡±

    Thus, for the remainder of the night, Maria did not get much sleep, yet nor did Josephine carry on with her mumbling. It became so quiet indeed that all there was for Maria to focus on was the tight feeling in her chest, and swirling thoughts.

    #

    Neither Maria nor Josephine acknowledged what had happened the night before while eating breakfast together in the bakery across the street.

    Maria rarely had such difficulties managing her sleep, but she did not feel rested this morning. Even holding a piece of bread to her lips felt sluggish. Through open windows, she watched as the town bustled about them, a street filled with passersby. It was a sunny, pleasant day by all indicators; and yet, Maria herself was deeply overcast.

    Josephine was observing the playing card that had been left in Selika¡¯s house. Lucien is coming. After a time, she handed it back across the table, and Maria concealed it underneath her plate. ¡°Is there anything we should gather from the specific type of card? Jack of hearts,¡± Josephine said.

    ¡°Maybe, maybe not,¡± said Maria.

    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t recognise whose handwriting it is,¡± Josephine said glumly, still looking at the card, which peered ominously from under the plate.

    Maria bit off her last mouthful of bread and swallowed it down with a pour of wine. She enjoyed the wine vastly more than the bread, but then, she had always enjoyed good wine. ¡°It can¡¯t have been sent from Bellvoir. I thought, at first, it was possible. But, a note like this is passed in a hurry, inconspicuously. You know? A note¡ªon a playing card, no less¡ªis left because you cannot convey the message to them any other way. I¡¯d imagine this is from Carcassonne, from one witch to another.¡±

    ¡°Well, if somebody is missing a Jack of Hearts,¡± Josephine said.

    ¡°True, we could search every deck of playing cards in the city.¡±

    Josephine scowled. ¡°Who knew you were coming? Wasn¡¯t many people. Your brother...?¡±

    Maria shook her head in resignation. As far as she knew, only Hermine and her closest circle knew where she was. As far as anybody else was concerned, Maria had simply gone out on her own private affairs. Unless Alfred had mentioned it to somebody, let it slip. Perhaps she would find this out later today, when they met with him after breakfast.

    ¡°How about Antoinette?¡± Josephine asked.

    ¡°That¡¯s just silly. Antoinette isn¡¯t working with them.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just saying, maybe she let loose her lips. And it¡¯s not as if she is particularly pleased with you right now.¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    Josephine talking about Antoinette like this made Maria feel bitter. Perhaps Josephine sensed the change in her expression, for she seemed disinterested in pursuing that topic any further, conceding, ¡°That is if their ¡®Lucien¡¯ is even a reference to you.¡±

    Maria hmphed.

    ¡°By the way, I noticed you sneaking out last night,¡± Josephine said in an inquisitive tone. ¡°And here I was thinking Maria Lucien would never dream of such things.¡±

    Maria stiffened. She found it odd that Josephine would bring this up considering what she had been doing last night. ¡°Since when was Maria Lucien not free to do as she likes?¡±

    ¡°Conjuring in the gardens? I can¡¯t even recall the last time I saw you concocting something like that. I must say, the smell that emanated from it was ghastly¡ª¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t need to be so loud about it,¡± Maria said. ¡°I pulled some witch¡¯s hair when I went to Selika¡¯s estate yesterday. I cooked a potion to see if I could find who it belonged to. Of course,¡±¡ªshe looked up at the streams of sunlight decorating the establishment, the mid-morning fury of breakfast¡ª¡°I¡¯d consider anybody who passed through Selika¡¯s household, and used her bathroom accessories, to likely be involved.¡±

    ¡°Well, did you find anything out?¡± Josephine asked, chewing on some bread.

    ¡°I can assume somebody on last night¡¯s closing shift at the cabaret might have a say in things,¡± Maria said. ¡°And with a fondness for tobacco. But keep your voice down.¡±

    Josephine smirked. ¡°Nicely done, Maria.¡±

    Maria felt her cheeks burn, and responded by frowning deeply. ¡°Oh, save your praise for some other time. It was nothing spectacular!¡± In the heat of the moment, she thought about asking about Josephine¡¯s night, but at the last second stopped herself. Forget it, she thought, and absentmindedly picked up and put down her empty glass.

    ¡°I guess we will be visiting the cabaret, then?¡± Josephine said.

    Maria nodded. ¡°After seeing my brother.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s an exciting day.¡± Josephine collected a stale bit of bread from the platter between them. ¡°I was wondering, though, why have you been so adamant on letting Selika go? I would have thought we could have learned a bit more from her. You know, with some persuasion.¡±

    ¡°Oh, Josephine, how I do grow tired of having to explain these things to you younger women. You were not there when local law became involved in the case of the town of Mertil?¡±

    ¡°Never even heard of that place.¡±

    ¡°They defiled her. The girl was villainised and scapegoated for more than just the crimes she had been detained for. In the process, terrible lies came out about the cabaret.¡±

    ¡°Lies such as what?¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what lies. For the one millionth time, we shall deal with the matter ourselves and that is that. You know how these cases spill into public hearsay. Hearsay, of all things, twisted and tumbled like clothes against a washstand.¡±

    Josephine pouted. ¡°I just feel like sometimes you could give me more of an answer, instead of leading me in circles. It¡¯s a little aggravating.¡±

    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be a petulant girl.¡±

    ¡°Do not treat me like Antoinette.¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡±

    ¡°I...stand by what I said.¡± Josephine averted her eyes.

    Maria opened her mouth to berate Josephine for her lack of respect and insinuation, then closed it. I suppose she is not wrong, Maria thought. How she does remind me of Antoinette...or the other way around. She was suddenly feeling more sour than before.

    Neither of them spoke much after that, nothing but occasional, sporadic comments regarding their food and the pleasant weather.

    Maria was thinking about what Josephine had suggested about letting Selika go.

    If it were so simple, she thought. Frankly, the world is more complicated than what is true and what is not, and the relationship between witches and government is difficult. Yet, she did wonder how much longer she could protect them from such cruelties, like what happened to the girl from the Mertil case. When the practice of witchcraft was illegal in many places, some looked to such laws and inquired with themselves, maybe such laws were for the better.

    Regardless, Josephine was not completely wrong in stating her apprehensions about Maria nudging Selika to escape. She imagined her brother would not take kindly to it, either. But then, as far as Maria was concerned, they had learned all they could from her.

    After breakfast, the women took a carriage back up through the long roads to the town hall and made their way to Alfred¡¯s office.

    Alfred was not a man of much variation or diversity. There was precisely one haircut he employed, a neat combover. He also must have groomed his beard each morning, for it never became longer, or went too short. His outfits were unvaried, too: white shirts and brown suits, pairs and pairs of identical shoes. At least Maria somewhat appreciated these simple things about him. Edgar was far more difficult in such regards. ¡°I have expensive taste,¡± was one particular phrase he had often used. When they entered his office, Maria noticed Alfred stealing glances outside the room at a tall man in the hallway.

    ¡°Who is that?¡± Maria asked.

    ¡°Don¡¯t laugh, as it is a serious matter, and quite frankly out of my hands,¡± Alfred started, ¡°but the man is there to paint my portrait. So if we could move on from the topic...¡±

    ¡°To paint your portrait. And why would he do that?¡±

    ¡°Like I said, it is beyond my control. It was organised by the council. They would like to hang it on the wall. Erm...¡± His eyes went again.

    ¡°Like that one there?¡± Josephine asked, pointing to the portrait of Alfred that was already on the wall. ¡°When did you have that painted? Yesterday?¡±

    Alfred cleared his throat. ¡°Ok, I confess, it isn¡¯t for the council. It is a gift for my wife, for our anniversary. She...requested it. Now it may have been a joke, but you know my wife, she doesn¡¯t play around like that. I believe she was being honest with this.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I want to know, but what sort of painting are we talking?¡± Maria asked, dumbfounded (and slightly dreading to hear what his response was going to be). She looked outside at the man who was there. The man immediately averted his eyes and began whistling.

    ¡°It¡¯s a...Well, it was her idea, like I said.¡±

    ¡°Spit it out, Alfred, what have you got that man painting?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a naked portraiture, okay!¡± he blurted. ¡°Naked! Yes, you heard that right. In a moment, I will be posing naked for that man outside. All laid bare! Is that what you wanted to hear me say, Maria! I¡¯m posing naked for a painting, buttocks and all, there you go.¡±

    Maria cackled raucously, and even Josephine smiled. When she shot another glance at the man in-waiting, who would soon see all, he looked away and appeared in a mind of half-leaving. ¡°May I ask. Right here, in this room, Alfred?¡±

    ¡°Yes. It was difficult to schedule.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m suddenly afraid to touch anything. Is it your first time?¡±

    ¡°Okay!¡± He threw his hands in the air. ¡°That¡¯s enough talk of this.¡±

    ¡°Very well. No need for a tantrum.¡± Though, she very much enjoyed how bright red her older brother¡¯s face had become. You could just about hear the steam spouting from his ears.

    Alfred grumbled to himself. ¡°Have you had your fun, woman?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Thank you for facilitating it.¡±

    ¡°Hmm.¡± He walked behind his desk and sat down, straightening his outfit as though trying to regain a modicum of dignity. ¡°Now, before we begin, neither of you girls would care to explain why my prisoner no longer is in her cell? I already know it was you, Maria, so don¡¯t take me for a fool. I¡¯m not mad. But why? What am I supposed to tell the council to explain how this woman fled from their grasp? What were you even thinking?¡±

    ¡°Slow down there, Alfred,¡± Maria said. ¡°I need you to realise that you don¡¯t earn extra money for every sentence you add to a rant. It¡¯s just grating.¡±

    ¡°She was our only lead, you invalid.¡±

    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be dramatic about it. I simply encouraged her, and you know what, you¡¯ll be glad I did. You certainly won¡¯t be able to fund such frivolous things as your bare-butt-naked portraiture when all those funds are diverted to long and boring hearings like the one Selika would have been on. That is no fun for anybody, is it?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not saying you¡¯re wrong, just asking for an explanation. How did you do it? A curse? Did you loosen the locks when you were leaving?¡±

    ¡°As I said, she did it herself. I simply gave her the necessary push. And, if you¡¯d like to know, she isn¡¯t our only lead. How after all these years you still think me so incompetent?¡±

    Alfred grunted. ¡°Very well. Say it, then. Why are you keeping secrets?¡±

    Oh, how this man utterly infuriated her with everything he said. ¡°Josephine, I apologise again for my brother and his irritating demeanour. Quite frankly, with all the wealth he has hoarded over the years, I wonder why he hasn¡¯t thought to do something about it.¡±

    ¡°Just excellent,¡± Alfred said. ¡°No, I will not take the bait. Go on, speak.¡±

    ¡°Any witch who flees from such places as your filthy jails ought to be commended, not made a fool of in front of all the city in a grilling made to humiliate.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not arguing,¡± Alfred said.

    ¡°I want my witches protected. I¡¯ve seen what becomes of witches under such circumstances. If I¡¯m not looking out for them, who is? You, Alfred?¡±

    ¡°I said already, I¡¯m not arguing.¡± Alfred glanced towards the man waiting outside, and his leg bounced up and down with awareness of the time. ¡°What have you found?¡±

    Maria passed him the playing card she had taken from Selika¡¯s estate.

    Alfred scrunched up his nose as he looked at it. ¡°Okay, what do you want me to make of this? We don¡¯t even know who it refers to exactly.¡±

    ¡°I think it¡¯s clear,¡± Maria said. ¡°So who knew I was coming? Hermine, who¡¯s in Bellvoir? She couldn¡¯t have gotten word here so quickly. And who else? Oh, yes, you knew.¡±

    ¡°What are you accusing me of here? That I¡¯m secretly talking to the witches about¡ª About what? I don¡¯t even know what this message means. That is just a silly thought.¡± He threw the card nonchalantly onto his table and didn¡¯t seem interested in giving a second look at it.

    Maria felt her face grow hot, and she restrained herself from getting snappy with him. ¡°Well, it still stands, someone was warning the witches that a Lucien was coming.¡±

    ¡°For all we know, it could refer to our brother.¡±

    ¡°Are you stupid? He is dead. He cannot come anywhere.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t remember you having such a temper,¡± Alfred said with a half-smile, as though he found all of this quite amusing. ¡°I can tell you now that there is nobody in this town who is working with those witches except other witches. You know, most people around here hate them. In fact, I¡¯m very progressive compared to them!¡±

    ¡°If that¡¯s what you believe. Josephine, if you would step out for a moment?¡±

    ¡°And miss out on this free entertainment? Alfred, you should come by the cabaret once in a while. I need this more often.¡±

    ¡°Josephine, out.¡±

    Josephine shrugged and left without further complaint, joining the unlucky artist in the hallway. After she was gone, Maria closed the distance between herself and her brother. ¡°Did you see what the watchman had obtained from Selika?¡±

    Alfred avoided her eyes. ¡°Briefly.¡±

    ¡°I know I don¡¯t have to tell you that not all witchcraft is good and that some things even I wouldn¡¯t dabble in these days. I want you to know that there were pages in that collection that aren¡¯t published anywhere. Those are things that Edgar wrote, yes, but we both agreed it would be unresponsible to publish them. If I were him, I would have destroyed them long before this ever could have happened, but I¡¯m not surprised he didn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Didn¡¯t all this burn down in the fire when he died?¡±

    ¡°Obviously not.¡±

    ¡°So one of his scribes stole them? A whore?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. It does make me wonder, though, what else is out there.¡±

    ¡°What are you talking about?¡±

    ¡°If somebody has gotten into his private writings, there was more there than just spells and alchemy. There wasn¡¯t a topic our brother didn¡¯t write about in his time.¡±

    Alfred paled. ¡°What are you implying?¡±

    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be so daft!¡±

    ¡°Damn, why do you have to keep insulting me?¡±

    ¡°Because you¡¯re a buffoon, Alfred, and you act as though you are the most dense man on this planet sometimes! You know how much Edgar used to write, and not just about silly frivolous things, he wrote things about our family. Things that could be used against us if, for some reason, any of the content from his journals were to come out. You realise, we will have to have all of this destroyed. We will need to find every single copy and destroy it.¡±

    ¡°That...sounds hard,¡± Alfred said, his voice cracking.

    ¡°Look. Josephine and I will talk to Bella at the cabaret to see if she knows anything. After all, these are her witches who seem so fond of Edgar¡¯s things. But if there is anything you know, or any powers you have to help us, then for the first time in my life, I¡¯m asking you to start talking.¡±

    Alfred cleared his throat. ¡°Yes, Maria. I understand.¡±

    ¡°Good. I thought you would be too much of an idiot to.¡±

    ¡°Just make sure work of things, will you?¡± Alfred said. ¡°Or the council will make a fuss about it. That damned man died long ago and I was just becoming peaceful again.¡±

    Alfred would never admit it to her, but Maria was sure that her being here brought him a sense of relief. After all, he would never have asked her to come if he didn¡¯t want her there.

    ¡°Let me sort out this ill thread,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°But if this is not solved by next Monday, I¡¯m shutting you down and sending you back off to Bellvoir. Then, the fact our prisoner escaped is on your head.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m very threatened, brother.¡±

    ¡°Will you never take me seriously?¡± he said, clenching his fist and just about stomping his foot on the floor. Maria took a pause, glaring at him with humoured eyes.

    ¡°So much time spent at the cabaret,¡± Maria said as the most satisfying smile broke out, ¡°when the comedy has been here all along.¡±

    Alfred made a disgruntled noise.

    ¡°Goodbye, brother.¡±

    ¡°And don¡¯t call me that!¡±

    Maria left his office, joining Josephine outside. She turned to the painter, who was maintaining a fair distance from them, and asked, ¡°Are you even a real painter?¡±

    ¡°I...uh...¡±

    Maria sighed and walked away from him down the hallway.

    Josephine sped up to keep pace. ¡°What was that about?¡±

    ¡°Just...reminiscing on old times,¡± Maria said.

    Once out of the building, she called for a wagon and stood next to Josephine without saying anything. All this talk of the past, she thought. It¡¯s really driving me mad.

 Maria Vs Bella

    My sister will not speak to me. I imagine it has something to do with me insinuating that she would not be so uptight if she found a man to lay with for a night. Certainly, I pursue my enjoyment of women more than most, but my sister is truly a prude on another dimension. The very mention of such a thing (and I have to say, it is not like these things are that taboo), and she bites my head off. All I can say is, I am not holding my breath to become an uncle any time soon.

    <hr>

    Maria was sixteen when she first encountered the use of witchcraft. They lived in south-western France, near a modest village called Saint-Corsheim, which was seated among the rolling hills and farms.

    The Lucien family were better off than most, particularly in regards to the times, which were difficult to say the least. Famine raged across most of France, distrust and dissatisfaction taken hold for many years, and those who could made attempts to migrate elsewhere. Though, often they were met with disastrous fates, for the roads were perilous.

    Her father was a strong, quiet man who dressed in lavish attire and kept her mother close by. Although he did not have a particularly personal relationship with his three children, he did have their respect. At least, that was until Maria became old enough to know better. As she began to form her own identity (mostly based on those she came across in visits to Saint-Corsheim), Maria grew more disdainful towards her father. She started to view him as a cold and emotionless man; and sometimes she was even afraid of him, rather than comforted. Her father, though, hardly regarded her at all.

    Thus, it was the strangest, most unnatural sight when Maria, at only sixteen years of age and quite na?ve (yet trepidatious) of the world around her, stumbled on her father in great chokes of tears. She had heard it from across the house, and having given her younger brother a look of concern, she slowly made her way through the plentiful halls towards them.

    Peering around the corner into the kitchen, she saw her father howl, spluttering and slapping at the wooden floorboards in great distress. Her mother comforted him; though, pale-faced and quivering, she appeared as lacking for words as Maria herself. Never had Maria seen her father in such a state. Mixed parts bereaved and mad, he knelt on all fours, utterly inconsolable. Maria¡¯s single eye upon the scene blinked as little as humanly possible, wholly entranced by the rare sight of her father in such distress.

    They prayed that evening over dinner, and as she often did, Maria cracked an eye open to sneak a glance over the top of her clenched hands at her other family members.

    What she didn¡¯t expect was to see her father¡¯s open eyes staring back at her.

    Maria gasped. Except, her father had not been looking at her, but beyond her. Suddenly, she heard the tinkling of bells coming from somewhere in the room. They were like holiday bells, small and tinny. The hairs on the back of her neck stood erect and just as she was about to look, her father saw her.

    Maria squeezed her eyes shut. In the afterimage she saw that his eyes had somehow changed, gone blood red, like the devil. She wondered, had his eyes been so horrible when she first glimpsed him over her knuckles, or was she imagining things?

    The following day, Maria¡¯s mother did not leave her bed. Nor the morning after. Not until the third day of being bedridden did she finally get up and walk from her bedroom into the kitchen where Maria had been sitting, eating porridge.

    She lifted her hands and revealed blood soaking through her undergarments and nightgown. Maria screamed. Her father, and then her siblings, sprinted into the room as her mother began to whimper, then collapsed to the floorboards, curling in a ball. Her blood, meanwhile, drenched the wood and started dripping through the gaps in the boards.

    Her father held their mother, a sight that was new for Maria. He whispered to them all: ¡°It is all right now. We are all right.¡± Over and over, he repeated this.

    Maria, who felt simply stunned and could not cry, picked something up off the ground. It was small and appeared translucent, covered completely in blood and vaguely resembling something human, or something that should be human.

    She held this alien sac to the light, examining it. As soon as her father saw what she was doing, he barked, snatching it from her and throwing it hard onto the ground, repeatedly stomping it, stomping it, stomping it with his massive boots until the substance was crushed into the wood like an ink stamp. ¡°Why!¡± he screamed. ¡°You have our offering! Spare us any more misery for now! Oh God! I beg of you!¡±

    Maria could no longer stand the sight nor the stench that had started permeating throughout the room, and so she got up and ran out of there as fast as she could.

    #

    A railroad train eased into the station of Carcassonne with Antoinette on board. She yawned as she slid off the seat and exited into the station, bags and all.

    I can¡¯t believe you made me come all this way by myself! Antoinette thought, cursing Maria for leaving her in Bellvoir. She still couldn¡¯t get over this. No single thing could be more terrible.

    As she walked away from the train along the concrete platform, she looked up at the birds awakening from the station¡¯s trees, and the threadbare crowd tiredly crossing the platform to the train she had just departed from. Nobody moved to avoid her as they went about their days, so she was left to do an awkward dance around their long, adult legs.

    Of course, Antoinette did not have the faintest clue where she might be able to find Maria, but there were certain things she did know, like the fact there was a cabaret here, and that if she waited there long enough, then surely she would find Maria. Or at least somebody who knew where Maria was. But where in the world is the cabaret? she wondered.

    Her nose perked up at a delicious smell, like freshly-baked treats. Her neck extended as she looked around. Before long, her legs were pushing in the direction of the smell. The train ride had been long, and she had not eaten much on the way. This had left her feeling rather ravenous upon arriving in Carcassonne, and now that she thought about it, her stomach was grumbling pretty loud!

    Following the beautiful scent, Antoinette was led from the train station through new arrivals, to a small bakery on the side of the road. People bustled on the street outside it, wealthy sorts and students dressed in uniform. This caused Antoinette to stop, letting her bags drop to the cobblestone road. She had not encountered such a thing before. In Bellvoir, Antoinette learned at Ms Curie¡¯s grade school, but they did not get to wear their own uniform, nor were there so many students attending. The way they huddled in throngs, attached to each other¡¯s white uniforms like they were covered in something really sticky, made Antoinette feel twinges of excitement, thinking of all the things they learned in Carcassonne.

    She watched the group until they were gone, only the sound of their giggles remaining, then continued towards the bakery. Baked goods lined the shelves before her, and she gazed up (stepping on her tip-toes) to see them all. When she arrived at the front of the line, the baker peered over the counter at her. He had large cheeks that were tinged red, and a white hat that was as tall as his very long face. ¡°Good morning, young girl, what may I get for you?¡±

    Her eyes scanned over the various goods on offer. Bread rolls, cakes, biscuits, muffins, all sorts of wonderful things. She pointed at a lemon cake, smiling from ear to ear. ¡°One of those, please!¡± Giddy, she stepped back onto the heels of her shoes and waited as the baker collected it for her. ¡°Oh!¡± She fetched into a pocket of her backpack to collect the required money. She had saved a little bit over the last year or so helping out in Bellvoir.

    Reaching up again towards the counter, she handed the money to the baker and grabbed the cake. ¡°Thank you!¡± she said. Collecting her bags with a struggle, she backed out of the crowd and went to find the nearest place to sit and eat.

    #

    Maria¡¯s feet were sore. The worsening pain had likely started back in the town hall with her brother, but she had been able to convince herself that she could travel despite it. Now, however, the short distance between her carriage and the cabaret seemed daunting.

    These cursed shoes, she thought, fixing her disordered skirts and starting the walk. Her audible and visual struggle must have been more pronounced than she thought, for Josephine soon asked, ¡°Do you need to sit down, Maria?¡±

    Maria groaned, stopping halfway to the cabaret. ¡°Please, Josephine, do not indulge me with fantasies such as sitting right now. My poor heart could not take it.¡±

    ¡°Is it your feet?¡±

    Maria cringed. Oh, this is such an embarrassing thing to happen. She gave Josephine a bitter scowl. Who am I kidding? I am more than twice the woman¡¯s age!

    She lifted her skirts and examined her shoes, old and weathered. There was some swelling around her ankles, but the worst of it was her arches themselves. They ached, like somebody prodding them with a dull hammer.

    ¡°Too much wandering about,¡± Maria groaned. ¡°We¡¯ll have plenty of time to sit and chat once we get inside. Now, would you give me a hand?¡±

    Josephine took Maria under the arm and they continued the rest of the way to the cabaret. As she approached, Maria observed its gothic exterior. The building was small yet not dissimilar to the one in Bellvoir. Posters hung from the surroundings, advertising upcoming shows, and a tin shutter closed over a window with TICKETS embossed above it on a piece of wood. Splashes of red paint smeared the road outside the establishment, and Maria hesitated before stepping on it, feeling an odd sense of unease as she did so.

    They went inside, Josephine holding open the door.

    Maria had visited the cabaret of Carcassonne twice before, yet both visits were relatively forgettable. The interior itself was decorated extensively with props and gothic d¨¦cor. A bar along one wall provided service, and little tables spanned the floor. A double-door at the back displayed, on its side, a poster with tonight¡¯s show, and beyond it, as Maria had ventured before, was the theatre. The cabaret¡¯s audience was lacklustre, and its staff the bare minimum. When she entered, she immediately caught the barkeep¡¯s eye.

    She was a formidable-looking woman in a sleeveless dress and long, flowing fabrics. Her burnish brown hair was in a loud bun that appeared like the shell of a great sea creature. She smoked a cigarette with one hand, and flipped pages of manuscript with the other.

    Not recognising her as anybody important, Maria turned her gaze towards a woman at a far-off table. She was in bright makeup and an everything-goes outfit that clashed with (or, you could say, simply accentuated) the strict business attire worn by the other man at her table.

    Shaking off Josephine¡¯s helpful arms, Maria said, ¡°Over there in the ten different outfits, that¡¯s Bella Dupont. She owns the bar. Why don¡¯t you go fetch some drinks and join us?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡± Josephine obliged, going off to the bar, and Maria went to the table.

    Bella looked up as Maria approached, then spoke softly to the man sitting there, who also turned to acknowledge Maria from behind his hand of playing cards. ¡°Maria, Maria, Maria. The entertainment is here,¡± Bella said in a husky voice as she took a sip of wine. Their table was spread with playing cards in a formation that was familiar to Maria.

    Her brow raised. Playing cards, eh?

    ¡°It was said that you had arrived in Carcassonne recently,¡± Bella said. ¡°I hope the city thus far has been to your liking. In my experience, it is a cosy yet angular city. But not much detached from the ruggedness of Bellvoir.¡±

    ¡°As cosy as a brick pallet to sleep on,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Well, all things have their quirks. Look around you. As you can see, we have added quite a bit to the d¨¦cor since last you were here. When was that? Must be years back. And who is the girl you came in with? A witch, I¡¯m imagining, with that flowing hair and large bosom.¡±

    ¡°Yes. Eagle-eyed, are you. You said somebody told you I was here?¡±

    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s just that word gets out. Witches are all over Carcassonne. The fact that we tend not to be wanted much here is actually part of the allure of it.¡±

    Maria thought, perhaps Bella knew something about the playing card with the message on it, perhaps not. She decided not to venture there quite yet. Bella Dupont may be quick-witted and slick of tongue, but she was also precise with it. She would not let loose information by accident; for example, saying that it was quite common knowledge that Maria was coming to Carcassonne.

    Maria curtly glanced at the man who was at the table, his cigar loud and his fat fingers clasping thin, papery cards. ¡°Hello. You will be bored by our conversation, I assure you. If you may? The madame and I just have the matter of, well, you know¡±¡ªshe turned to Bella¡¯s shiny, glittery face¡ª¡°a particular lady conducting unlawful business on your grounds.¡±

    Bella Dupont stiffened. ¡°If we must. Mhm...Paul, I have some items stashed in the blue room through the hall left of stage. Would you be a darl¡¯ and fetch those for me?¡±This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    The man¡ªPaul¡ªpolished his glass and left, Bella watching after him.

    ¡°Sit down, then. You¡¯re making me nervous,¡± Bella said.

    Maria pulled out a seat and dropped into it. ¡°I¡¯m hoping you are aware of the situation.¡±

    ¡°Concerning Selika? Well, it¡¯s unfortunate.¡±

    ¡°It isn¡¯t unfortunate. It¡¯s quite troubling¡ªparticularly that you would let this happen. And not just Selika. Clearly, there are others. Do you know what was found when they arrested her?¡±

    ¡°Let me guess. What would irritate Maria Lucien most of all? Was it a pile of bad reviews?¡±

    ¡°Copies of Principles. They¡¯re going rogue, Bella. Or they intend to. I shouldn¡¯t have to tell you why that is a major problem. My brother is displeased, and to be honest, I am too.¡±

    Bella licked her red lips, puffing out her cheeks. ¡°Well, well, well...We wouldn¡¯t want to cause Maria Lucien nor her brother such displeasure, would we?¡±

    ¡°You ought to polish your tongue,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°All I am implying is that all terrible things seem to come back to your family.¡±

    ¡°Implying is not the right word.¡±

    ¡°Well, gather of it what you wish.¡± She drank till there was not a drop left in her glass. She threw her arms into the circle in the middle of the table and began collecting the cards and tokens upon it. ¡°Join me for a game while you¡¯re here.¡±

    ¡°No thank you.¡±

    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be a drag. When was the last time we threw down?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not something I reminisce on very often.¡±

    Bella chuckled. ¡°Fine, fine. What is on your mind?¡±

    ¡°Closing shift last night,¡± Maria said. ¡°Who worked it?¡±

    ¡°Playing detective, are we?¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to come here, Bella. It is you who cannot keep your women in order. You who let this happen under your watch. Now, surely you know who worked the shift. Or have you drank so much you¡¯ve given yourself blurry vision?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t insult me like that. Oh, for all you born of Lucien blood, it¡¯s the job and nothing more. No wonder they find you all so dull. At least your younger brother Edgar considered the women and games as part of his work.¡±

    Maria¡¯s blood boiled. Across the table, through the smoke that still hovered from when Paul had blown his last breath, she saw Bella give a rictus smile that was all but pleasant to gaze at. This is getting nowhere, Maria thought, clenching her fist underneath the table.

    Josephine returned and Bella invited her down, even pre-emptively kicking out an additional chair for her to sit in.

