#Cloudia Phantomhive | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tothelasthoursofmylife · 15 days ago

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Paris, Seine, France – June 1848

~Cedric~

Sleep fell away from me, suddenly, abruptly, seamlessly; its spidery touch having barely kept me under all night, and now it had left just as faintly.

It took a few more minutes until I opened my eyes.

It felt as if I had never closed them at all.

It felt as if I had never slept at all.

My temples were aching. My muscles were burning. As if the hours had passed, night had turned into day, without affecting me at all.

Still, when I opened my eyes and saw sunlight pressing against the thick curtains, trying to get in, my first thought was of her, not of me or what time it was.

I sat up with a jolt.

Time had done nothing for me this night; I was as sore and exhausted as before.

But what had time done to Cloudia?

Cedric clambered from the bed, pulling blankets and pillows with him. His legs nearly buckled from beneath him when he got to his feet, but he could catch himself before he joined the bedding on the floor.

Cloudia, Cloudia, Cloudia, it echoed through his head. His heart hammered in his chest in the same rhythm. Thud, thud, thud.

It was not a large room, he recalled. One, two steps to the door. Four, five because he was stumbling. Over the blankets on the floor. Against the side table he didn’t notice. Because of his own legs that had not woken up yet.

Cloudia, Cloudia, Cloudia.

He half-fell against the door, pain blooming from his shoulder to the rest of his body as he placed his hand on the doorknob.

And froze.

Her body, so fragile against his own. Her hand, so cold in his. Her voice, so soft in his ear.

Her laboured breaths.

Her pained face.

It all came rushing back.

The memory of each infinite second of yesterday.

And so did the panic.

I… I… I…

I had nearly lost her. I had nearly lost her. I had nearly lost her.

Had I lost her?

Was I alone again?

He swayed, would have keeled over if he had not been gripping the doorhandle. He felt like he was back aboard Milton’s ship, thrown off-balance with no steady ground beneath him, his body revolting against the lack of stability, his stomach in a knot and heavy with the urge to bend over and vomit – even if he had not eaten in hours. His chest was tightening, hot flashes singeing him from within.

And then, there was all the blood.

Smeared over his memories. Dripped over Paris.

Knit into his clothes.

Cedric had washed his hands and face yesterday, but he had not changed his clothes. He was not wearing his glasses and had not bothered to open the curtains on his way to the door, leaving the room dark. But he didn’t need glasses or light to know how much of her blood clung to him.

He had felt it after all, how it had seeped through her makeshift bandages and drenched him, as he had carried her through streets and over roofs.

Another wave of nausea hit him, and he breathed in sharply, tears rising to his eyes.

If he stayed inside this room, never opened the door, he could forever imagine that she had survived the night. That she was fine; that she would be fine.

But he would never know for certain.

The news of her death would take a hammer to his soul, shatter it in a moment, but leave it broken forever. But the worry, the uncertainty, would take him bit by bit. Eat him up until there was nothing left anymore.

And I…

And I did not know…

Could I survive this once more?

“You’re so silly,” Cloudia had said to him yesterday on the roof. “You’re so silly,” the memory of her now spoke to him in his head.

Of course, he was being silly. Cloudia Phantomhive would not die so easily. Not Cloudia who had held onto Cedric with impossible strength until Newman had lifted her out of his arms. Not Cloudia who was now in the hands of her brother who would never allow her to die like that.

Still, these reassurances only soothed his nerves a little. Strength and determination alone did not necessarily result in survival.

I only knew that all too well.

He leaned his head against the door and took a deep, shaky breath before he stepped back, letting go of the doorknob. He went to open the heavy curtains, finally letting in the harsh sunlight. Raising an arm to protect his eyes from the light, Cedric gazed down at himself. He looked even more terrifying than he had the day before. He lifted his head and turned to the bed. It did not look like someone had been murdered in it, though it certainly appeared as if a corpse had been dragged through it: All the pillows and blankets were in disarray and sprayed across the room, even the fitted sheet had sprung free from the mattress. Dirt and flakes of dried blood had been rubbed everywhere.

Blood and dirt that clung to him tenfold.

Despite the silly, silly worry clinging to his heart, despite the everlasting panic whispering into his ear…

… that she was dying…

… that she was dead…

… that he would never hear her laugh again, see her smile again – that the memory of her warm hand in his would fade and vanish...

Despite panic’s persistence shaking through his body and fuelling the dreadful guilt that made his heart heavy and ache and persuaded him to stay prisoner in this room, every fibre of his being ached for her too.

He had to see her, no matter if she was dead or alive.

Hold her again; hold her for the last time.

He knew that he would feel infinitely worse if he didn’t.

But he could not possibly see her like he was now, worn out and steeped in her blood.

Just as Cedric pulled open a drawer to shuffle through, the door opened with a soft creak. A second later, Newman stepped into the room, carrying a set of clean, pressed clothes in his hands and concern in his eyes.

Cedric was by him in a heartbeat. “Alfred!” he pressed out, his voice strange in his own ears, and took hold of Newman’s arm. He opened his mouth to continue, only his heart was beating too quickly, too loudly, and his body felt momentarily too heavy, too small, too warm. Every centimetre of him was torn between wanting to know now and delaying any answer.

In the end, it was Newman who chose for him.

“Lady Cloudia is alive and well,” he said softly and patted Cedric’s hand. “She is well and getting some rest.” He mustered him briefly. “Let me prepare a bath for you, Your Grace, so that you can find some rest too.”

***

It took a while for a tub to be filled with water and heated up. Cedric had waited in the bedroom he had slept in, sitting restlessly on the maltreated bed, while Newman had prepared him a bath in the same bathroom where Cedric had partly washed himself yesterday. He had not even realised that these rooms were so close together.

Now, Newman was gone, and Cedric was standing in the bathroom, staring at the warm, scented water, his thoughts full of nothing but an echo of Newman’s words from earlier. “She is well and getting some rest.”

She is well. She is well. She is well.

Cloudia is alive and well.

The words sent Cedric’s heart aflutter, and the sight of the water twisted his stomach into knots. His torso was bisected, his organs at war. Joy and dread, coming together like oil and water within him.

In the end, rationality triumphed. It could not disperse either feeling; it could merely force Cedric to get into the water before it turned cold. Still, he hesitated before he stepped into the bath.

His head was spinning with a choice, a ridiculous one to anyone else in similarly dirty circumstances, but not one to him.

He made his decision. With remaining hesitation, Cedric ran his fingers through his long hair, untangling it a bit.

Despite common belief – or, rather, Cloudia’s – that he never washed his hair, he did. Just not as often as he should. Cedric did not lie when he said washing hair that was as long as his was tiresome, but the length of his hair was not the only reason for his infrequent washing.

Taking a deep breath, Cedric tilted his head, let his hair fall into the bathtub and let it be drenched in the water. Then, he began to scrub it. It took a few rounds of soaping and rinsing until his hair was fully clean from the poultice, and by the time he was done, his neck ached, and far too much time had passed. At least, no one had come to knock and enquire what was taking so long.

Cedric wrapped his hair in a towel and straightened up. He dried his hair and combed it before he grabbed the ribbon Newman had left him and put his hair up into a bundle atop his head. It must look like a mess, but it was only for a short while anyway. Then, he took off his clothes, discarded them carelessly on the ground, and got into the now lukewarm water. His muscles first hissed when they touched the water before they relaxed. He cleaned every centimetre of his body, watched the water grow darker and muddier.

When he stepped out of the tub again, he was dripping wet and still felt lighter than before.

Cedric rubbed himself dry with the towel, slipped into clean clothes, loosened the ribbon so that his hair fell past his shoulders and along his back again. Newman had brought him his glasses too; Cedric did not pick them up before he stepped to the washbasin, gripping its edges and hoisting himself up a little to bring his face closer to the mirror above it.

From this distance, he could see his face clearly, every line and every part of it, just like he could take in every strand of the shimmering silver hair that framed it.

He barely recognised himself like this; he had grown too used to seeing his hair being dull and grey from the poultice.

Just like he had grown too used to his chartreuse eyes which gleamed bright and clear, from any distance, at any time, with or without spectacles. Lights in the dark, eternal reminders of what he had done to himself.

The only bit of him that had outwardly changed that day. His eyesight and eye colour stolen, replaced, lost.

He could not even remember what it was, his original eye colour. Could only remember that it had been, like his face and his hair, his mother’s before it had ever been his. It had been ages since he had last looked into a mirror and thought of her when he saw himself. The wrong-coloured eyes, the dulled hair, and time wearing at him having done their best to make her face unrecognisable in his.

His mother and his past self, erased just like that.

Cedric let himself sink down, his face blurring again but his eyes, his chartreuse eyes, forever clear and bright.

He did not want to; nonetheless, he grabbed his glasses and put them on before he left the bathroom.

***

Stepping into the corridor felt like stepping into another world. Harsh, bright light broke through the windows, making Cedric squint and cover his eyes with his hand. He had walked the few metres between bed- and bathroom earlier, of course, but his mind had been elsewhere completely, his surroundings shut off by his circular thoughts and the dread within him.

His thoughts were still clouded; Newman’s assurances still circling within his mind.

The dread was still there too, though it had gone from piercing, hammering pain to numb stinging.

Now, at least, he could see the light shining in. Hear faint voices downstairs. The sounds of steps and chairs scraping softly over carpets and the clink of porcelain. Feel warmth on his skin and smell the faint fragrance of perfume and flowers.

Cloudia was alive, and the world had kept on moving.

Cedric, however, remained in front of the closed bathroom door for a moment, wondering where to go and what to do. He had walked through these floors yesterday, albeit in a trance-like state, and he could not remember where which room was. And Newman had told him that he could not see Cloudia just yet anyway.

“I will fetch you later,” Newman had told him, and now, Cedric was left wondering what to do until later arrived.

After another minute, Cedric finally set himself in motion, wandering through the corridors and heading downstairs with open eyes. Lisa passed him on the staircase, glanced at him sideways but did not glare or speak a word, before she vanished upstairs. She had looked exhausted. Downstairs, Cedric walked to the back of the house until he re-discovered the drawing room in which Oscar had put Milton yesterday.

Or, perhaps, rather than arriving here by random, my subconsciousness had led me here on purpose, to the last place I had known Milton to be.

Milton, who should be awake by now.

Milton, the only person I could talk to right now in this house.

Milton, whose soothing presence I needed so desperately.

Just when Cedric was about to enter the room, he was taken aback by the sight within, blinking and remaining on the doorsill.

It seemed as if time had not reached this room here either.

Oscar was still sitting on the ground, leaning against the ottoman and holding a piece of wood in one hand and a small knife in the other.

And Milton was still sleeping on the sofa opposite him.

The room seemed to sway when Cedric finally rushed inside.

It’s been nearly a day! Why is he still sleeping? What is going on? Milton, Milton, it surged through his mind. Nonetheless, he did not dash to Milton just yet; instead, Cedric went straight to Oscar, bellowing, “What is going on? Did Milton wake up in the night?”

