Chapter Text
“There you are!”
Guy-Manuel’s eyes are torn from the page, his attention pulled towards the sudden exclamation. Paul is hanging halfway over the edge of the stone bridge Guy-Manuel is sitting beneath. His upside-down expression is triumphant, and slightly aggravating. Guy-Manuel’s eyes narrow. A sigh tries to slip past his lips; he holds it in. It had been so peaceful, no sounds other than the calm wind and the softly flowing brook a few feet away.
“You say it as if I’ve been hiding,” he says, returning to his book.
“Haven’t you?” Paul asks, dipping down some more.
“No. Why would I? And don’t lean so far, you’ll fall in.”
Paul snickers, and leans a little farther. “Rumor has it Leprince is looking for you.”
Against his better judgment, Guy-Manuel looks up again, eyebrow raised.
“He’s supposed to be really angry.” Paul disappears for a moment, then reappears when he jumps from the bridge. One boot lands in the thin stream; Guy-Manuel barely succeeds to save his book from the splashing water. “He’s going to beat you to a pulp for breaking Mlle. de Villeneuve’s heart.”
Guy-Manuel snorts.
“You can’t break something that doesn’t exist,” he says and, after memorizing the page he’s on, stands up.
“Don’t tell me that – tell Leprince!”
“Where did he even get that idea?” Guy-Manuel asks as they start climbing the mound to get back onto the road. “Last time I saw her, her heart was certainly not broken.”
On the contrary – she was without a doubt her … usual self. Discomfort slithers down Guy-Manuel’s spine as he thinks back to it.
“Well, that’s his excuse, but everyone knows he’s upset that she turned down his marriage proposal again,” Paul says while scratching his chin, then shrugs. “He just wants to beat you up, I think.”
Of course. He should know better than to expect any rationality from Leprince. Why solve a problem using your head when you have a pair of fists at your disposal? For a brief moment, he contemplates letting himself get caught by Leprince. Two black eyes would probably deter Mlle. de Villeneuve, at least for a while. It could be worth it.
They make it into town, past the blacksmith and the baker, and are almost out of the square when a loud shout penetrates the air.
“Guillaume!”
Guy-Manuel goes rigid, feet stopping though his head tells him to continue and pretend he didn’t hear. A quiet groan escapes through his clenched teeth. Paul glances over his shoulder.
“I distract them while you run?” he offers.
Guy-Manuel shakes his head. “No, no … Let’s just get this over with.”
Turning, they’re met with a group of adolescents: women with colorful ribbons and over-powdered faces and men in fashionable breeches. The ones standing out are the Barbot brothers, short, with eyes too small for their faces, and the brawny Leprince, who as usual has left his waistcoat unbuttoned. He sends Guy-Manuel a heated glower, but that’s also all he does. The small woman in the middle of the group – whose dress is much more expensive than the others – runs up to them, her yellow locks bouncing. She throws herself around Guy-Manuel’s neck.
“Guillaume, I’ve been looking for you all day!” she says, tightening her grip more when he doesn’t hug her back.
“I’m sorry, Mlle. de Villeneuve, I wasn’t aware,” he says quietly.
She lets go with a sigh, but keeps her hands pressed against his chest.
“I’ve told you to call me Édith!” she says while giving him an exaggerated glare, brow puckered and lips pursed. It’s quickly replaced by a sugary smile. She begins to fiddle with his shirt, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles. “My father will arrange a ball at our estate in celebration of Mother’s birthday tomorrow. You and I will have the first two dances!”
She beams at him, her dainty hands holding his collar in an iron grip. Guy-Manuel stares at her for several seconds as he ransacks his brain for a plausible excuse.
“I’m sorry, Mlle. de Villeneuve, but, uh, Father has asked us to assist him in the shop for the coming week.”
He casts a glance in Paul’s direction, who starts nodding rapidly. The smile melts off Mlle. de Villeneuve’s face. Putting her hands on her hips, she rolls her eyes with a scoff. Behind her, Leprince has slowly crept closer. The Barbots waddle after to flank him in what is probably supposed to be a threatening manner.
“Tell him you must take one evening off!” Mlle. de Villeneuve snaps.
“I can’t, he needs my help-”
Leprince’s booming voice interrupts him.
“Don’t bother with him, Édith! If he wants to waste time in that bankrupt place, let him!”
Apparently thinking that was some sort of witticism, Leprince burst into laughter. The others soon follow suit. Mlle. de Villeneuve brings up a hand to cover her mouth, without actually masking the shrill giggling. Despite himself, Guy-Manuel’s face starts to burn.
“If you must know, Leprince,” Guy-Manuel says as the laughter abates, “our father’s business is going very well.”
Leprince’s mirth disappears; his features are pulled into an ugly sneer.
“Don’t lie! Everyone knows he’s ruined! Why, we’re making bets on when your mother will have to start whoring herself out to pay the rent!”
“You take that back!”
Paul lunges forward, fist raised, but is swiftly yanked back by Guy-Manuel. Leprince is laughing again, as are the others. Except for Mlle. de Villeneuve. She is staring at Guy-Manuel as he drags Paul in the direction of their home, a coolly self-assured look in her eyes.