    ¡°Or does Maria not allow you any fun?¡± she asked.

    Josephine maintained a straight face. ¡°Maria did say that all witches grow more unpleasant the further you travel out from Bellvoir.¡±

    Bella brightened gleefully. ¡°Oh, I do like you.¡±

    Maria side-glanced Josephine as she sat down. Then, sighing, she took a cigarette from the box in the middle of the table and smoked it. She figured they were going to be here for a while, and even the drinks Josephine had ordered may not be enough.

    The deck of cards clapped in Bella¡¯s hands as she shuffled them. Meanwhile, Maria gathered the tokens and divided them up amongst the three players. These were small cubes of wood with carved iconography on the faces, such as sun crowns, daggers and goblets. She left several of these to the side. Truthfully, Maria only wished for one thing in this game, and that was for it to be over quick.

    ¡°Get on with it, Bella, you cannot shuffle forever,¡± Maria said.

    Bella cackled as she dealt the cards, three piles of six, one face-down in the middle. The rest of them she tucked to her side, out of use for the duration of the round. Maria smoked, letting out a long exhale, then squashed the cigarette in Paul¡¯s leftover ashtray. The embers smouldered until they were but a tiny red glow, then nothing.

    ¡°Does she play?¡± Bella asked.

    ¡°Yes, in Bellvoir,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Though I prefer Daggers,¡± said Josephine.

    ¡°Edgar¡¯s specialty,¡± remarked Bella.

    ¡°Cut this talk of my good-for-nothing brother,¡± Maria said. ¡°The fact I have to put up with your women pilfering everything he ever wrote is more than enough.¡±

    ¡°You know, you¡¯ll explode if you¡¯re always like this,¡± Bella said. ¡°It¡¯s happened to women I know, and some far less ready-to-burst than yourself.¡±

    Maria scoffed. The women drew.

    ¡°Ah, yes, last night¡¯s closing shift,¡± Bella mused. ¡°That is Nathalie and the girls. Eug¨¦nie, Sophie and Aline. Oh, great girls. Never caused me any problems, really.¡±

    ¡°Smokers?¡± Maria asked.

    ¡°I¡¯ve shared a smoke with them before. Are you the smoking police?¡±

    ¡°Never mind,¡± Maria grumbled.

    She studied the cards in her hand, and over them she glanced occasionally at the other woman. She did not put much thought into the game. Checked what she had, selected two hearts and slipped them face-down into the middle of the table, replacing them both. The Jack of Hearts was one of them, which meant this deck hadn¡¯t been used for the message. She glanced quickly at her new selection, then back to Bella.

    ¡°Did Selika have anything to do with those girls?¡±

    ¡°She and Nathalie were close, yes. They were an act, dancing and performing most nights to sold-out audiences. You may have seen a poster for them outside.¡±

    ¡°Hmph.¡± She had not, in fact, seen it.

    As play fell to Josephine, the younger witch discarded one card and replaced it, giving no indication she was following the conversation. Turn of play eventually came back around to Bella, who made the same move. ¡°Please, talk me through what you¡¯re thinking.¡±

    Maria told her of how she had gone to Selika¡¯s residence, and what she had found there. About the card, and stealing the wet lock of hair to use in a spell.

    Bella listened to this while they played, giving off little to suggest she knew something relating to these things. In fact, the more Maria seemed to speak, the less enthusiastic Bella became, until Maria wondered if she would say anything at all.

    Only when Maria had finished telling her all she knew, did Bella find her voice. ¡°Why do you care so much about this, darling? This is all such an effort.¡±

    Maria bristled, feeling her nails become claw-like. ¡°That is all you have to say about this? Oh, you insufferable woman! You are so blind! I was starting to wonder how half your witches managed to disappear off to Fosseville without you even knowing, but now it is clear!¡±

    She made an aggressive move against her.

    ¡°Maria, relax yourself. My goodness.¡±

    ¡°But it is true? You never even knew they were gone? You didn¡¯t see any pages floating around? No suspicion at all?¡±

    ¡°Or she was helping them,¡± Josephine said. ¡°Bella, that is the only way to explain it. Unless you¡¯d like to just admit how aloof and incompetent you are.¡± Josephine smiled as she finished this, as though she enjoyed the act of striking upwards. Of course, Maria didn¡¯t mind this. She even felt a little swell of pride.

    She enjoyed even more Bella¡¯s rattled reaction to this.

    ¡°You can make it to Fosseville and back in a night,¡± Bella grumbled. ¡°It¡¯s not that impressive. But, sure, it¡¯s true. I didn¡¯t know what they were scheming.¡± She spoke low and irate, placing her cards down with more vigour, in a state of defeat. ¡°Now that I think of it, I do recall something Nathalie said to me once. Something that now feels quite eerie.¡±

    ¡°And what is that?¡± Maria asked impatiently.

    Bella¡¯s frown pulled up into a grin. ¡°Win a round, let that be your reward.¡±

    ¡°Oh Bella, Bella, Bella...¡± Maria complained. ¡°Why does it feel to me like you¡¯re buying time? Wherever did that other man, Paul, disappear off to?¡±

    Bella shrugged. ¡°You don¡¯t trust me at all, do you? Why, I promise, all is not as it may first appear this side of France. I have only the intention to cooperate. Whatever scheming Selika and her clique was up to, the only business it is of mine is that it occurred under my roof. But even that is debatable. Paul is retrieving some items you might find of interest.¡± She inclined her head towards Josephine. ¡°Josephine, I promise, I don¡¯t know a thing.¡±

    ¡°That is already quite clear,¡± Josephine said hotly.

    Maria sighed, at least thankful they were doing this sitting down.

    The game continued at its usual pace for some time. Every now and then, somebody shot a remark regarding Bellvoir or Carcassonne, or one thing or another. Bella did eventually open up regarding her side of the cabaret, and Maria intoned on the upcoming season in Bellvoir. As the round neared its conclusion, Maria could not say that she had entirely been beleaguered by the conversation. Such things as business and art, of course, Maria Lucien always had time for.

    ¡°And what of yourself?¡± Bella inquired to Josephine, taking a turn. In the middle of the table, piles of cards were forming. ¡°What reason has the wizened Maria for taking you along on her escapades? Well, besides that you are pleasant to look that? I know that Maria is quite picky, and you wouldn¡¯t be here if not for good reason, so...?¡±

    ¡°I guess not everything she does is calculated,¡± Josephine said.

    ¡°That may be what you think,¡± responded Bella. ¡°You don¡¯t know her like I do.¡±

    Josephine looked at Maria out of the corner of her eye, but Maria did not give her nor Bella anything to work with. In an effort to spare Josephine from being lectured on Bella and Maria¡¯s dramatic history, Maria chimed in, ¡°Do you actually care to know the answers to any of your rhetorical questions, Bella, or are you simply stirring up trouble?¡±

    ¡°You can only stir what¡¯s there.¡±

    Between them, Josephine smiled slyly and did not respond, though Maria noticed her lips twist in the fashion of testing a select few phrases.

    They made a full cycle round the table, cards exchanging, tokens trading. Eventually (and unfortunately), it was Bella who continued to speak.

    ¡°Did you know that Maria has not bedded a man in all her years of living? You would think it not to be the case, but it is true. Unless something has changed since I knew her?¡±

    Josephine glanced at Maria. ¡°Well, I¡¯d imagine she has her reasons.¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± Bella said animatedly. ¡°Of course.¡±

    Maria fumed. She felt her face grow severely hot and she maintained fervent eye-contact with the cards in her hand. Yet her mind in that moment went from the game, to absolutely blank. Her leg beneath the table began to bounce. She urged Josephine to stop looking at her; and Bella, well, she desired to leap across the table and take her throat in her hands.

    She looked up as, from the back of the cabaret, Paul approached with a small burlap sack that bulged with different shapes like a distended stomach.

    ¡°You sullen bitch,¡± Maria cursed.

    ¡°Cool down, fire bomb,¡± Bella said.

    Maria seethed as she played her last card, certain of victory. Bella continued to stare at Maria as she reached into the centre of the table and flipped up the four face-down cards in the centre, revealing that Maria had, in fact, won the game.

    Paul returned, handing the burlap sack to Bella. Without wasting any more of their time, Bella plopped it on the table, senselessly scattering all the cards and tokens, and spilled the bag¡¯s contents for them to see. Maria knew immediately what this was.

    Trinkets and charms. A photograph aged so terribly it was quite impossible to make out the details of. Except, of course, she had seen this photograph before; it was her.

    These had belonged to her younger brother.

    ¡°How did you get these?¡± Maria collected a small porcelain doll, the paint faded. You could tell that her dashing curls were once red, her dress blue. Now, a dusty white. Her cheeks were plump and overstuffed, her eyes little crosses. No, this is mine, Maria thought. She turned the doll in her fingers, then gently placed it back down on the table.

    ¡°Such things have a habit of becoming lost,¡± Bella responded. ¡°Once on the market, you¡¯ll know this, they become something of collector¡¯s items.¡±

    ¡°Ridiculous.¡± She thought of the work that Otto did back in Bellvoir, and found that she was not surprised that a market for items like these existed. She was simply exhausted at the fact, and more than a little bit disturbed that her family¡¯s innocuous items were commodities now.

    She picked up an old pocket watch that no longer turned. Examined a cigar¡ªcould have been any cigar, and yet she knew, upon seeing it, that it had been Edgar¡¯s.

    ¡°Did Alfred put you up to this?¡± Maria asked.

    ¡°For good cause. These are historical pieces. They do belong to the cabaret.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, historical pieces?¡± Maria blurted loudly, cackling as she did so. ¡°Goodness, Josephine, do you hear this? They¡¯re family pieces, not for bartering.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be so defensive! Isn¡¯t it the reason for all your strife, items such as your brother¡¯s ending up in the wrong hands? I¡¯m not selling these, I¡¯m storing them. You ought to be thanking me. Here, you might wish to take a look inside this ledger.¡±

    Maria scowled. Among the items was a small, black ledger. Bella slid it towards Maria, and then she took it. She opened up the book, its leather covers revealing darkened yellow pages inside, with ruled lines and handwritten text. Line by line of debts owed and debts paid, both from her younger brother and to him. The amounts were sizeable, but Maria had of course known of the business that her brother was involved in. Whenever Edgar was around, there was money being passed between hands. Yet while her brother had died in 1815, several entries seemed to stretch beyond this year, as recent as 1826, two years ago.

    ¡°Whose work is this?¡± Maria asked. ¡°These debts that were dealt with following my brother¡¯s death? Am I to assume this is the work of Alfred?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Edgar¡¯s untimely death left some debts unresolved.¡±

    Maria was genuinely surprised by this. ¡°It¡¯s a lot of money being settled. Some of these are multi-thousand franc repayments.¡± She frowned. ¡°Does Alfred even have that sort of money?¡±

    ¡°Well, not every debt is resolved with money,¡± Bella said.

    ¡°What on earth has that man been up to in my absence? And, more importantly, why is it that I¡¯m hearing about all this from you and not him? No, actually, that I am only seeing this while riffling through my dead brother¡¯s possessions! Then again, Alfred never does tell me anything until it¡¯s absolutely necessary.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve answered your own question.¡±

    ¡°That stubborn mule,¡± Maria cursed. She wondered if part of the allure of these fanatics to Carcassonne was the presence of such things here. Stockpiling Edgar¡¯s belongings. She wondered how much had been stolen, or if there had been a plot to do so. How many other people had Alfred been making deals with behind her back, deals concerning the cabaret?

    I will have to smack that man next time I see him, Maria swore.

    ¡°One name came up quite a lot when you look at the dealings occurring post-1815,¡± Bella said. ¡°I don¡¯t know, does Molteni sound familiar?¡±

    Maria raised a brow. Yes, she knew of House Molteni. She had dined with them several times when they were teenagers. A friend of her father¡¯s, their bloodline was ancient and significant to certain areas of France. Their wealth had only grown over the years, and grew still, as far as she knew. However, Maria had not been in contact with the Molteni family for quite some time; enough time had passed she seldom thought of them at all.

    ¡°If you will, examine the final pages of the book,¡± Bella said.

    Maria did this, and her eyes widened. Right up until the last entry were payments being made to Vincenzo Molteni. And these numbers were unusually high.

    Thousands on thousands of francs.

    ¡°Oh, Maria, the look on your face.¡±

    Maria grabbed her head. ¡°I¡¯m having a headache.¡± She slammed shut the book and closed her eyes, feeling an intensifying pain in both her temples.

    ¡°This isn¡¯t some debt, Maria. Your brother continues to send money to the Molteni family. That book simply does not supply enough pages to cover it all.¡±

    ¡°I bet!¡± Maria said.

    ¡°What is it for?¡± Josephine asked. ¡°Maria?¡±

    ¡°How should I know! My brother is a wild goose!¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Bella said. ¡°But I invite you to consider, were my girls the first to make off with all your dead brother¡¯s possessions? Or has somebody from the Molteni family found something incriminating amongst it? He was a prolific writer, of many things.¡±

    Maria stewed. There was that insinuation again.

    ¡°No, it isn¡¯t a debt,¡± Bella said. ¡°Well, maybe a charity. But Alfred...I don¡¯t think so.¡±

    Maria cackled at the thought of her older brother offering charity money to anybody, let alone the Molteni family, who didn¡¯t need it.

    ¡°Anyway, this is yours,¡± Bella said. ¡°Let it be proof that I¡¯m not as obsessed with your family as you think I am. Paul, please tidy that for her.¡±

    Paul obliged willingly, returning the contents of the bag to where they had come from, and placing it in front of Maria, who was still recovering from her overwhelming headache. She grabbed the bag and then shoved it towards Josephine to take instead.

    ¡°We¡¯re done here, Josephine,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°If you would like to know,¡± Bella said sternly, ¡°your brothers weren¡¯t the only people who used that ledger. Just a hint. You might find something that helps point you in the right direction. If you ask me, it looks like you have greater problems here than just crazed fanatics conspiring to mess with us, all of which are far too sly to reveal themselves to you.¡±

    Maria stood up from her chair and left the table.

    Behind her, Josephine said, ¡°Wait. Before, you mentioned that girl Nathalie said something to you? You said you¡¯d tell her if she won the game, which she did.¡±

    Maria stopped in her tracks, fighting every fibre of her body. When she turned around, Bella was standing up and smiling over the lip of a wine glass.

    ¡°Oh, yes. That. I do recall it,¡± Bella said.

    ¡°And?¡± Josephine urged her.

    ¡°I believe it was, something, something, homunculi. Of course, I told her, that¡¯s not something I had researched much myself, being a good little witch. But, if she so desired to learn more, Edgar Lucien published a bit on the topic.¡±

    Maria went cold, right to the tips of her fingers. Her mouth was as dry as paper. ¡°Published? That...wasn¡¯t published,¡± she said, then immediately wished that she could take it back, a lump forming in her throat. It doesn¡¯t matter that it wasn¡¯t published, does it.

    Bella¡¯s eyes glinted like light on a knife.

    ¡°Nothing to worry about, then,¡± Bella said.

    Maria¡¯s face twitched. She did not wait around; she could not bear to be with the woman any longer, nor hear her infuriating voice. She turned and departed immediately. However, in this brief window of opportunity, Maria between Bella and the door, Bella called out to her, ¡°I am doing you a favour here, Maria. Don¡¯t be so stubborn as to ignore what I have said and have given you. Look where stubbornness got your younger brother.¡±

 Luciens Secrets

    What is a homunculus? My father defined it as ¡°a life form birthed through alchemical means.¡± During a homunculian transformation, the old body (often deceased) becomes a vessel¡ªor cocoon, you might say¡ªthrough which the new life is hatched.

    <hr>

    By the time Antoinette arrived at the cabaret, Maria had already left. The cabaret¡¯s owner, Bella, swept ¡®round the place, seeming rather busy and uninterested in anything she had to say. According to her, Maria and Josephine were here in the morning, and she had barely missed them.

    ¡°No way!¡± Antoinette sulked, kicking the heavy bag on the floor at her feet. ¡°After I came all this way? Why is it so freaking hard to find this woman!¡±

    Bella clicked her tongue. ¡°You are welcome to stay. Maybe she will come back.¡±

    ¡°She wouldn¡¯t like that,¡± Antoinette groaned. Maria always warned her against such things. ¡°I¡¯d better go, then.¡± She gathered her bags and hauled them back out into the afternoon light, Bella bidding her a warm yet disinterested farewell on her way out.

    Once outside, she had not the faintest idea of where to go next.

    She decided to ask the nearest carriage driver if he had noticed the women around the town, but he seemed unsure and, ultimately, proved to be no help.

    Why is everybody so unhelpful? Antoinette thought.

    This all just left her feeling tired and deflated. Had she really come all this way to not find them at all? And to miss them by this much! It irked her terribly. With her bags feeling very heavy at this point, she put them down and thought about her options.

    She supposed, there wasn¡¯t really much of an option.

    She drew into her bags and took out a water bladder, opening it up and taking a large gulp. She hadn¡¯t realised how thirsty she was until this very moment, with water dribbling all down her chin and clothes, her throat becoming quickly sated.

    Eventually, stoppering it back up and returning it to her bag, she drew a deep breath and looked up through the streets. I suppose I could visit Alfred, she thought. At least she knew where her uncle Alfred was. Of course, he would know where Maria was. Though, she wondered if Alfred would even recognise her; it had been so long since they last saw each other.

    Okay, Antoinette, stop wasting time.

    She grabbed her bags again, arms painful, and continued her mission.

    #

    That evening, Maria and Josephine stayed up late in Maria¡¯s room. Night fell quick in Carcassonne; by the time they had dined and washed up, despite their efforts, the day had escaped them. Sitting at the reading desk in the corner of the room, Maria carefully went through her brother¡¯s ledger by the light of her candles.

    It was a cursed document. The paper was old and the ink was faded and poor, despite her brother¡¯s wealth. She supposed, in time, even expensive things lost their shine. But she still could not believe this book had lasted so long beyond his death.

    Collector¡¯s items. It was a comedic thing, that items of as little significance as these would become preserved and sold for high amounts¡ªand why! Not that she cared much, but she did suppose such things were better off with the cabaret than on the market for just anybody to get their hands on. But then, she thought, evidently, these items were not even safe in the cabaret.

    Edgar, you awful man, she thought, as a creaking floorboard caused her to look over to where Josephine was picking a book off the shelf across the room.

    Its spine cracked as Josephine peeled open the red covers. ¡°I don¡¯t mean to distract you, Maria,¡± she said, nonplussed. ¡°Do carry on with what you were doing.¡± She then walked carefully to the other side of the room and sat in the reading chair.

    Maria pursed her lips and shrugged. With her free hand, she lifted the brew of tea that Josephine had prepared for her earlier, sipping it.

    The ledger contained many pages filled with writing, such as debts repaid, and unordinary amounts owed between parties. Others contained notes in the margins, with additional amounts and certain...favours. Maria did look twice at some of these, but she had known that money wasn¡¯t the only way her younger brother had repaid his debts.

    Upon reaching a transaction between Edgar and a man known here only as G. A. Le Bon, she noted the remark of, ¡°A forehead like a mutated potato, and a voice like one who has taken sawblade to the throat. He is like a fly to me. Approach Doctor Laennec regarding this loan so I do not have to deal with him in-person anymore.¡±

    Maria did not know for how long she had been smiling, but upon recognising this fact, she quickly discarded it from her face and hoped the darkness concealed it from Josephine.

    ¡°I saw that,¡± said Josephine.

    Maria startled, shutting the book and looking up to see Josephine standing right beside her. She frowned deeply. ¡°I thought you were reading that dull red book!¡±

    ¡°It was boring,¡± Josephine yawned. ¡°Besides, this all seems much more interesting. I guess you can¡¯t say Edgar didn¡¯t have an opinion.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Maria sighed as she opened the ledger again. ¡°He was loud and he had a lot to say. More often than not, however, I wished he would say nothing at all.¡± She shook her head at another insulting comment squashed into the margins. ¡°It is strange,¡± she said softly, ¡°to think it has been so many years since I have heard my brother¡¯s voice. Yet, I can hear it so strongly when I read through these. He dictated to his scribes as he conversed in reality. Though, he did not dictate this. It is his own scrawl. You can tell by how untidy it is.¡±

    ¡°So, he authored quite a number of journals, then?¡±

    ¡°Indeed, Principles wasn¡¯t the only thing Edgar wrote that some people might care to look into. That¡¯s my biggest concern, that there are things he meant for his eyes only, now available to anybody. If he only had kinder things to say, maybe he wouldn¡¯t be dead. And, who knows, maybe we wouldn¡¯t be in such a predicament.¡±

    ¡°He was popular, though, wasn¡¯t he?¡±

    ¡°An unfortunate side effect of having strong opinions, being unafraid to voice them, and being entertaining while doing it.¡± She spread the pages of the ledger and indicated the vast amount of paperwork on display. ¡°Just look at all of this, Josephine. It was happening while we were around, behind our backs, putting our family into debt, making enemies of people we should be allies with. The effects of his bad judgment haunt this family. See how I still have to deal with this, after so many years?¡±

    ¡°He is your brother. I¡¯m not surprised he is infuriating.¡±

    Maria shared in on Josephine¡¯s wide smile, but did not comment on it. She simply bit her tongue and continued browsing through the ledger.

    Her brother was long dead and yet he persisted to drive her mad. Awry deals he¡¯d never spoken to them about. Vast amounts paid back weasel-like. Excuses, and then that was not even the worst of it, for every now and then she came across one resolution or another that could only be described, at best, as shady, and at worst...criminal.

    Josephine had walked off and was on Maria¡¯s bed, humming quietly to herself.

    Maria laced her fingers and stared at the ledger. All of it started to blur together. What was she even supposed to be looking for here? Much of the ledger was poorly-organised, with missing details and no receipts of anything concrete. The only thing she knew, for sure, was the streak of payments to Vincenzo Molteni beyond Edgar¡¯s death.

    This isn¡¯t some debt, Maria. Bella¡¯s voice. Your brother continues to send money to the Molteni family. That book simply does not supply enough pages to cover it all.

    But I invite you to consider, were my girls the first to make off with all your dead brother¡¯s possessions? Or has somebody from the Molteni family found something incriminating amongst it?

    She was breathing louder, slouching over the book. The question was, what did they know? What secrets ran so deep? So deep, in fact, and so compromising, that Alfred was making regular payments to stop them from coming out?

    There were things, of course. Things that Maria still remembered, things that had haunted her despite the intervening years. There were things that could hurt them. But Maria did not wish to think of such things. She flipped back to the last deals made prior to Edgar¡¯s death. He had been bargaining up until this point. Only when she sat, staring at the final entry for a long period of time, did something materialise that she had not noticed before.

    ¡°Josephine,¡± Maria said. ¡°Take a look at this.¡± She moved the candle and then leant in to make sure her eyes were not deceiving her. Josephine approached from the bed, peering over Maria¡¯s shoulder at the black-inked entries, slightly smudged.

    ¡°What is it?¡± Her breaths smelled like stew.

    ¡°Observe this period following Edgar¡¯s death. How many entries are there?¡± She began turning through pages, two or three times before reaching the end. ¡°How many months is that? Five, six months of time after Edgar is dead. See the way this person signs his name, J. A., it¡¯s the same initial used during Edgar¡¯s final days? See that, Josephine?¡±

    ¡°Right?¡±

    ¡°Hm.¡± Maria licked her lips, her eyes losing focus as she stared intently at the pages. With a finger, she traced along each transaction. They¡¯re all for small amounts of money, but to the same person. She said this aloud: ¡°Remy. This is money that¡¯s being paid from whoever Remy is.¡±

    ¡°I see,¡± said Josephine. ¡°Edgar¡¯s little friend is selling things, probably his possessions.¡±

    ¡°Not necessarily his possessions, but yes, something. And to the same person. For months, this lasts. The name Remy doesn¡¯t sound familiar to me.¡±

    ¡°Could be a distributor,¡± Josephine said. ¡°Like, could Remy be buying Edgar¡¯s copies and then distributing them himself? Well, look at the prices. They¡¯re not very high, are they. You would see small items of little worth to be sold for that much.¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Who is the seller?¡± Josephine asked. ¡°A scribe?¡±

    ¡°I would imagine,¡± Maria said. ¡°Nobody else had access. Furthermore, the same signature was used on transactions that occurred immediately prior to his death, too.¡±

    ¡°So, one of his last scribes?¡± Josephine was peering closer and humming between her lips. ¡°Can you check for the name Remy somewhere?¡±

    Maria flipped through the book to the back, where she found a glossary of every customer, along with their details and the corresponding signatures. She filed through with her finger until she found the one matching Remy, with the surname Gardel.

    ¡°Bonpoi,¡± Maria read. She knew this place. It was a fishing town not far from Carcassonne at all. She felt excitement like she had not felt in many years, a burning-up in her chest, the sudden strength in her legs, like she could run to Bonpoi right now.

    Focus, Maria, she urged. Don¡¯t get ahead of yourself.

    ¡°How certain are you that Remy is the one dealing out these copies?¡± Josephine asked.

    ¡°It¡¯s good enough for me,¡± Maria told her.

    In truth, she was desperate. Desperate for anything. And the story made sense. Edgar dies. His last scribe¡ªthe only person there except for Rosalie on the night it happened¡ªtakes what he can and flees. He finds a willing buyer in Remy, and sells it over months. Years later, these documents are all over the market. Documents that not only include witchcraft that even Edgar refused to publish, but possibly other things. Personal writings. Journals. Details of the family¡¯s past. If they found Remy, he would have records of what had gone out, and where.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    She nodded to herself. Remy had to at least know something.

    ¡°I will admit, I¡¯m intrigued,¡± Josephine mused. ¡°I say we visit this mysterious man, then. Do you think we could find the scribe, too?¡±

    Maria thought about it. ¡°I¡¯d bet Otto could find something about him.¡±

    ¡°Well, if you¡¯re right, and this is all connected, we¡¯re going to look like geniuses. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s crazy to think we could find everything. I mean, we¡¯d be following paper trails for months¡ªmaybe even years, to get it all¡ªbut it¡¯s a start.¡±

    Some information is more dangerous than others, Maria thought, as she made a note of the location, Bonpoi, and closed the ledger. It was thirteen years past, so there was every chance Remy had moved on, but at the very least, somebody might know something.

    ¡°We¡¯ll go first in the morning by carriage,¡± Maria said decisively. ¡°We should make good time, considering the dry weather.¡±

    ¡°In the meantime, would you like me to take care of your brother¡¯s items? Perhaps I could arrange to return them to Bellvoir?¡±

    Maria briefly contemplated this. She glanced back down at the black ledger, feeling a sense of heat in her chest, and the urge to place her hand on it.

    ¡°Not this,¡± she said, grabbing it. ¡°Let us keep this with us for now, as it¡¯s the only thing we have that contains actual information. But the rest may go. Thank you.¡±

    Josephine gathered Edgar¡¯s things sans the ledger, and prepared to depart, with Maria deciding to catch some sleep ahead of a long few days. She was so, deeply, tired.

    Before retiring to bed, she told Josephine, ¡°If you wouldn¡¯t mind, perhaps have the items sent via Audrie at the post centre. She gets things done a little quicker, and more reliable.¡±

    Josephine paused for a beat, then nodded.

    ¡°Of course, Maria,¡± said Josephine, and that was that.

    #

    The breeze against Josephine¡¯s face helped ease the anxiety that she felt as she hurried through the darkened roads of Carcassonne, clutching the bag of items. She had in her mind that as long as she did not look up and make eye contact with anybody outside, nor peer into any dimly-lit window, then nobody would notice that she was there.

    She arrived at the postal office in short time, and prepared the satchels to be sent back to Bellvoir via private courier. Of course, this did come with an additional fee, but it seemed that Maria responded positively to privacy, and with how things had unfolded, Josephine felt that her desire for such things was not so unfounded.

    The postal office was closed, but Josephine was able to have the parcels out for delivery. She did not wait around after this, nor did she return to their housing.

    She shivered as she walked further down the complicated streets of Carcassonne. The city was far more barren than Bellvoir, for there was no such thing as a night life¡ªat least, not the kind that generally attracted crowds, like the cabaret and drinking holes present that side of France. The night life of Carcassonne was less grimy and slum-like, more...she would say, secretive. She noticed flickers of motion and murmurs of sound, but to find these things in this town, one was required to really look for them.

    She continued to ponder the situation of the Lucien family, thoughts and theories of which had not left her mind in the time she had accompanied Maria to Carcassonne. She had never thought of their family this much in her entire life, not even Edgar, who was celebrity among many a witch of the Black Dime Cabaret. They were, however, a storied bunch¡ªparticularly Edgar Lucien. She wondered where this new figure, Remy, came into play, his connection to the scribe, and what other secrets the ledger contained; for example, Vincenzo Molteni.

    Maria was awfully concerned about the Molteni family.

    Are they threatening to release those...dangerous chapters? Josephine thought. Like what they found on Selika? Or is it something about Edgar? Something embarrassing he wrote? It did not seem enough. After all, she had seen the amounts Alfred was paying Vincenzo Molteni. Thousands upon thousands.

    But what could be so terrible? she thought. Something about Alfred? Maria?

    She stopped, realising she¡¯d been so lost in thought she¡¯d forgotten her way. Damn it. Where am I? A lantern knocked against the side of a shop in the winds that swirled through the narrow streets. Rocks skittered on cobblestones. Clouds drifted over dark blue sky, mountains covering the highlands.

    With her own lantern, she went up to a nearby signpost and lifted it high to read the black paint on slightly-decaying wood. Molvue District, it read.