“Keep your voice down,” Oscar replied, his voice and gaze dark. For the first time, it did not make Cedric falter though.

He grabbed Oscar by the collar. “It’s been nearly a day! Milton should have long woken up!” He pulled him closer to him. “What did you do, Livingstone?” Cedric hissed.

Oscar met his angry gaze with calm scrutiny. “It is not unheard of, to sleep so long.”

“If you fall asleep normally, maybe, but not when you faint! He should have woken up a long time ago. He should not be unconscious for that long!”

“I can merely reiterate what I told you yesterday, and what I told you just now,” Oscar said, and his calmness made Cedric boil inside. “And add that the Lady sometimes sleeps for long periods herself.”

The sudden mention of Cloudia made Cedric flinch.

Oscar mustered him. “Further,” he continued, his voice softening ever so slightly, “if you are so concerned, you might want to request Greene to take a look at the boy.” Then, Oscar suddenly grabbed Cedric’s hand, pushed him away and himself to his feet. His tone remained calm, but his pale eyes were full of ice as he continued, “Instead of causing such a ruckus that could wake him up when he needs the rest.”

Cedric rushed out of the drawing room like he had entered it, as if his body was moving on its own. He had seen Lisa go upstairs earlier, and that was where his body was now leading him with sure, hurried steps.

Milton had lain on the sofa so peacefully still. Nevertheless, before he had left, Cedric had quickly checked Milton’s pulse again – and sighed in relief to have found one. Milton’s chest had been rising and falling too at a calm, steady pace.

Milton was alive but not awake when he should have been.

And though all of Cedric was high-strung on Cloudia, Milton’s unconscious state was a welcome distraction, faintly redirecting strands of his worry.

However, was it a true distraction, a true emergency, or was I merely thinking of the situation as one so that I could have something to distract myself with?

Cedric shook his head clear of the thought. No. Fainting for so long was cause for concern, and Milton’s case was not comparable to Cloudia’s strange attacks in his eyes. He should have got – would have got – someone to examine Milton yesterday if he had been of a clearer mind. If everyone had not been needed at Cloudia’s side.

Cedric passed by the kitchen and halted abruptly, the suddenness making him stagger a bit. From the corner of his eye, he had espied a messy, blond head and been momentarily confused until his mind had finally caught up with his eyes.

“Kamden!” Cedric exclaimed and stepped into the kitchen. “Good to have found you he…”

The words died in his throat when Kamden turned to him. Lisa had merely looked exhausted earlier; Kamden looked as if he, too, had nearly died and survived. His clothes were clean – changed – but rumpled, his pallor frighteningly pale, and the rings under his eyes terrifyingly dark.

“…if I wasn’t so astonished that the Bookstore Boy’s hunch has been right,” Cecelia had said yesterday. “He dropped a plate all of a sudden and began to prepare a room as if possessed.”

God, Kamden.

I had barely even registered Cecelia’s words yesterday. He had known. Somehow, he had known that something was wrong. Must have felt that something had happened to Cloudia.

Nausea rose within me, as sudden and as unruly as a flood. My own pain and worry were eating on me and were so difficult to bear already, as much now as then. I could not even fathom what it must be like for Kamden. For Kamden who had known when I had not that day, so long ago.

“Kamden,” Cedric blurted out. “Kamden, are you…”

Again, he could not finish what he wanted to say. His words were ripped apart and vanished into the air unspoken when Kamden rushed to him, grabbed his collar, shoved him back into the corridor and against the wall.

The air was pushed out of Cedric’s lungs from the shock of the collision. Pain bloomed across his back. Something hard and cold was pressed against his throat. It was an odd-looking contraption Cedric had not seen before; it looked like a nightmarish pair of scissors, with a weird handle to which three longer metal pieces had been attached. Whereas the one in the middle was dull and square-shaped, the ones to the left and right were slightly curved and had a pointed tip. From the way they looked, and the way the light reflected off them, Cedric was certain they were blades. He gulped. He had not even noticed Kamden getting that thing out.

“You had one job!” Kamden shouted, his voice steady with rage and his eyes dark with fury. “Why did you even go with her if you let this happen! How could you let this happen!” He thrust the strange object deeper into Cedric’s throat, nearly drawing blood and making him gasp. “Do you even know how much blood she has lost? I could stitch the wound closed. I could stop the bleeding. But she had already lost so much blood, by the time…” Kamden’s breathing quickened. “There’s nothing I can do about the blood loss! Nothing! I cannot make a blood transfusion here! I don’t have the right equipment, don’t have any blood. And even then, they are such big risks. Do you know how many people have died from them? Do you? It’s the only thing I could do, but it's so goddamn dangerous… damned if I do, damned if I don’t…”

The metal object rammed against his throat forced Cedric to stare right at Kamden as he spoke. Each of his words was worsened by the fact that Kamden was staring at Cedric with her eyes, speaking with her mouth, making him look at her face as he did.

It could as well have been Cloudia, telling him all this.

“Kam…” Cedric tried to get out, there was so much he could say and could not, but Kamden cut him off immediately.

“Do you even know how close to dying Cloudia was?” he said, and Cedric felt as if Kamden had thrown him into an icy lake with these words. “She’s alive. She’s holding on. But for how long? There’s nothing I can do to definitely help her. All I can do is wait and hope that she will be fine and…” His eyes narrowed. “And it’s all your fault! You were there! And she still got shot and…”

Tears began to well up in Kamden’s eyes. “I have a grandmother, but she lives far away and seldom writes back because she’s tired of caring; it is as if she does not exist at all. Even Cloudie does not know that she is all I have left in the world. And I almost lost her too. I could lose her still.

“She survived last night, but what guarantee do I have, does she have, that she survives this day too? This night too? And the following ones as well? None. She doesn’t have one. I don’t have one. And it’s all because you were so useless and even let it get so far.” Kamden’s grip on Cedric loosened slightly, and he let his head sink. “Of course, I knew that she would get seriously hurt one day. The Watchdog does not, cannot, live peacefully after all. Only I didn’t think it would happen when she was with you.” When Kamden raised his head again, his eyes were red-rimmed, though no tears had broken out yet; his face was still dry. “You had one job, and you failed, and now my sister is on the verge of death. All because of you!”

Kamden shoved Cedric harder into the wall again before he abruptly let go, taking a step back. Cedric nearly fell over, but barely caught himself in time. He gasped for air, refilling his lungs with oxygen while Kamden buried his face in his hands, the weird, sharp object still hanging from his fingers.

For one moment, I did not see him but myself, as if I had been a bystander, not right there, that day kneeling by her corpse, my face in my hands.

And then I blinked, and the strange overlap was gone.

“Kamden,” Cedric said hoarsely. “I know it does not make anything better, but I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never…”

Kamden’s head flew up. “You’re right,” he snapped. “It does not make anything better, so don’t even bother.” He rubbed his eyes, and with this motion, he almost looked like the Kamden Cedric knew again, only more fragile. Despite his fury, or maybe because of it, he still seemed so brittle.

I almost wanted to reach out. Put my hand on his shoulder and say, “I understand. I understand.”

But I knew too that he would not be receptive to this, definitely not now, maybe never.

“Barrington,” Cedric blurted out, suddenly remembering him. “You are Barrington’s adoptive son, are you not? You won’t be alone; the Countess will live, and you also have him. You should not forget that.”

Kamden let his hand sink and then looked at Cedric with such a hard, icy gaze that he could not help himself but flinch. “I didn’t forget him,” Kamden said dryly. “What did you even want from me, Underwood?”

Cedric blinked at him, puzzled by the exchange and the change of topic. “What do you mean?”

“When you came into the kitchen, you were about to say, ‘Good to have found you here.’ Why were you searching for me? Just to talk? If yes, I’m leaving now.”

“No, Kamden, wait!” said Cedric and took a step towards him. Kamden took one away from him. “I wasn’t looking for you just to talk. I was looking for you because I wanted to ask if you could take a look at Milton.”

Now, it was Kamden’s turn to flinch. “Milton?” he exclaimed, sounding and looking like himself again – but only for a moment. “What’s with him?” he then asked curtly.

“He still hasn’t woken up. I suspect something’s wrong with him,” Cedric replied. “But, Kamden, if you don’t…”

“Where is he?”

Cedric sighed. “In the drawing room in the back. I’ll lead you there. Come.” He began to trace his path back to the parlour, Kamden following him a few steps behind.

“What’s this thing anyway?” Cedric enquired when he turned to check that Kamden was still behind him. He pointed at the strange object that Kamden had pressed against his throat earlier and that was still in his hand.

“Arrow remover,” said Kamden nonchalantly and shoved it into his pocket. Then, he sped up and walked past Cedric to get to the drawing room.

Oscar got up from the ground when Cedric and Kamden entered the parlour. Whereas Cedric glared at him, Kamden did not even seem to register Oscar; he just headed straight to Milton. Outside, albeit farther away, the city continued to be swept with chaos. Fires were raging, people were dying, the air was filled with smoke and black powder, and the streets were flecked with blood. Inside, tension and exhaustion were hanging in the air, thick and heavy. A night had passed, still everyone was tired from all the ordeals that had paved their way here, from their worry for Cloudia who was in a room upstairs fighting for her life.

Solely Milton, usually the most restless of them all, was sleeping serenely on the sofa, golden hair fanning out on the pillow like a halo.

“If you two would mind turning around,” said Kamden and drew the blanket back, “I need to examine whether Milton got hurt without anyone noticing, and I have to unbutton and remove bits of his clothes for this. I’m sure Milton would not want you staring at him while he is not fully dressed.”

Oscar quietly picked up the blanket before he turned around.

“Why don’t you wake him up first?” Cedric asked.

Kamden shot him a dark look. “Because, if he were truly only exhausted, I wouldn’t want to interrupt his peaceful, needed sleep. If he were hurt, shaking him or whatnot to wake him might only worsen his condition. Now, turn around and let me work, Underwood.”

Cedric did as he was told. Beside him, Oscar folded the blanket neatly before he draped it over his arms.

“You’re awfully calm for someone who will get found out now,” remarked Cedric.

“There is nothing wrong with the boy,” Oscar replied without even glancing at Cedric. “Sainteclare will merely confirm what I have already told you.”

Cedric scowled at him but did not say anything in response. They stood there in silence, in the middle of the drawing room with half a metre between them, until Kamden announced that he was done, and they could turn around again.

“Milton is perfectly fine,” Kamden told them. “No external wounds besides the cut on his right hand which he got on the train and which I’ve already bandaged. He was injured by Cloudia’s dagger, was he not? Then, it most definitely was not poisoned. I doubt someone would have found the time to lace someone else’s dagger with poison on that chaotic train.

“There are no internal injuries either. There is no internal bleeding. There are no signs that suggest that Milton hit his head. He’s breathing steadily, his pulse is normal. He was stirring and softly groaning a little while I was examining him. He’s perfectly well.” Kamden paused. “The only other potential cause I can think of for why he is sleeping so long is his heart illness, but he assured me and everyone else that it has not been a problem for him since he was a child. Thus, I doubt that’s it either. And even if it was… even if it was, I would not be able to help him then,” he continued, his voice lowering towards the end. “Just like if he had been bleeding internally. There would be nothing I could do.”

Kamden exhaled and then fixed his dark eyes on Cedric. “Milton’s merely exhausted which is, after all we have gone through and considering what we know he was doing in the background all along, not inconceivable. I could, of course, shake him awake or go and fetch my smelling salt, but what good would it do? Now, if you will excuse me, Underwood, I need to check on the actual patient in this house, so stop wasting my time.”

With these words and another glare, Kamden stormed out of the drawing room.

“That’s why I told you to ask Greene, not Greene or Sainteclare,” Oscar said, looking after Kamden with an expression Cedric could not quite place. “It takes a great toll on a person not to know whether their loved one will live or die after all.”

Cedric glared at him.

“I know why you are behaving as you are,” continued Oscar while placing the blanket over Milton again, with the same care and gentleness as he had the day before. “You told it to me yourself, if you remember. You want the boy to wake up because you want to talk to him as you hope for him to ease your worry. You are so upset that he is still asleep because you do not want to wait and cannot accept that he is unavailable for normal reasons. And you suspect me of wrongdoings because you dislike me.” Milton stirred a little, faint distress momentarily hushing over his face. Oscar ran his fingers over his head, his touch feather-light, soothing him back. “But you need to know,” Oscar said softly, “that you need to find another remedy for your affliction; he is not your cure-all.”

***

Cedric wandered through the ground floor in search of anyone, of anything, to distract himself with. However, the townhouse was not particularly large, and he was merely sanding the carpets and wooden boards with his restless steps. Eventually, he went to sit on the staircase’s lowest step, burying his face in his hands. His thoughts were in a spin, rotating through hope and certainty that Cloudia would be fine, through guilt for having been unable to save her, and through worry that she might not make it.

She was strong and determined, but even the Watchdog was nothing but a human, and human life was so impossibly frail.

I had seen it so often in my line of work. An inconspicuous cut, an accidentally mixed-up ingredient, a wrong word. One unfortunate slip, and it was all over. One bad decision. One good decision. Fate and death seldom worked grandly, but always harshly.

I had known that before too, of course.

He pressed his eyes closed and pressed his hands against his ears to try to block out the faint sounds of the house – the creaks, the voices, the steps – in an attempt to force her out of his mind, his memory, and conjure her next to him on the staircase.

Like last night, she was silent.

Cecelia, however, was not.

“Not-Kristopher, get off my stairs,” she said. Cedric flinched and raised his head, turning until he found Cecelia standing on a few steps above him, arms crossed in front of her chest. As always, she was in mourning clothes, and the sight of them made Cedric’s stomach churn.

“What else am I meant to do then?” he retorted.

Cecelia rolled her eyes. “Sitting elsewhere, of course. You are blocking the way.”

Cedric rose to his feet and glared at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cecelia lifted one hand and cut him off before he could even get one word out. “Don’t,” she said. She rubbed her temples, and Cedric suddenly noticed that her face, too, was lined with exhaustion.

“Usually, I always have a great time in Paris,” said Cecelia. “Of course, nothing ever stays as it should, and this, unfortunately, applies more often to the good than to the bad. What a pity that is, is it not?”

Cedric went quiet.

Without another word, Cecelia headed back upstairs and disappeared around the corner, leaving Cedric all alone on the steps, just as lost and lonely as he had been before.

Just as lost and lonely as I had been before…

My hand reached into my pocket to touch the lockets, tightened around one of them, the metal digging into my skin.

If only I had known that Kamden had placed so much faith in me, then I could have told him that it had never worked that way.

I had never been there, for any of them.

I had only ever been there after the fact.

Cedric remained there on the staircase, not knowing where to go, not knowing what to do, his mind too cluttered and too busy for him to think.

And then, Newman arrived at the top of the stairs. Their positioning made him appear even grander than he was, and Cedric seem just as small as he was feeling.

“Your Grace,” Newman said, making Cedric’s heart clench in joy and in fear, “Lady Cloudia would like to see you.”

There was a storm brewing within Cedric while Newman walked him to the room where Cloudia was resting. It tossed about everything within him, making his stomach flip, his heart race, his thoughts even more tangled. It summoned coldness through his body, numbing it, though it electrified him too, sending shocks through him, forcing him awake and alert again.

I was so excited, I was so afraid, to see her again.

“Mr Sainteclare is currently asleep,” Newman explained on the way. Cedric heard his words as if they were underwater, full and hammering against his head. “He categorically refused to rest throughout the entire night and disallowed the implementation of rotating shifts. Lisa had to lace his tea so that he would sleep at last.

“With nothing harmful, of course,” Newman added after a pause.

Cedric nodded numbly.

A moment later, they had already arrived. Newman knocked softly before he opened the door. Cedric’s heartbeat quickened. Newman said something he didn’t hear, and Lisa left the room right afterwards. She glanced at Cedric sideways before she walked down the corridor.

“You can go in now,” said Newman gently, gesturing inside the room.

The door behind him closed.

Cedric had seen Cloudia in a sickbed before, of course. Last year, not even a week after they had met, and almost two months ago. Both times, they had been on a mission – to the Salisbury Villa and the Witch’s Castle. Both times, he had had to carry her unconscious body out.

The first time, he had retrieved her from the debris after the Salisbury Villa had been destroyed. Mere days into their partnership, Cedric had not felt much when he had discovered her fainted form in the rubble besides relief that their adventures had not ended before they had truly begun. The second time, he had been panicked, rushing after her to the Witch’s Castle, not knowing how he would find her, and then discovering her driving her father’s dagger into a man’s chest with the last of her strength.

Both times, Cloudia had not been severely injured though. She had barely been wounded when the villa crumbled; she had only been unconscious for a few days thereafter. Cloudia had been worse for wear in the Witch’s Castle; however, the crux of Cedric’s worry had not stemmed from the wounds she had suffered in that place but from her strange attack that had made her faint and sleep in agony for days afterwards. And both times when Cedric had visited her after she had woken up, she had only been tired, but not too exhausted that she could not point a gun at him or do some light work in her anteroom.

Cloudia hadn’t looked like death as she did now.

The bed had been crafted of dark wood and elaborately carved and engraved. The blankets and pillows were in rich jewel tones, deep greens and purples, and embroidered with intricate flower patterns. The entire room was rich in colours, from the carpet and wallpapers to the furniture and décor.

Only Cloudia was devoid of any, as if all colours had bled out of her with her blood: Her dark hair had dulled, and it clung like dried ink to the pillows. Her skin was impossibly pale, almost translucent. Her eyes, usually a brilliant blue, now seemed black. Her presence was normally so sharp, so hard; now, her contours seemed to have been smudged, and she nearly faded into the pillows behind and the blankets above her.

It was such a surreal sight. To see his strong, lively Cloudia lying in that bed, looking so small, so pale, so endlessly fragile and frail.

Cedric hesitated at the door; he only dared to move when she lifted her right arm, beckoning him to her. He sat down on the chair placed at her side, clasped her right hand in his left one. Something inside him cooled, cracked, shattered when he felt how cold she was, when he noticed how small her hand seemed within his.

But, at the same time, I was overcome with warmth and joy, that I could hold her, be with her, still.

Cedric wanted to speak but both his mouth and the well in his mind within which words lay had dried out suddenly, so it was Cloudia who broke the silence first, not him.

“Am I dead yet?” she asked, the thinness of her voice and her chosen words sending a jolt through his body.

“No, you are alive, Countess,” Cedric replied, swallowing the “still” that tried to find its way into his speech.

“Then I must be dreaming,” Cloudia continued, and a small smile appeared on her lips. “Your hair looks clean.”

For a moment, Cedric was too stunned to speak. Then, he broke out into laughter. It was such a raw laugh, easing most of his mind at once, pushing the unease he had felt all night, all day long away with one fell swoop. Like sunshine after rain, or a flower blooming between cobblestones.

Cedric carefully squeezed her hand. “It looks clean because it is clean. I washed it thoroughly today, Countess.”

“To spook me?”

“No, to show you how it is meant to look.” With his free hand, he tugged on his ponytail, now shining silver, not dull grey. “Because I never did before, and I wanted you to know.”

Slight unease prickled in the back of his neck, and Cedric gently circled his thumb over Cloudia’s hand to soothe both him and her. “Countess, I am so…”

“Don’t,” Cloudia said quietly but firmly. Immediately, his sentence broke apart. “Don’t tell me that. Tell me instead: Why did you want me to know? About your hair?”

“Because you’ve told me so much of yourself, but I have never told you of me.”

“Because I’ve never told anyone, and I cannot imagine telling anyone but you.”

“Because I could not bear to lose you before I had found the strength to lay myself bare to you.”

The words were lying heavily on my tongue, but they all tasted wrong. Not like me, not like us.

Instead, I said…

“Countess, do you want to hear a fairy tale?”

Cloudia tilted her head slightly to the side, mustered him through dark eyes. She squeezed his hand. “Yes,” she said, and he began to speak.

***

Somewhere, England, Kingdom of Great Britain – March 1731

“It has been so long, but I still remember every detail of that day.

“The greyness of the sky, typical for England in spring. A grey, clear sky and meadows shining green and purple and yellow because the crocuses and daffodils were coming out, replacing the snowdrops of February.

“And I was sitting in such a field, on a little stool with an uneven leg, weaving basket after basket.”

Cedric Rossdale hated nothing more in life than braiding baskets, except sitting in front of a potter’s wheel, trying to form something worthwhile out of the clay and mostly dirtying and often ruining his clothes in the process. And having to sit in the marketplace all day. And standing next to his mother when they were out, and she was talking for “only one minute, only for one more minute” with an acquaintance.

However, out of all things, he hated seeing his parents put their heads together and whisper to each other, attempting to be secretive but being unable to fully conceal their concerned expressions and rushed voices, the most. Thus, Cedric kept on making basket after basket with a grumpy expression on his face.

The air was cool, and wind swept over the meadow, brushing against the blossoming flowers and his baskets, the assembled ones and the ones still in pieces. Cedric did not like doing this work while wearing gloves – they irritated him as he could not braid the willow rods precisely enough with them; and even if they wouldn’t hinder his work, he had worn through his last pair this past winter anyway. The snow had been so thick this time around; it had been an impossibility to stay inside. Cedric had not even minded the loss much then; after all, the beginning of spring was around the corner, and the first flowers had already popped out of the ground. It would grow warm, and gloves wouldn’t be necessary anymore. Now, as if to spite him personally, the air was so icy Cedric actually wished for once to wear gloves while weaving wicker baskets.