    She bit her lip as a chill ran through her body. She knew she still needed to be careful, that the threat presenting by the depraved cult of Lucien was as real to her as it was to Maria, whatever allegiances the two of them had. If she had been spotted with Maria, which it was likely that she had, then the fanatics knew her face.

    I¡¯d better hurry, she thought.

    Now checking the shadows everywhere she went, she hurried her pace through the streets, holding her lantern at high to illuminate a wash of cobblestones, avoiding getting her long thread-like legs in a tangle. Eventually she began to recognise where she was, and the path became more natural.

    At last, she found it.

    Precarious steps led to a front door she had only ever viewed from afar before, and placing her lantern on the hook outside, she raised her fist, knocking several times. As she waited, she looked around to check that nobody had followed her; but despite her unease, the streets remained empty. Empty, yet stiflingly heavy and expansive.

    It was after a few more moments that the door opened, and standing in the half-opened space was Alfred Lucien, his eyes tired yet serious.

    ¡°What on...¡± He looked around. ¡°Oh, you¡¯re the one who was here with my sister. Erm, hold on. What are you doing here? And at such a time?¡±

    ¡°May I please come inside? It¡¯s cold.¡±

    Alfred grumbled to himself, stepping back and opening the door as little as possible for her to squeeze through. He kept his gaze not on Josephine but on the road outside, continuing to watch with animal intensity. Only once Josephine was well into the house, and he had thoroughly checked in every direction, did he close and lock the door.

    Josephine peered around the small parlour of Alfred¡¯s estate. There were very minimal furnishings and decorations, most unlike the town hall, which he had apparently ordered to be decorated so ostentatiously. Rather, Alfred¡¯s personal estate was dreary and sort of unwelcoming. He owned numerous bookshelves, though sparsely populated; and had many expensive yet undecoratively-labelled drinks on display: wines and other alcoholic bottles, many of which with peeling and degraded labels. He liked his wine, this much Josephine could tell, but aside from that, it was difficult to discern much else about the man.

    On the floor in the corner, she spotted a large travelling bag. Frowning, she thought about where she had seen such a bag before.

    ¡°Who else is here?¡± she asked.

    Alfred cleared his throat and walked out in front of her. Josephine realised he was now dressed in a woollen nightgown and, assumedly, not much else. It might have been the way the light travelled, but she had never before seen his wrinkles so pronounced, the bags under his eyes so deep, almost like you could fit potions in them.

    Alfred¡¯s eyes fell to the bag. ¡°How am I not surprised to find that my younger sister is oblivious to her little follower, and in her blindness, would jeopardise her safety?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±

    ¡°Lower your voice. She¡¯s sleeping. And it took some effort to make it so.¡±

    ¡°Antoinette is here?¡± Josephine exclaimed, more in realisation than inquiry. ¡°How...¡± Yet she didn¡¯t expect Alfred to answer this. She couldn¡¯t even imagine how Antoinette had managed to make it here all by herself, from Bellvoir. That seemed...admirable.

    She chuckled. ¡°How odd.¡±

    Alfred raised a brow, heading past her into the kitchen. ¡°I hope you¡¯re here because you have uncontainable good news regarding the investigation.¡±

    ¡°Not necessarily,¡± Josephine said. ¡°But we¡¯re making progress.¡± She followed him, taking a seat at the table as Alfred fetched two glasses and filled them with wine, his to the brim, Josephine¡¯s less-generous. Alfred, unlike Maria, was a sizeable individual. He took up an unusually-large amount of space in the small room. Another contrast she noticed was that, where Maria seemed to maintain the most rigid and uptight of movements, Alfred crashed and swerved as though driven on an unruly river. Then again, this may have been partly due to the fact it was long into the night.

    ¡°So what is it then?¡± Alfred asked.

    He passed her the wine and Josephine touched the drinking glass with her long fingers. Her painted nails tapped against the cold side. ¡°Clearly,¡± Alfred said, meeting her with his steely blue eyes, ¡°it is to do in some regard with my sister. Otherwise you would not have come all this way and risked being found by the witches that loiter our streets.¡±

    ¡°You could say that,¡± said Josephine.

    ¡°Go on, then, you have my attention.¡± Alfred sipped his wine. Josephine peered at her own glass now. She had not admitted entirely to herself the problem which plagued her mind, not until now, in Alfred¡¯s house. She didn¡¯t even know Alfred¡ªcertainly, she knew him far less than Maria. There was just that single prior interaction between them.

    But, yes, maybe that was why she was here.

    ¡°I...¡± She felt her stomach through her clothing, underneath it the most subtle yet convex of bumps. Where her fingers met this peculiar shape, they were greeted with the strangest tingling sensation, and she felt her heartrate increase rapidly.

    ¡°Oh,¡± Alfred said.

    Josephine looked up at him, her fingers shaking.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I should say congratulations. But, knowing my sister, it probably doesn¡¯t feel like it.¡± Alfred walked over to the table, pulled out a seat and sat down.

    ¡°It feels like a curse,¡± Josephine said.

    ¡°So, you suppose Maria will not be delighted in the news.¡±

    ¡°Absolutely not. She does not allow us to bear children.¡±

    ¡°Nothing has changed, then.¡± He sighed.

    ¡°I have made attempts to rid myself of the child, but unsuccessfully. I thought...you might be able to help me. I know, it is a foolish thought, and I am an idiot to get myself into this situation!¡±

    ¡°You wish to be rid of it?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s my only choice. Maria would have me leave the cabaret. I love it here, I do. I love the witches and performing. I don¡¯t have anything outside of this.¡±

    ¡°Well, it is not Maria¡¯s child. Unless this is some witchcraft of hers...¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Josephine shook her head. She took another drink of wine, wiped her wet lips with the back of her sleeve. ¡°I mean...I do not particularly wish to become a mother.¡±

    Alfred hummed softly in thought. ¡°There are...doctors who could perform such an operation. Though it is not without its complications, and risks. How can I put this?¡± He thought to himself for a moment, dry lips searching for the right words. ¡°Our mother suffered greatly in the long years preceding her demise. She had been cursed by our father, forced to bear unholy foetuses in the name of a truly terrible evil. The effects of this were ghastly. My sister and I witnessed horrible things in these years, and it traumatised Maria.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡± Josephine said.

    ¡°Pregnancies, and childbearing, these are difficult things for my sister,¡± said Alfred. ¡°But her traumas should not affect your decision on the matter. It is your child, after all.¡± He was looking at her minor baby bump. Josephine shifted her hand, allowing him to see it.

    ¡°Is it obvious?¡± she asked.

    Alfred angled his head. ¡°Not really.¡±

    Josephine breathed a sigh of relief.

    ¡°But if you do wish to be rid of it,¡± Alfred said, ¡°there is a doctor with a small practice in Rue D¨¦nesse, by the name of Doctor Georges de La Quin. If you would like, I will kindly inform him that you may be attending, and I am certain he will see to you.¡±

    Josephine gave a small smile. ¡°Thank you very much, Alfred.¡±

    Alfred simply raised his glass of wine, then downed the last of it. He placed it back down with a heavy exhale, bits of wine speckled in his long, dishevelled beard. ¡°I appreciate the company, unexpected as it was. Often I¡¯d be inimitable due to such a thing.¡±

    ¡°May I see Antoinette?¡± Josephine asked.

    ¡°She should be asleep,¡± replied Alfred. Just as he said this, Josephine caught the slightest dash of movement out of the corner of her eye, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps, quick and bare-footed on the wooden floorboards. Alfred sighed and said in the most exhausted of voices, ¡°No doubt she was listening in on our entire conversation.¡±

    ¡°Antoinette?¡± Josephine said, rising from her seat. She exited the kitchen and went into a narrow sitting room that featured a set of stairs going up to the second floor. She saw Antoinette sitting halfway up the stairs, hugging her knees. Her pink sleeping robes were long and glittery, ostensibly belonging to Alfred¡¯s wife. Only the faintest light from the kitchen touched Antoinette¡¯s small, frowning face.

    ¡°Get lost,¡± Antoinette sulked.

    ¡°Oh, you sting me,¡± Josephine said, placing a hand to her heart.

    ¡°You left me in Bellvoir! You know how long it took me to get here?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± Josephine joined Antoinette near the stairs, though she didn¡¯t sit down. Antoinette was staring up at her, her bright eyes turning large. She eyed Josephine¡¯s stomach.

    ¡°Is it true? You have a baby?¡±

    Josephine touched the fabrics covering her belly, and nodded.

    ¡°Josie?¡±

    ¡°Yes, Antoinette?¡±

    ¡°Are...Are you mad that I came?¡±

    ¡°No, I¡¯m impressed! I¡¯m not sure I¡¯m even surprised by it, considering the mad company you¡¯ve spent your life surrounded with. Of course, myself included. However, I would say it is probably unwise for Maria to know this right now. She may not be so kind.¡±

    Antoinette sighed, looking down at her feet.

    ¡°Josie?¡± she asked quietly.

    ¡°Mhm?¡±

    ¡°Why does Maria hate me?¡±

    At this moment, Alfred walked in, his large sleeping gown sweeping the floorboards around his long legs. Josephine sighed, Antoinette continuing to stare at her expectantly with those large blue eyes. ¡°Most of the time, I don¡¯t even understand Maria,¡± Josephine said. ¡°But I know she doesn¡¯t hate you, she just...¡± What could Josephine say, when she herself could not understand precisely Maria¡¯s motivations for anything? Of course, it was obvious that Maria loved Antoinette, and yet, no, maybe it wasn¡¯t so obvious, after all. Did Josephine even know what that looked like? Love?

    ¡°She may not hate you, Antoinette, but don¡¯t put it so far past her,¡± Alfred said matter-of-factly. ¡°It¡¯s nothing to do with you. My sister is heartless.¡±

    Josephine was reminded of seeing Maria with Edgar¡¯s ledger, a brief moment of vulnerability, of seeing something human out of her. ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± she said.

    ¡°Well, she is not so good with people.¡±

    ¡°That is not the same as being heartless.¡±

    ¡°Well, intentions aside, what difference is it to a child?¡±

    Maybe he has a point, Josephine thought. She had to admit, she could not recall many occasions in which Maria seemed to show concern for anybody else. Suddenly remembering the night before Alfred¡¯s letter had arrived in Bellvoir, Josephine felt her cheek, and recalled the hot flash of pain from Maria¡¯s palm cutting clean across it.

    She thought of the first time she had met Maria, in the home for abandoned girls. Maria had seen something in Josephine then, had invited her into the warm folds of the cabaret. Yet, how often had any of that warmth come from Maria herself? Seemed only her creations.

    ¡°Can I see her, Josie?¡± Antoinette asked.

    It was cruel, what she had done to Antoinette. Josephine suddenly felt a surge of protectiveness for the little girl, like she wanted to hold her and keep her safe from the world. Keep her safe from...Maria, even. From all things Lucien. For all things Lucien, as far as Josephine was concerned, were cursed. Wasn¡¯t that what Maria had said?

    ¡°Josie?¡± Antoinette touched her hand.

    Josephine blinked, looking at the way their hands overlapped. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Nettie. It is probably not for the best.¡±

    Antoinette made a loud hmph and stood up, stamping her foot down on the stairs. She turned around and stormed up, disappearing in the heavy darkness of the upper floors.

    Poor girl, Josephine thought.

    ¡°The further she is from this wretched place, the better,¡± Alfred said. ¡°Now, I love this city, don¡¯t get me wrong. But Antoinette must go as far from here as possible. To Paris, maybe. I will see to it personally that she is not indoctrinated into my sister¡¯s cult. No offense.¡±

    ¡°No, I understand,¡± Josephine said.

    ¡°Listen. Do not be hasty in your decisions while in Carcassonne,¡± Alfred told her, changing the subject. ¡°You will have to face Maria eventually. Perhaps that will be the ultimate judge of her character. It will say a lot in how she responds.¡±

    ¡°Has she ever surprised you?¡± Josephine asked.

    Alfred smiled for the first time that night. ¡°I guess not.¡±

    ¡°Right.¡±

    ¡°Anyway, you had best be on your way.¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡± Josephine slowly stood back up, and walked past Alfred through the kitchen and towards the front door from whence she had entered. At the threshold, she paused. She should ask him about the payments in the ledger, about Vincenzo Molteni. He could know something about the scribe. But...something stopped her.

    Out she went back into the night, the thought remaining yet unspoken, perhaps regrettably: what secret did Alfred keep behind those calculating eyes?

 The Scriptorium

    The boy is a dullard in all respects. Slow, uninformed, friendless. Alas, I could continue waltzing through my dictionary of terms to describe him, but I deem it redundant. Nevertheless, this is how I like my scribes. Never too intelligent. Seldom-speaking. Young, and thoughtless. Yet, good at their job.

    <hr>

    Otto slept with the light on, for certain things in this world terrified him. Many of these things were related to the witches of Bellvoir, and the dark things he had known them to practice. Maria frightened him most of all, her and her sinister ways.

    So, as it was, shortly after Maria¡¯s departure, Otto followed her request to write to a friend who knew more about the books circulating through France. He sought to learn how many of Lucien¡¯s works were on the market. Then, he would be able to understand how large of a problem they were dealing with; and, perhaps, a way to mitigate it.

    Even though Otto¡¯s regard for witchcraft-related matters was low, his devotion to the task was two-fold. Firstly, he could not deny that the thought of obtaining such historical artefacts was seductive. But, mostly, he liked the idea of keeping these things from getting into the hands of more would-be witches.

    As far as Otto was concerned, the world did not need more of them. This thought alone made him severely unwell, and he found himself drinking copious cups of ginger tea to relax.

    Otto spent the next few days doing little but organising his own library, and awaiting word from his friend. Bellvoir remained its usual self. The weather was pleasant with no rain or trouble to speak of. The only daily problems he ever encountered were falling tree branches (occasionally) and sewage bubbling in overflowed gutters. But these two things had always been an issue in Bellvoir, so he accepted it as it was.

    ¡°It is what it is,¡± he often told himself, and went on his way.

    The letter back from his friend arrived two days later. Timely, as always. Unfortunately, upon obtaining the letter, Otto had twisted his ankle climbing the stairs back to his residence. The shock of it had sent him to the ground, shrieking into the warm mid-afternoon air. Clutching his ankle in one hand, the letter in the other, he hobbled the rest of the way up the stairs and limped into his room, flinging the door angrily behind him.

    ¡°Damn it, damn it,¡± he groaned. He applied an ointment to his ankle and saw that it was already becoming bruised, then wrapped it with a bandage. Limping, he brought the letter into his study and sat down on his chair while he read it.

    He had received a list of items from Edgar Lucien, including what he assumed were pages from Principles of Witchcraft, but the exact titles were coded. There was a separate note outlining the quantities of these transactions, and he was not surprised to find they were numerous. Worse still, he was sure this was not exactly up-to-date.

    ¡°Great,¡± he mumbled. Otto¡¯s understanding was this. The knowledge of witchcraft was a secretive thing. One did not stumble upon it by happenstance; it was one witch to another. Maria enjoyed how this worked, as it allowed her to keep record of where covens were operating. Yet, if these teachings were suddenly all over the world, with no way of knowing where they were ending up, then suddenly witchcraft becomes unregulated.

    This results in a very unhappy Maria Lucien, was what Otto had discovered. It was a careful balance, these two worlds co-existing. But when anybody can suddenly learn how to curse someone they disagree with, well, Otto could see Maria¡¯s point.

    Maria will murder me, he thought, scanning through the information. The question on his mind was, who were these buyers? He assumed many were simply curious readers, archivists, or historians, for there were surely not so many witches travelling the piracy market...

    At least, he hoped not.

    Nevertheless, he didn¡¯t fancy telling this to Maria. If she saw how many copies of these pages had been made and purchased, she would have some sort of a fit. He could liken it only to a disease. Once spread, it simply grew wilder and wilder out of control.

    A letter from Maria came the following morning.

    She had enquired with him regarding more chapters from Principles of Witchcraft. Only, these ones had never been published. This was an interesting and potentially useful scenario, as it drastically narrowed down the origins of said pieces. As she had mentioned in the letter, only somebody with direct access to Edgar Lucien¡¯s private office could have obtained something that was never made public. Such as it was, there was a good chance (though not absolute) that the source of that leak was also the source of others. Of course, it was possible the Count could have just been robbed. He could have left one of these chapters on a bench somewhere and somebody had taken it. Yet, Otto could admit that these scenarios were far more cumbersome and less likely.

    He wondered, who else but either Edgar¡¯s scribes or his concubines had such access to his private collection? But there were a lot...in both categories.

    The Count had employed many scribes in his time. Though, he was predictable in his selections. Those who were unassuming, insignificant, foolhardy. By all accounts, as far as Otto was concerned, the very kind of person Edgar Lucien allowed in his private spaces was the exact kind who would not likely have the wits to steal from him.

    And yet...this gave Otto some hope. He had worked, once, in the scriptorium of Bellvoir. Given, this was many years ago, but perhaps he might find he still had access. Besides, he was all out of other ideas. Finding the scribes who worked with Edgar late in his life would be a good start. Of course, the scribe could also be dead. Yes. Otto thought that very likely, unfortunately, for all who associated with Edgar Lucien seemed to find themselves with such a fate.

    Even if he was alive, the scriptorium had long started reducing its staff. Otto would not likely find the Count¡¯s traitorous scribe there, but he could find information¡ªnot to mention the limited yet useful archive of manuscripts contained there. Scribes knew scribes, Otto knew this, and perhaps somebody had known one who had worked with the Count before his death. One who was suspicious. One who had motive to steal from the Count.

    Good one, Otto, he thought, excited.

    With a little spring in his step, Otto stood up on his sore ankle, and though it made him grimace, he was able to get to the other side of the room and out the door.

    #

    Otto deflated at the sight of what remained of the scriptorium of Bellvoir. The miniscule building, with only one door leading inside and out, no windows, and virtually no furnishings, had severely diminished since the last time he had visited it.

    In the dewy entry chamber, it took him walking directly up to the desk before the clerk raised his eyes from what seemed to be a large black tome. Otto noticed the clerk blink blearily, and even rub his eyes, as if having woken from a long slumber.

    ¡°Who is there?¡± said the clerk.

    ¡°It is me, Otto,¡± Otto replied, continuing to be impressed at the dreary state of his old workplace. A little archway to his left opened into an adjoining space where three scribes worked silently at short wooden pews, the only other people in the building.

    The clerk focused his glasses lenses and peered over his desk at Otto. His curved spine popped as he did this, and his long turtle-like neck bulged at the joints. Otto stepped away as he caught whiff of the smell coming from the clerk¡¯s oily mouth. ¡°Oh, it is you!¡± said the clerk through jagged teeth with a tone of amazement. ¡°Otto, was it? I don¡¯t know if you remember me. Barty¡¯s the name.¡±Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    ¡°Good to see you, Barty,¡± Otto replied.

    ¡°If you¡¯re looking for work, I¡¯ll have to disappoint you. Most of the scribes work independently now with private clients, so there¡¯s not much left to do.¡±

    ¡°I rarely worked the pews anyway.¡±

    ¡°Ah, yes. It¡¯s coming back to me.¡±

    ¡°I wanted to ask if I could exercise a favour with the scriptorium. Perhaps I would be allowed to look in the archives for something?¡±

    Barty furrowed his brows. ¡°Not much left of the archives, friend. Boy, it really has been a long time since you¡¯ve been around.¡±

    ¡°What happened to them?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s all been bought,¡± Barty said unhappily. ¡°There¡¯s a library opening in Paris. I suppose the offer was too good. So...you are welcome to look, but do not expect to find much. What is it that you are trying to find, anyway?¡±

    Otto cursed inwardly. Of course, so now he was not only dealing with the unlikelihood that there would be anything related to the Count or his scribes in the archives at all, but now most of the archives had been sold off already to Paris. It was never easy around here.

    ¡°Do you know if there was anything of the Count¡¯s?¡± Otto asked.

    This caused the wrinkles between Barty¡¯s eyebrows to deepen, so much so Otto thought the man¡¯s head could split in half. ¡°The Count Lucien! Boy, I wouldn¡¯t particularly have a clue. Shall we take a look together, friend? Though, I am unsure if the Count¡¯s work was ever archived here. Knowing the Lucien estate, they would have held firm to such things.¡±

    ¡°Maybe not,¡± Otto said.

    ¡°Well, come on then.¡±

    Otto followed the clerk, who happened to be a very small man with wispy grey hair and a funny¡ªsomewhat painful-looking¡ªgait. He led Otto into the writing chamber, towards another door that Otto had not seen before. Otto observed the scribes who were working, but did not recognise any of them. All three men were younger than himself, and he couldn¡¯t imagine that any of them had been associated with the Count more than ten years ago.

    As he walked these halls, he was reminded of his time at the scriptorium. He had worked only briefly as a scribe, before acting as a manager of sorts, overseeing some operations and minor delegating of work. He was never particularly close with anybody during this time, which he enjoyed, as he spent most of his working day in his office.

    Otto and Barty exited the chamber and walked into what now was little more than a broom cupboard with several bookshelves, mostly picked-apart as if from vultures. There was no book smell¡ªthe kind that Otto had known the room to smell of¡ªjust dust and dirt left by people coming in and out. Otto scrunched up his face as he searched around in the dim light. Barty stood in the centre of the room, with his keys jangling from his hand.

    ¡°Yes, not much left, as I said,¡± Barty told him.

    Otto already knew where to look, and it was no effort at all to find it. The scriptorium had always archived their manuscripts by subject matter. He walked into the section marked ¡°spiritualism¡± and found only a single work remaining.

    ¡°This is not it,¡± said Otto without even picking it up. He sighed, continuing to wander and pick at the books, finding nothing remotely close to what he was after.

    ¡°Are you looking for anything in particular? I¡¯m not sure how much of the Count¡¯s work was archived here. I wouldn¡¯t call most of it...of substance.¡±

    ¡°Just...anything recent. Well, you know what I mean. Close to his death.¡±

    The thing was, Barty was right. Principles of Witchcraft wasn¡¯t kept here. Certainly not anything that wasn¡¯t published. He was probably going to have to get lucky. Strike upon a familiar name. Some kind of connection that put somebody in the Count¡¯s vicinity. Perhaps just walking these halls again, he¡¯d be reminded of something.

    Barty scratched contemplatively at the side of his weathered, scruffy cheek. ¡°Well,¡± he said. ¡°Let me look around for the old inventory sheets then.¡±

    ¡°I had probably written some of them,¡± Otto said.

    Barty chuckled and began sorting through the room, Otto following closely behind and continuing to glance at the remaining manuscripts.

    ¡°Who did you say purchased the archives?¡± Otto asked as he cleaned dust off the cover of a red book filed under the heading of ¡°Folktales.¡±

    Barty seemed to have no issue in locating his ledger, which was inside a cabinet at the back of the room. He moved a lantern closer in order to assist in reading it. ¡°The archive was purchased by a partnership in Paris¡ªbrothers, I believe.¡± He opened up the ledger and went through it, Otto closing in and attempting to peer over his shoulder. ¡°Oh,¡± Barty said suddenly, in a very high-pitched voice. ¡°Boy, would you look at that.¡±

    Otto started. ¡°What is it? You found something?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Between the years of 1789 and 1792, Edgar Lucien published a series of periodical letters under the title of¡±¡ªhe squinted¡ª¡°the ¡®Recommendations of Edgar Lucien in Opposition to Proposals to Overhaul the Electoral System of 1792.¡¯ Yes, I do somewhat recall this. It failed dramatically. But perhaps you might find some use of these. Another archive is relating to...the costs of sanitary items rising. Hmph. Ah yes, he certainly was an unexpected and varied man.¡±

    ¡°That is all?¡± He pinched his brow in frustration. Edgar¡¯s book on witchcraft was published 1793, and featured the work of a number of scribes. Since there was nothing here from the period during which he developed the book, it was quite possible that these earlier works were written by completely different scribes. He could find out who had been assigned to those ones, but then, it was useless information. Maybe they also produced Principles of Witchcraft, maybe not. Regardless, he enquired about the names of these scribes. The clerk paused.

    ¡°Most interesting,¡± he said.

    ¡°What is?¡± responded Otto.

    ¡°It appears the Count wrote letters these himself.¡±

    Otto frowned. In his time, it was well-known that the Count employed scribes to notate his writings. Perhaps he was more selective than most had thought.

    This was too much for him. They didn¡¯t have access to these manuscripts anyway, for they had already been procured by the library in Paris. He had not been able to learn anything he didn¡¯t already know, except that the Count had written some more obscure works, and sometimes alone.

    This is a waste of time, Otto thought, sighing in defeat.

    ¡°If you need me, I will be at my desk,¡± Barty said, walking out. Otto heaved his shoulders, staring at the ledger, which Barty had left open. He walked over to it and checked where the Count¡¯s titles were archived. There were references to where they had been stored. Otto glanced at the corresponding shelf¡ªor, at least, where the shelf should have been. The entire thing had not just been gutted; it was gone.

    ¡°Before you go,¡± he called out as Barty passed the threshold of the door. ¡°Might you have an idea of when the Count first began hiring scribes? As long as I was working here, I had never heard of him not using them. Though, it could have passed me.¡±

    ¡°I can check, though I think you¡¯re becoming desperate,¡± said Barty. He did not wait much longer, leaving the room and disappearing.

    Otto spent the next few minutes observing the names of everybody who had contributed to a published work in 1815 (the year of the Count¡¯s demise), as well as the years surrounding it, 1814 and 1816, just to compare. And, knowing that the Count hired his scribes out on exclusive contracts, this would narrow down the possibilities.

    When eventually he returned to the front chamber of the scriptorium, Barty had retrieved a small ledger containing names of all the registered scribes and their contact details, along with other information that Otto found to be uninformative to his case.

    ¡°As far as our records go,¡± Barty said, ¡°the Count approached the scriptorium first in 1792 to produce the first volume of Principles of Witchcraft. He returned subsequently in 1794 for the revised second volume, but then was absent until 1805.¡±

    ¡°He kept publishing in the intervening years, though.¡±

    Barty shrugged. ¡°It happens, that one becomes dissatisfied with their work after a certain period of time, mostly in their later life. Or when money is bountiful.¡±

    ¡°Well, we know that to be true about the Count.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure if there is much to be gathered from the revelation that he was inconsistent regarding his use of scribes. I don¡¯t know, perhaps he even had private scribes.¡±

    Otto frowned deeply, his brows furrowing as he did this. ¡°Do you know who it was? The last scribe who worked for the Count before he died?¡±

    ¡°Boy, you are taking me a long ways back. Jacques, was it? Or something like that? Boy, it is on the tip of my tongue!¡±

    ¡°Ardouin,¡± said Otto. ¡°I saw the name in the ledger.¡±

    ¡°Yes! Oh, but he is dead, I believe.¡±

    Otto deflated.

    ¡°Poor kid,¡± said the clerk. ¡°Never saw him after the fire. But I do remember it was written that he was dead. At least, he never returned to the scriptorium.¡±

    ¡°As they say, most who ever worked with the Count are deceased,¡± Otto said in a depressed tone. ¡°Anyway, thank you for your help. Sorry for wasting your time.¡±

    ¡°Being here at all is a waste of my time.¡±

    Otto walked out of the scriptorium to the streets of Bellvoir, concerned he was at a dead end. Then something hit him.

    Jacques Ardouin. The name was actually familiar. But, where had he last heard it?

    He stood right outside the scriptorium, staring into the distance. He touched the side of his head, searching in his memories. His dry lips mouthed the name.

    Jacques Ardouin. Where do I know you from?

    Wait. There had been a report made on the boy. Yes, he was rather young, but many of the scribes in those years were. Although Otto mainly worked in the archives, he did occasionally become involved in handling such incidents.

    But what was the nature of this report?

    ¡°Wasn¡¯t he writing...¡± It came to him. ¡°Smut!¡± Otto said aloud, in disbelief that he had managed to make this connection by himself, to some event that must have occurred at least fifteen years ago. Jacques Ardouin had been caught writing his own grossly perverted work during business hours, with the scriptorium¡¯s resources.

    He had been selling it.

    He is a criminal, Otto thought. And, he worked for the Count. No, no, no, he was the last to work for the Count! Otto was feeling things he had not felt in a long time, deep inside himself. It was absurd, but he even began to smile. Does the report still exist?

    If it did, Otto would have plenty to go off. Like, who he was sending it to. A distributor, perhaps? One, even, who he would reuse later?

    He rushed back inside the scriptorium.

 Interlude: Rum and Old Friends

    Remy sniffed rain.

    He returned his fishing rod onto his workbench, and walked outside onto the pier. There was a distinct humidity in the air that reminded him of the sensation before a storm. The skies were darkening. The winds whistled as they travelled the lake.

    It comes with the storm, the Waveseer, Madame Ruspoli had told him. Remy was not intimidated. He walked to the very edge of the pier, until the toes of his sandals were hanging over the water. He stared out across the trembling lake, the smell of rain becoming more intense. A nauseating, headache-inducing smell.

    ¡°Well, what are you waiting for!¡± he yelled across the lake. He could have sworn he saw a shadow in the distance, awaiting beneath the waves. ¡°I am not afraid!¡± he shouted at it.

    The shadow dipped back underneath.

    Just before midday, there was a meeting at the docks. It was a substantial crowd who attended. Dockworkers, sailors, fishermen, cargo crew. Remy climbed onto a wooden box and told them of what he had seen in the lake, of Julius and his story (of which Julius corroborated, though he was not as comfortable speaking in front of the crowd), and finally, of what the Waveseer had said to him. ¡°She hears its calling! A great, tormented monster, which follows the storm!¡± And a drop of rain spat on Bonpoi, hitting his forehead.