Annoying weather was one of the things he hated too. As was boredom. He had been sitting here alone for about an hour now. The braiding of baskets was a necessary activity, yes, but a painfully boring one too. Unless he had to figure out a solution because he had accidentally made a mistake and only noticed several rows too late, it was a mostly mindless activity after all.

Just as Cedric finished another basket, he heard the steps for which he had waited all along. He looked up, saw her running and waving, her short silver braid freeing itself from her bonnet as she dashed across the field.

“I had barely anyone to talk to those days. I played with other children my age when I encountered them on fields, courtyards, and marketplaces, though I did not really consider any of them my friends. My parents were a little wary of us interacting with others and wanted us to keep a certain distance from people, so it was mostly just my father, my mother, me…

“… and my older sister Cesca.”

***

Cloudia pressed Cedric’s hand once more. He smiled thinly at her before he continued.

***

“Cesca was my senior by three years. She was always dreaming, her mind drifting away to worlds of her own imagination and her body making her wander through all the fields of the area to see whether they were not true after all. It was difficult to catch her once she was outside. But no matter how far she ventured, how unknown the terrain, she would always find her way back home. Her clothes dirtier and her hair more windblown than when she left, but still smiling, always smiling.

“It was as if the outside was tugging on my sister, beckoning her to it. This usually meant that she would avoid her responsibilities to follow this call.”

“Ced! Ced!” Cesca yelled, her smile particularly bright against the backdrop of the grey sky. “There you are! I was looking for you!”

“Cesca,” Cedric said when she finally reached him, breathing heavily but still beaming. “Your braid has come loose.”

Cesca blinked in surprise and reached up, touching the now-loose curls that brushed against her shoulders and running her fingers through them. “I think I lost my hair ribbon,” she said. “Well, it can’t be helped then…”

Cedric procured a piece of string from his pocket and held it out to her. “Here, you go, Ces.”

Cesca looked at it for a moment before she took it with a sigh.

“Cesca took after our father – same face shape, same nose, same brown eyes, same beauty mark beneath the left one – while I took after our mother. Our hair, however, we both inherited from Mother; it was the only feature we shared, and my sister’s favourite physical trait of hers.

“‘We have hair like moonlight,’ she would often say in a dreamy voice. ‘Like out of a fairy tale.’

“If our mother hadn’t been so against it, she would wear it long and loose like other girls her age all the time. It pained her that she could not, but she understood why – not that it always prevented her from trying to break this rule.”

Cesca took off her bonnet and handed it to Cedric before she straightened her tousled hair with her fingers, the silver strands glinting even in the pale, weak light, and swiftly plaited it. Then, she put her bonnet back on again and shoved the braid into it.

With another sigh, Cesca let herself fall into the grass. Cedric nudged some of the willow rods towards her.

“I’m sorry for not helping out earlier,” she began and grabbed some of the rods and one of Cedric’s finished bases. “I saw a few white feathers earlier and... Do you remember the ‘Singing, Springing Lark,’ Ced? The feathers reminded me of that tale, and I could not help myself but to follow that trail – and then, it suddenly got so late! At least, I always find you so quickly; I could get to you in no time afterwards at least, but I am still terribly sorry. Were you terribly bored, Ceddie?”

Before Cedric could say anything, Cesca’s eyes fell to his hands. Suddenly, she sat up straighter with a jolt and started to search in her pockets, turning them inside out. “Aha!” Cesca exclaimed when she discovered a pair of threadbare gloves. With a smile on her face, she leaned forward and slipped the gloves on her little brother’s hands.

“It’s awfully cold today, is it not?” she asked, still smiling, and took Cedric’s hands in hers, rubbing them. “But that is England, I’m afraid. I heard there are places where it’s warm, really, truly warm, in March already, and places where it is warm all the time. I wonder how these places might be like; they sound like a dream, but dreams can be strange, can’t they? I had the weirdest one last night, I’m sure, but I barely remember it now. It’s such a pity, I would have loved to tell you all about it, Cedric.”

Cesca patted Cedric’s hands. “Now, they should be all warm again. Where were we?”

Cedric hesitated. “I’m sorry, Ces,” he said, doing his best to sound sheepish and embarrassed. “I forgot the ‘Singing, Springing Lark.’”

She chuckled. “That’s okay! I just tell it to you again.” Cesca then began to weave a basket and the story at once, beginning with “Once upon a time, there was a man who was about to set forth on a long journey…”

“There was little I hated more than basketry, and there was little I loved more than to hear my sister’s laughter while she told me one of her beloved fairy tales.”

***

“Together, and with Cesca’s fairy tales keeping the boredom at bay, we were soon finished. It was a bit of a struggle to carry all the baskets home, but I didn’t mind. Every time, one of the baskets slipped from our hands, I couldn’t even find the time to be annoyed because Cesca would immediately laugh and pick it up again.”

“When we arrived home, we stored the wicker baskets away, washed up, and went to prepare dinner.”

Cooking was a pain in every way. Peeling, washing, chopping, lighting a fire… it was all so very tedious, and yet another activity Cedric disliked, though he, of course, knew the necessity and importance of it all. Sometimes, necessary things are very, very annoying, Cedric thought as he chopped up some carrots for the stew. At least, they were inside now where it was wonderfully warm and not windy at all. Cesca had set up a fire while he had been washing up, and it was now crackling in the background.

Soon, all ingredients were prepared and put into a pot to be hung over the fire, and the aroma of stew began to fill the air. And as if they had been able to smell it, Cedric and Cesca’s parents returned home not long afterwards.

“My parents’ names were Cordelia and Jem. Father was a musician, owning a violin that had been passed down his family for a few generations. It was old but lovingly preserved and still sounded heavenly. He would play in town squares, fill-in for absent orchestra members, and provide music for small theatrical plays; once, he had even played for a nobleman and his wife. Still, he liked it best to play at home for his family. He did it that day; he finished his meal first and then fetched his violin to play us a song while we ate.

“Mother made all sorts of things to sell at the marketplace: baskets and ceramics, jam and clothing, depending on availability and feasibility. She would also occasionally help out as a kitchen maid at the manor of the rich merchant that lived up on the hill. She was allowed to take some of the leftovers home, not because the merchant was kind but because he was not, and his wife wanted to exert little acts of revenge and rebellion. Sometimes, the food my mother brought home could not be described as ‘leftovers’ anymore; last Christmas, the merchant’s wife handed out entire roasted chickens to the staff until she ran out of them. That day, Mother had been up on the hill again and returned with half a cake which was one of the rarest, most coveted leftovers she could get.

“Except for the grey sky and the cold temperature outside, it had been a perfect day.”

“Until the knock came, at least.”

Cesca had only just made her song request, “Lavender’s Blue,” when they heard a rapping at the door. They rarely received visitors and especially not so late in the evening which made the knock a very odd occurrence indeed. Cedric instinctively turned to look at his sister; just as he had thought, her brown eyes were sparkling with anticipation. She must be spinning through some possibilities in her head about who their late visitor could be and why they had come too.

Jem and Cordelia exchanged a brief glance before he set his violin carefully into its case and went to open the door and go outside to speak with their visitor there. Cedric’s mother was definitely straining to listen to what was being said. Cedric was doing that too; he could not make out any of the words though. Abruptly, Cordelia rose from the table and signalled Cesca to take Cedric and retreat to their room. Cedric knew that Cesca would have loved nothing more than to remain and find out what was going on, but he also knew that she knew that this particular order had to be followed without any questions and without protest.

Cedric had already moved towards their room on his own when Cesca reached him; still, she clasped her hand in his and pulled him the rest of the way, quietly and carefully closing the door behind them.

It was a small room; it provided just enough space for two beds and one commode that held their belongings and atop which rested a bowl with water. They crawled beneath Cesca’s bed, went so far back until their feet touched the wall. There, they stayed in silence, muffled voices reaching them through the thin walls.

Cedric soon began to shiver. Their bedroom was not heated unlike the main room, and the floor was cool, its coldness pressing against and reaching through the worn fabric of his clothes. But it was not the cold alone that made him shiver.

“Like Cesca, my mother wore her hair shoulder-long, braided it, and tucked it carefully under her bonnet or cap. 18 years before, my mother had left her home with nothing connecting her to it besides her silver, moonlit hair and a ring she kept on a string and wore close to her heart.”

“The day my parents were wed was an odd one, particularly because they had been complete strangers then. Nevertheless, whenever they would tell my sister and me that story, they would take each other’s hands and smile fondly at each other.”

“My mother was born Cordelia Larissa Towers, the younger child of a duke. She was born into a family of great wealth and power, never having to fear or need for anything. She wore the finest clothes, ate the most luscious dishes, saw the most dazzling places, danced at Queen Anne’s court… Cesca liked listening to Mother’s stories from her previous life even though Mother was mostly reluctant to part with any. She would always say that these stories were too old and felt strange as they did not quite belong to her anymore; they belonged to a version of her that could never be restored.

“She had an older brother, Kristopher. They grew up very close although he was six years older than her. They were each other’s best friends and support through boring social gatherings and dark, tearful nights alike.

“And then he died, suddenly and horribly, a week before his scheduled wedding day.”

“It had been a terrible accident; my mother’s brother, my uncle, had died trying to save another, and his death threw my mother’s family into great grief and disarray. For a few years, my grandfather had not been doing well financially. Kristopher’s wedding had been arranged with a rich heiress to save the family from ruin. His untimely death shattered these plans, and in its aftermath, my grandfather became obsessed with trying to find a wealthy match for my mother as well.

“Only she was still mourning her brother and had no mind for marriage then. Her father tried to be kind by allowing her to choose from a set of suitors he had hand-selected, but she rejected them all and behaved so badly in their vicinity that they did not want her anymore either. With every rejection, my grandfather became angrier and angrier until, in his rage and his grief, he decided that if his daughter did not wish to be married well by ‘choice,’ she should be married poorly by force.”

***

“Your grandfather was a bastard,” Cloudia said, making Cedric smile. “Did you ever have to meet him?”

“No, I never did, and I’m glad for it.”

***

“My father had passed their manor by chance that day. And when my grandfather heard him play his violin, he invited him inside and made him marry my mother. My father went along with it because he was threatened and because he had realised that it might be better for my mother to be away from home, if home was like that. They were wed under duress, and my mother was kicked out of the only home and life she had ever known.

“Together, my parents returned to my father’s hometown where he explained to her that they did not have to remain married. Just because they were married against their will, they did not have to stay together against it as well. Divorce was an expensive impossibility, so they could merely go their separate ways, hiding the fact that they were ever wed. However, because my mother’s entire life had just been upturned, and she had no one but this stranger, she asked if she could stay with him for now. My father agreed, and they lived as married housemates for a while.”