    The crowd of workers bustled.

    ¡°What does it want?¡± asked a burly, tattooed boatman.

    ¡°I believe it seeks to destroy our town,¡± said Remy. ¡°It is upset. It has been upset.¡± He recalled what the Waveseer had said to him. You have upset it.

    ¡°We can¡¯t just wait forever!¡± one called.

    ¡°Not forever!¡± Remy replied. ¡°As the Waveseer said herself, it is already near. Within days, she said, the monster will make its attack. Look to the skies, and feel it in the air! The storm approaches. When it does, we must be ready for it!¡±

    Bonpoi had a stockpile of weapons left over from when it was a military vanguard. Remy saw to it that they had cannons hauled over to the docks for the defence. They utilised their supplies of spearguns and fishing rifles, collecting them by the barrel. Remy spent a portion of the day checking the weapons for malfunctions, and with Max¡¯s assistance (who had fought during wartime and knew of such things), made sure they were fit for battle.

    Every now and then, Remy looked towards the lake, and he could swear that the shadow was out there. He sure hoped, then, that it really would move soon.

    That afternoon, he ate dinner with Max and Jane. They sat around the dinner table in their small house within Bonpoi town. The house was warm and comfortable, which was rare in Bonpoi. But then, Max was wealthy after the war. Remy did not have much, himself. He was a simple man, and simple men did not seek many things.

    Jane had prepared them a hearty stew that filled the house with the homely aroma of meats and slow-cooked vegetables. Remy delighted in it, savouring every single mouthful. He knew that Jane would make a beautiful, loving wife to his good friend.

    After dinner, the three of them played cards together, and reminisced on old times. Eventually, as the night grew long, Jane retired to bed, and Max briefly disappeared into another room, returning soon after with a bottle of rum.

    ¡°My friend,¡± said Max as he poured two large tankards for them. ¡°To slaying beasts together in Bonpoi.¡± He handed one drink to Remy, and they knocked them together. ¡°And,¡± he added, ¡°to our long and ever-enduring friendship.¡±The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    They both drank.

    ¡°Oh, Max, I have not been truthful with you,¡± said Remy as he set down his tankard and wiped the remainder against the back of his arm.

    Max sat down next to Remy, shoving aside some of their loose playing cards to make space for his drink. He leaned in close, putting on a tense expression. ¡°You can tell me.¡±

    ¡°Well, it¡¯s a little embarrassing.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard it all, my friend! Speak!¡±

    ¡°You recall me mentioning somebody I used to write to?¡± Remy said. ¡°He was a scribe in Bellvoir. We exchanged letters for a long period of time.¡±

    ¡°Yes. Jacques, was it?¡±

    Oh, but hearing the man¡¯s name instilled great grief in Remy. He held a breath, noticing how his body went rigid. Then, closing his eyes, he let the feeling pass.

    ¡°Yes, Max,¡± Remy said. ¡°An old friend of mine. I might have even called him one of my closest friends, though we never really met. And that was, of course, before I met you!¡±

    They shared a laugh, clinking their drinks together.

    ¡°Anyway,¡± Remy continued. ¡°He would send me these little stories, which he wrote. Utterly depraved things, they were. Things that people do in the dark when nobody¡¯s looking. Oh, dastardly affairs, of made-up kings and beautiful women. Just depraved. Though, I secretly enjoyed reading them. I began to send requests. ¡®Say, write me a tale of myself with just the most unusual man you can think of. Just a wicked scenario.¡¯ And, Max, he wrote these things for me. I won¡¯t lie, he was good. You know of what I speak of. Maybe you¡¯ve read such stories, yourself. You dirty, secretly-depraved man.¡± He nudged Max, and the larger man looked at him humorously as he downed a very long gulp of his drink.

    ¡°Good grief, my friend. My only question is how dare you have kept these from me for so long,¡± said Max with a cheeky smile and a glint in his eyes.

    ¡°I will have to show them to you some day.¡±

    ¡°You still keep them?¡±

    ¡°Why, of course! They are like water to me. Without these, I surely would go insane. As you may know, my love life is not fruitful like yours!¡±

    ¡°You must have been very close,¡± Max said.

    ¡°Yes.¡± The answer came immediately and naturally to him; though, he had not admitted it so readily in all the time they had not spoken.

    ¡°My friend.¡± Max reached across the table and gripped Remy¡¯s hand. His hand was large and warm, rough with the years of using heavy equipment. Remy looked into his friend¡¯s dark eyes, seeing inside them a kindness that was hard to find around Bonpoi. Max gently squeezed his hand. ¡°It is not a weakness to be hurt, nor is it foolish to open yourself to it. I know you don¡¯t need advice from me, but enough with this stone heart. Thinking that you cannot be loved, or that you cannot love. It is so untrue. That is the untruthfulness you speak of. It is not to me, not about some smut you read. It is to yourself.¡±

    Max released his grip on Remy¡¯s hand and took another drink of rum. Remy stared at his good friend, then down at his hand. He had not been touched like that in a long time. Well, to be honest, he could not remember ever being touched like that.

    At the conclusion of their dinner, Remy walked home alone through the dark town. However, when he arrived back at the docks, something had changed. The lake had been upended, water shimmering on the roads and boardwalks. Wooden posts that once divided the lake and shore had been torn from their roots, now laying hundreds of feet away. Lanterns shone from the hands of dockworkers who were observing the damages. Somebody was injured, his wounds being tended to. All of this went through Remy¡¯s head at the same time.

    Drops of rain fell from the sky.

    He reached out his hand, palm facing up. It was teasing. Teasing drops of rain falling over Bonpoi. Mist shrouded the lake, no light passing through it. He walked into the docklands until he was standing against a gate overlooking the water, and stared.

    ¡°Remy!¡± A dockworker ran up to him. ¡°It came.¡±

    Remy did not need the confirmation. He could see, clear enough, that the beast had struck while he was with Max and his soon-to-be-wife. The dockworker continued to inform him. That it lashed out, destroying several boats and toppling supplies of fish¡ªweeks¡¯ worth of food and export. That they had managed to repel it using a single speargun.

    ¡°It was just playing with us,¡± the dockworker told him. Remy grabbed the man by the shoulder and looked down into his frightened eyes.

    ¡°Where is it now?¡±

    ¡°Gone. I don¡¯t know. It¡¯s so dark in these waters.¡±

    Remy grunted. ¡°You¡¯d better get some rest then. I¡¯d imagine we have quite the day ahead of us.¡±

    The dockworker nodded, and left.

    Remy held his breath, watching across the lake through the rolling fog, as raindrops continued to fall around him, uncertain, speaking to him: the monster is coming.

 Bonpoi

    Classes sometimes did not let out until late in the night. Such as it was, I found myself held back with Ms Galeazzi at close to midnight, with the sounds of rain running its thousand-fingernails against the classroom windows. I would ask her questions about the work. Alchemy was the one thing that fascinated me most of all. We had been at the blackboard, her demonstrating the procedure for a certain alchemical reaction, when all of a sudden, it was that her lips had found mine. And, thus began an affair of many months, taking up the most significant time of my presence at the Institute.

    <hr>

    By early morning, Maria and Josephine had left Carcassonne in the back of a carriage. Maria watched through the curtained window as the terraced fields and farmlands gave way to occasional sights of windmills and landforms, and then nothing but grassy plains. When there was little else to see, she closed the curtain and drew a breath, entertained by the rattling of the carriage¡¯s large wheels over the bumpy roads.

    They were several miles out of Carcassonne by now, and thus far the ride had been uneventful. The driver¡¯s name was Marco, an Italian peddler originally out of one of Carcassonne¡¯s border towns who had eventually worked his way into the city. He spoke loudly with a thick accent and not the best French, so conversation between them was difficult, and sparse. Maria did not mind this. She preferred the Italian to not speak at all, rather than the struggle to converse over the roar of crunching rocks¡ªnot to mention, his spluttery dialect.

    Their first stop was along a riverbed. While Marco settled the carriage and fed his horses, Maria trod carefully down to the river and sat on the rocks, nibbling on some crackers they had brought with them. The river flowed serenely, the breeze from the surrounding trees so little as not to disturb the surface much. Clear water, occasionally disturbed by energetic little fish, travelled in a hush pattern, eastward: the direction of their travel. As it swerved along, it dipped slightly down a small incline, before breaking off into a pool.

    Grass peeking through the rocks at her feet tickled her ankles underneath her long skirts. Being so far detached from anything but trees and fields, the smell of flowers, the varied wildlife and birdsong...This was quite unlike Carcassonne, and certainly the dirty Bellvoir. The season bloomed, and Maria found she enjoyed it.

    Her pensive thoughts were broken by the sound of Josephine approaching, her skirts flinging about the grass as she walked. ¡°Marco says we may reach Bonpoi before the end of the day if we go quick,¡± she said, squatting next to Maria.

    ¡°I¡¯m not so much interested in arriving there quickly,¡± Maria responded, ¡°but arriving there at all. You must know, I am not fond of all this travel.¡±

    ¡°There are worse modes of transport.¡±

    Maria threw a glance at Marco, busy feeding his horses and holding mirthful conversations with them. The man was comical, in his overlarge clothing, large boots, and cheek-to-cheek smile. ¡°He does remind me of a character from some ridiculous show.¡±

    ¡°I agree,¡± Josephine said.

    Marco reciprocated a glance in their direction, and waved. He yelled something that sounded Italian, but Maria couldn¡¯t quite tell anymore, so she simply nodded and kept eating.

    Maria returned to her own thoughts. She found that it was not any drama in Carcassonne occupying them, nor anything regarding the cabaret, nor Josephine. Rather, she had become entangled with the idea of Vincenzo Molteni and the knowledge he possessed¡ªof what he knew and was willing to do with that information.

    This made it quite difficult to think about anything else. The only thing that gave her some reprieve was knowing Alfred had been dealing with them. The ledger had outlined as much. But Alfred couldn¡¯t keep paying them forever. Hell, he wouldn¡¯t. Truthfully, Maria was a little surprised that he was doing so at all. Nobody knew about Alfred¡¯s connection to the Lucien family; he had devoted far too much time in keeping it a secret. So, if something like Edgar¡¯s private journals were discovered¡ªeven if they did mention Alfred¡ªnobody could really connect them to him, at least not with any confidence. He could, quite simply, deny everything.

    Maria finished her crackers and got up with some trouble, walking over to the riverbed, where she stood, inhaling the breeze off the waves. Josephine followed her. Maria couldn¡¯t quite put an answer as to why, but she was finding it more and more difficult to hold a conversation with Josephine. The air between them was heavy and sizzling, the silence unpleasant.

    Maria stole a glance at Josephine and saw that she was staring at her with the most odd expression. It almost reminded her of the way she looked when she forgot a line or choreography. ¡°Does something bother you, Josephine?¡±

    ¡°Why do you ask? Do I seem bothered?¡±

    ¡°You are acting strange. Do you wish to return? Is that it?¡±

    ¡°Not at all,¡± replied Josephine.

    ¡°Well, speak your thoughts.¡±

    Josephine huffed and threw her hands. ¡°Wasn¡¯t it unkind to leave Antoinette behind? I doubt she would have caused any trouble. There¡¯s already plenty of that here anyway.¡±

    ¡°Unkind?¡± Maria snapped. ¡°Surely I do not have to tell you that kindness does not even come into the conversation. I could not bring Antoinette here with us.¡±

    ¡°She could have stayed with your brother, could she not?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Maria cackled. ¡°It is not that simple.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Should she be seen with me, what then? If these fanatics of my brother were to discover that she is his blood?¡± She felt her face burning up, and upon realising her hand was in a fist, she settled her fingers. ¡°Josephine, you are merely a child yourself. I would not expect you to know why I do things.¡±

    ¡°Well why did you promise her?¡±

    ¡°Tell me, whoever said you could speak to me in this way?¡±

    Josephine stood with her arms folded and remained poised despite Maria¡¯s outburst. Maria remembered, in the most vivid of details, the night Rosalie Beaumont¡ªthe Count¡¯s last concubine¡ªfled Bellvoir. They had faced each other just like this, only it had been in the thick of night, in the cold. It was only a few days prior that Rosalie had given birth to the infant. She had demanded Maria take the child as her own, and without so much as looking back, had boarded the next train, never to be seen again.

    ¡°Then tell me this,¡± said Josephine. ¡°Did you ever plan to take Antoinette with you to Carcassonne, or did you simply change your mind at the last minute?¡±

    ¡°Why are you testing me?¡± Maria snarled.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you know how to answer simple questions!¡± Josephine raised her whole arms right in the air like a madwoman, a crazed look in her eyes.

    Maria resisted the urge to raise her voice; she let the moment pass. ¡°Sometimes, Josephine, the greatest act of kindness wears a selfish disguise.¡±

    ¡°Stop talking in riddles, woman!¡±

    Maria waited until Josephine seemed to have had enough. The younger witch eventually screwed up her face, shaking her head as she walked back towards the wagon. Before getting there, Josephine stopped and looked back. ¡°Man, all you Luciens really are mad!¡±

    She went inside.

    Curse her, Maria thought, feeling a twinge of hatred, but not for Josephine. Watching the girl depart, she saw only the back of Rosalie, her auburn hair dusted with snow, grabbing her furs as she left for the train, gone from Bellvoir, gone from Antoinette, her daughter.

    She truly despised the woman and what she had done. And maybe that was the crux of it, for each time she looked at Antoinette, she saw only the girl¡¯s parents. They had not even loved each other. Edgar was a tyrant, Rosalie Beaumont his wench. When she looked at Antoinette, perhaps this was all because she saw only the two people she despised above all.

    #

    One night, a few weeks after Maria¡¯s seventeenth birthday, a soft whimpering through the farmhouse awoke her from restful sleep. Bleary-eyed and half-dreaming, she lit the lantern on her bedside table and sat up. She no longer slept in the same bedroom as her two brothers, but the room was no more spacious; no larger than a dozen paces across.

    The whimpering continued.

    Long into the summer, her skin was covered in sweat and the window was open, though only a meagre, dry breeze came in. Her bedroom door was ajar, creaking quietly, yet it did not drown those sombre whimpers, now filling every inch of the quiet space. This was what drew her attention to them. The way they dominated everything.

    Getting up from her bed, Maria clutched her bedclothes tightly about herself as she ventured bare-foot through the eerie household. Various paintings with blank-staring eyes hung from walls, and small artefacts her father had collected were presented neatly yet precariously on shelves. Maria knew that if she ever managed to knock something onto the ground, she would be scolded horribly, for things such as these were worth a lot of money. At least, that was what her father said. Continuing through the house, and avoiding the eyes watching her from the paintings, she crept down a corridor to her parents¡¯ door. It was the last one down the hall, closed all the way.

    Leaning into the wood, she could hear the whimpering coming from the other side. This was her mother; her father was not capable of such sounds. They were passionate, lungful gasps of air. Maria at first frowned, unsure of what this could be. The family was not as well-off as it used to be, but they suffered no day-to-day problems. Food was aplenty, the house was in good stead, money was not something they thought about very often.

    Her stomach dropped. Oh.

    She startled so quickly she almost went forward instead of throwing herself backwards. She crashed against the wall in the middle of the hot and humid hallway, staring at the door. From inside the bedroom, her mother gave off a long moan.

    Maria cringed, nausea hitting her squarely.

    Something crashed to the floor in the bedroom. Maria saw light appear from underneath the door. Her mother gave off what was more a croak than the sound she had previously made before, a sound Maria was already trying to erase from her memory. Then, soft sobbing, with her father¡¯s low voice unintelligible through the walls. The sounds from that room were horrible, yet Maria could do no action but remain there, frozen despite the heat.

    She ought to be able to stop this¡­Not this¡­again.

    This time round, the pregnancy was worse. In the months that followed, her mother was severely ill almost every day. Bedridden and weak, her food was delivered constantly, three meals a day, yet always light, and hardly ever kept down.

    The house began to develop a terrible smell, and each time Maria ventured near her mother¡¯s bedroom (she slept alone now, for not even their father was able to withstand the putrid stench), Maria could hardly speak due to the overwhelming urge to gag at the smells. And so, because of this, she hardly did communicate with her mother during this time.

    In her dream, Maria was inside her mother¡¯s room on an ordinary Sunday morning, with the winds about and the birds chirping, plucking scraps from the hanging plates the family left out for them. Only, where her mother should have been lying in bed, there was nothing. The sheets lay flat, yet crumpled, as though something had been there only moments before.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°Mama?¡± Maria said.

    Blood dripped from above, hitting Maria on the cheek.

    She looked up, and screamed. Her mother was pinned against the ceiling naked and prostrate, face contorted puppet-like in a great torment. Her skin was white and ghastly, pulled so tight against bone that Maria could clearly see the shape of her ribs.

    Another drop of blood smacked her in the eye and she blinked. She saw how the bright red droplets bulged from her mother¡¯s dangling nipples, red and swollen. Her mother wriggled, grabbing at them to stop the flow.

    ¡°Where are they?¡± her mother gasped.

    ¡°Mama...¡± Maria squeaked, holding her mouth.

    ¡°WHERE ARE YOU HIDING THEM!¡±

    Maria screamed her throat raw.

    She awoke with a start. Across the carriage, she saw Josephine staring at her.

    ¡°Maria, are you okay?¡±

    ¡°Stop it. Stop the carriage!¡± Maria shrieked.

    After speaking some Italian, Marco did stop the carriage and Maria buried her face in her hands, heaving. Her whole body shook like somebody standing outside in the middle of winter. Tears welled in her eyes. She fumbled for something to grab onto¡ªher skirts.

    ¡°My goodness, what is wrong with you?¡± Josephine asked.

    Maria didn¡¯t so much as throw open the door as she fell through it, out into the frigid night. On her knees, she coughed and sent a splatter of vomit onto the leafy ground, where it bubbled for a moment before forming in a gross puddle.

    Where are you hiding them?

    It wasn¡¯t real. She was certain nothing like that had ever happened before, her mother on the ceiling, saying such words. But it felt so real. The stench, the mould, the festering sickness of that final pregnancy. What things in her life were creating such terrible memories?

    ¡°Maria,¡± Josephine said.

    Maria flinched as Josephine¡¯s hand found her shoulder. ¡°Antoinette!¡± Maria snapped. She stared at the witch, dark as she was without much to light the two of them.

    ¡°You¡¯re not okay, Maria.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± Averting her eyes, Maria gathered herself and went back inside.

    Marco began to say something in Italian¡ª

    ¡°If you speak one more word of Italian, I swear it, I will throw you out!¡± Maria screamed. Marco cleared his throat, whispering in a calming voice to his horse and patting its mane.

    #

    The remainder of their journey to Bonpoi was uneventful. When they arrived, Maria paid the remaining fare to Marco, who went about tying his horses at the stables. This left Maria and Josephine to go alone into the town¡¯s inn to spend the night.

    At first light, they were out of bed, and after a quick and mostly unsatisfying breakfast, they went out to town. She had not noticed it earlier, but there was the acrid smell of smoke in the air. Walking along the docks, she saw ripped-up boards, deep puddles and water-stained roads. They passed smashed barrels and fish guts all in the unfortunate paths of travelling feet, which caused Maria to have to lift her skirts to avoid dirtying them.

    ¡°I think we got here just in time,¡± Maria said.

    Josephine sniffed forcefully. She was hugging her cloak around herself, her breath visible as wet mist in the air. Wiping her nose with her sleeve, she said, ¡°There was no sign of such weather during our travels. What could be the cause of it?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think it was the weather that did this.¡±

    Even as the early dew covered every leaf and branch, it appeared well into the day for the fishermen of Bonpoi. In one direction from Maria and Josephine was a line of shops, and in the other, a bridge leading to a residential area. This road eventually took them to a large boardwalk with little huts speckled along the piers. Each of these huts was nearly identical, with fishing nets and boats on display, buckets of bait and fish everywhere you looked. All of this contributed to a strong fishy scent in the air, one that made Maria queasy.

    Before they had departed in the morning, Maria had spoken to one of the men at the inn regarding the Remy who was referenced in her brother¡¯s ledger. Any information they had provided was sparse, and unhelpful. According to the resident at the inn, he was familiar with the name ¡°Remy¡± and said that he lived at the end of one of the piers. He gave some directions, which Josephine wrote down on a piece of paper. Maria asked whether this man knew of any large shipments of books being traded in Bonpoi, but any further questions proved to lead nowhere. All anybody in Bonpoi seemed to care about was fish, and if it had nothing to do with fish, then all conversation led quickly to a dead end, or somehow to fish.

    Maria thanked him, and before they left, he admitted that they were not the first people to come looking for Remy this month.

    ¡°Was she a shorter, dark woman?¡± Maria asked.

    The man, with hesitation, nodded. So Selika had come here.

    They left the inn and arrived at Remy¡¯s boathouse shortly after. It stood precisely where the man had told them. Next to it was a large bucket of bait that reeked. His boathouse was small and ramshackle, with a low slanted roof and corrugated tin walls. There was a boat on the water, tied to a post by the side of the house, next to barrels, cages of equipment, and ropes.

    Maria knocked on the door and after a short time, the owner revealed himself. He was not anything like Maria had expected. The man was surely only in his thirties, but it seemed a half-life boating in such conditions did terrible things to a person. He was grey almost everywhere, his skin wrinkled and dark from the constant sun, and his eyes were greatly cupped to a degree it seemed more like cauldrons. He at first only opened the door a little, and upon seeing the women, he did not give any impression of opening it further.

    ¡°Who is it?¡± he said in a small, croaky voice.

    ¡°Are you Remy?¡± asked Maria.

    The man first looked at Maria, then at Josephine, and back to her. Making out what she could through the narrow opening in the doorway, Maria searched the insides of his house. It was dim, the scattershot furnishings lit only by the wan morning light.

    The man moved to close the gap. He made a sceptical expression and rubbed his eyes. ¡°What about him?¡± he questioned gruffly.

    ¡°Pardon me?¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Why do you want to see someone called Remy?¡±

    ¡°We heard he¡¯s very, very strong,¡± Josephine said, smiling, and gave Maria a wink. ¡°And perhaps if he could help us out, we could do him a special favour? Think he¡¯d like that?¡±

    The fisherman paused for a moment. ¡°Did Max send you? Bussine?¡±

    ¡°Their names all blend together,¡± Josephine sighed.

    ¡°Is that so.¡± The man opened the door a little bit further. He gave a proper look up and down at the two of them, then, perhaps against his better judgement, let them in.

    Maria and Josephine stepped inside the unimpressive boathouse, and the man closed the door behind them (but not before double checking outside). Maria immediately began to look around. A small entryway opened immediately into a kitchen with all the windows open¡ªyet even this did not do much to rid the air of its wet hotness, nor the pungent smell of fish. No doors, only doorways separated various parts of the house. Through one, a bedroom; another contained washing boards and rags; and there was a single partition leading to a rear walkway.

    The man, with his hands on his hips, studied them. ¡°So...if I were to be this ¡®Remy¡¯ that you speak of, what is it that you are here about, huh?¡±

    ¡°Are you seriously going to keep this up?¡± Maria asked. ¡°Would be a bit of a headache to all of us here if we were to continue pretending that you were not Remy.¡±

    The man reddened, scratching his forehead. ¡°I¡ª¡± He sighed. ¡°Fine. But was it Maxime who put you up to this? You both are beautiful, I will admit that, but I have to be honest, I¡¯m not necessarily into women like that. Max knows that...¡±

    ¡°We just made that up. There¡¯s no special reward for you and we didn¡¯t speak to anybody,¡± Maria scoffed, slightly annoyed by Josephine¡¯s little story, yet a little bit proud.

    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m such an easy target!¡± Remy complained.

    ¡°Don¡¯t beat yourself up about it,¡± Josephine said.

    Remy narrowed his eyes, before walking bare-foot through the kitchen to the table. Oval-like, and just large enough to seat two people if they didn¡¯t mind getting cozy, the table had a fishing rod on it, separated into different parts. Scattered on the table were various tools coated in rust. ¡°There¡¯s a lot been happening these past few days. I¡¯m not my usual self.¡±

    ¡°Was it ill weather or something else?¡± Maria asked, referencing the terrible state they had found the village in upon their arrival.

    Remy sat down at the table and threw his arms back, blowing out a deep breath. His shirt was completely stained with what Maria could only assume was fish juices. ¡°Not the weather. Yesterday¡¯s incident,¡± he said in a somewhat resigned tone of voice. ¡°Didn¡¯t you see the devastation when you arrived here? Entire boardwalk and two houses destroyed! Just down there.¡± He signalled sloppily with his arm without looking in the direction.

    ¡°We did,¡± Maria said.

    She walked through the kitchen until she was sitting at the table opposite him. Meanwhile, Josephine stood near a bucket against the wall, peering over it to check what was inside.

    ¡°What kind of incident?¡± Josephine asked.

    ¡°There¡¯s a monster stalking Bonpoi. The largest fish I have ever seen. It must have washed here down the river, as there is no other way I could imagine such a thing being here.¡± He gestured to his broken fishing rod. ¡°Surprised my fishing rod is only in this state. I nearly reeled the monster in just the other day.¡±

    Maria would be lying if she said she was not intrigued by this particular storyline of Remy¡¯s, but it was probably not relevant to the case.

    ¡°Have you heard of such a thing?¡± Josephine asked to Maria, losing interest in the sad and drab nature of the house and coming closer.

    ¡°Well, could be anything. Giant fish.¡±

    ¡°No, not any fish. This was¡­monstrous!¡± Remy said.

    ¡°If you say so. Where is it now?¡± Even as she involuntarily started down this train, she wished to jump off it as soon as possible and get back to the point.

    Remy shrugged with wide eyes. ¡°It¡¯s gone! True, it feasted on several men, and so if I were to guess, I¡¯d say it had its meal and went on with its day. I could not for the life of me imagine that there was somehow not enough fish out there for it to eat, though.¡± When Maria nor Josephine responded immediately, he cleared his throat and dropped his shoulders, which had gotten as high as his earlobes. ¡°You¡¯re not here to talk about fish, though.¡±

    ¡°No, we¡¯re not,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°What, then? Why are you here?¡±

    ¡°Have you ever bought something off the black market, Remy?¡±

    Remy frowned deeply, letting go of the tool he had been holding. His eyes searched Maria, like a ravenous rat looking for food. ¡°Why? No, of course not.¡±

    ¡°Then you¡¯re not in possession of any valuable documents you should not be?¡± Maria said. ¡°These are the sort of documents that some...other people might have been very interested in. I¡¯m not talking purely financial. These things might have had other uses. Power, knowledge, and in the wrong hands, they could be quite dangerous.¡±

    ¡°Um...Documents?¡± He swallowed. If you could smell one¡¯s nerves, the stench of it was everywhere. His face burned. He was fidgeting. ¡°Hold on a second, if it wasn¡¯t Maxime or anybody in the town who sent you here, who did?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll let you think first.¡±

    ¡°Why are you doing this to me?¡± Remy exclaimed. ¡°I...Yes, I have documents of some nature. However, I don¡¯t think it¡¯s what you¡¯re looking for. I have documents. Everybody in this town has documents. Can you just tell me the specifics? Huh?¡±

    ¡°Have you met with witches before?¡± Josephine asked.

    Remy looked in her direction with the widest of eyes. ¡°Witches?¡± he half-muttered, half-choked. ¡°Those children¡¯s stories? Witches, broomsticks, curses and that sort of thing?¡± He laughed nervously. ¡°What are you accusing me of here? I¡¯m not a witch¡ª Hold on...Are you two witches? Have you come here to do weird things to me!¡±

    ¡°Oh, stop this circus!¡± Maria said. ¡°J. A. Do you recognise those initials? Maybe somebody you purchased things from long ago? What about Edgar Lucien?¡±

    Remy¡¯s face went white. ¡°What...How...?¡± He blushed furiously, and then stood up abruptly and snapped, ¡°Okay, I¡¯ve had enough. Get out! Go!¡±

    ¡°J. A? A scribe?¡± Maria said.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know him!¡± He went to snatch something from the table but had hardly disturbed it when there was a shudder of movement behind Maria, the air became suddenly, frighteningly electric, and the fisherman named Remy flew.

    His body turned limp and he hit the floor lifeless and heavy. Maria turned her head to see Josephine standing there, her cloak still swaying with the bounce of the spell, arm outstretched with a long wand poking out from between her fingers. The air had immediately become smelly with the stench of burning skin and hair.

    ¡°You are far too hasty, Miss Josephine!¡± Maria reprimanded, making her way quickly over to Remy, who was twitching on the floor with smoke coming off him. The dilated pupils in his eyes were staring crookedly at his attackers.

    When Maria knelt next to him, Remy gasped something barely intelligible, something about ¡°witches¡± or a God Almighty. Maria glanced back over to Josephine, who spent the following moments putting away her wand and running her fingers along a particular spherical vial that hung from her inner clothing fabrics. Maria moaned. Idiot girl!

    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you...everything,¡± Remy said, drawing large breaths. ¡°Just give me a moment. Oh, curses. Why did she do that?¡± He groaned in displeasure.

    ¡°Did a witch come here recently?¡± Maria asked.

    ¡°I think I know what you¡¯re talking about,¡± Remy groaned. ¡°But please don¡¯t harm me anymore. I¡¯m just a good-for-nothing fisherman who lives as far away from his problems as he can.¡± He attempted to twitch his scorched nerve endings. His hair stood on-end. He took a moment to catch his breath. ¡°Damn. I am not sure how the witch found me, but believe me, I am no friend of hers!¡±

    Remy swallowed, eyes flicking towards Josephine as she re-entered the room, his body flinching away from her, shoulders coming up to protect himself in a hopeless shell of human meat and tattered clothes.