“During that time, my mother tried to reach out to her friends, or to the people she believed to have been that. As she was now a poor fiddler’s wife, they ignored her. Only her Italian friend after whom my mother eventually named my sister answered her letters and offered support. She would update Mother about her father who had since understood the gravity of his actions and tried to get his daughter back. My mother, however, refused. While living together as mere housemates, my parents had fallen in love with each other and got married again on their terms. They moved away to get away from my grandfather; solely my mother’s best friend knew about their location, and she never handed it out to anyone.”

“My grandfather died when I was a baby. He had been able to regain his wealth in the years between; still, he had died as a broken and sad creature all alone.

“From her friend, Mother had heard of her father’s passing – and of his will too. He had left everything to her. The properties, the money, the title too. My mother never went to claim any of it, but she did not renounce it either. She also knew from her friend that her distant cousins were looking for her to convince her to return and give them the chance to get their hands on the family inheritance, either by forcing her to renounce her claim or by marriage. Hence, we kept on moving, kept mostly to ourselves, and kept our hair colour – the trait that revealed us as members of the ducal Towers family – hidden.”

Cesca took her brother’s hand, breaking him out of his anxious reverie. “Do you want to hear a fairy tale?” she whispered.

Cedric blinked at her and nodded.

“Once upon a time,” Cesca began, keeping her voice low and her grip tight. Cedric closed his eyes. “Once upon a time, there was a man and a woman who wished for nothing else as dearly as they wished for a child, and when their wish was finally fulfilled, they were overcome with joy. The pair lived across a witch who possessed a garden where she grew the most beautiful flowers and herbs…”

Eventually, they fell asleep under the bed, telling and listening to stories. It was still dark outside when their parents entered their room, gently pulled them out of their hiding place and woke them up. Or, rather, they had to wake Cedric up who always slept deeper than his sister and was not as animated by curiosity; Cesca, on the other hand, had woken up the instant Cordelia and Jem had come in. Thus, it was her, not Cedric, who asked, “Who was that at the door? What’s going on?” when they had all returned to the kitchen table.

Jem and Cordelia exchanged a quick glance before he began to speak, and she pressed her lips into a thin line.

“As it turned out, my mother was not the only one of my parents with noble lineage. My father had never known his father and had solely been raised by his mother. He, we, did not even bear his father’s surname.

“My father had been born as James Brennan. When my parents had decided to marry properly, they had also chosen to discard their surnames – Towers and Brennan – for another so that it would be harder for my mother’s relatives to find them. At the same time, they did not want to pick a completely unrelated surname. In the end, they settled on ‘Rossdale’ which came from my maternal grandmother’s maiden name ‘Rosendale.’”

“The man at the door had come to tell Father about his father: He had been a gentleman of the gentry and had died nearly a year before. Although he had had three legitimate sons, they had all predeceased them. Thus, he had to acknowledge in his will that he had had a son out of wedlock with Willa Morgan, a scullery maid, who would inherit everything and become his successor. Because Father had changed his surname, the man, the executor of my grandfather’s will, had only been able to find us now, with great strain and effort.

“Cesca’s eyes had grown wider with every word, whereas I had only grown more worried with each one. Our parents told us they did not know what to do yet; they wanted to verify the correctness of the information that was given to them first. Father would search through the belongings his mother had left behind for anything that could support this claim, and they would meet with the executor to check the will too.”

“We went to bed long past midnight. When my mother tugged me in and kissed my forehead, all I could focus on was the worry and reluctance that were etched into her face and eyes and that she had failed to hide.

“I thought about that still when my eyes grew heavy and I drifted into sleep, with my sister’s excited whispers in my ear.”

***

“In the end, it all turned out to be true. My father’s father had been part of the gentry and had indeed willed him everything. My parents had seen the written will and been briefly to the manor; apparently, a painting hung there of my grandfather, and his resemblance to my father was uncanny enough to confirm the blood relation. Father had also discovered an old diary of my grandmother’s; while she had never written down my grandfather’s name or occupation, the vague details and the given timeline fit with everything the executor of the will provided.

“Afterwards, my parents sat down and talked long and thoroughly about what to do next. Their whispers reached through the thin walls of our home, allowing Cesca to listen a little and preventing me from sleeping. In the end, it was decided not to accept the inheritance. We were doing well enough without it, and my mother had her reservations about re-entering that world, even if it was a significantly lower “tier” than she had been born into. Cesca was sad but understanding at the news, but I knew that she was hoping that our parents would change their minds.

“The executor was hoping the same. He did not allow Father to sign away his inheritance and kept pestering us.”

***

Somewhere, England, Kingdom of Great Britain – May 1731

“Nevertheless, the king had not been content yet. Thus, he brought the miller’s daughter to an even larger room filled to the brim with straw and told her that she must, yet again, spin all that straw into gold throughout the night; if she does, he will take her as his wife and queen, but if she does not, he will take her life, like he had threatened her that very first night.

“That night, the girl wept again, though harder than before as she had not nothing to offer to the little man anymore if he were to arrive and help her out again. This night, she thought, will be my last one. When the little man appeared once more, offering to spin the straw in the room into gold, the miller’s daughter told him that she had nothing to give him in exchange. To her surprise, he did not leave but said, ‘Then promise me, after you are queen, that you will give me your first child.’ The miller’s daughter agreed, both because she was afraid of death and because one could never know what life might bring her; she might never bear a child at all…”

Cesca’s words wove through the air as Cedric and his sister were sitting in the field braiding wicker baskets again. The sky had lost its greyness today and shone in a brilliant, clear blue. The sun was hanging high; its light warm enough that Cedric and Cesca did not need gloves or even jackets today. With their fingers warmed by sunshine and fairy tales keeping them company, they went through the willow in record time.

When they were done, they picked up all their freshly made baskets and brought them home. This time, Cedric only dropped one basket on the way; Cesca still laughed and picked it up immediately as she always did.

Their mother was already home when they returned. The merchant and his wife were not in residence; they rarely were in May and in the months afterwards because of the Season that drew the nobility and gentry away from the countryside to London like birds of passage. This meant that the great manor up the hill was largely empty for these months and did not require any extra hands. It also meant no extra food or rare slices of cake which saddened and upset Cedric, though he did his best not to let this show. After all, ever since the day his grandfather’s, the gentry gentleman’s, executor had knocked on their door, the air at their home had shifted. That man did not want to leave them alone, and no one could understand why. Cedric’s parents were currently considering moving which saddened and upset Cedric too. After all, they had been here for nearly three years, the longest they had ever stayed in one place.

“Lunch isn’t ready yet,” said Cordelia after giving each of her children a kiss on the head. “You can go outside and play until it is; only don’t go too far away, please, my loves.”

Cedric and Cesca nodded before they rushed out of the door. They headed to the back of their little house. They did not have a garden – there was no one who had the time to tend to it – but there was lots of open space that was fantastic for running around and playing. On one of her expeditions a few days ago, Cesca had found a ball and brought it home. It was a bit worn but still intact, and after a quick clean, it looked almost new.

Cesca and Cedric kicked the ball around, threw it to each other, let it bounce on the ground which did not work well because of the ball’s material and the ground’s unevenness; nonetheless, it was fun to try. Cedric’s sister giggled throughout it all.

“Ced! Catch this!” Cesca called and kicked the ball, albeit a little too hard. It flew up high and far, and Cedric and Cesca watched its trajectory with stunned faces. The ball had been impossible to catch, of course. When it finally reached the ground, it kept on rolling, and Cedric ran after it to retrieve it. He closed the distance between himself and the ball fairly quickly and he was only one, two steps away from getting it…

… when the ground beneath him gave away.

For a moment, time stood still, and he was hovering in the air. Then, time and gravity returned, pulling Cedric down harshly. He hit walls and walls as he descended, rotated a little too as he did. Only when he reached the ground and stopped falling, he could even try to figure out what had just happened to him and where he was.

Cedric looked up; even this simple movement brought about great pain. He must have cuts and bruises all over his body, agony was radiating from his right leg and his left arm, and his head was spinning. He had been so focused on the ball that he had not seen the hole in front of him and promptly fallen in.

“Ced, Ceddie – Cedric!” He heard his sister’s panicked voice mere moments before he saw her face. Wide-eyed and pale-faced, Cesca gazed down at him, the bright May sun making her silver hair shine; she must have lost her bonnet in the hurry to get to him.

“Cedric!” Cesca exclaimed. “Are you okay?”

“I–” Cedric shifted a little and winced. “I’m alive, but…”

“Don’t worry! I need to leave you alone for a moment, please don’t panic, will you, Ced? Ced – I am sorry… I am so sorry… I… I will only leave for a moment to go and get Mama and…” Without finishing her sentence, Cesca vanished from the hole above, leaving Cedric all alone below.

“It took hours and the help of several villagers to get me out of the hole safely because I had been too hurt to grab a rope and climb up and because the pit was too narrow and too deep for anyone to pull me up or to come down to help me. They had to carefully dig their way to me, digging around the hole to make it larger without collapsing it by accident and burying me alive.

“It was a great victory, and nothing short of a miracle, for everyone involved when I was finally out of the hole. I was bombarded with hugs and met with many tears. My rescue could not be immediately celebrated though: I had broken my right leg and my left arm in the fall, and our physician was in the next village over and unable to return just yet. I was bandaged up by others as best as they could and put in my bed. My parents stayed at my side all night long; my sister had too until sleep had overtaken her.”

“The next day, by noon, the physician returned to our village and came to see me. However, he was neither a bone-setter nor a surgeon, and my ailment was out of his expertise. My father, who was well-connected because of his occupation, asked around until he found a bone-setter – but he was asking for a sum so high we could not afford it. Meanwhile, I had developed a fever and was getting worse with every day.”

“Thus, when my grandfather’s executor of will knocked on our door again, my parents decided to make a deal with the devil.”

***

Cedric closed his eyes, the fear and the anger and the guilt from all these years ago hitting him like a tidal wave. It was as if it had happened yesterday, not when he was eleven years old: the broken bones, the scalding fever, being lifted into a carriage that would take him away from the little house that had been his home to a manor that was too big, too cold, too far away…

Cloudia squeezed his hand, pulling the wave back ever so slightly. He opened his eyes again, looked into hers that were so dark and without shine but, nonetheless, full of steadfast reassurance. After one more moment of silence, Cedric took up the thread again and continued.

***

“I could not tell you how much time had passed between the knock and the breaking of my fever. I only knew that I had been in my own bed when I went to sleep and found myself in a stranger’s when I awoke.

“Cesca had been at my side when I did. She had jumped up and down at the sight of me and called for someone to go fetch our parents and the doctor before she had burst into tears and told me all, though I could barely make out any of her words between her sobbing and my drowsy state.

“My mother later explained everything to me in detail, in a calm and clear voice, but with her hand tightly clutching my uninjured one: Father had taken up his inheritance so that we could afford to get a good surgeon for me. The executor of the will had been overjoyed and recommended one with glowing praise, praise that had not been misplaced, to all of our fortune. The surgeon who came from a long line of surgeons had treated me exceptionally well.