    ¡°Be still, Josephine,¡± Maria said.

    The floorboards stopped creaking. However, right at that moment, the sound of thunder rang out violently through the foundations of the house. Remy startled, looking to the sky. New fear stretched over his pathetic, electrified face.

    ¡°Maria, we ought to be going,¡± Josephine said. ¡°Soon, they will not allow travel. If we do not go now, we may be stuck in Bonpoi for some time.¡±

    ¡°No, you can¡¯t,¡± Remy said. ¡°It will be days before you are allowed to leave through this storm. And you cannot keep me like this forever. Please, I beg of you. You cannot do this. I have done nothing wrong. I will tell you what you wish to know!¡±

    Maria grumbled in the same manner as the storm that was fast gathering over Bonpoi. She dug into her cloak and retrieved a thick thread of rope, using it to bind Remy¡¯s wrists, leaving him as limp as he¡¯d ever been on the floor of his little house.

    ¡°Why are you treating me like a prisoner?¡± Remy complained.

    ¡°So you don¡¯t run,¡± Maria said. She would not let Remy go until she had rinsed him of everything. She had to know about Edgar¡¯s scribes, of how they had stolen his work, how he had distributed it all, and how bad it was. If there was more¡ªthings that were worse than just unpublished chapters. While she could metamorphosise in order to return to Carcassonne, Remy could not, and she could not readily return until she knew all of these things.

    So, once she had finished binding Remy, she turned to Josephine and said, ¡°You must return to Carcassonne at once and inform my brother of the situation here. If you leave now, you may beat the storm before it reaches the city.¡±

    ¡°And you?¡± Josephine asked.

    ¡°I will stay here until it is safe to travel. It is impossible to transport Remy in these conditions. And Josephine,¡± she added, ¡°please be sure to fill in a report regarding your use of that spell, as usual. And next time, don¡¯t be so hasty.¡± Josephine did not look very pleased by this. She stared blankly for a little time, before only fiving the most reluctant nod.

    ¡°Your brother. What will I say?¡± Josephine asked.

    ¡°Tell him we have things under control.¡±

    Josephine glanced at Remy, and then nodded. ¡°Very well. I will await your return in Carcassonne, then. As for our friend...I do apologise for that.¡±

    Remy grunted.

    Thus, Maria bid farewell to Josephine, and only when the younger witch was gone did she turn back to face Remy, helplessly lying there on the ground. An impressive smash of lightning punctuated the morning¡¯s events, completely opening up the grey sky.

 The Day Off

    I did not intend to betray my brother. In fact, the night he was elected mayor, I dined with my good friend Louis at a dive bar on Rue du Blanqui, and it was him who broached the idea that I run against Alfred in the next election. We both knew that Alfred was a pretend, that I wrote his speeches, that I had pioneered the plan that would eventually get him a seat at the table. I rejected the idea, at first. Alfred and I were close¡ªin fact, we had celebrated that evening. But Louis was a convincing man.

    <hr>

    Alfred studied the darkening skies from his office suite, his jaw clenched tightly. He sniffed, sensing the harbinger of rain in the air. It was a slow storm, apparently, though large. Safe to say, all indicators did not please him. A slow, large storm meant longer spent without the ability for safe travels¡ªand now of all times.

    He checked his pocket watch, which he never kept too far out of sight. His wife, Caroline, was scheduled to arrive in Carcassonne tomorrow morning from Ainan, where she had been on a geological expedition for two months. But all this, paired with the fact it was never good news to travel through such weather, meant she would be delayed, possibly in one of many border towns.

    Alfred¡¯s day was front-heavy, with his only two meetings occurring before ten o¡¯clock. While walking back through the corridors of the town hall alongside his assistant Clara, he thought about ways in which he could spend the rest of his day.

    As it were, days such as these were a rare appearance in Alfred Lucien¡¯s life, so much so that he found he was not sure how to fill the time. Furthermore, as a result of the terrible weather that was fast approaching them, many tasks had been postponed, and Alfred found that he did not have much at all to catch up on. He had always thought that was something that drew other council members and partners to him: he was often quite on top of things.

    His options for recreation were limited, however. Alfred did not have many hobbies. He was an avid reader, but he did not often read things that were not related to his work. He also did not particularly enjoy any people outside of those he worked with, so having a meal with somebody wasn¡¯t that feasible.

    Continuing through the monotonous town hall corridors, he turned to his assistant and asked, ¡°Clara, what do you normally do when you¡¯re not working? You have any hobbies?¡±

    ¡°Oh. Um...¡± She rubbed her pointy chin in deep thought. ¡°Well, I do enjoy my cats. And, oh, my sister and I have a book of recipes we are working through.¡± The two of them were forced to stop in the hall due to a commotion regarding notices pinned to the walls.

    ¡°Neither of those things intrigues me much,¡± Alfred said bluntly. ¡°I am not much of a cook myself. I...Well, you know, to put it straight I have a cook to deal with that for me.¡±

    ¡°Oh, of course,¡± Clara said with a little laugh.

    Alfred frowned. ¡°What is with this standing in the middle of the hall? Out of my way.¡± He pushed forward, squeezing through to the other side and carving a path for Clara while doing so. Both of them turned their heads to check the boards as they passed them; and Alfred¡ªhe was a lot taller than Clara and slightly-above average when it came to the crowd¡ªsaw mentions of allocations of some sort. Nothing I was consulted on, he thought, but didn¡¯t really care anyway.

    ¡°Why did you ask about my hobbies?¡± Clara asked.

    ¡°I was thinking we could take the rest of the day off,¡± Alfred said. ¡°Only, it¡¯s been quite some time since I¡¯ve found myself with not a lot to do, and hours to fill.¡±

    ¡°Have you tried the markets? They are full of oddities.¡±

    ¡°I was thinking more that I might spend the day with you.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± She looked awkwardly. ¡°With...me?¡±

    ¡°Clara, have you ever seen me interacting with anybody outside of this building?¡±

    She thought about this for a moment. ¡°There is that woman...¡±

    ¡°Yes, she is¡ª¡± He stopped himself from saying she was his sister. ¡°Good point. Well, have you seen me with anybody besides her?¡±

    ¡°I suppose not.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s because I don¡¯t have many friends in this city. Not to say that I¡¯m only asking you because I have no other options, of course...¡±

    ¡°Even though that is the case.¡±

    ¡°Well, yes. I suppose I am feeling somewhat dour due to the fact my wife, Caroline, was meant to arrive tomorrow but will be delayed by the rains. It has been two months since I¡¯ve seen her, and it was not a pleasant note that we departed on.¡±

    ¡°I see,¡± Clara responded.

    They finally reached Alfred¡¯s office, and stopped outside it. ¡°You know, if I¡¯m left to my own devices I will end up back here at my office, or making another awful investment that I¡¯m later embarrassed by. What will you do with the rest of your day?¡±

    ¡°Occasionally there are friendly games of boules behind the church, particularly at this time. Many retired men and women play, and if the children are on school break, sometimes they hang out there too. I could show you? Have you played much before?¡±

    ¡°Not since I was in university. We did play frequently there, but to say I was any good...well, that would certainly not be the case.¡±

    ¡°May we try it out then?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Perhaps we ought to give it a go. Let me tidy up and we¡¯ll meet behind the church in half an hour. Yes, that should be enough time for me to ready myself.¡±

    ¡°Do you need my help?¡±

    ¡°No need, Clara, thank you.¡± He was already halfway into his office, leaning into the door. ¡°Thank you. I¡¯m sure I will enjoy the company.¡± And without waiting to hear her response, Alfred slipped inside his office and closed the door.

    #

    Alfred changed into a comfortable set of clothes with a heavy overcoat as he made the short journey to the church. He had not spent much time in these parts, and certainly not around the church. In fact, Alfred could not recall the last time he had sat down inside one. It was probably not since they were children, before such times that had been.

    There were spotfires of people around the building, and the sounds of school children playing over the bordering fence. It took him a moment to find the little path leading behind the church, but once there, he ended up in a small courtyard with groups of people engaged in separate games of boules. The ground surfaces¡ªswept over dirt¡ªhad been marked with chalk, with circles and lines dominating the geometry. Heavy balls went flying, thumping against each other and flicking up pounds of dirt.

    Clara was right, many of the folk playing were his age or older, quite simple and plain in presentation. He observed shallow benches around the playing area, and little signs that displayed the scorecards of each game. Spectators sat on these benches with umbrellas up, engaging in chatter. Every once in a while, the nondescript people standing at the scorecards stepped forward, flourished an arm, and added to the scores.

    ¡°Hello, Clara!¡± Alfred said as he found her spectating a match occurring between two men. In what was an utterly strange sight, they both dressed almost identically, were bald in the same spots, and in fact, seemed almost duplicates of the same person. Certainly, they shared the same sense of anger. Metal balls crashed, and whenever one flew off in the wrong direction, one of the two men erupted into howls of curses and blaming, shoving the other around.

    It reminded him, just for a second, of Edgar.

    Clara smiled at Alfred. ¡°Hello, Alfred.¡±

    ¡°Good day,¡± Alfred said, making eye contact with the two men. They smiled and went about their game. Alfred moved closer to Clara, peering around like somebody seeing the other side of the world for the first time. ¡°Odd folk around these parts, eh?¡±

    ¡°Oh, those are just the Loret brothers.¡±

    ¡°You are familiar with these...people?¡±

    ¡°Well, they¡¯re from church.¡±

    ¡°Wait, you go to church?¡±

    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    ¡°Occasionally,¡± Clara said, as they began collecting their boules and taking them over to a court. Many of these playing surfaces were makeshift, little more than rough-arranged sticks and stones in the dirt, lines scratched in the playing fields to represent throwing positions. ¡°It¡¯s how I became involved in the leagues. These people are very enthusiastic about it.¡±

    ¡°That much is obvious from their angry shouting,¡± Alfred said. He grabbed an armful of heavy balls and saw Clara grab another set, along with a smaller jack. This ball was significantly smaller than the others, and was painted a gross yellow. ¡°To be honest, I have never paid much attention to the day-to-day of Carcassonne. I am rarely inclined to explore the city unless it is for work.¡± He thought about Edgar again. How his younger brother had held more people-minded philosophies when it came to governing. Unfortunately, it was not always about the people, as far as Alfred was concerned. The people did not know what they wanted. And as far as Alfred was concerned, again, there was no vision to be found in groups of them.

    Am I here thinking about work again?

    Clara held out the small yellow jack to him. ¡°You know the rules?¡±

    ¡°The normal rules, right? Is there any other way to play boules?¡±

    ¡°I suppose not. Would you like to throw the jack to start the game?¡±

    ¡°Why, I¡¯d be delighted to, Clara.¡± He took it from her hand and strolled over to the circle she had drawn on one side of the court. Winding up for a throw, he eyed no particular point in the distance, simply let loose the jack and watched it spiral through the air before landing with a small burst of dirt, roughly six metres away.

    ¡°Ooft!¡± Alfred cried, clapping his large hands together. ¡°Good one!¡±

    Clara picked up the first metal ball and stood beside him. Alfred stepped out of the circle to let her in, and watched with his arms folded as she made the first throw.

    ¡°Do you like being my assistant?¡± Alfred asked.

    Clara¡¯s ball smashed into the ground, performing a slight backspin, before rolling the rest of the way and landing nearby the jack. She brushed her hands, giving the impression she was analysing her performance. ¡°Of course, why do you ask?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not flashy, or anything. Quite boring, you would say.¡±

    ¡°Well, not to me. I find it to be interesting and meaningful work.¡± She walked out of the circle and Alfred grabbed his first ball, stepping inside. ¡°Anyway, I thought you came here because you didn¡¯t want to think about work for the day.¡±

    ¡°Ah, damn it.¡± He remembered they were outside a church. ¡°Sorry.¡± He raised an apologetic hand towards the holy building. As he winded up for his turn, he thought, I cannot seem to not let thoughts of work creep into my head. It is as they always said. Addicted to it!

    He threw the ball forward. It didn¡¯t quite fly in the direction he had hoped for, and with a touch too much power. By the time it was finished rolling, the ball had gone way off, nearly out of the court completely. ¡°Curse it! No good with that one. I must say, it is harder than it looks. After all these years, I¡¯ve forgotten my technique.¡±

    Clara handed him a new ball, his second of three. ¡°You¡¯ll want to keep your arm straighter than that, especially when you let go. You see, the ball will end up precisely where your arm does. You want to give it more backspin so that it also does not continue rolling away when it lands. Of course, you need some friction to stop its momentum. Like so.¡± She mimed without holding the ball, moving her wrist in a backwards flicking motion.

    Alfred grumbled as he tried this while holding the heavy ball. It put some amount of strain on his wrist. ¡°Couldn¡¯t they make these lighter?¡±

    ¡°Oh, Alfred,¡± Clara sighed. ¡°Try to land it near mine, but not too far ahead.¡±

    Alfred aimed straight, trying to lock his arm to prevent it from swaying to the side. He narrowed his eyes, staring mightily-hard on Clara¡¯s first attempt and the position of the jack. He made his best effort to ignore his first attempt. This is embarrassing, he thought.

    Holding his breath, he gave the ball a mighty shove and sent it hurtling through the air. When it struck dirt, the ball did not produce any backspin and rolled onwards, slightly grazing the edge of the jack but doing little to bother it. He did, however, land close enough that it beat Clara¡¯s throw.

    ¡°That¡¯s better,¡± Clara said as they switched places in the circle.

    ¡°There is hope for me after all,¡± Alfred said. ¡°You think anybody saw me do that?¡±

    Clara smirked.

    They continued their game in much the same way, with Alfred being cleanly beaten all three times. By the end of it, he was utterly exhausted. Yet this was the sort of physical exhaustion he had forgotten about, not having done much exercise all his time as baron of Carcassonne.

    Catching his breath and wringing out his sore arms, he helped Clara pack up the balls and then the two of them stood to the side, watching the other games underway. Just as this was happening, thunder rumbled and a few raindrops caught the back of Alfred¡¯s arm.

    He turned it over, wiping off the water, then looked up into the dark skies. ¡°She¡¯s late,¡± he said in the grimmest of tones. Not a moment later, there was the snap of an umbrella and Clara had popped one open above their heads.

    ¡°Thank you, Clara,¡± he said.

    She nodded.

    ¡°Maybe we should do this again when the weather isn¡¯t so dreary.¡±

    ¡°Yes. When social options are so limited.¡±

    ¡°As I said, although it is true I am a reclusive man, I still enjoy your company.¡± He smiled down at her. Her skin had whitened in the cold air, her cheeks turning scarlet. Alfred¡¯s next words came out without him thinking. ¡°That woman I keep seeing, who you mentioned earlier. She is actually my sister. I have not told many people that before.¡±

    He watched Clara¡¯s expression for her reaction, but it remained quite stolid. One might even say she was unfazed by the revelation, like she already knew.

    ¡°You know who she is, right?¡± Alfred asked.

    ¡°Is she famous or something?¡±

    ¡°My sister is Maria Lucien. My younger brother was Edgar Lucien, the Count of Bellvoir. I¡¯ll be honest with you, Clara, living with the secret of this eats away at me like a cancer. I wish it were not so, but I suppose you cannot just pretend such things are not true. This is why I distance myself from the world. I live in great shame with that fact.¡±

    Clara was not responding. Darts of rain flew down around them, splattering against the umbrella that she continued to hold. People were seeking cover.

    ¡°Are you going to say anything?¡± Alfred asked.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to be honest, those names don¡¯t really mean much to me.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± It had been a while since he had stopped to think how most people didn¡¯t have Edgar Lucien and his crimes at the forefront of their mind. He supposed it did occur over a decade ago, and Clara wouldn¡¯t have even entered politics at the time. When it came to politics, thirteen years ago was history. This sudden realisation relaxed him a bit, and he smiled at his own increased anxiety over the situation.

    ¡°You want to head back now?¡± Clara asked.

    ¡°I guess I should go back home before the rain gets worse.

    Alfred bid her farewell and took the sidewalk to his residence. The rain was becoming more intense. It was enough that the roads were beginning to spread thin, umbrellas coming up. As soon as he reached the main road, two horses drawing a medium-sized wagon sprinted past him, neighing loudly. Alfred barely avoided them, and watched as the horses tangled, slipping on the wet roads, and crashing into a store. The wagon abruptly stopped.

    ¡°What the¡ª¡± He just spotted two police chase after the wagon on horses. Upon reaching it, they disembarked and approached, drawing rifles.

    Alfred sprinted over to them. When he arrived, a crowd had gathered. The occupants of the wagon had appeared, three women in total, wearing cloaks. The back doors had opened with the force of the crash, and now swung there in the winds.

    He recognised one of the police as Sam Dewitt, an American-French sergeant. It was Dewitt who first began to shout at the occupants. ¡°Step away from the wagon!¡±

    ¡°What is happening?¡± Alfred said, but nobody heard him.

    One of the women drew into her cloak, revealing the end of a wand. Dewitt screamed at her, and fired his gun. A blast of white light split the sheets of rain. One of the other women had managed to draw her wand, but Dewitt¡¯s companion took care of her, shooting her cleanly in the chest so that she flew back, her blood on pavement turning the rainwater red.

    The third woman raised her hands. ¡°Please don¡¯t!¡±

    ¡°Arrest her!¡± Dewitt yelled, and his companion did so. By this stage, Alfred had reached them, and kept cursing as he saw the dead bodies.

    Dewitt shouldered his rifle. His breathing was hard and fast, his stubbled face and chiselled jaw making sharp angles in the pouring rain. When he noticed that Alfred was there, he pointed at the scene before them. ¡°We caught them on Rue de Sade-Mari but they made a run for it. I had no choice but to shoot! They¡¯re witches!¡±

    Damn it all! Alfred thought as he walked over to the wagon entrance and peered inside. The first thing that struck him was the stench. It overwhelmed him so strongly he immediately gagged. ¡°What the hell is that smell!¡± he cried.

    Dewitt appeared at his side. ¡°Step away, Baron.¡± Dewitt reached out to put a hand on Alfred¡¯s chest, with a slight nudge to remove himself from the scene.

    But that was when Alfred saw what was inside.

    Amidst crates and boxes was a small animal cage, and within it, a body. At least, this was Alfred¡¯s first thought of it. He had smelled dead bodies before and this stench was very much comparable. Its skin also resembled that of a cadaver, grey and sinewy, like decomposition had set in some time ago. Only, when he stepped a little closer, he realised the thing inside the cage was taking slow yet noticeable breaths, sickly and shaking.

    And its eyes.

    Alfred gasped. He covered his mouth with one hand, threw out his other hand into the space between them, and recoiled away from it.

    ¡°What in God¡¯s name is that thing!¡±

    ¡°The work of witches,¡± Dewitt said. ¡°That¡¯s what they¡¯ve been doing. It¡¯s called a homunculus. We found all sorts of notes about it. They created it in some sick, twisted ceremony. We¡¯re going to need somebody to clean this up and take it in.¡± He moved away from Alfred, calling out to his partner in a voice sharp as the bullets they¡¯d pierced through the witches.

    ¡°Homunculus...¡± Alfred muttered. He had not heard that word in many years. Wiping rain from his eyes as it dripped from his greasy hair, he thought, Oh god, this isn¡¯t good.

    Slowly, he climbed inside the wagon. ¡°Eugh!¡± He covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve, and held his breath. The grey monster was still staring at him, gripping the bars as much as one could, the malformed lump of flesh and organs that it was.

    The rain became muffled as he ventured in. There were chests and pillows, hardback tomes and fabrics, all of this illuminated dimly from a single lantern. Alfred crept until he was close to the monster. It looked up at him, but didn¡¯t move. Bulbous and unnatural, there was nothing attractive about the thing. By all accounts, it was the most pitiful thing he had laid eyes on. Bone through vaguely-translucent skin gave it a horrible appearance. He could see where its mutated heart pulsed, near the shoulder. It appeared, almost, as if there were something else inside it, growing like a bug inside a cocoon.

    He knelt down to pick up a small black book on the ground.

    His eyes grew wide again as he turned the first few pages, and looked back up at the monster. It did not appear to know that he was there.

    Feeling the blood drain from his body, Alfred checked in the front page of the book, in the bottom corner. There, he saw his own brother¡¯s autograph inscribed: E. Lucien. Not that he needed to do this. It was already clear what he was looking at.

    Maria was right. It¡¯s one of his journals...

    Alfred grew furious. He should have destroyed every single copy of these books himself. On the night his brother died, his house had burned down. How had these survived?

    How? How? How? How, damn it?

    He checked to see that nobody was looking, and then tucked the book into his coat. When he looked back at the homunculus, it was staring at him¡ªEdgar was staring at him. Alfred began to shake his head. ¡°Ed...Edgar?¡± he whispered, his voice breaking.

    He could have sworn its lips moved.

 The Beast, Returned

    With some reluctance, I am convinced that the only way forward with my work is to hire scribes. Left to my own devices, I am no longer able to produce suitable results for printing. Of course, I miss sitting down to write¡ªa rare time I get to be in the midst of my own company¡ªbut I no longer possess the ability to do it myself.

    <hr>

    Rain fell in heavy bursts that battered against the tin roofs of Bonpoi. It was not long before water was leaking through the ceiling of Remy¡¯s boathouse, so Maria had made the decision to relocate them to someplace drier.

    Remy was disconsolate from the floating residential area to the town proper. Fishermen hastily hauled boats and tied gigantic, heavy ropes around their possessions. Barrels threatened to roll into the lakes with their loads of fish and clams. Only the massive yet frayed ropes attaching them to posts along the docks prevented this. Another sheet of rain covered the town with a screech-like sound, thrown in their path like the wind was being selective in its onslaught. Maria shielded herself with her cloak but the dagger-like water drenched through her relentlessly.

    Of all the places you could be amidst a storm of such magnitude, Bonpoi was probably one of the worst. Fishermen ran with no shirts, and little but waistcloths. Hair drenched and heavy, their shouts were barely audible over the howling wind.

    ¡°This is not the way,¡± growled Remy, his head whipping to the side every now and then to follow another dockworker or fisherman. ¡°Woman! Listen to me!¡±

    Through the haze of rain, Maria saw boats on the lake sailing back towards shore. Men on the docks lit torches, yet their successes were temporary. As the clouds grew darker overhead, although it was hardly midday, it was almost the appearance of nightfall.

    Maria and Remy waited underneath a fish market tarp, which sagged in the middle where rainwater had gathered. She took the moment of respite to throw her hair out of her eyes, and with her long cloak sleeve, wipe dry her face.

    ¡°What is with your endless carry-on?¡± she spat.

    ¡°It is due to your insolence!¡± Remy returned. He was staring across the lake, his eyes red from the rainwater. His long wolf-like hair, despite the torrential rain, remained brutal and dishevelled from Josephine¡¯s curse. ¡°The beast follows the storm. We¡¯re out of time.¡±

    ¡°Oh, you must be pulling my leg! What beast?¡±

    ¡°The one that nearly dragged me in!¡± Remy yelled, like a madman. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I don¡¯t mean to yell at you. It is just...¡± He seemed at a loss for words, his jaw working. ¡°I must sail out there, with the other men! Please let me do that. If I don¡¯t¡ª¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t come all this way for you to die pretending to be a hero,¡± Maria retorted, and grabbed Remy by the arm as if to stop him from making a quick escape, like a bird that has gotten trapped inside your house. ¡°You¡¯re staying with me where it¡¯s safe.¡±

    ¡°You do not understand. There is a beast in these waters. It will soon be upon us. I am Remy of Bonpoi! I must lead them!¡± He gestured around the docks, shrugging out of her grip into the rain. His body was immediately drenched. Looking back at her with squinted eyes, water droplets speckling his beard like crystals, he said, ¡°If you attempt to stand between myself and my destiny, woman, then I swear that I will overcome you.¡±

    Maria stared at Remy, unsure of how to respond. ¡°This is madness.¡±

    Remy¡¯s eyes darkened, his face pleading with her. There was a sense of great seriousness in the way he looked. He gestured with his hand for her to follow him.

    ¡°If you help, then I will help you,¡± he said.

    Imbecile, Maria thought, screwing up her face, embattled. The man would not have it any other way. Maria watched the dockworkers, scrambling. She felt the weight of the town surrounding her; or rather, the lack thereof. How the thin tarps blew in the wind, just about to be torn clean from their nails. How the boards of the docks creaked in the increasing winds. She thought, then, that a town like Bonpoi would not likely withstand a storm any greater than this, let alone a beast come from the sea.

    She did not say anything, just exhaled sharply, drew up her cloak over her head, and walked out of the fish market into the rain with Remy.

    #

    Remy walked alongside the docks, aware of the witch¡¯s presence behind him. His skin was sore from the unusual cold, his hands clenched.

    Thunder clouds swam, occasionally crackling with electricity. He still felt a tingling in his skin from when the other witch girl had electrified him; it was that, or the adrenaline.

    ¡°Remy!¡± Max shouted. He was carting a wagon full of spear guns towards the harboured boats, rainwater slick against his tattooed arms. Upon seeing him, Max¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Why do you look like that? Are you unwell or something?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you later. What do we need?¡±

    Max glanced at the witch. ¡°Who is she?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about that. She is a witch¡ªyes, I know it sounds crazy. She¡¯s not here because of the monster under the lake, but she can help us. Okay?¡±

    Max regarded her with suspicion, but did not complain. ¡°Whatever, I trust you,¡± he said. ¡°There is a problem, though. We do not have enough bait to lure it in.¡±

    ¡°No, Max,¡± Remy said. ¡°We are the bait!¡±

    Max snarled, his large mouth becoming a hungry grin. ¡°Aha, that is a crazy idea but I love it.¡± Remy did not share his mirth, exactly, but felt similarly inspired against the monster.

    Remy gripped Max¡¯s shoulder, yelling for him to make sure the bombs were prepared and that every man had a speargun to use against the beast. He then watched as Max left, running as fast as he could with the wagon.

    Remy had taken up position near a couple of boats that were ready to be sent off. He drew a deep breath, sensing a stillness in the air. It seemed, in this moment, that even the storm had silenced. The rains, frozen mid-air. He worked his fingertips against the wet, wooden speargun. It was the only movement he allowed himself. Waiting. Watching across the lake.

    ¡°Woman!¡± Remy said.

    ¡°Firstly, it¡¯s Maria. Second, call me that again and I will toss you in with the monster you seem to love so much.¡±

    Remy swallowed, and judging by the look on her face, he didn¡¯t doubt that she may indeed follow on her word. ¡°Maria it is, then.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯d be a fool to go out there.¡±

    ¡°The beast will destroy Bonpoi, as it was said by the Waveseer,¡± Remy said. ¡°Tell me, Maria, will you protect this town? Can you not do something?¡±

    Maria regarded him with suspicion. ¡°Waveseer?¡±

    Remy blew a breath, becoming frustrated. The waters in the lake were stirring. Somebody shouted as a boat was released onto the surface, oars drawn. Remy¡¯s legs surged with anticipation. Soon. He checked the witch, her grey cloak and robes, her hand concealed within it. He knew that witches had wands, and little glass spheres which contained concoctions that they used to perform spells. He was not interested in these things, but it was true that his work with Ardouin provided something of a lesson on it.

    ¡°Please,¡± Remy said. ¡°Remain here, and should the beast break through, prevent it from reaching the town through any means possible! Yes? You hear me?¡±

    Maria was preoccupied, her face disturbed. ¡°Remy, when that other witch came through before us, you did not do anything to upset her, did you?¡±

    ¡°Huh? What are you on about?¡±

    ¡°When exactly did you first encounter this so-called beast?¡±

    ¡°I mean, it was...¡± His stomach dropped. The shine in Maria¡¯s eye told the tale. ¡°You don¡¯t mean that she...she did this!¡± He stomped his boot in a puddle. ¡°Bloody witches!¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t take that personally,¡± Maria said.

    Remy rubbed his forehead vigorously, grumbling underneath his breath. He could have sworn he had not done much to anger that other witch, certainly not enough for her to summon a damned beast to Bonpoi! But...he did have a bad memory at times. ¡°Well, can¡¯t you tell it to go away then? You are a witch, too, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°Yes, perhaps I will add that if it is so kind, to sing us a song also?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re jesting?¡±

    Maria actually smiled. ¡°I hear you. I won¡¯t let it reach the town, if you will gladly answer all of my questions once we are able to finally sit down.¡±

    This was good enough for Remy. He nodded, and stared out across the lake. A silence stretched over the town of Bonpoi, punctuated by rolls of thunder. Remy did not take his eyes from the lake, eventually approaching the water¡¯s edge and peering down at the boats buoyed to the docking posts. They waited for what felt like hours. Remy, too drenched in the rain for it to any longer concern him.

    This brief moment of calm caused him to think about what Maria had said when she arrived at his house, of Ardouin, and Bellvoir. Remy¡¯s chest burned. No! I have to focus on this now. He shook his head to get it out. Ardouin...The letters...Lucien...

    Suddenly, the lake erupted. Remy gasped, stumbling backwards as a massive wall of water upended into the sky. Debris scattered before him. Seaweed tossed all over the streets and boardwalks. Ropes snapped. Boats flew, with puffs of dead fish that splattered everywhere.

    Remy dashed forward. ¡°It is the beast, returned!¡± he shouted into the storm.

    Blades slashing through ropes, the boatmen released the remaining boats into the water, bobbing and ready.