“Mother must have sensed my dread too because she added, looking right into my eyes and kissing my head, that this was a choice that had come naturally to them, one they would make a thousand times over as long as it guaranteed my, and my sister’s, safety.”

“Even after I had beat the fever, I was bed-bound for six weeks. Mother would read to me, and Father would play songs on his violin to cheer me up when they found the time. Cesca went in and out of my room all the time; she was exploring the manor and its immediate surroundings and reporting back to me in detail, her recounting of her days and descriptions of each room replacing her fairy tale recitations. And when my bones had healed and I could move again, Cesca wasted no time taking my hand and pulling me from room to room, telling me everything she had told me before but with more pointing and demonstrating. It took a few months longer until she dragged me outside to show me everything there too.”

***

Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – August 1731

Basketry and pottery had been tasks of importance; Cedric had done them not because he took great joy in the process but because he gained great relief with the result. Still, he would have never imagined that he would, one day, genuinely miss these activities, but this was exactly what he did as he stared down at the table setting in front of him.

A lot had changed in the last few months. Accepting an inheritance like Jem’s was not done and over so easily; one could not take the money and the importance and lean back and do nothing at all for the rest of their life. No, being lord of an estate meant governing it too, not just live off it. Everything had to be organised neatly and run smoothly, or everything would go off-balance and not only damage one’s standing with their vassals but jeopardise their and one’s own entire likelihood. Cedric’s father who had, obviously, never been taught how to run an estate had to learn everything rapidly and was, therefore, rarely seen by his children these days. Cordelia too had turned into a ghost who would only be seen in the morning at the breakfast table and felt at night when one was almost embraced by sleep. No matter how busy she was, she would never miss giving her children a kiss goodnight. And she was tremendously busy indeed: Because Jem did not know how to run everything yet, most of the work fell to his wife. While she had never been formally instructed in these matters either, Cordelia had grown up in these circles, had always listened intently whenever her brother had spoken about any administrative matter to her, and sometimes even snuck to read the documents herself. However, because Cordelia did not want her lineage to become public in any way – for the executor, the instructors, and the staff, she was nothing but a mere commoner who had “made a lucky marriage” – she had to hide her input and her work which was tiresome work in itself too.

And though Cedric could not understand the fuss about all these different types of cutlery – would one knife, one spoon, one fork not be enough? Why the many variations? –, he still did his best to study the setting. It did not bring him any personal joy, but like making pots and weaving baskets, it relieved his parents which was enough motivation for him. This was a difficult time of change for them all; Cedric could not be the only one who would be left behind or even contribute to making this time even more difficult than it already was.

Thus, when the teacher asked about which piece of cutlery was used for what, Cedric rattled everything down what he had learned. Having been bedridden for weeks had been useful for one thing at least. Cesca had brought him new reading material whenever he had finished his last, and Cedric had been stunned that the well of books would not dry up; the books came and came without end. What place is this that holds so many books? he had wondered. There must be more books here than in our entire old village. And so many books on etiquette alone.

Reading had never been one of Cedric’s great favourite activities either; reading etiquette books in particular was a special kind of boring, but it was, yet again, another task of importance and necessity. Therefore, he did it without complaint. Cesca, on the other hand, had not even finished one of those books.

She was sitting opposite Cedric on this long table, with an identical table setting spread out in front of her. The teacher asked her questions too, though Cesca strained to answer half of them and found none at all for the other half. Her eyes kept flickering to the grand windows, to the outside that must be beckoning her. Cedric wished he could help her, whisper the correct answers to her; he would have done so if they had not been seated so far apart. In a classroom of two, cheating was already difficult enough.

Eventually, the teacher let them go with a sigh and a scolding for Cesca to brush up on her studies. Cesca smiled brightly at him before she jumped out of her chair – this resulted in yet another sigh and scolding – and went to take Cedric’s hand, dragging him out of the room and out of the manor and into the sunshine.

“I don’t know what the fuss is about,” Cesca said when they sat down under a big tree in their even bigger garden. Cedric still could not believe that this grand place was all theirs. He and Cesca kept stumbling over nooks and crannies they had not seen before in the three-story manor, and Cedric knew that his sister hadn’t left the perimeter of their garden yet – possibly for the same reason too. Exploring the orchard alone had eaten an entire afternoon. Cedric did not even dare to fathom how large the rest of their estate was when their personal home was already so vast.

“It’s just cutlery. Mama said we would not attend any dinner parties anytime soon too. I would be more eager to learn if we were invited to one, but well… What does it all matter if it is just us?” Cesca ran her fingers through her hair, untangling some knots in the process.

“Our hair had undergone a great change as well. Because we were not living as commoners in a small village anymore, we had to follow the rules of propriety more closely. I could not wear my hair shaved close to my head anymore, and my mother and sister could not wear theirs barely shoulder-long too. And because my sister was 14, she had not quite reached the age to pin her hair up and hide it as well.

“Growing out her hair and wearing it loose, even if it was only for a few months or a year at most, had greatly excited Cesca. It had been her dream for so long, to wear her moonlit hair as she wanted. Mother, of course, did not approve. Our silver hair betrayed our Towers lineage after all; Mother’s father had not been dead nor the duchy inactive long enough for anyone to have forgotten us. Therefore, we three had to apply a poultice to our hair that dulled the moonlight silver to a shineless grey. Cesca had been upset, of course, while I had not minded. I was only a little annoyed that the poultice was difficult to wash out and apply, and I was caught off-guard every time I passed a mirror or saw my mother and sister, as we now looked so differently to before.”

“We are mannerly enough; Mama taught us well,” Cesca continued and let herself fall into the grass. Cedric was sure that he could hear some exasperated gasps from maids in the distance. “We do not burp. We do not eat with our feet. We know to hold our food in honour, to not waste any and eat well and gratefully. Isn’t that what is important? I’m sure plenty of people do not know what a fish fork looks like and they still do perfectly well…”

Cedric nodded. “I know, but that just seems to be the way things are done here.”

“I know but it is a stupid way nonetheless.” Cesca sighed and sat up again. She glanced back at the house where the dance instructor was looming menacingly in the doorway. “I think it is time for our next lesson, Ced,” Cesca said and jumped up. She took her brother’s hand, pulled him up, but did not let go just yet; instead, their hands remained folded together all the way back to the manor and up to the dance room.

“I am so glad,” Cesca said on the way, holding her brother’s hand tight, “that we have each other at least.”

***

“The days passed slowly and mechanically: Cesca and I had set times for everything – getting up, eating, lessons, going to sleep, even free time was pre-planned and scheduled. If Cesca had not been so hell-bound to protest this, turning every five-minute pause into a brief run outside, joking throughout lessons, slipping into my room and bed at night to tell me the stories she could not tell anymore at daytime, every day would have been the exact same.

“Summer changed into autumn. And with the fall of the leaves, something inside our home seemed to fall too.”

“The shift came gradually. I did not notice that anything was amiss right away; I was too absorbed in my studies to recognise that something had changed – was changing.”

***

Cloudia snorted.

***

“I only noticed that something must be painfully wrong at the Christmas party. It was the first social event that we would be hosting, and my parents poured their all into making it a success. The news of the party ignited something within my sister. From one day to the other, she was as studious as she had said she would be on that August day. Cesca would give her input on colours and décor too, and Mother would listen to what she said, vetoing some suggestions and implementing others.

“Our house was bustling with activity in the weeks leading up to the party. Cesca’s and my schedules were amended for it too, extending some lessons and temporarily dropping others.”

“The day of the party, we greeted the guests. They had been selected with the help of our head butler who had served my grandfather for decades and knew all these people well. Cesca and I could stay for dinner, showing off our good manners and our good conversational skills, but had to retreat to our rooms for the rest of the evening. Naturally, my sister grabbed my hand, and we hid on the mezzanine all evening, observing the guests and the happenings.

“At first glance, everything was normal. The party seemed just like one described in the countless etiquette books. Whereas my sister was focused on the guests and what they wore and did, my focus was on our parents. It was my father’s first big social event, and my mother’s first one after so long; they must be as nervous as I felt, I was sure of it. I could not read any of that on their faces though, not at first at least. Eventually, I saw shadows briefly hushing over their faces, their body language shifting ever so slightly, all while they kept on smiling and talking as if nothing was wrong.

“But I knew that something was. And that this something was not simply mere nerves, though I could not classify what it was exactly just then.”

***

Somewhere, Scotland, Kingdom of Great Britain – February 1732

After the Christmas party, everything returned to its previous rhythm. What had been their “new” normality barely a year ago had turned into normality: Getting up early in the morning to be dressed and fed for the day which was filled to the brim with lessons, some of which Cedric had with Cesca (dance, manners, history, music), others which they took separately, i.a. embroidery (Cesca) and kingcraft and hunting (Cedric). Life was strictly clocked, and eventually the events of the Christmas party – what Cedric had observed there in particular – were worn away by the mechanics of life.

Cedric threw himself into his studies and spent more time in the library than in his own room, all while something withered away within him.

He missed his sister so much, more than he had missed anything else before.

Cedric did not miss her physical presence; he saw her every day after all: She was still here, in this manor, and her room was still right next to his. Cedric missed her: He missed Cesca making grimaces at him when their teacher turned their back on them. He missed her bright smile and her jokes. He missed sitting under trees with her and running through the shrubbery in their fine clothes.

Cesca had turned 15 last month. Not only her wardrobe and her hair – from loose down to braided up – had undergone shifts – she had too. Not from one day to the next, but gradually. Her smiles and jokes grew more infrequent with every day. The outside did not seem to call to her like it used to. Cesca had changed; she had not become hard, only different in a way Cedric did not like, but knew was necessary. She was not a child anymore; some of their teachers even began speaking of her social debut.

This was how things were – should be, had to be.

At least, despite it all, Cesca was still there. She did not make him laugh anymore, but her hand was in his whenever it was possible. She did not tell him fairy tales anymore, but she still slipped into his bed at night.

Unless they got dressed or had separate lessons, they were always together.

While Cedric was not happy about the rest of the changes, he was glad about this. Like she had said all those months ago, at least they had each other.

These days, this had become even more important, for they barely saw their parents now.

At the breakfast table, it was now only just Cedric and Cesca. At night, Cedric struggled staying awake, just in case Cordelia appeared to give him a goodnight kiss, though she never did anymore. In-between, they passed each other in the passageways, exchanged quick words, small smiles. It was almost as if their parents were not living here at all.

Without Cesca’s laughter and Jem’s music drifting through the air, without all of them coming together to eat and talk and be with one another, every day was grey and bleak.

There must be a reason for this, Cedric kept telling himself. Mother and Father’s aloofness must be a necessity too, for one reason or another. They would never do this to us if it was not necessary.

With this thought circulating in his head again and playing with the ring around his neck, Cedric wandered through the manor to the library.

The ring was gold set with a see-through stone and too big on him. It had been his mother’s, and Cordelia had worn it on a cord around her neck for nearly twenty years until she had given it to Cedric on New Year’s Eve. Because the Christmas holidays had been overtaken with the party, they had decided to celebrate the holidays late but intimately on their own on December 31 instead. The New Year’s days had been the last ones on which they had all come together: They had eaten in the smallest drawing room instead of in the grand dining hall. They had exchanged gifts and stories and played games. Jem had taken out the violin which he hadn’t been able to play in months. Cesca had played it a little too so that their parents could dance as well. It had almost been as if they were back in their little village house.

Towards the end of the night, right before it was time to head to bed, Cordelia had called her son to him

“I wanted to wait until you’re older to give it to you,” she had said, “but so much has changed, and this moment is better than no other.” Cordelia had taken out the ring, polished and shining as if it were brand new. The gemstone was clear, but the lock of hair within shimmered silver. “It used to be my brother’s,” she had explained, and Cedric had perked up his ears because his mother talked so seldom about his uncle. “Albeit only very briefly. Father gave it to him a month before his wedding as he wanted to give it to him early and under joyous circumstances; it is our family ring and would have otherwise and appropriately become my brother’s upon our father’s death after all.”

Cordelia had held the ring out to Cedric then. “Now, I want to give it to you, as my son and heir, under joyous circumstances too.”

Cedric let the ring vanish under his clothes when he noticed a movement. He sighed in relief upon noticing that it was only Cesca who was coming with a rapid speed from the East Wing. Cedric frowned. She should be coming from the West Wing as she just had embroidery lessons there; what had she been doing in the East Wing? When their eyes met, Cesca slowed, and something in her face told him that this was not the first time she had done whatever she had done. Then, she had dashed away, leaving him behind, alone and confused.

A butler passed by a moment later, and when he noticed Cedric standing perplexed in the middle of the corridor, he asked, “Mr Cedric, are you all right? Pardon me, but you look a little pale – shall I prepare some tea for you?”

Cedric nodded slowly. “Yes, please, thank you. Do you mind bringing it to the library? I was on my way there.”

“I do not mind anything, Mr Cedric,” said the butler and bowed. “I will go and prepare the tea at once.”

Indeed, the butler arrived in the library not long after Cedric did. His thoughts had been so tangled, he had got a little lost inside the building for the first time in months. Cedric thanked the butler for the tea and the biscuits and dismissed him before he flipped open a book and began to read.

Cesca was waiting in the doorsill when Cedric left the library an hour later, and the rest of the day, she stuck to his side like she always did. Cedric wanted to ask what she had been up to but never voiced the question out loud. If Ces wanted me to know, he thought, she would tell me.

That evening, right after Cedric got ready for bed and the butler had vanished into the corridor, Cesca slipped into his room. They huddled together on his bed, and he put his head on her lap.

“Ceddie,” Cesca said in her soothing, melodic voice and ran her fingers gently through his hair, “do you know the fairy tale of the prince who sought immortality?”

The question, once so familiar and common, now startled Cedric. He welcomed it nevertheless as he had missed it so, his sister’s storytelling.

“I don’t,” Cedric replied, and this time it had not been a lie to make her continue. He genuinely did not know that fairy tale.

“Truly? It is my favourite, but if you don’t know it, I will tell it to you, of course, Ced,” Cesca said. Cedric closed his eyes. “There was once a prince who feared nothing more than death, and for that reason, he embarked on a journey to find immortality. He wandered through all the lands and met the king of the eagles, the bald-headed king, and the Blue Kingdom’s queen. They and their relatives were all meant to live for hundreds, even a thousand years and offered the prince to marry into their families to become as long-living as them. However, the prince only wanted true, eternal immortality and continued his journey without faltering until he found the Land of Immortality. He stayed for a thousand years which felt, to him, like mere six months.

“Then, he went to the Queen of Immortality and told her he wanted to visit his parents; he had forgotten the true passage and strength of time. Still, he insisted to go. The Queen let him go and gifted him with two flasks for his journey. The first one contained water which will bring death to anyone, whereas the second one was filled with water that will bring life to anyone. With the two flasks around his neck – silver for death, and gold for life – the prince thanked the Queen of the Immortals and went on his journey home.

“The king of the eagles, the bald-headed king, and the Blue Queen had all been cursed with longevity, but with a clear deadline: The eagle king and his family members would only be immortal until he could uproot a great tree which would take him 600 years. The bald-headed king and his family could only die in 800 years when he had managed to dig away a whole mountain, and the Queen of the Blue Kingdom, the mist-veiled queen, had to wear away a pair of needles for her and her relatives to be able to perish – a task that would take her a thousand years.

“Now, with a thousand years having passed since the prince had visited them all, they – the eagle king, the bald-headed king, and the mist-veiled queen – were now all dead. One by one, the prince revisited his old friends. One by one, he revived them with the water from the well of life, and each of them thanked him profusely for waking them up and promised to repay him one day.

“At last, the prince arrived in the kingdom where he had been born, but not only were his parents long dead, his castle was gone as well, replaced with a great sulphur lake. Saddened, the prince turned to leave – and ran into Death who had searched for him for a thousand years, but the prince was still not willing to die. Using a gift he had received on his journey to the Immortal Lands, he summoned the bald-headed king, the king of the eagles, and the mist-veiled queen of the Blue Kingdom who arrived instantaneously and seized Death.

“They were able to hold him back until the prince was almost back in the Land of Immortality. Just as he set one foot into it, Death appeared behind him and grasped his other leg. With one foot in the land of the living and the dying and the other in the land of the eternal and, thus, belonging equally in both, the Queen of Immortality and Death made a wager: She would throw the prince into the air. If he landed on her side, he would be hers forever and continue living for eternity, and if he landed on Death’s side, he would perish like he had been meant to be.

“The Queen of Immortality then flung the prince high into the air. When he descended, it seemed as if he would fall into the Land of Immortality, but then a light wind came that swayed him towards the wall. Just when the prince was about to fall over the wall and into Death’s land, the Queen grabbed him and threw him into her castle. With the prince secured, the Queen instructed her servants to cast Death out of her land; they complied and banished him with such hard blows that Death never dared to show his face again in the Land of the Immortals.”

Right after Cesca had finished talking and right before Cedric fell asleep, there was a knock at the bedroom door. Cesca gently shook her brother so that he would not sleep just now and told whoever was outside to come in. It was a maid who was bringing them some evening tea. “For good sleep,” she said as she handed out the cups with the hot brown liquid.

Cedric, his head dulled from sleepiness, nodded thankfully and received the cup with half-open eyes. He drank his tea and then rested his head on his pillow. He did not know what was with Cesca, whether she had left his room or stayed, for he soon drifted away into dreams filled with princes, queens, and death.

***

When Cedric woke up, he was not in his bed anymore. Nor in his room or in the manor, or even inside. He opened his eyes and saw the crowns of trees, brilliant green and thick with leaves in summer, now thin and skeletal against a grey, dark sky.

With a start, Cedric sat up. He had lain on a thick blanket, with another draped on him, and someone had changed him out of his night attire and into outdoor clothing. He patted his face in disbelief, pinched his side but felt pain. No, this was not a dream. He had indeed fallen asleep in his warm bed in the grand manor and awoken in the middle of a forest.

“Good, you’re awake.”

Cedric nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the voice even though he had instantly recognised it. He craned his head and spotted his sister leaning against a tree. She was dressed in thick, warm clothes as he was, and only when Cedric saw Cesca, did he notice that there was another set of blankets next to his. Cesca knelt on the discarded pile, her brown eyes as serious as he had never seen before as she stared into his. Cedric almost backed away from the intensity with which she regarded him.

“Mama and Papa brought us here,” Cesca said softly but firmly. “They put something in the tea to make us fall asleep so deeply that we would not wake up when they redressed us and carried us here.”

“But why?” asked Cedric, clutching his blanket. “Why would they do this?”

Cesca paused. “I am not sure,” she said at last. She turned her head, nodded behind them. “They left us here, close to the edge of the forest. I briefly went to check where we were, and there seems to be a village close-by.”

“Then, we should go there and enquire how to get home.”

“We don’t need to do this.” Cesca looked into Cedric’s eyes again. “I know the way back.”

Cedric stared at his sister. His wild sister who had always been drawn to the outside, to nature. His sister who had always found her way back home, no matter where she had run off to. Cedric had great faith in his sister, but she had changed since their harmonious, wandering days and had not been able to explore the area as much as she had desired in the months before. Cesca must have read the doubt in his eyes as she then opened her hand to reveal a couple of small, polished white stones.

“I collected and cleaned them beforehand,” Cesca admitted quietly. “I put them in a little pouch which I took with me when I came to your room. I hid it under a pillow, and when they were done changing my clothes and shifted their focus on you, I sneakily took the pouch and stuffed it into my pocket.”

Cedric blinked in puzzlement. “But you said the tea…”

“… was laced, yes.” Cesca looked down. “I knew beforehand and only pretended to drink it. I spit it out into a pot when the maid left the room.”

“But how did you…”

Cesca lifted her head again, and the expression in her eyes silenced Cedric at once. And at once, he understood: The faint strangeness of the Christmas party; Cesca must have noticed it too, must have noticed more than he ever did. Her change in behaviour, her increased need to be at his side.

Cesca had known this would happen one day.

That their parents would abandon them.

Cold and bile rose within Cedric, and he tightened his grip on the blanket.

Cesca leaned forward, wrapped her arms around her little brother. “It will be fine,” she whispered into his ear. “It will be fine. We will return to the manor and to our parents. It will be fine. We will be fine, Ced.”

Cedric returned the embrace, hugged his sister tight. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew that this too had to be a necessity for one reason or another.

Because any other thought, any other explanation, was too cruel to bear.

Hand in hand, Cedric and Cesca wandered through the forest, following the path of shining white stones Cesca had left behind. They did not exchange any words. There was nothing to say, nothing that could be said to make this situation more endurable. They had each other, held tight to each other. That was all the soothing they had left.

They walked and walked. Cedric could not tell for how long or how far they went. Neither the slate grey sky nor the hollowness in his stomach ever changed; they remained as unchanged as if time had ceased to move.

They passed glades and streams, heard animals rush through the woods and over the dead, frozen leaves. At no point did they ever stop, to eat, to drink, to rest. They were too anxious to do anything else but to keep moving forward.

Forward and forward and forward until…

… they reached the manor house.

And when they did, they halted at once. Stared and stared. Tightened their grip on each other.

For there was no grand manor there at all anymore.

Before them were nothing but its burned ruins.

***

Paris, Seine, France – June 1848

They held each other’s hand in silence for a while. And it was all they needed, all they wanted, all they could do, and though it seemed so little, it was more than enough.

Then, the door flew open.