    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°Bombs! Bombs!¡± Remy yelled. Then, he turned to Maria, whose face was white and tense. ¡°You must not let the beast reach the town! You hear me?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about this,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Be sorry after,¡± Remy said. He walked away from her, heading to the boats. The first of these had just left, two boatmen paddling and two more with spears that glinted magically in the lights. They sailed out from the town towards the beckoning lakes that stretched yonder.

    Remy looked back at Maria. She reached into her cloak and took hold of a wand, pulling it from its clasp into the windy, rain-washed air.

    A nasty grin spread across Remy¡¯s face. ¡°Yes!¡± he yelled.

    On cue, the lake erupted with magma-like sprays and the beast revealed itself at last. Water splashed with such intensity it enveloped Remy where he was standing, and caused the boats already on the lake to spin out of control, smashing against the docks.

    ¡°No!¡± Remy shrieked.

    A song-like howl filled the air and the beast landed on the water¡¯s surface. It was large and spindly, with tendrilous arms that whipped out at random. It had no visible orifices for sight, but a large yellow light emanating from just underneath the surface where it was. Battle cries accompanied the first pop of a speargun from one of the boats. The long spear sailed forward, lodging into the monster¡¯s side and rapidly reeling the boat towards it.

    Remy sprinted for the nearest boat on the water. He leapt into it, his boots slamming into the wood. The boat careened forward from the force of his landing. After quickly composing himself, he stood up and aimed his speargun.

    ¡°I¡¯m firing, step back!¡± Remy screamed. He launched, his spear whooshing through the air and latching in the beast¡¯s side. This distracted it just long enough for the other boatsmen to sever the line and keep their boat barely out of tentacle¡¯s length of the mighty sea beast.

    ¡°God Almighty!¡± Remy shouted, cutting the rope of his spear.

    Boats splashed into the water around him. In a nearby boat, Remy saw one of the sailors unload a barrel of bombs. They dropped one into a cannon.

    Bang! With a flash, the massive boulder catapulted through the air at the beast, smashing its slimy side and erupting instantly into hot plumes of fire.

    They whooped and screamed in victory.

    None saw the tentacle until it was too late. Ripping through the surface, it flung one of the boats as if it were a toy. Remy saw but a glimpse of the men before they were gone under the dark lake.

    Another bomb struck true, and the beast dived underneath.

    ¡°It¡¯s gone!¡± somebody yelled.

    ¡°It will be back!¡± Remy shouted, wiping water from his eyes. He turned as a boat roared up beside his own. Max was aboard with a barrel of bombs.

    ¡°Our igniter is destroyed from the rain!¡± Max said.

    Remy checked in his pockets for something. Thankfully, he found one, revealing it for Max and the other boatman, F¨¦lix, to see.

    ¡°Chuck it to me!¡± Max yelled.

    ¡°You are not a good catch!¡± Remy shouted.

    ¡°Eh! You have no belief in me?¡±

    Remy threw the lighter between their boats, Max fumbling it. Luckily, it landed inside the boat. He picked it up and held it aloft, smiling like a crazy person.

    ¡°Ha!¡± Max laughed.

    Remy could not resist but to smile. His boat suddenly swayed, and he spread his legs to keep balanced. The water swirled and shook with the hidden movements of that beast. What a sick monster, Remy thought. It might have fled underwater for now, but the sight would not soon leave Remy¡¯s mind. It was by far the most unnerving thing he had seen in Bonpoi, and he had also once seen a great infection entrenched in Max¡¯s hairy ass.

    Rain plummeted. Remy threw back his hair so it scaled backwards down his scalp. His speargun aloft, he scanned the shimmering lake, grey and dark in the storm light.

    Where have you gone to?

    Suddenly, one of the boats in the distance vanished under the water. Remy shuddered, lifting his gun in the air. Across from him, he heard Max shout above the rain. The cannon on their boat squealed as the boatman aimed it at their hidden enemy.

    We are not dying tonight, Remy thought, more a hope than a fact. He had never come so close to facing his own mortality. A life spent in little Bonpoi did not invite such things as impending doom. Not before the beast. He was taken to that first time he encountered it¡ªalmost pulled it in while fishing. What a shock that had been.

    So, a witch had brought it here. Remy swore that if he ever saw her again, he¡¯d show her what happens when you mess with a fisherman of Bonpoi.

    He suddenly thought of Maria.

    What does she know about Ardouin?

    Why was he thinking about this right now?

    The water opened like a mouth and another boat was sucked into the ocean depths. Remy spun to look in its direction. Max complained as he realigned his cannon.

    Ardouin is not still alive, surely.

    Stray thoughts. He had to focus!

    ¡°It¡¯s back!¡± somebody screamed. With the shattering of the lake¡¯s surface, the monstrous body emerged yet again, tentacles flapping about as if searching for islands in the sky to attach itself to. It was utterly sickening, like a strange organism or parasite looking for hosts¡ªbut nothing on this planet could suffice for such a size.

    ¡°Hit it!¡± Remy screamed, letting loose a spear. Simultaneous cracks of spearguns popped through the air like fireworks. Tiny rope threads trailed them as they flew true.

    Several bombs exploded at once, lighting the beast in yellow magma light. Its tentacles whipped out in multitudinous directions.

    Waves exploded. Boats flew. Bodies and wood erupted and sank into the lakes. Bombs blew, throwing body parts. Remy was toppled by the shockwave coming off the lake¡¯s frothy white surface, stumbling to the edge of the boat. His gun fell overboard.

    ¡°No, my gun!¡± Remy spat.

    The beast surged. Violent seawater collided with Remy and he barely held on. The clouds ripped apart with lightning. A cannonball exploded, followed by a rush of wind and a scream, and two boats upended simultaneously in a bloom of fire and smoke.

    As if sensing the crew¡¯s disorientation, the beast let out a great screech and charged with awesome speed through the water, carving it in two.

    Remy scrambled back up, but could only watch as this happened. Several boats caught in the beast¡¯s path were obliterated, their pieces exploding in the air like an angry gambler throwing cards. His eyes widened as the beast struck the docks and leapt at Bonpoi, striking with its tentacles. ¡°No!¡± Remy screamed.

    As the beast lunged ashore, it was suddenly repelled as if by a deflective wall, and bounced straight off, skipping the docks and crashing back into the waters from whence it came. Lightning cracked, illuminating the figure of Maria, standing where the beast had been.

    ¡°What the hell is that!¡± Max screamed.

    Remy looked from the sinking beast to Max, who was pointing at Maria, his boat taking in water. Thunder shook the air, as all but bubbles remained of the beast. Remy smiled at his friend. ¡°I knew that would happen. I wasn¡¯t scared for a second!¡±

    ¡°That is why you screamed like a little girl?¡±

    They burst out into raucous laughter.

    ¡°Victory!¡± one of the other boatmen screamed.

    Taken with exhaustion, Remy sat down, continuing to watch the place where the beast had sunk. He could still see Maria, her cloak tassels blowing in the ever-increasing winds.

    #

    Tongues of fire still burned on the lake when the boatsmen returned to the town. Maria admitted she had not seen such a display of power in a long time.

    At the battle¡¯s end, she returned her wand into her cloak and took out the sphere she had used, checking inside it. The plants were withered, rot had taken the fruits. She opened it up and emptied it on the ground, where the wind immediately swept it away.

    The Bonpoi folk spent the remainder of the day cleaning. Still, Maria could not deny that they were ever-watchful of the lake and the possibility that the beast might return again.

    By nightfall, the storm had reduced to a drizzle. Large firepits were lit, sending warmth and light through the fishing town of Bonpoi. Maria observed the devastated shoreline. Bits of houses and boats floated atop the water¡¯s surface. Bridges had collapsed, boardwalks destroyed. It was a difficult sight. Eventually, she and Remy returned to the inn.

    Water drenched the floors, and everywhere you walked, your feet were splashing in it. Yet there was laughter to be found here, and celebrations, as drinks and food flowed.

    Maria sat by herself much of the night, only managing to steal away Remy when he had seemingly had enough of the celebrations. When he eventually sat down with her, his face red from drinking too much, Maria was ready to retire for the night. Remy stared at her. His hair was still somewhat static, no matter his attempts to flatten it back down.

    It did not take long for him to sober.

    ¡°My apologies. I was caught up in the fervour.¡±

    Maria simply waved a hand, hoping to move on with the conversation quickly. She withdrew her brother¡¯s ledger from her cloak, now slightly wet, and slid it across the table to Remy. He took the ledger and opened it cautiously.

    ¡°That is Edgar Lucien¡¯s ledger,¡± Maria said as Remy looked through it without speaking. ¡°He was my brother. Did you know him?¡±

    Remy seemed to become stuck on one of the pages, a small gasp leaving his lips. He grabbed at his jaw, moving his fingers to his mouth, as he continued to read. ¡°Yes,¡± he whispered, caressing the pages with his hand. ¡°Oh, Jacques, you naughty man.¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± Maria asked.

    ¡°Oh.¡± Remy turned the book towards her, his fingers tapping on the initials. ¡°J. A. is Jacques Ardouin,¡± said Remy. ¡°He was your brother¡¯s scribe.¡± He attempted to pat down his hair again, which was sticking up despite the weight of the rainwater stuck in it. Maria carefully closed the book for him and moved it to the side. ¡°That is how you found me? Through him?¡±

    ¡°Yes, your details are in the book.¡±

    Remy sighed. ¡°I hope you believe me when I say this, but I truthfully don¡¯t know where all the documents ended up. I am not as organised as Jacques. I do not keep records dating back ten years. As soon as we were finished, I had discarded everything, and truthfully, until just recently I never had cause to think about any of it.¡±

    ¡°So you were working with him,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Jacques took as much as he could when the house burned down. He sent the documents to me, in Bonpoi. We have good access to river networks from here. Honestly, it was good business for a while. Do I regret it? Yes, of course. I wish it had never happened. I wish Ardouin had never come into my life!¡±

    Remy slammed his fist against the tabletop, his face red. ¡°I do not wish to discuss the man any further. He is a ghost to me now, so let it remain that way. Honestly, I do not even wish to know whether or not he is alive. It will only make things worse.¡±

    Maria cursed under her breath. She didn¡¯t think he was lying. Remy didn¡¯t have any records of where he had sold the manuscripts to. It was a dead end.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Remy muttered. ¡°It¡¯s just that Jacques Ardouin has caused me a lot of pain over the years. I¡¯m the fool for not being able to let it go.¡±

    Maria sensed great sadness in Remy, but she felt that she could not broach the topic of it. She wondered what the men were to each other, and then, she became more intrigued in who this Jacques Ardouin was. For he was at least significant to Remy. Yet, he had done irreparable damage to Maria and the cabaret¡ªterrible, terrible damage. She supposed Remy had assisted in this, but she felt that Ardouin was the brains behind it. Remy was just doing what he was told.

    ¡°I know that there were chapters about witchcraft, all that stuff,¡± Maria said. ¡°But was there anything else? My brother wrote a lot in his time. What about journals? Diary entries?¡± Even as she said these things, she was sick in anticipation of hearing the answer.

    Remy even had the nerve to chuckle slightly. ¡°Now that you mention it, I thought there was something familiar about you.¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡±

    ¡°There were journals. You know, your brother was a very interesting man, Maria. In fact, your whole family was. Jacques and I were so very invested in his tales. It¡¯s just been so long since I¡¯ve thought about it.¡± Suddenly, his expression changed, his cheeks going deep scarlet, like he remembered something Maria bet she did not want to hear.

    ¡°I¡¯m glad you were able to bond over my tragic family,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°I take it that is probably not what you wanted to hear. We were young and gossipy. We didn¡¯t mean any harm by it.¡±

    ¡°Did you sell any of these to Vincenzo Molteni or anybody else from the Molteni family?¡±

    Remy threw his hands. ¡°I honestly don¡¯t remember.¡±

    Maria hated to admit this, but she believed him.

    Thunder shook the building. Remy took his drink and downed some, before returning it to the table. White froth coloured his scraggly facial hair, and he wiped it off with the back of his wrist.

    ¡°If you had to guess, where is Jacques Ardouin now?¡± Maria asked.

    ¡°You tell me. I haven¡¯t heard from him in years.¡± His eyes developed a distant look. ¡°You see, Maria, Jacques is a difficult man to understand. I, for one, have never understood the reasons why he does certain things.¡± A smile spread across his lips, but only fleetingly, like unsuccessfully trying to start a fire. ¡°He didn¡¯t know what he was doing when he entered into this. After the fire, he had no work, no place, really, to go. It was just to make money. But, my friend Jacques, he was not the smartest man.¡±

    ¡°Evidently,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry if this was a waste of your time, but I am tired, and I intend to retire back to my house if you would have the decency to allow me. Anything else you need to know?¡±

    ¡°There might be a hearing,¡± Maria said. ¡°He might be called to speak.¡±

    ¡°Give him my regards,¡± said Remy. ¡°That is, if you find him.¡± Remy stood up, his seat toppling behind him. He swayed on the spot, giving a soft moan of drunkenness. ¡°Actually,¡± Remy said, pointing at her, ¡°you remind me of him.¡±

    Maria raised a brow.

    ¡°Head always in the past.¡± And then he walked off.

    Maria almost called out to him before he was gone entirely, though not necessarily because she knew what she wanted to say. Instead, she continued to sit, her fingertips drumming against the covers of the book. The most empty feeling passed through her. The feeling that this entire journey had been a waste, a failure¡ªand Maria despised such things. Yet, most of all, sitting with nothing but her brother¡¯s ledger, she felt very far away from everything.

    A sense of homesickness struck her, like she had not felt in a long time.

 Ghost of the Count

    One thing is clear: I would sooner die, than live in disgrace.

    <hr>

    It was early morning when Josephine arrived back at Carcassonne. She returned to her human form in an alley beside the cabaret, and promptly collapsed to her knees on the cold gravel. Her stomach rolled and she resisted the urge to vomit. The effect was as if she had spun around a hundred times. A dozen or so white feathers still protruded along her arm, so she plucked them out one by one, gritting her teeth from the sharp stings.

    The city was eerie at this hour, and a thin fog hung in the air. Once she was able to walk again, Josephine slowly entered the cabaret via a side entrance and encountered Bella, who was sitting down at one of the tables with a smoke and a drink.

    Bella looked up when Josephine arrived, and immediately stood. ¡°Oh, you poor thing, let me get you something.¡± She removed her amber shawl, which glittered with small crystals, and wrapped it around Josephine. Bella made Josephine tea while she sat, covered in the shimmering fabrics. Then, while Josephine drank by herself, Bella went backstage to find some clothes for her to change into.

    Josephine noticed how she held the teacup in a vice-like grip, and how the discomfort in her stomach remained even as the nausea faded. By the time Bella returned with a new change of clothes, Josephine admitted to herself that she was feeling rather anxious.

    ¡°Thank you, Bella,¡± she said.

    Bella waved this away, sitting back down where she had been, picking up her cigarette and taking a healthy drag. Josephine could not help but notice how her beautiful ginger hair fell in extraordinary waterfalls over her shoulders and down her back, even as the older witch did not seem to acknowledge Josephine¡¯s presence at the table.

    It was not until Josephine had finished drinking her tea that Bella did make conversation. ¡°I take it you have not been in Carcassonne for a few days. Did you find what you were looking for?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Josephine said in a hushed tone.

    ¡°You probably don¡¯t know what has happened since your departure, then.¡±

    Josephine shook her head.

    ¡°There was a shooting the other day. Two witches were killed in broad daylight by the Baron¡¯s men. Yet they¡¯re making more arrests. I¡¯m afraid, if somebody knows that you¡¯ve been here, you might be arrested too. Just a friendly warning.¡±

    Josephine frowned. ¡°What? What happened?¡± She could not believe that Alfred would do something so reckless. ¡°It¡¯s not related to...Selika and the others, is it?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know about Selika, but I¡¯m afraid you¡¯d be correct. They came here first. Emptied out the place.¡± She raised her arms to enforce the sight of the empty, silent cabaret. ¡°Not that I blame the Baron, really, if the rumours of what they found are true.¡±

    ¡°What did they find?¡± Josephine asked.

    ¡°They were trying to leave the city with...¡± She cleared her throat. ¡°A homunculus.¡±

    ¡°Not...Edgar?¡±

    Bella leaned back, holding her cigarette aloft. ¡°Only rumours, though.¡±

    ¡°Damn it,¡± Josephine cursed. ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to do something?¡±

    ¡°Those women have dug their own grave, Josephine. They are criminals now. Being a witch does not exempt you from that.¡± She smoked, sending trails of silver mist into the air between them. Josephine thought for a moment.

    ¡°Is Maria telling the truth?¡± Josephine asked. ¡°Do they really hate witches so much here?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s usually a reason when witches are hated like so,¡± Bella said. ¡°To be honest, I cannot be sympathetic towards those who commit crimes.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll...try to be careful, then,¡± Josephine said.

    ¡°Feel free to keep the clothes. They belonged to me many years ago but I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve outgrown them. And, plus, they suit you.¡± She did not smile nor display any inflection in her voice. Rather, she seemed colder and more stone-like than last time.

    On her way back to the inn where they were staying, Josephine passed a street sign signalling Rue D¨¦nesse, and she stopped. She recalled that this was the street Alfred had mentioned to her in regards to Doctor Georges de La Quin, who might be able to help her regarding her unique situation. She looked around. The traffic was minimal, and nobody seemed to pay any attention to what she was doing. Despite this, as she decided to venture down Rue D¨¦nesse, she did so with a sense of urgency and fear of getting spotted.

    Illuminated by a gas lamp, she saw a sign reading PRACTICE OF DOCTOR DE LA QUIN next to the doorway of a small brick building. There were a few trash bins outside; and on the other walls, posters advertising upcoming shows at the cabaret. She remained a distance from the door, for she was afraid that somebody might recognise that she was a witch, or spot her at such a place.

    It was Maria who took the fore of her mind in this moment. Did Maria already know of Josephine¡¯s condition? Would she take kindly to it?

    Why is this so difficult? she thought.

    And what did she¡ªJosephine¡ªwant? She had always known that witches in the Black Dime Cabaret were not allowed to have children. This was no secret. And, truthfully, Josephine had not thought about it. So what was it that made it so hard? If she didn¡¯t want to keep the child, she would be able to walk into that building and make it happen.

    But she could not do it. Drawing in a deep breath, she took a step backwards and turned away from it. Bella was right that first time they had met over a game of cards, that if Maria had chosen Josephine to accompany her here, that meant something. Certainly, a lot of people had a lot of things to say about Maria. However, Josephine was not sure if it was the delirium from her long flight talking, or if she really felt, right then, that she could talk to Maria about this, and that Maria would understand.

    There was just something inside her that suggested there was something different between them now, an understanding, a camaraderie from their long journey.

    She propped up the fabrics of her shawl, lowered her head, and ventured back through the streets of Carcassonne without anybody noticing.

    #

    Maria delayed her return to Carcassonne, opting to ride the carriage with Marco. The journey back, though wet and miserable, at least featured a distinct lack of noise from the Italian, which Maria appreciated. It allowed her to sit and be quiet.

    She did not think much about what occurred in Bonpoi. She thought of not much at all, either watching the passing mudbanks and damp trees, or resting with her eyes closed. The rains had reduced to a light drizzle; travel was permitted. In her lap, she carried her brother¡¯s ledger, and occasionally she flipped through its pages.

    It was a distinctly hollow feeling which burdened Maria. A dizzying sensation, accentuated by deep lethargy and bodily pains. She had not felt such physical languor before. The very thought of having to stand up and walk again was dreadful.

    Perhaps Alfred was right, Maria thought. Maybe some time away is what I need.

    Upon returning to Carcassonne, Maria made the final payment to Marco and departed the stables where he was tying off the horses. He seemed afraid to say anything around her, in the little French that he knew, and certainly wouldn¡¯t test his Italian against her. Maria had only just registered to re-enter the city when she was handed a letter from one by the name of Gertrude. Maria took it cautiously. She read the letter on a bench within the city¡¯s walls.

    Clearly, Gertrude was just her brother. He had not been subtle with the hints. She read it inconspicuously, and when she was finished, she gave a loud sigh and threw it out.

    Maria did not immediately go to her brother. She started off her day by sitting down at a small bread shop and ordering a strawberry-iced cake. She ate this by herself, while watching people wander past. The dinging of bicycle bells and scratching of feet on cobblestones was a welcome difference to the sounds she had grown accustomed to over the past few days.

    After she had been here for a while, a young woman joined her with a large illustration journal clutched against her chest. Her rosy cheeks curved into a smile as she neared Maria.

    ¡°Good morning, ma¡¯am,¡± said the woman in a kind voice. Maria raised an eyebrow as she stuffed the last spoonful of cake in her mouth, and set aside the crumby plate. ¡°You struck me so intensely as you sat down here. I could not stop myself from illustrating you.¡± The woman tore from her drawing journal a piece of paper and offered it to Maria.

    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    Maria took this, and frowned at the miserly old woman reflected back at her. She looked from the drawing to the woman, and said, ¡°A mirror for a hag. That will do it.¡±

    ¡°Hm?¡±

    ¡°Leave me be,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°I mean no offense. You are most certainly not a¡ª Not that horrible word you used to refer yourself. Rather, I would say majestic! Even beautiful,¡± the woman said. She propped up the glasses which had fallen to the tip of her nose. ¡°Anyway. Good day to you.¡±

    Maria blinked, feeling her cheeks burn. Before she could say anything, the woman had turned around with her red skirts dancing behind her. Maria forced her eyes to the illustration. She would never have thought it was her. The subject was, in a way, beautiful, but Maria had never thought of herself as being this. Not in many decades, and even then, hardly. She didn¡¯t have to be beautiful, was what she had always thought.

    All it made her do was laugh.

    #

    There was more work happening at the town hall, Maria being forced to tap dance around it as she ventured to Alfred¡¯s office. Workers with large measuring tools went about the halls, taking notes and marking on the concrete. Occasionally, she was required to dodge a large furniture item or building crate, sometimes earning a nudge or two on the way.

    ¡°Not another project of yours?¡± Maria said to her brother when she arrived. Alfred did not return her jibe. She had hardly stepped two feet into his office when he got up from his chair, crossed the room and closed the door behind her, before shutting the curtains.

    Maria stood in the middle of the room as it went dark.

    ¡°Alfred, you could only make it more suspicious by placing a sign out the front reading ¡®no crimes to see here.¡¯ Or should I say Gertrude? Surely you can come up with better names than that.¡±

    ¡°Just keep your voice down!¡± Alfred said, peering through a crack in the curtain and then letting it fall shut again. He quickly crossed to his desk and did not sit.

    ¡°What is it?¡± His paranoia was beginning to stress her out.

    ¡°Does something supernatural haunt this family?¡± Alfred said.

    Maria pursed her lips. The silence was heavy. In a way, she knew exactly what Alfred meant when he said this. Every day since Edgar had died, she had felt it. It was almost as if the universe were correcting itself¡ªor trying to. Maybe it was more than just Edgar. Had it started before that, with their father? All those terrible years in the farmhouse. Was it the universe correcting itself for the terrible deeds that had occurred there?

    And now the leaks, the finishing blow. She did not even have to respond to Alfred because they were blood, they were both Lucien, they both knew what haunted this family.

    Alfred grabbed his large jaw and said, ¡°How could I be walking on the streets of Carcassonne and have a wagon crash in front of me¡ªme, of all people, and of all the places in this city? That it should present before me? And within it, Edgar himself!¡±

    Chills ripped through Maria.

    Alfred walked forward and, from his coat, pulled out a small leatherbound book, proffering it to Maria. She took it and flipped through quickly, shutting it tightly once she reached the end. Her hands were immediately sweaty against the covers.

    ¡°Where?¡± she asked.

    ¡°It was with him.¡±

    Maria nodded. ¡°There are other journals, Alfred. All of them.¡±

    There was something suddenly about her older brother¡¯s eyes that caught Maria off-guard, drunken-almost. He looked very nearly as if he were a child again. That look of something very serious, so serious the consequences were beyond comprehension. For a man like Alfred now to wear that look caused Maria to lose her breath.

    ¡°I told Clara who I am,¡± he said. ¡°About our family.¡±

    ¡°Why would you do that?¡±

    Alfred scoffed. ¡°I don¡¯t know! I just¡ª¡± He lifted his arms like a man who was suffering from immense agony, the veins in his forehead bursting from his skin. He faced his desk and slammed his fist into it so hard the wood cracked.

    ¡°Do you think she would tell?¡± Maria asked.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he sighed, as blood trickled from his hand. ¡°I hate that I have worked so hard to distance myself from this, and yet it finds me still. I don¡¯t want to hurt her, Maria. She is so kind. She doesn¡¯t deserve it. But if she is able to connect me to what is in the journals, my career will be ruined!¡± He shut his mouth with his hand, as the shout echoed through the room. ¡°It was like when we were children. The way he was in that wagon...¡±

    ¡°Shut up, Alfred,¡± she croaked, squeezing the words out through her constricting throat.

    ¡°The police are serious about this now,¡± Alfred said. ¡°They want all the evidence. They¡¯re already collecting it. They shot¡ªshot¡ªtwo witches right before me. That¡¯s how serious they are. I¡¯m just warning you, they are going to find the things you have done. We are all Lucien. Nothing else matters. Cursed by association!¡±

    ¡°No, we can contain this,¡± Maria mumbled.

    ¡°You can¡¯t!¡± Alfred shouted.

    Maria turned to him, and saw him like a madman, his arm outstretched and the fingers on the end contorted into a wicked pointed finger, curved at the end like a scythe. Maria choked, a tear coming down the left side of her face. She immediately wiped it away.

    ¡°I fear that whatever haunts this family, it has come at last.¡±

    Suddenly something flipped inside Maria. Some animal urge that turned her blood cold, and tightened every fibre of matter inside her. Her vision reoriented itself. She could breathe again. She strode up to Alfred and pointed back at him.

    ¡°You listen to me very carefully, Alfred,¡± Maria said. ¡°The first thing is, we must prevent a hearing from going forth. Prevent this from becoming some witch hunt. You must deal with your assistant. She cannot be allowed near this. Furthermore, convince them it is fruitless. Have them believe that we have it all under control. That will buy us time in Carcassonne.¡±

    ¡°No, no, no, I don¡¯t like that at all,¡± Alfred said. ¡°It will be perceived as a clear cover-up. No, when I say that this is now out of our hands, you cannot make it otherwise. If they¡¯re already shooting witches and making arrests on anybody remotely connected...¡± He shook his head, raising his hands in plain surrender. ¡°This is not my problem anymore.¡±

    ¡°Oh, you have no guts, Alfred!¡± Maria snapped.

    ¡°And you know what? You¡¯re as crazy as our brother!¡±

    Before she could control herself, Maria had lashed out with her arm, slapping him across the face. Alfred staggered away from her, clutching at his bruised cheek. He shouted and threw himself at her, shoving her into his desk. Maria grabbed him by the arms and they wrestled in the middle of the room. Alfred overpowered her easily, taking her in a headlock. ¡°Stop! It is done, Maria!¡± he said through clenched teeth.

    ¡°Why have you been sending payments to Vincenzo Molteni!¡±

    Alfred twitched, continuing to grapple her. ¡°How do you know that?¡±

    ¡°I have the ledgers.¡± She was fighting against his grapple.

    ¡°Edgar ran his mouth to them!¡±

    ¡°Are you serious? They don¡¯t even have any of the journals? He just told them?¡±

    ¡°Hell, I don¡¯t know! Maybe they have journals too. They know what we did as kids!¡±

    Maria shrugged at him, but Alfred was impossible to move, like the very statue he had in the gardens outside. ¡°Oh, get off me, you mongrel!¡± Maria gasped. She shoved him off, slipping out of his headlock. She smoothed out her hair, which was now going off in every direction. Breathing heavily, she asked, ¡°What are you talking about, what we did as kids?¡±

    ¡°You know,¡± Alfred said, catching his breath. He removed his hand from his face and checked it for signs of blood. ¡°The bodies. What we did in the basement.¡±

    Maria squeezed shut her eyes, pinching her forehead.

    ¡°Just let it be,¡± Alfred said. ¡°Perhaps it is for the better, you know, that things come back around? Maybe it¡¯s what we deserve after everything we did.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you forget, I can bring you down,¡± Maria cursed.

    ¡°I¡¯ll say it¡¯s just the ramblings of a madwoman,¡± Alfred slurred.

    He was right. Alfred had supreme power in Carcassonne; he could do anything. And anyway, nobody but his assistant knew of Alfred¡¯s connection to Count Lucien, nor of their witchcraft. She alone could not drag him down with her. Yet, Alfred could stop this. He could prevent a hearing from going ahead. He could stop them collecting evidence.

    Why wouldn¡¯t he?

    Maria opened her mouth to speak but Alfred spoke over her: ¡°I always knew this day would come, when it all comes out. That¡¯s why I told you to leave those witches behind. Maria, I¡¯ve tried so hard to help you. All my life, I¡¯ve warned you that there will be consequences, and one day you would face them. But you would never listen.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not that easy for me!¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Oh yeah? You claim to love those witches so much, but all I¡¯m hearing is how you can come out of this unscathed. You know what, I¡¯m done. I¡¯m not protecting you anymore.¡±

    ¡°I hate you, you conniving rat!¡±

    Alfred smiled. ¡°Great.¡±

    Maria stormed out of the office, shaking. The door slammed behind her. She wanted to throw up. To storm. Blood pumped in her ears. Rage burned.

    Her mind turned to the cabaret. She thought about Josephine, and all things that would collapse without her being there. And the if...

    If given the chance, how many of them would gladly take advantage of such an opportunity to expose Maria, how many would betray her without a second thought?

    This is all because of that idiot Ardouin. Maria desired to close her hands around the scribe¡¯s throat and curse him for all eternity for what he had done, spreading her brother¡¯s work. Could he have not just let it all burn in the fire, along with everything else? How dare Alfred insinuate that this was her crime. It was not a crime for Principles of Witchcraft to exist, nor that there were ever witches at all. It was Ardouin who caused this, not her.

    Maria returned to the inn and checked to see if Otto had sent anything her way. She was surprised to find that nothing was there. No correspondence at all.

    She closed the bedroom door, locked it, and slumped against a chair inside, feeling the weight of the silence buckle her knees.

    #

    Alfred arrived at the news station right before it closed. Entering through its small doors, and then ascending the tight staircase, he went straight through the bustling halls and renovated news rooms, to the offices of Barnab¨¦ Brocot.

    ¡°Alfred!¡± Mr Brocot greeted him.

    Alfred gently closed the door and met Mr Brocot, who was sitting behind his desk with a pile of papers. Barnab¨¦ Brocot was a lanky man with neatly-combed hair and a brown moustache that looked like you could hang things from it. His neck appeared out of his frazzled shirt like a turtle from its shell. And his face did rather resemble one.

    ¡°Evening, Mr Brocot,¡± Alfred said. ¡°There is something I would like you to print in tomorrow¡¯s paper.¡± He crossed the room, revealing a note, which he handed to Mr Brocot. The man took it with interest, putting on his reading glasses and proceeding to scan it. Alfred watched his expression twist and turn with the rhythm of his words.

    Intrigue, followed by anticipation, then shock, and engrossment. ¡°Where did you hear of such things? I mean, these are quite the allegations, Alfred. It would no doubt ruin her political career¡±¡ªhe put down the note and met Alfred¡¯s eyes¡ª¡°even if she is just your assistant.¡±

    Alfred remained stoic. ¡°Yes. Well, I had always thought there was something about her. There is always something about those who aspire towards high places but fall short.¡±

    Mr Brocot raised a brow. ¡°A witch, though?¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t trust anybody these days.¡±

    For some reason, Mr Brocot continued to stare at Alfred. It came to the point that Alfred no longer could keep a steady eye on him, feeling as if he were being judged. Mr Brocot was a cunning man. You could not help but become one when you were head of the news.

    ¡°Can you print it tomorrow?¡± Alfred asked.

    ¡°If the Baron desires.¡±

    Alfred nodded, pleased. His assistant would be gone long before any hearing began, or any rumours from the leaked journals became public information. Stripped of power. Reduced to drivel, with the other witches of the cabaret. But she was not even a witch, so she would not even be welcomed there.

    No doubt, Clara would be gone from Carcassonne by the following Monday. And although this was all his doing, Alfred felt sick through every second of it.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± said Alfred with finality.

    ¡°Before you go, let me offer you some advice,¡± said Mr Brocot, as he picked a peanut from the bowl on his desk, crunching it between his teeth. ¡°Be mindful of who you speak around. When there is a lack of things to do, people enjoy to gossip.¡±

    Alfred felt a pang of panic, but he did not wait to ask what Mr Brocot meant by this; the insinuation was enough. ¡°Good evening,¡± he said, and quickly left the office.

 The Haunt

    I confessed to Ms Galeazzi the experimentation performed by my siblings and myself during our childhood. I have wondered, are these dark days to blame for the distance that has separated us in adulthood? As if becoming as close as we once were meant revisiting what we went through then.

    <hr>

    A knocking awoke Maria from her slumber.

    She opened her eyes and found she was already staring at the door, having fallen asleep on the ground. The visitor knocked again, and at this point, Maria languorously hefted herself up and crossed the small room towards it.

    She took the handle and pulled the door open. Josephine was standing in the doorway. Her smile was soft and uncertain.

    ¡°Good afternoon, Maria,¡± Josephine said. ¡°Can I come in?¡±

    Maria stepped aside to allow Josephine to enter. She then closed the door behind her. When she turned back around, Josephine was already standing next to the writing desk, examining the pages of thoughts Maria had been working on. There was something about the younger witch. Perhaps it was the outfit. Maria recognised it immediately.

    ¡°Where have you been?¡± she asked.

    ¡°I was at the cabaret when I arrived,¡± Josephine said. ¡°I thought it would be a better idea than being naked on the streets and having to sneak back into my room.¡±

    Maria couldn¡¯t argue with that.

    ¡°I heard about what they found,¡± Josephine said. ¡°And they shot two witches!¡± Maria could tell she was scared by her voice and the fidgeting with her hands.

    ¡°Yes. See, just as I said would happen. They are cruel in this town.¡±

    Josephine sat down on the edge of the bed, grabbing her hands. ¡°Did you find out about Remy?¡±

    Maria¡¯s trip to Bonpoi felt like a fever dream, particularly the sea monster. If somebody were to tell her it had not happened at all, Maria thought she might believe them. ¡°He was working with the scribe after the fire, but he doesn¡¯t remember anything else.¡±

    ¡°Well, he¡¯s lying!¡± Josephine said.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think he was.¡±

    ¡°What a waste. Now I don¡¯t regret attacking him as much.¡±

    Maria sighed, watching Josephine¡¯s fingers dance nervously. ¡°It¡¯s probably time we tidy things up here and return to Bellvoir. Things are getting messy.¡±

    ¡°It feels as though we have gotten nowhere,¡± Josephine said.

    ¡°Well, the only place there was to get¡ª¡±

    ¡°Was the bottom of it,¡± Josephine said. ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°Not everything to do with the cabaret happens on stage. Most of it is pointless duties.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    With a long exhale, Maria fixed her shirt sleeves and crossed the room to her drawers to fetch her clothes. Prior to their arrival in Carcassonne, she had sent forward roughly a week¡¯s worth. With these in her hands, she began dividing them up into piles and replacing them in her bag. She was aware of Josephine, statuesque and wringing her hands, an ambit of tension surrounding her. ¡°What is the matter? Are you ill?¡± Maria asked.

    ¡°You might not like what I am about to say,¡± Josephine said.

    Maria lifted her gaze, her hands pausing with a pair of pants half-folded. ¡°If you are wishing to relinquish your position in the cabaret out of boredom¡ª¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not that.¡± She stared at her. ¡°I am bearing a child, Maria.¡±

    Maria¡¯s body went hot and her mind blank. It was an automatic response that she felt transported back to that horrible farmhouse where she had spent her childhood.

    ¡°I promise, I didn¡¯t mean for it to happen. I even considered getting rid of it. I still could, if that is what you wish.¡± She stood up and approached Maria, but Maria took a step backwards, holding out her hands.

    ¡°Don¡¯t touch me.¡±

    ¡°What? Do you think I¡¯m diseased or something? You will not also become pregnant just by touching me, Maria. Then again, do you even know how one does become burdened by a child at all?¡±

    ¡°Shut up!¡±

    Josephine jumped, her skin going white.

    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Maria sat down on the bed. ¡°It is not for a witch to have children, Josephine. Are your ears deaf to hearing such things?¡±

    ¡°But what if they could?¡± Josephine said loudly, gesticulating into the space between them. ¡°What if Antoinette could have a little brother or sister? Wouldn¡¯t she love that?¡±

    ¡°You think it¡¯s so easy, Josephine?¡± Maria said.

    ¡°It is hard. I know. But I don¡¯t think we should be so fearful of this. You are Maria Lucien, for goodness sake! When we were growing up in the girls¡¯ house¡ªin the cabaret¡ªwe thought nothing could scare Maria Lucien.¡±

    But Josephine was wrong.

    Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the farmstead. A young girl clutching the bloody, lifeless foetus. She could feel it now, wet and cold. The blood dripping through the floorboards under the house. Poor, poor Antoinette, abandoned by Rosalie. She saw herself and her brothers, ruined by their father. How she had failed Antoinette.

    Her breath suddenly caught in her throat and she felt a sharp pain in her abdomen, grabbing it instinctively with both hands.

    ¡°Maria?¡± Josephine asked.

    Maria dropped her hands, her lips beginning to quiver. She swallowed hard to fight back the tears that threatened to come. ¡°Bella didn¡¯t know the full story.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°I was pregnant once.¡± Her saying this out loud felt like an immense weight leaving her body. It was such a momentous feeling that she didn¡¯t recognise her own voice saying it. ¡°I didn¡¯t even tell my brothers about it. I didn¡¯t tell anybody. I was scared. You¡¯re wrong, Josephine, I¡¯m scared of so much.¡±

    Josephine grabbed her hand. ¡°Maria...¡±

    Maria shook her head and pulled her hand out of Josephine¡¯s. ¡°Don¡¯t take pity on me, Josephine.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not. Will you tell me what happened?¡±

    ¡°It didn¡¯t work. That¡¯s all.¡± She wiped at the tear that had started running down her face, meeting her cheek bone. She opened her mouth to speak again but it was not words that came out, just a great heave of tears. And once they started, she could not stop them. She collapsed and Josephine took her in her arms, as gigantic sobs wracked her whole body. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Josephine.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Josephine said.

    It was a few minutes before Maria had composed herself, and they sat silently on the bed next to each other. Maria was cleaning her face, taking deep breaths, like somebody who is about to go on stage. ¡°My brothers and I did terrible things when we were younger,¡± she said. ¡°Edgar journalled about them. Books on books. He wrote about everything.¡±

    ¡°So it¡¯s not just that you fear more witches appearing in far-off places.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Maria whispered.

    ¡°What kind of terrible things?¡± Josephine asked.

    #

    That night, Maria lay awake, unable to fall asleep. A storm raged inside her head, of Josephine and Antoinette, of her last conversation with Alfred, of Bella, of the witches who had been murdered, of Remy, and Jacques Ardouin, of it all.

    Perhaps it is for the better that things come back around, Alfred had told her the previous day. Maybe it¡¯s what we deserve after everything we did.

    She sat up in the bed, her breaths shallow and uneasy. A splash of light from outside slipped through a crack in her curtain, illuminating her wall.

    I fear that whatever haunts this family, it has come at last.

    Alfred¡¯s words. She rarely saw him so despondent, so resigned to a fate he had no control over. She had to begin to make things right, for Alfred was wrong; she did love the witches of the Black Dime Cabaret. It was why she was here, to protect them from their own curiosity, prevent a hearing, prevent them from ending up like the two who had died earlier.

    You are Maria Lucien, for goodness sake! Josephine had said.

    Gathering her cloak and wand, Maria snuck out of her room, taking to the cold, empty streets with a cowl over her head. She did not ride the carriage, and instead walked the entire way to the jails. Within her cloak, she carried several vials that she had made earlier that evening. Her wand, sheathed, rapped against her side as she walked.

    She arrived at the Carcassonne jail and opened the locked doors with a spell through thin lips, a whisper in the dark. The lock turned in its place, and with a satisfying click, she was let inside. Remaining quiet and in the shadows, she slipped into the building.

    The jail was almost completely silent, and only a few guards patrolled the corridors. She retraced her steps of their first visit, stealthily, until reaching the warden¡¯s office. Maria collected her wand and flung open the door. Before he¡¯d had a chance to look up, Maria had taken out her wand and was pointing it at him.

    ¡°Where is Edgar Lucien?¡± Maria hissed. The warden, with wide eyes, jumped off his seat and started stumbling backwards. She pushed the door shut and advanced upon him, her wand raised in the air between them. ¡°Don¡¯t you try anything stupid now!¡±

    The warden retreated into the back of his office until there was no space left for him to go, and slowly raised his arms. ¡°How¡ª how did you get in?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t mind that,¡± she replied. ¡°What happened to the thing they caught in the wagon? When two witches were killed! It was raining when it happened!¡±

    The warden swallowed, searching around as if for a weapon. Maria surged forward, threatening with her long, twisted wood wand.

    ¡°Tell me!¡± Maria snapped.

    ¡°I¡­¡±

    She grabbed him by the shirt and jabbed the wand into his kidney, making him flinch. The man was not experienced, smaller in frame than she would expect from a prison warden, and terribly incompetent. Only the most muffled of cries came from his mouth.

    ¡°You better start talking.¡±

    ¡°It was moved to the dungeons¡­¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m assuming it is locked?¡±

    The warden motioned with his head towards a large set of keys hanging from a loop on the wall. Maria manoeuvred with the warden over to the keys and snatched them in her free hand, letting the metal hoop fall down around her wrist.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go, now.¡± She jabbed him in the side and he began tumbling forward to the door.

    They navigated through the jail, Maria keeping her firm grip on him, and with nothing but the faintest lantern lights guiding their way. The man breathed loudly, occasionally whimpering how this was all unfair. Eventually, they went down some stairs and through a smelly section of dungeons. They arrived at a bolted door with a large, heavy lock.

    ¡°Please, don¡¯t do this¡ª¡± the warden began.

    Maria tossed him out of the way, and at the same moment struck out with her wand. Hot, seductive power surged through her wrist, and from the end of her wand was a sudden crackle of energy. The warden was hit squarely in the back, and no sooner than he could let out the start of a scream, he was on the ground, completely stunned.

    Maria watched him with uncertainty. His eyes were agape, his lips slightly parted. His skin would have been cold to the touch, stone-like, but not lifeless.

    She returned her wand to her sheathe inside her cloak, grabbed the keys, and began riffling through for the correct one. After a little trial and error, she found one that slotted neatly into the lock, and pushed open the door.

 Homunculus

    Our father devoted much of his life to the study of these homunculi. He was, as Ms Galeazzi had told me one evening, as we bed together, one of the brightest minds when it came to such things. Yet, it is chilling to think that so much of our fortunes were built as a result of this research. That, what proved to be a critical part of our making, may also turn out to be our undoing.

    <hr>

    The Lucien household became a terrible place following the death of their mother. It was a dark winter, Maria¡¯s seventeenth, and she spent much of it alone, weeping. The house was always cold and inhospitable, and in the few times their father was home (which was not often at all) he would spend it alone and without saying a word to them.

    They did not have a proper burial for their mother. Shortly following her passing, the children had gathered in the backyard of their estate where their father had dug a hole. After several prayers and words, they buried her.

    Rain had hardened the ground where she lay. There was hardly a marker to show where it was, only a few sticks that were bent from the weather. Of course, even without this, Maria would not soon forget. She walked past it each day on the way to school with Alfred, and she could rarely stomach to look at it. In their father¡¯s absence, the siblings had been forced to fend for themselves. Maria cooked, and Alfred continued to work a small job after university, even though their father had left behind a substantial sum of money that served to ensure that the house remained in good stead. Meanwhile, Edgar, who was thirteen, mainly read books and focused on his schoolwork. His contributions to the house were minimal.

    It was a horrible night. As heavy rain battered the house, leaks in the ceiling caused them to weaponize a number of buckets to catch water. Lightning flashes illuminated the dark halls of the farmstead, and the wind through trees caused horrible whistling sounds that made it seem as though the storm were alive.

    That night, Maria had ventured inside their father¡¯s study. This was something the siblings would never be able to do while he was home, but their father had not been home now for several days, and their last correspondence was that he would not be returning for quite a few more. In this time, the house (despite their best efforts) had become untidy. Maria had only been searching for some light reading, but became fixated on a number of scrolls and bound textbooks scattered about the room. At first, she thought nothing of these, but then took one and glimpsed that it was completely covered with strange shapes and symbols that were unfamiliar to her.

    Maria lit a candle and read several of these pages by the faint light, holding them close to her face and glancing up and down, checking for anything she recognised. It was like a challenge to her. Spot the word of French amidst what was certainly made-up.

    A letter fell out of one of the books. She furrowed her thick, unkempt brows, unfolded this letter and held it to the light of her candle. Addressed to her father, it read:

    Dear Odilon,

    I am proud to announce that your second study on ¡°homunculi¡± has been accepted for publication with the Institute of Matera, and you will be receiving a grant of 800 francs to continue this exciting and groundbreaking research. Both myself and others at the Institute were captivated by your work and in speaking with you. We are excited to see where this leads.

    If you would

    She stopped reading, deciding to skim the rest of it. What on earth was ¡°homunculi¡± and the Institute? These were things that their father had not once mentioned to them, nor their mother for that matter. All Maria knew was that eight hundred francs was indeed quite a significant sum of money. She looked up from the letter, rummaging through some more of the scrolls.

    It was, suffice it to say, like the workings of a madman. Mathematics and science, ingredients and minerals and other elements. She had never known her father to dabble in such things. As far as she had always been told, their father worked at a postal service.

    Yet, her curiosity only grew. Before long, she was searching everything there was. She saw more correspondences with this strange Institute, and with other scholars. After some time, she took an armful of it out of the office and into the lounge where her brothers were studying and reading by the flames in the hearth.

    ¡°Look what I¡¯ve found,¡± Maria said, throwing everything upon the table, some of it falling onto the floorboards and the slightly-wet rug.

    Her brothers took a moment to get up. Alfred put down his book and slowly approached the table, getting down onto his knees to take a closer look. ¡°Maria, where did you find this stuff?¡± Alfred asked, picking up a scroll and examining it.

    ¡°In Father¡¯s study,¡± Maria responded.

    Alfred gave a horrified look. ¡°Maria! You know Father does not permit us to go into his study. You¡¯d better put all this back immediately or¡ª¡±

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you interested in what it is?¡± she chortled. ¡°Our father had all this research he was doing behind our backs. I¡¯ve looked at some of it. It is ridiculous. Complex, frankly hard to even decipher. You know they were paying him to do this?¡±

    ¡°What!¡± Alfred¡¯s mouth went super wide. ¡°How much?¡±

    ¡°Eight hundred francs, it said! And just for one book!¡±

    ¡°Whoa,¡± Edgar said from where he was sitting near the fire, peering up from his pile of schoolwork. ¡°Go on then, what is it?¡±

    Alfred had begun staring very intently at one of the pages. Slowly, he jumped to his feet and said, in a dark voice, ¡°It¡¯s witchcraft, Ed. This stuff, we shouldn¡¯t have it.¡±

    Maria furrowed her brows. ¡°How¡­How would you even know what witchcraft looks like, Alfred? Did Father tell you about this¡ª¡±

    ¡°No, don¡¯t be stupid,¡± Alfred said firmly, throwing the scroll back where it had been. ¡°I¡¯ve seen things like this before, in passing. At the university, sometimes you come across such illegal texts¡ªand must I stress that word, illegal. We could get in serious trouble for even having these in our possession. Let alone what could happen to Father.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m guessing they already know, since they¡¯re paying him,¡± Edgar said, seemingly a little more interested now with the prospect that it could get them into trouble.

    ¡°Well, I¡¯d imagine they would be paying so much for this research precisely because of the nature of the work. They¡¯re probably criminals themselves! Oh god, it isn¡¯t good.¡±

    ¡°Do you think Mother knew?¡± Maria asked.

    Alfred made a thinking sound with his mouth. ¡°Possibly.¡±

    ¡°Wait,¡± Edgar said. ¡°You don¡¯t think this is why Mother got sick in the first place? You know how Father was always acting so strange, saying those things¡­Hang on.¡± He got to his feet and went over to the table, snatching the scroll from Alfred. ¡°Let me see this.¡±

    ¡°Be careful with it!¡± Alfred snapped.

    Maria felt a sharp discomfort in her stomach as the implications of this discovery dawned on her. She gripped her arms around herself and exhaled strongly, crossing the rug in the middle of the room towards the window that framed their dark, front yard. It was pitch black except for when blasts of lightning forked the sky. Skeletal trees and roads that were hardly travelled became visible in the light for brief moments.

    Several days passed without their father returning. Alfred still attended the university, and Edgar and Maria to school, but in the nights when they were together, they pored over their father¡¯s notes in the lounge room. Even after retiring to bed for the night, Maria took several armfuls of notes to bed and read until she couldn¡¯t keep her eyes open.

    Their obsession with these texts grew, and their understanding of things becoming more profound. Yet, still a sizeable portion was beyond their comprehension. They had only hand drawn diagrams to deduce information from in these cases.

    It was still long into the winter when their father returned home mid-afternoon. He was soaked when he entered, water seeping from every part of his baggy, black clothing. He seemed more frail than when they had last seen him, and exhausted. He spoke no more than a ¡°hello¡± to the siblings before heading into his quarters and shutting the door.

    The siblings spoke about it in Alfred¡¯s bedroom, which was on the other side of the house to their father.

    ¡°Should we confront him about what we have found?¡± Maria inquired.

    ¡°I think that would be the wise thing to do,¡± Alfred responded in a mature tone. ¡°At the very least, we ought to be cut in to what he is doing, and where he is going to. He is our father, after all, yet it feels like he is becoming more and more like a stranger to us with all these secrets.¡±

    Maria did not know how she felt about Alfred¡¯s position on this. If it were up to her, she would not tell their father at all. Though, she wasn¡¯t quite sure why this was. Did she not trust him, perhaps? Were there things he had not told them about their mother? What dark deals had he made? The pregnancies, the dead children, the miscarriages...

    She bit her lip, shaking her head. ¡°I¡¯m not sure, Al. What says he won¡¯t just keep lying anyway?¡±

    ¡°Well I guess that is a good point. What do you think, Ed?¡± Alfred asked.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡­I guess I agree with Maria. We should not tell Father about what we¡¯ve been doing. He might get angry.¡±

    ¡°Huh? So we pretend it never happened?¡± Alfred said, as though this were the worst idea anybody could ever come up with. ¡°You realise we are complicit in this if we do nothing. We could be accused of being witches and executed! I don¡¯t know about you, but I have things to live for. I want to get married, have kids, do good service to¡ª¡±

    ¡°Blah, blah, blah, we get it,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Well, I¡­¡± Alfred sighed, rubbing his head tiredly. ¡°Sorry.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m tired,¡± Edgar said, getting up. ¡°And you two, you better keep your voices down or Father is going to hear you talking about this anyway. I suppose you want that, Alfred. Anyway. Goodnight.¡± He walked out of the room, the door swaying ajar behind him.

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    Later that night, Maria was cleaning up in the kitchen when she spotted her father¡¯s massive briefcase sitting on the floor in the corner. You could barely see it in the darkness, but she knew this had been the one he brought home with him when he returned.

    Looking around to make sure nobody else was there (and surely by now everybody in the house except her was asleep) she knelt beside the briefcase and opened it up. There was a piece of manuscript inside it, similar to those she had been poring over for the past week. Lifting it into the light, she read her father¡¯s handwriting.

    She immediately felt goose bumps all along her arms and the back of her neck. Shivering it out, she looked up instinctively to be sure she was alone.

    She quickly memorised what was on the manuscript page and then shoved it back into her father¡¯s briefcase, putting everything as it was and climbing to her feet. On this page was a recipe, and detailed drawings of what could only be described as greatly disturbing. She felt cold just recalling it. She ran to her bedroom and shut the door.

    Their father was not home the following morning when Maria woke up. Walking into the kitchen for breakfast, she pointedly avoided the briefcase in the corner. Alfred was awake early, even though he had a day off from the university.

    Maria put a kettle on the fire and collected some eggs. The distractions were in vain, however, for it was not long before Maria could not hold it in anymore and ran over to the briefcase, grabbing out the parchment she had seen the night before, and sticking it right in front of her brother¡¯s face. Alfred looked at her with a concerned expression.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± he said with a mouthful of food.

    ¡°Look at it,¡± Maria urged him.

    Alfred did, though not with enthusiasm. He spent a while looking at it, then finally glanced back at Maria. ¡°I told you, Maria, we should tell somebody about this.¡± He stopped, then, glancing around to be sure their father had not returned when they weren¡¯t looking. The house had no sign of him. Yet, he continued still in a lower voice, ¡°What on earth is this about? It looks like¡­¡±

    ¡°It is, Al.¡±

    ¡°And¡­¡± He shook his head, throwing away his spoon with seemingly little to no intention of continuing to eat. ¡°That is it,¡± he said, getting up from his chair. ¡°When Father returns, I will confront him about it. And no, don¡¯t you try arguing with me, Maria, somebody has to do it. We cannot have this¡­this witchcraft in our house, I will not allow it! And yes, I¡¯m acting as though I¡¯m in charge now, because I¡¯m the oldest! So what I say from now on goes. Maria, I¡¯m sorry but do you realise how horrible this is!¡±

    ¡°Keep your voice down, Al.¡±

    He spread his arms. ¡°I don¡¯t care anymore. Let him hear!¡±

    ¡°Oh, you insolent toddler!¡± Maria grumbled, grabbing his mouth with her hands.

    ¡°Ew, gross!¡± Alfred bemoaned, jumping out of the way. He grabbed the page from the table again, holding it up beyond arm¡¯s reach, so she could clearly see. He then clutched it in both hands, staring hotly at her. ¡°I¡¯ll rip it!¡±

    Maria lunged forward. ¡°No, stop!¡± She swung for it but Alfred whipped it out of her reach, up and above his head towards the ceiling. Maria pouted. ¡°Don¡¯t be a baby, Al. Give it back to me. It¡¯s Father¡¯s anyway; you can¡¯t rip it up! Or I¡¯ll tell him you did all of this!¡± She threw her fist at his chest and he reluctantly gave it back to her in the most aggressive manner.

    ¡°Fine. What do you plan to do then?¡±

    ¡°I was just showing you, geez!¡±

    Alfred growled sceptically. ¡°Sure. Well, if I catch you looking at it again, I will follow through on my threat to rip it.¡± With that, he waved her away as though she were a fly come to get his food, which was now going very cold on the table.

    Their father did not return home. What the siblings were told, much later on, was that Odilon Lucien passed away from a sudden and catastrophic heart attack, which was unpreventable on every level. His body had been discovered only a short walk from the estate, by a pond, and with no evidence of anything other than it had been natural.

    Maria did not cry when this happened. Perhaps this was because she wasn¡¯t sure if she even believed it¡ªnothing about her father¡¯s death felt real. How it seemed to have just happened, nothing like her mother¡¯s death, which seemed to be carefully planned by the grim reaper and carried out over years¡ªno, decades. When Odilon Lucien died, there was no fanfare, he simply dropped dead one cold morning.

    Of the three siblings, Edgar was certainly most affected. Alfred showed little to no care or grief. In fact, in the days following this, he would casually stroll around the house and at every opportunity state that their father deserved every bit of it.

    At night, or when nobody else was around, Maria would sneakily retrieve her father¡¯s manuscript pages, now abandoned, and study them. She did this without either of her brothers knowing. Her favourite time was when Alfred was at university, or the boys were both fast asleep. In her bedroom with the door closed, in her father¡¯s study, underneath her sheets. She read and studied his notes, deciphered his code, bit by bit learned what he had been doing.

    She learned about things that witches did. She learned about the homunculus, an artificial being created from an old corpse, which acted as a vessel for which new life was born. It was both gross and engrossing. Her father wrote about it with such passion and excitement. Letters exchanged between himself and the Institute (and other people, some who took kindly to his studies, and some who turned their noses at it) revealed more even than the diagrams.

    Meanwhile, she kept thinking about that last page her father had brought home, those last notes stashed in his briefcase¡ªthe last her father had ever written. This remained in the back of her mind all these months following her father¡¯s death.

    Had someone asked, she couldn¡¯t even explain why she was so obsessed with this. Perhaps it was out of boredom. There was not much to do in the house except tend to the farm (of which there was very little), clean, or do school work. She didn¡¯t know why. She was simply smitten with it, taking every chance she got, becoming more and more immersed in the work.

    Very slowly, she gathered materials. The petals of chrysanthemum from the cemetery grounds. A sprig of rosemary from the cupboard. The pits from peaches from the market in Saint-Corsheim, down near the lake. Vials of spoilt goat¡¯s milk. Rotten eggs from hens. Yet there was one final, vital piece she hadn¡¯t been able to come upon. She had often stared at it, through the window of her bedroom. There was no marking on the grave¡ªthe sticks were long gone¡ªand for all they knew their mother was far beneath the ground, rotted and all but skeletal.

    Maria would not be able to do this alone. The others would find out¡ªthey would find out eventually, anyway. She would need their help, even just to get her out.

    That evening, once Alfred had returned from the university and sat down to eat a stew Maria had spent the afternoon preparing, Maria told her brothers of her plan. Neither of them immediately reacted to the news. Alfred had already seen their father¡¯s pages, had known what all his research was leading towards. This did not surprise him.

    She explained it further, told them of the preparation she had been doing, that she had already found the ingredients for it and that, while there were gaps in the knowledge, their father had left a highly organised manual to the ceremony.

    She truly believed they could do it.

    She knew that Edgar would be willing. He was never very opinionated about anything the siblings concocted. But it was Alfred who would be the problem. But who could he tell on her to now? Everybody was dead, and they were all that was left.

    She stared at him, urging him to agree.

    ¡°Nobody has to know,¡± Maria said in a soft yet pleading voice.

    Alfred stewed in silence, not meeting her eyes.

    ¡°And, besides, Father would have done it anyway!¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Alfred snapped, his blue eyes meeting hers. ¡°We aren¡¯t doing this for Father.¡±

    Maria drew nearer to her brother, placing a hand on his wrist. ¡°As you say. If it doesn¡¯t work, I promise we¡¯ll forget it all. We can bury all of his work, pretend like it never existed. Please, Al? Just this once? We could bring back Mother. We could save this family.¡±

    ¡°Do you actually believe Mother would want to be desecrated like this?¡±

    ¡°It isn¡¯t desecration. It¡¯s love.¡±

    ¡°Love,¡± said Alfred, as if testing the word in his mouth.

    ¡°I can¡¯t do this without you. Please.¡±

    Alfred¡¯s expression did not change. ¡°Very well. Not for Father. For her. For this family.¡±

    ¡°Thank you.¡± She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

    #

    Maria held her breath and pushed open the jail door. The door groaned on its large hinges. She took a lantern from the wall and lifted it in front of her, illuminating the cavernous space before her. Then, leaving behind the jail warden¡¯s cold, frozen body, she walked inside, her feet ringing on the hard rock.