As if they had been caught doing something more, Cedric quickly slipped his hand out of Cloudia’s as Kamden stepped to his sister’s side. Apart from the hair tousled from sleep, he looked the same as the last time Cedric had seen him today.

“Clou-Cloudie,” Kamden said, his voice cracking a little. “How are you?”

“Just a little tired,” Cloudia answered and glanced at Cedric. It seemed as if she wanted to say something; unfortunately, Kamden followed her gaze.

“I think it would be best if you could leave now and allow her to rest,” he said. Kamden kept the ice out of his voice but not out of his eyes.

“I will go then,” Cedric replied and got up. He reached out but ultimately refrained from patting Cloudia’s hand. “See you later, Countess,” he said, and she gave him a small, crooked smile before her eyes fluttered shut.

The door shut behind him, and Cedric was alone in the corridor again. This time, however, he felt lighter than before.

Circling his left palm with his thumb, he walked back to the bedroom he had spent the night in. He did not know if there had been any official room assignment, but that room was “his” by his own definition.

And if Cecelia was unhappy about this, she could complain to me about it.

“Not-Kristopher, do you have a moment?”

Cedric flinched before he turned to look into Cecelia’s amused, quizzical face. She was standing on the threshold to a room whose door had been closed before. Beckoning him to follow her with a wave of her hand, Cecelia vanished into the room. Cedric followed her a second later with a sigh.

He found himself in yet another drawing room, only this one was significantly larger and grander than the one downstairs.

Oscar was still there though, as was Barrington who was glaring at him from the opposite end of the parlour.

Cecelia sat down on a heavily embroidered chaise longue and clapped her hands together. “Perfect! Now, that we are all here, what did you have to say, Barrington?”

While Barrington cleared his throat, Cedric let himself drop into an armchair. He didn’t wish to stay too long with them but knew that this conversation could potentially span hours. At least, this meeting did not seem to be about room designations.

“I hope you all recall the fact that Oscar is an officially dead criminal,” Barrington began.

“Of course, and how I wish for it to be actually true,” remarked Cecelia with a sorrowful sigh.

Cedric nodded. Oscar did not even bat an eye at his colleagues’ words.

“For that reason, he cannot be around outsiders,” Barrington continued. “No one but a select few can know that he is still alive. Right now, there are several outsiders in this building. Aurèle and Jacques Beauchene, the Salisbury boy, that engineer Thibault, and that gloomy clockmaker – what was his name again…”

“Florentin Chastain,” said Cedric.

“Ah, right, Chastain. Thank you,” replied Barrington with a nod. “The Salisbury boy is still knocked out, and Chastain has hidden himself somewhere in this house, but they will wake up and come out at some point. I caught Aurèle Beauchene suspiciously eying Oscar already, and the engineer has been trying to strike conversations with Oscar, though I cannot imagine why… It’s not as if Oscar has such an inviting, friendly aura to him. Nobody has introduced Oscar to anyone, and no one is supposed to, of course, but one of these five people could overhear something and put one and one together…

“We’ve only been here for roughly a day too. It’s better to nip this in the bud as soon as possible. Because of that, I want to leave this house, and Paris too, with Oscar and Townsend and that other man today.”

Cecelia clapped her hand together again, and her brown eyes glittered as she said, “Oh, Barrington! You didn’t have to call in a meeting for this! Of course, you and Oscar are welcome to leave my house and take those pesky other troublemakers with you too! This is the best idea you have ever had.”

“I want you to accompany us too,” Barrington added after a pause.

Cecelia stared blankly at him before she burst out, “Which sane person would consider going out during this pandemonium and why on earth should I join you in this idiotic endeavour? Aren’t you a promenader, animal whisperer, town’s jester, and whatnot and perfectly capable of conducting this nonsense on your own?”

“It’s ‘veteran, world traveller, monster fighter,’ Cecelia, and I need you to come with us because you have already been to the château and are familiar with the way.”

“You have the address, you can figure it out, Mr World Traveller.”

“Why do you even want to take this unnecessary detour, Weaselton?” asked Oscar, and everyone’s attention shifted to him. “If we manage to leave Paris, we could simply head back to England immediately afterwards.”

A shudder ran through Cecelia. “I loathe to admit it, but I agree with Oscar. Why would you even want to go to the château, Barrington? If you want to take Oscar away because he should not be amongst outsiders, why bring him somewhere with even more outsiders? The Duponts are far from ordinary, but even they are not included in the meagre circle of people who are allowed to interact with Mr Yard Ripper here. Has too much promenading eroded your brain?”

Barrington scowled at her. “I would prefer to pack Oscar in a box and send him back to England by post. Unfortunately, this would only spook the post officers and the unfortunate individual who would get to open the package at Phantomhive Manor. I also cannot leave him alone here or elsewhere, and the Marquis has, even more unfortunately, very kindly asked me, his darling nephew’s best friend, to visit if I am already in France. I cannot just return to England with Oscar and Townsend and that other man without seeing him. The Marquis might be a hundred years old, but he is terrifying, and I doubt I would live to see the next week if I turned down his very kindly asked request.”

“I propose to do both: We send Oscar by post, and you return to England immediately with Townsend and his accomplice. Oscar suffocates in the box, you get lynched by an ancient Frenchman, and I finally get my peace. This sounds like a plan.” Cecelia turned to Cedric, smiling. “What is your stance, Not-Kristopher?”

“It would be nice if you all were to leave,” he said, the words falling out of him unbound.

Cecelia’s smile slipped from her face. Barrington laughed. “See, Cecelia? It’s best if we all…” He frowned. “Wait, wait. Kristopher, are you implying that you don’t like us? I can understand Cecelia and most definitely Oscar, but why me? What did I do? Why don’t you like me?”

Cecelia chuckled. “I do not appreciate you wanting to throw me out of my own house, Not-Kristopher,” she said, “but I will let it slide this time only because you have upset Barrington so deliciously.” She smoothed her skirt. “I still won’t go though.”

“Cecelia…” Barrington began.

“I also agree,” Oscar said suddenly, cutting him off and looking right at Cecelia, “for you to accompany us, Williams, even if to spare us all a headache. You should be well-aware that Weaselton will whine about this for the next few hours if you do not agree to come at once.”

“I don’t whine,” Barrington mumbled.

Cecelia held Oscar’s gaze for a moment before she sighed. “I feel so dirty to have to agree with you twice within minutes. I will take a quick bath first before we leave.” She rose from her seat. “If you impose this nonsense journey on us all, then the task of preparing a carriage should fall on you, Barrington,” Cecelia said with a glare. “You can find the carriages and horses in the back, and do not damage the carriage Michael’s great-great-great-great-grandaunt’s first husband gifted her for their third anniversary which was their last one before he was run over by that exact carriage.”

Without another word, Cecelia strode out of the drawing room.

“And how on earth am I meant to know which one is that carriage?” Barrington asked into the room.

Cedric shrugged, whereas Oscar walked past them both in silence and left the room too.

“I’ll then make my leave as well…” Cedric said and heaved himself out of the armchair.

“Wait a moment, Kristopher,” Barrington then said and walked towards him. He mustered him from the top to the bottom and back. “How are you doing? You have seen Dia, right?”

Cedric nodded. “I did. I’m… fine. It’s a relief knowing she’s alive.”

“Do you even know how close to dying Cloudia was?” Kamden’s angry voice suddenly boomed in his head, and Cedric could not help himself but tense up. “She survived last night, but what guarantee do I have, does she have, that she survives this day too? This night too? And the following ones as well?”

“Are you sure you’re fine?” Barrington enquired with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t…”

“I am,” Cedric replied firmly. “I am fine enough. The Countess is alive; that is what counts.”

Barrington pressed his lips into a grim line. “Very well, Kristopher,” he said slowly. “Isn’t there something else you want to tell me?”

Cedric blinked at him. “About what I said earlier? That I would be glad if you were all gone?”

Barrington frowned. “What? No…” He paused. “Maybe, but not now. Is there nothing else apart from that you want to say? Ask? Anything?”

“No, why?”

“‘No’? I highly…” Barrington’s eyes suddenly widened, and he ran a hand over his face. “I suppose that was too close to your departure,” he said dryly. “We will talk at a later date. Now, I suppose, I must ready a carriage and try not to damage another… Oh, and if you see Kam, do you mind telling him to come and see me immediately? I haven’t been able to check on him yet, or even see him, and I worry about that boy.”

With that, Barrington left too. Cedric stared after him for a moment, wondering what he had been talking about – maybe Barrington’s nerves were terribly frayed too? – before he stepped into the passageway himself. Newman nodded at Cedric before he disappeared into Cloudia’s room with a tray holding a teapot and cups. From somewhere, he could faintly hear Aurèle sharpening his knives, and Jacques’ little jittery voice rattling on about birds. Elsewhere, Florentin was hiding from everyone, and Quentin was apparently still here too.

There were many ways and places to get a fresh headache, whereas there was only one to avoid one.

On other days, Cedric might have turned left and headed to his room, just like he had intended from the start.

Today, he turned right and climbed the stairs down to the ground floor.

For the third time today, Cedric walked to the small drawing room at the back of the townhouse. However, when he entered the last corridor that led to it, he made himself unseen and unheard to the world around him. With his presence and the sounds of his steps swallowed, Cedric planted himself right by the threshold to the small parlour and looked inside.

Milton was still asleep, resting serenely on the sofa. It would have made a peaceful picture if Oscar had not been hovering at his side. He looked like a spectre, a wraith, as he stood there, tall and dark, gazing down at Milton with an expressionless face. When Oscar then lifted his hand, Cedric almost thought that he would place it on Milton’s head, run it through his golden hair, but Oscar only adjusted his blanket as part of it had slid down; Milton must have moved in his slumber.

Cedric retreated into the corridor, swiftly turning himself visible and hearable again, when Oscar turned to leave the room a moment later. To Cedric’s surprise, Oscar stopped in front of him and did not just quietly pass by.

“Let him sleep awhile longer. It’s still too early for him to awaken,” Oscar said with an oddly soft voice before he left him behind in the hall.

***

~Cloudia~

Pain radiated from the wound on my abdomen through my entire body when I woke up. It pulsed through it, filling each blink with lead, each gasp with shards, and each of my veins with ice.

I was so cold. I was so tired.

I did not immediately realise that the room was filled with silver light trailing softly through the windows. It took so long for my eyes to adjust and for my brain to register what I was seeing.

It took a moment longer until I realised that my hand was warm, and another until I understood that someone was holding it.

I strained to crane my head sideways.

Kam was sitting beside my bed, his head rolled to the side, a blanket covering his body, and his hand covering mine.

There was someone, something, at the top of my bed too.

It was hard to see, hard to think, when the room was so bright with moonlight and one’s body was made of ice and lead.

I felt so light. I felt so heavy.

It was hard to keep my eyes open and to see…

… hair, white in this light.

… eyes, green so bright.

I wanted to speak but could not.

My tongue was too heavy. My body too weak.

I hated this. I hated this.