    The lantern only lit up a very small area in front of her, so she heard the monster before she saw it. She stopped at a point where she could only make out its vague shape. Haze of dust swam through the air. It wafted to the back of her throat and in her nostrils, hitting her with a stinging sensation she had to fight not to choke on. The lantern light trembled in her hand as she raised it, catching only the rough outline of the monster.

    The sounds it made, gurgles and gasps, like somebody who was near to death. The only movement from the monster was the hoarse breathing that caused its limby shoulders to recoil and relax agonisingly. With each breath, it shuddered.

    Maria could not approach any closer. Her feet were as rooted to the spot as the collapsed warden outside, or the large steel bars that encased the monster. Yet, judging by its diminutive size and malformity, she did not think such safeguards were necessary.

    ¡°Edgar?¡± she whispered.

    There was no distinct response. Even though she could only make out his frame, she knew he was smaller than he had been, his limbs thin and gangly. She dared not move closer in fear of what the lantern light might reveal. Her hand had grown completely slick with sweat around the handle. Afraid she might drop it, she tightened her grip.

    ¡°Edgar,¡± Maria said, more firmly this time.

    Two beady silver-blue eyes emerged from the darkness, catching the light of her lantern. She jumped, the sudden urge to vomit filling her body.

    My god, what have they done? Her foot took one step forward of its own accord. She could tell that the cocoon of his old body had peeled away, and its new body¡ªno larger than a young child¡ªhad taken form. Though, it was not fully-free. Additional arms and legs jutted from this new body. Teeth, coming out of its skin. A nose from its arm.

    It was crouched animal-like on the ground, its shoulders pulled back, like¡ªand she could think of no other comparison but this one¡ªa chicken¡¯s wings. Its head was tilted towards her, not upright but sidelong and parallel to the floor. It did not blink; perhaps, bereft of eyelids, it could not. It was all just pounds of flesh and sinew, with bits of bone. It was barely distinguishable as a human. More like the essence of one.

    She took another step closer, so that her lantern illuminated the monster¡¯s skin. The colour was greyish-blue, like a corpse. But the most terrifying thing of all, now as she stood just one more step out of proper view of it, was the detail of its eyes.

    Those were Edgar¡¯s eyes, perfectly human.

    And they just stared at her, as though suspended in animation. There was something truly terrible about human eyes that did not blink.

    We caused this, Maria thought. And she spoke for all three siblings when these thoughts came to her. Well, Alfred never wanted any of it. But he did not stop them, when it came down to it. Maria, taken back to her childhood, her father¡¯s notes, finally understood.

    They should have destroyed it all when they had the chance.

    Alfred was right. He had warned them.

    And Edgar Lucien, who she had always blamed for it all, just continued to stare at her. It was unfair that, despite how great he had become in the eyes of others, this would be how he ended up. Nothing but a malformed puddle of moving flesh parts.

    Edgar had told the world what happened, yes. But Maria had found those books in their father¡¯s study. She had been the one to read them, to come up with the sickly ideas that forever cursed them. Her obsession with it, she forced upon her brothers.

    Yes, without her, maybe none of this happens.

    No Edgar. No witches. No cabaret.

    She slowly knelt down in front of the cage and put her lantern on the ground. ¡°I want to scream at you, tell you how you¡¯ve doomed us all because of your loose tongue. But I won¡¯t. I probably did that enough when you were alive. Well, the first time you were alive.¡±

    The homunculus just continued to stare at her, showing no signs that it understood.

    ¡°I have thought a lot over the past few days about what we did, Ed. By the end of this, certain things will come out about our family. I will likely go to jail for a period of time. My only hope is that our brother still has some heart left for me. Not that I blame him if he doesn¡¯t. So here¡¯s what I¡¯m going to do. I will tell them that it was me who orchestrated everything. That, like when we were kids, I did this out of love...and fear. I will be punished for this, but I have protections that the other witches may not. And if I were to be executed for it, then isn¡¯t that better than a witch hunt? After all, Alfred was right, our reckoning is long overdue. There is one more thing to do before that, though.¡± She picked up her wand and stood up. Edgar watched her as she did this, his two hearts pounding, his lungs expanding and relaxing.

    This would begin to make things right. She had learned, over time, that when you threw the universe in imbalance with evil magic, it became determined to right itself. And the universe had been trying to right itself for a long, long time.

    If she left Edgar alive, in this suffering¡ªan existence that should not be¡ªMaria knew that there would be further consequences, that the curse would endure.

    So she raised her wand at her brother. He did not flinch. Perhaps, he did not even understand that something had occurred. He simply stared, unthinking. For, Maria had learned this, you could create new life, but you could not manufacture humanity.

    This was no longer Edgar, just a poor attempt of him.

    ¡°I guess I never got to say this the first time. Goodbye, Edgar.¡±

    She did not hesitate to end him once and for all.

 Josephine Goes Home

    I feel them watching us. I see them scatter when we pass near. Indeed, there have always been rumours ¡®round Saint-Corsheim about the farmstead on the hill...and what goes on inside it.

    <hr>

    Life in Bellvoir had changed little since Josephine¡¯s time away. Of course, there were some differences, such as Maria no longer being involved with the cabaret; but, if one did not look at the fine detailing of its day-to-day, they would be hard-pressed to notice.

    As for Josephine, she found herself daydreaming more often than not. Each day, on her way to the cabaret, she passed one of Edgar Lucien¡¯s old estates (he¡¯d owned several) and thought about Carcassonne. The large yet rundown building had not been occupied in many years, though every now and then Josephine saw groundskeepers tending to its gardens, raking leaves from its lawns. As far as she knew, Maria owned the building now (or it was owned under the Lucien estate) but nobody lived there. When the groundskeepers were finished, they went home, locked the large black gates, and the building was left alone until they returned.

    Hermine ran the cabaret now. She had changed the programming to feature more progressive artists and acts, and had begun work on redesigning some of the interior to make it, in her words, more contemporary. According to Hermine, people had lost interest in the cabaret during the twilight of Maria¡¯s reign, and something needed to budge. Competition would rise. Business was not as great as it had been long ago.

    Josephine¡¯s role had not changed much in Maria¡¯s absence. However, she felt something was off; she just wasn¡¯t sure if it was her or the cabaret. She was disassociating more often, and oftentimes it would take somebody many attempts to get her attention. Every day, she caught herself thinking about Maria¡¯s final act, how she had surrendered to the Carcassonne police and conceded everything about what they had done to their mother. Whenever Josephine¡¯s mind analysed these things, she became angry. Not because of Maria¡¯s confession, but that Maria had done so at all. Left the cabaret, left Antoinette, left her.

    Suddenly, an entire month had passed. One morning, Josephine found herself departing Bellvoir and heading out into the French countryside.

    She travelled on horseback. Conditions were calm, if frosty, midwinter. With the setting sun, the countryside had a red, golden glow to it. She followed a road until eventually arriving at the town of Saint-Corsheim, where Maria had spent the majority of her childhood.

    She found the hilly region where the old Lucien farmhouse stood. There was no indication that anybody lived there now, nor that anybody had lived there in a long time.

    The building was strange. During the time after she had returned to Bellvoir, Josephine had spoken with several witches about Maria¡¯s horrible childhood, inquiring about things she had learned regarding her mother, about the miscarriages. Her father¡¯s research. Things which had, in turn, led to discussions about Edgar and how he had ended up.

    As the sun was setting, the air growing chilly in its absence, Josephine dismounted from her horse and tied it by a tree stripped bare of its leaves. After giving it a gentle stroke and saying to wait for her, she made the climb up the hill to the foreboding Lucien estate.

    She stared up at the heights of the building. The grass under her feet crunched where she walked, dead and rotten. A dirt path had once snaked its way from the road to the door, but was now concealed entirely with overgrowth. An old letter box stood near the entrance, rusted and enshrouded in wispy weeds.

    Perhaps it was curiosity that brought her here, the desire to see the place where such things had occurred; or, it was to better understand what had happened, and the whys of it all.

    Or perhaps it was that she could not convince herself that Maria would so easily concede defeat, not unless secretly, she¡¯d come out on top. Yes, this was the main reason she found herself here at the doors of the abandoned Lucien house. There had to be another secret yet to be discovered, one that went deeper than anybody could have guessed.

    The front door was stuck on its hinges, and took an amount of work to pry open. As Josephine heaved against it with her shoulders, the door coughed angrily and swung. The waning sunlight from outside drenched through the house, illuminating a nice entrance hall that Josephine supposed had once been opulent. As she walked inside, the dust in the air immediately caused her to start coughing and had to catch her breath before venturing any further.

    She imagined the visions of the Lucien family living inside this house. All but two of them long deceased, she thought of all the mysterious events that had occurred here. Of course, Josephine did not know much about Odilon or Claudine Lucien or how the family came to be, just what the rumours were in Bellvoir and what Maria had told her.

    The air was thick with dust and things long hidden away. In terms of furnishings, there was little to be found except drawers and cupboards, some paintings so deteriorated you could barely make out anything underneath the layers of grime, gathered there over the decades gone by. It looked like the house had been gutted.

    Josephine took her time working through the house, pulling open drawers to check for things left behind. Eventually, she did discover some old newspapers inside a bin. They were faded and crinkled from the years, but dated back all the way to 1784. As soon as she saw the front page, a chill ran the length of her body from where she held the paper. There were numerous portraits of people who had disappeared. THE REAPER OF SAINT-CORSHEIM STRIKES TWICE IN ONE NIGHT!

    Josephine gently placed the newspaper on the closest shelf, and searched deeper into the house, navigating the empty corridors. She found a painting on the ground against the wall. Kneeling down in the middle of the corridor, she examined it closer.

    The painting was most likely of the Lucien family, set sometime when they were still young, younger even than Maria¡¯s stories. Odilon Lucien and his wife took up the background of the painting, with the three children in front. Edgar on their mother¡¯s lap, Maria and Alfred blank-faced staring straight at Josephine, through the painting. What was it still doing here? Why, actually, after all these years had the house remained standing? A place of such evil, of such incrimination. The fact that Maria had allowed it to stand after such time, piqued Josephine¡¯s curiosity.

    There was a loud noise from close by.

    Josephine¡¯s body went hot with terror as she stood up and drew her wand, pointing it up the corridor. She felt the grains of wood indenting in the palm of her hand.

    ¡°Reveal yourself!¡± Josephine said.

    At the other end of the corridor appeared a creature of twisted limbs and half-formed features. It had swollen, red eyes and hanging breasts that swayed like fat strings of cheese. The creature crawled away on its all fours, sluggishly dragging its entire body into the shadows where it disappeared.

    What on earth? she thought as her mouth went dry.

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    Josephine pursued it through the corridor, stopping at the place where the creature had vanished. An arched doorway led into a small library: a square room with tall walls and old bookshelves that had been totally cleared. She made a light on the end of her wand, which quickly brightened the room, but not by much. The dust itself was an extra layer to penetrate. Skittering feet shot from above and she looked up, the light of her wand catching the creature as it clung to the corner of the ceiling rafters, its eyes becoming large and white under the light.

    Josephine gasped and the creature dropped from the ceiling hard. Dust flew up where it landed. It attempted to move a leg, but was clearly exhausted, and slow.

    It¡¯s the mother, Josephine thought.

    Only a single eye was visible through its long hair, which stretched to the floorboards. It opened its mouth to reveal crooked teeth in an otherwise human mouth.

    The homunculus snapped at Josephine.

    ¡°Ugh!¡± Josephine cried as she stepped back. A blast of electricity zapped through the air from her wand, stinging against the creature. It howled, retreating a few feet like a spider. ¡°Stay back!¡± Josephine said, her wand unsteady in the space between.

    ¡°Who...are...you...?¡± the homunculus gasped. ¡°Why...you...here?¡± It coughed loudly, its body scrunching inwards like a piece of paper, then unfurling again. Gagging, stringy saliva fell from its cracked human lips.

    Josephine had a sudden vision of the Lucien children successfully creating the homunculus fifty years ago, all of them so young they hardly even understood what they had done. Their panic. Maria¡¯s inimitable curiosity. How much longer had they lived inside the house with it, before leaving it abandoned like this?

    She prodded with her wand through the air, causing the creature to flinch backwards yet again. She did not know what to say. How to respond to such a thing? It was not human, could not be, and yet it resembled one in all parts save for its disturbing, sickly appearance. Staring into the creature¡¯s eyes, she confirmed who she was looking at. This was Claudine Lucien, the mother. Once the woman of the house, Josephine saw how those human eyes had been inherited in equal parts by both Alfred and Maria too.

    These thoughts swirled inside her head in the space between the creature¡¯s last words and now. Eventually, it stopped prowling and sat down on the floor, like an animal.

    Josephine followed its movements with her wand. It felt strange to point it so aggressively at this hapless creature¡ªwhat could it possibly do?

    ¡°Kill...me...¡± it whispered.

    Josephine tightened her grip on the wand, her hands sweaty, the air burning her eyes. ¡°Maria did this to you, didn¡¯t she? And the boys, too.¡±

    The homunculus just stared back at her.

    ¡°When she left you like this, was there something else she has kept hidden for all these years? Something else in this house with you? I mean, how have you survived...?¡±

    The monster turned and crawled arachnid-like out of the room. Josephine followed it through the house, deeper and deeper. Eventually, the homunculus arrived at the doorway to a basement stairwell, and waited for Josephine to descend.

    Josephine kept her distance from the homunculus, her wand held aloft as she slowly walked down the stairs into the basement.

    A door at the very end opened into a cold chamber with the most rancid smell she had ever faced. It dazed her and immediately made her eyes water. The room, lit only by her wand, was completely scattered with bones and dried-up blood. There must have been dozens of bodies here, so many that when Josephine walked, bones crunched underneath her shoes. As she was looking around, the homunculus passed her and sat in the middle of the chamber, fetching a bone from the ground and feasting on it.

    She looked at the homunculus, which paid attention to nothing but the bone. Its terrible, gangly shadow stretched long and hard across the ground.

    Is this what you were trying to hide? Josephine thought. She recalled seeing the newspaper in the house above. THE REAPER OF SAINT-CORSHEIM¡ª

    My god. She remembered how Vincenzo Molteni had been collecting payments from Alfred, that Maria was worried what he knew. Was this it? Worse, even, than their experiments to create the homunculus. Of course, she thought. If Maria and Alfred were found as being behind these kidnappings¡ªthese...murders¡ªthat would definitely be the end of them. And when Vincenzo Molteni found out, it became a gold mine for him!

    By turning herself in and admitting to the crime of Carcassonne, connecting that with the homunculian birth of her mother...there¡¯d be no reason to investigate further. She could prevent a witch hunt, and protect herself and Alfred.

    ¡°Oh god, Maria,¡± Josephine whispered. ¡°You really found a way out.¡±

    The homunculus was facing away from her as Josephine pointed her wand at it. There was nothing that could distract it from the bone it feasted ravenously on.

    She did not delay things further. A dart of light shot from the end of her wand, struck the homunculus in the back of the neck, and it collapsed.

    The house of Lucien fell eerily silent.

    #

    Josephine had always battled with her feelings towards Maria. Upon returning from the old farmstead, she found herself wielding great power. This was power that could completely destroy Maria, and Alfred too, as Baron of Carcassonne. But, ultimately, she elected to keep things to herself. As she sat in the back of a carriage headed out from Bellvoir, staring out the window at the passing scenery, she debated whether she had made the right choice.

    She supposed that, knowing what she knew, and knowing the extreme lengths the remaining Lucien siblings would go to in order to contain things, she would likely be murdered if either of them found out what she knew. So she never spoke about this to anybody, never wrote anything down, in fact left nothing at the house. Except, of course, the dead homunculus. It would, inevitably, rot away with everything else left down there.

    Maria had left her a letter before vanishing on their last day at Carcassonne. Josephine removed this from a pocket in her sleeve and unfolded it. She had read this often over the intervening months, seeing if there was anything she had missed.

    Dear Josephine,

    It is no secret that I often struggle to come up with the right words, even after two or three glasses. I certainly do not wish to take up more of your time with trite explanations for what I have done; though, I am certain you would understand my reasoning. I confess, last night¡¯s conversation made me reconsider what I was doing, and what was important to me. That is, I care about nothing as much as I do the protection and preservation of the cabaret. It is no different whether it is Hermine in Bellvoir, or Bella and her rabble in Carcassonne. For that reason, I have taken the only course of action that would forgo a formal hearing regarding matters. I have turned myself in.

    Now, do not be surprised; and god, do not be concerned about me! I imagine I will serve a short time in jail and then be back before you know it. Do not act as though I am dead! Unless, I am. In which case, I¡¯m sure there have been a fair few celebrations already.

    Josephine, I apologise for how I acted in our time together. You deserve better than that. And, yes, you are right: Antoinette does too. I am cruel, and I fear that I know no other way. I am wont to blame my family for that, but who can even be sure? For one thing, my mother was always kind.

    When you return to Bellvoir, tell them the truth of what has happened. I do not wish to deceive them, and I¡¯m sure the truth will come out anyway¡ªif it has not already. Josephine, know that there are more witches out there who would worship my dead brother. I cannot help but feel increasingly-concerned about these so-called ¡°Lucienists¡± and the lengths they will go to now that more of his teachings exist.

    Look after Antoinette for me. Try to explain to her why I have done this, though I fear she already hates me enough. I hope that one day we are able to make amends.

    Farewell, Josephine. It is possible that this letter causes you to despise me even more. If that is the case and you wish never to see me again, then I wish you well.

    Signed, Maria

    Josephine carefully tore the letter along the creases, and then tore those in half again. She ripped it up until there were just little pieces, and she extended her arm out the window of the carriage, scattering them in the winds, never to be seen again.

    After a four-day journey, her carriage arrived safely in the busy streets of Paris, her final destination. Josephine gathered her belongings, which consisted of all her clothes, some books, and her wand (wrapped in a thick, grey cloak). She flung open the carriage door and stepped out onto the red-bricked road, which glittered as the sun glanced upon its minerals. Suddenly, she stopped and turned around.

    ¡°Antoinette, we are here,¡± Josephine called.

    The girl appeared from underneath her bed of fabrics in the carriage, squinting at the shining rays of light. Her hair was a terrible mess, sticking up in every direction. Her cheeks were full, and red from the pressure of her knuckles.

    ¡°Huh?¡± Antoinette squeaked.

    Josephine spread her arms. ¡°Paris.¡±

    Antoinette¡¯s eyes widened and she jumped off her seat, grabbing as much as she could in one massive armful, and running out of the carriage into the sunny mid-afternoon.

    Something about her laughter brought a smile to Josephine¡¯s face.

 Epilogue

    Six months later...

    Maria quickly grew accustomed to life at Sucrut Jail for Women, and all the things that came with that. Days blended into one, an endless, unbroken cycle of wake up, read, get to work. One thing she had learned very early on at Sucrut was that work was everything.

    As soon as they arrived, the prisoners had been put immediately to labour. Maria, as one of the older members of the jail, was mostly kept to cleaning and servicing duties. It was the middle of summer, and the heat was fierce. When she did not have time to herself, she was sweeping the concrete floors, clearing dirt from the courtyards, the leaves in the gutters, and maintaining all along the jail grounds. Once a month, Sucrut received a new intake, and this was the only time she ever saw carriages and wagons entering the jail grounds. Any movement in and out was new prisoners, or supply wagons.

    She slept in a modest room and had no bunkmate, which was lucky, as many other prisoners were made to share with somebody else. Maria thought that perhaps some might enjoy this company, but the nights were unpredictable and Maria was simply glad that any time there was a disturbance, it had nothing to do with her.

    It was a Thursday, Maria¡¯s day off, and she had been called to the head warden¡¯s station. Accompanied by a tall and sturdy guard, she made off through the corridors of Sucrut jail without saying a word. Her outfit was poorly-fitted and cheap¡ªshe even had the thought that it may have been manufactured at the jail itself by prison workers¡ªand made loud shuffling sounds as she walked. Her feet ached; every second night (for this was how often they were allowed to bathe) when she removed her shoes and socks and soaked them in the cold baths, she felt more pain than relief as the water seared into her wounds.

    The guard accompanying her stopped outside the warden¡¯s room, and remained there. Maria walked in by herself, the door shutting behind her.

    ¡°We have received revised orders regarding your time here at Sucrut,¡± said the warden in a straightforward tone. ¡°Your original sentence of ten years has been reduced to four. You are also to be moved to B Block and instated to a new job at the sugar fields.¡± The warden slid a letter across the table to Maria, who took it in her wrinkled and callused hands.

    The letter stated that she was to be worked at a place known as Moscati¡¯s Sugar Exports. She had not heard the specific name before, but she had known that there was a sugar plantation neighbouring the prison and that, several times a week, you would see a group of inmates departing by foot in an organised line to work there. She knew that they did not come back until very late, and that those were expected to be long days.

    She accepted it without complaint, however, for inmates at Sucrut¡¯s jail for women did not get much say in these matters, and four years was better than ten.

    That night, she was relocated to B Block and made to share a cell with a black woman of similar age to her, her hair frizzy and white. Her name was Agn¨¨s. For at least the first months of her stay there, Agn¨¨s became the only other person with whom Maria shared private information¡ªthough, of course, escaping it was not much of an option.

    My dear Antoinette, she wrote.

    I hope that things are well. Are you practising your dancing? You know what they say, if you do not keep up with practise, then your dance shoes will stop fitting.

    She couldn¡¯t think of what to say, her pen over the page. She had found, the longer she had been in Sucrut, the more difficult it became to write.

    ¡°I seen you write to her before,¡± Agn¨¨s said, practising stretches in the middle of the room while Maria sat on the tiny writing desk. ¡°Who is she?¡±

    Maria put down the quill. ¡°Antoinette,¡± she said in a soft voice. ¡°She will be thirteen soon. The first of her birthdays I will miss. It feels so very strange, this distance that I feel growing between us. I find it more and more difficult to write.¡±

    ¡°I know that feeling,¡± Agn¨¨s responded. She stopped her routine and ended up in a cross-legged position on the floor, staring up at Maria. She spoke through long breaths that made her entire body undulate like it was riding on ocean waves. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen neither of my sons in eight years. Last I ever had contact with them was likely 1824. Worst thing is, I don¡¯t even know if they dead or just ignoring me¡­and I¡¯m not sure which is worse.¡±

    ¡°Eight years, eh?¡± Maria remarked.

    Agn¨¨s smiled sarcastically. ¡°For stealing a bag of potatoes. Well, that¡¯s what they say, anyway. I¡¯ll be out next year, though. You don¡¯t really ever get out, though, in here.¡± She prodded her head with two fingers. ¡°Jail¡¯s a tattoo on the mind.¡±

    Maria thought about this. She already knew she had had some degree of protection coming into the jail. She was treated differently to other prisoners; she had been, even from the very beginning. Was this Alfred¡¯s influence? Did they know, to some degree, her history? Her original sentence was thirty years, negotiated down to ten, and now merely four. Hardly enough time to acclimate, if you went by Agn¨¨s¡¯s timeline of things.

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    ¡°What did you do?¡± Agn¨¨s asked.

    Maria sighed, staring at Agn¨¨s¡¯s waiting, soft eyes. Although she knew they were both going to be in there together for a while, and there wasn¡¯t really any reason as to why she ought to keep any of this a secret from Agn¨¨s, it still came as a surprise to Maria when she began telling the full story, starting from the witches in the cemetery in Fosseville...

    #

    Every Thursday and Friday was work at the sugar fields.

    Maria awoke early these mornings, was fed a more substantial meal than most other mornings, and departed with the small group. Usually it was just over a dozen of them, in rotation. The selection was varied; most often, these inmates had been in the jails for a longer time or were nearing their date of release. According to Agn¨¨s, the jail had a deal with Moscati¡¯s Sugar Exports and, in exchange for supplying workers, the Sugar Exports supplied the jails with a cut of sugar and profits, which in turn helped keep the jails running.

    Maria thought this was a lousy deal, considering she wasn¡¯t personally seeing any of the money coming in. Agn¨¨s told her better not to complain.

    Luckily, whether because of her age or something else, Maria¡¯s job was split between cleaning tools and processing the sugar inside the facilities, and only occasionally tending to the crops outside. She was also working with Agn¨¨s, and the two spent most of their days in each other¡¯s company. The times Maria saw people from Moscati¡¯s Sugar Exports were few and far between. She occasionally saw members of the company checking on the workers out in the fields, and sometimes saw them arriving and departing. They usually wore suits, and rode in on fancy carriages with large horses powering them. She imagined that theirs was wealth that had accumulated for some time. Businesses like these had endless opportunities.

    Two months into working the sugar fields, Maria was systematically walking through the crops and watering them. It was towards the end of her shift and the work was winding down. The air had become cool and a terrific sunset stretched across the sky. She was tired, her feet aching as they did at the end of all of her shifts. The only thing she was thinking of apart from the immense exhaustion and hunger was taking a bath.

    She lowered herself towards the young crops and sprinkled them with water. The smell in the air was always the same out here. It was that too-sweet smell of sugar mixed with the dirt. Depending on where you were, there was also a faint touch of sweat and body odour in there too, particularly as you came to the end of the day.

    Maria finished watering her crops and then looked up to see somebody watching her. At first she thought she must have been hallucinating, but sure enough, even as she eventually stood up and came within clear sight of the person, he remained.

    The first thing she noticed was that he was not wearing the same outfit as the other workers, nor anything that resembled the attire of Moscati¡¯s Sugar Exports employees.

    The man slowly approached her, careful not to step on anything. Once within ten or so feet, Maria observed more details about him. Firstly, he was quite tall but could have blown away in a sudden gust of wind. His age was surely quite young, something his youthful appearance did not deny. He was dressed simply, in a blue shirt and brown pants tied at the waist. His boots, however, were well-trodden in but polished, and seemed to be of high-quality material.

    Maria let her watering can sway at her side as the man approached. ¡°Hello?¡± Maria said to him. ¡°Hello, young man? Should you be here?¡±

    His eyes widened. ¡°Are you Maria?¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡±

    He pointed someplace far off in the distance behind him, causing Maria to look there, but she saw only hills and fields. ¡°Otto mentioned that you would be here. I¡¯ve come searching, from far away, to find you.¡±

    ¡°Otto sent you? What¡ª Who are you?¡±

    ¡°I am Jacques Ardouin,¡± he replied.

    Maria experienced a sudden pang of noise in her ears. The feeling was as if the final connection in a puzzle had been made, causing the whole picture to illuminate.

    Jacques Ardouin, the last scribe of her younger brother, the one who had caused all of this trouble when he had profited off her brother¡¯s work with Remy. She nearly dropped the watering can in disbelief at the man who now stood plainly before her. ¡°Yes, I know who you are,¡± Maria said. ¡°You¡¯re the reason I¡¯m here.¡±

    Jacques¡¯s expression, which itself was mixed shades of disbelief and exhaustion, suddenly became frightful. His lips moved, yet without words.

    ¡°I...I swear, I am not here to cause trouble,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯d only like to apologise.¡± He clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. ¡°I know what I did was terrible. I was foolish back then. I¡­¡±

    ¡°You gave my brother¡¯s pages to a man called Remy, is that right?¡±

    ¡°So you did speak to him.¡±

    ¡°Why did you do it, Jacques Ardouin?¡±

    ¡°I did not think it through. I was desperate. After the fire destroyed everything, I was out of work. I know, it was foolish, but I did what I could to survive. Maria, would you not have done the same?¡±

    Maria was flabbergasted. ¡°No! You ruined my family!¡±

    ¡°No! Please, you must understand, it was not malice against your family¡ª¡±

    ¡°Idiocy, then,¡± Maria said.

    ¡°Please accept my apology. I came all this way.¡±

    ¡°Indeed. That is some way to have travelled.¡± She stared at him, pitifully. He must have ventured far across the countryside to get here. Days, and weeks on the road.

    She could not imagine a scene more miserable than what was transpiring before her, on the long, expansive sugar fields. Jacques Ardouin all but grovelled in this moment, looking about to cry, utterly pathetic. How could such a fool cause a circus of this magnitude. Exposing family secrets, destroying her reputation, wasting their time chasing the past¡­

    Maria began to laugh and could not stop herself. It just came pouring out of her. Hot and fast laughter that swept the fields, drenching the man who stood before her. ¡°Get out of my sight, Jacques Ardouin!¡± she snapped through fits of laughter. ¡°Go back to the hopeless hovel you come from and, the gods have me, next time I see you, I won¡¯t be so kind.¡± She spat as far as she could, then wiped the saliva that corded to her bottom lip. ¡°You animal, you clown, get out of my sight.¡±

    Jacques simply stared back at her. ¡°Please¡­¡±

    Maria threw her watering can at him, forcing him to awkwardly defend it mid-air, lose his footing on the uneven fields and crash down in a pile of limbs and dirt.

    Staring up at her, he shouted, ¡°He loved you, Maria!¡±

    ¡°Pfft! We are Lucien, we are incapable of it.¡±

    A sheet of horror came over the scribe¡¯s face, and he scrambled up from the dirt mounds, brushing himself off the best he could. ¡°Forgive me¡ª¡±

    ¡°Go!¡± Maria screamed. ¡°Off with you, rat! Out of here!¡± And the scribe turned around, sprinting, and did not look back once.

    Maria sniffed, her lips trembling as she stared at the pinprick in the distance where Jacques Ardouin had fled to, with the setting sun turning the sugar fields red.

    THE END.