“I’ll be expecting you at the dance,” she says, her voice echoing over the laughter.
“I- I’ll consider it,” Guy-Manuel says, then hauls his little brother away before she has the chance to respond.
Their mother is singing as they enter the house. It’s an irregular tune that changes tempo several times, but it sounds wonderful nonetheless. Sadly, it stops when the front door closes with a thump.
“Boys? Is that you?” she calls.
Paul prances down the hallway to the kitchen entrance, jumping into her view with his arms thrown up in the air. “Indeed!”
She chuckles at his antics. Guy-Manuel rolls his eyes and lightly elbows his little brother in the ribs as he pushes past him. Turning back to the simmering pots on the stove, their mother asks them to set the table, since their father will be home soon. Like every day before this one, everything is ready at the exact moment the door opens. Guy-Manuel doesn’t know how it’s done, but for as long as he can remember, their mother has had dinner prepared precisely when their father comes home. Always, on the dot, like clockwork. The one time he asked how she did it she told him routine was the secret, but he has to wonder if there isn’t something more to it. Sometimes it seems as if she can sense their father’s proximity to her, that she can feel what he’s feeling and thinking.
But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it?
Their father lights up when he sees them, instantly taking his wife’s hands while kissing her cheek.
“How was work today?” she asks.
“Oh, like usual,” he says before sitting down and helping himself to a piece of boiled fish. She takes her seat opposite of him, her raised brows an obvious indication she’s waiting for him to elaborate. Which he doesn’t, since he’s too busy focusing on his plate to notice her.
“And?” she at last says. “That’s it?”
His absentminded gaze flutters up to meet her hopeful one. He shrugs. Her expression falls; she releases a drawn-out sigh. Their father reaches over to lovingly pat her hand, wearing a grand smile.
“But don’t worry, Ella! M. Chaussée came in today and told me he’s clinched that deal I told you about! We’ll ride to Beaumont tonight and be back this weekend!”
Their mother stares at him, then pulls her hand from his to press it against her forehead. She groans.
“Francisco, no …”
“Don’t say that!” Their father is excited, leaning forward so much that he’s hovering a few centimeters above his seat, his eyes glowing. “This time will result in profit! I can feel it!”
Paul sends Guy-Manuel a look that requires no words from across the table. Guy-Manuel returns it from over the edge of his water glass. Their mother plants her elbows on the table, buries her face in both of her hands, and groans even louder.
The sun is setting by the time their father mounts their old mare. Bags with supplies hang from his saddle; his thickest cloak is tied around his neck. Down by the road, his companions M. Chaussée and M. Marmontel are waiting for him.
“I’ll be back at noon tomorrow,” he says, adjusting his hat. “After buying a few things in Beaumont. Do you want anything, while I’m there?”
“Is ‘you coming home safely’ too much to ask for?” their mother says, arms folded tightly and lips tugged into a smile.
“A silk dress and matching shoes it is!” he proclaims. She shakes her head, laughing. He turns to his sons. “Boys?”
“A clarinet!” Paul says.
Their father simultaneously frowns and smiles. “But you don’t play the clarinet!”
“That’s because I don’t have one!”
Their father snickers at that, before looking at Guy-Manuel, who briefly contemplates saying ‘nothing’. He doesn’t want his father to feel forced to buy something after coming back empty-handed yet again. However, he also knows his father won’t accept that answer.
“A small lamp,” he says. “So that I can read late at night without waking the rest of you.”
His father snorts.
“How could I end up with such an overindulged family?” he asks the thin air, before kicking the mares’ sides and joining his crew.
Back inside the house, Paul continues upstairs, while their mother disappears into the kitchen to wash the last of the dishes. Guy-Manuel goes into the drawing room to put back his book in the bookcase and pick a new one for tomorrow. As he’s searching the rows for something he hasn’t read in a while, he hears a faint cough from behind him. His mother is standing in the door opening, arms wrapped around herself.
“Guillaume,” she says, voice so soft and serious it can only be bad news she’s come to share. With slow, heavy, tired steps she walks over to the couch and sits down. Her smile as she looks at him is so artificial it brings him pain. “You must’ve noticed that things aren’t … great for us. Our expenses are exceeding our incomes. Do you …” She closes her eyes, brow furrowed. Her hands clamp tightly in her lap. “Do you think you could ask M. Grétry for a raise at the woodshop?”
Her posture is tense, her facial features pulled taught around her big, glossy eyes. It hurts to see her this way, almost as much as it must hurt her to ask. Guy-Manuel swallows down a large lump in his throat before answering.
“I don’t think that’s an option,” he says quietly.
What little optimism her expression held vanishes. She leans forward on her knees, her shoulders slumping.
“I’m sorry-”
“No, no, it’s not, it’s not your fault,” she says, staring at the nothing in front of her. “I’ll come up with another solution.” A long silence falls over them as she thinks, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Perhaps we can ask Mayor de Villeneuve for a loan? He’s a decent man, he would help. Aren’t you friends with his daughter?”
“Um.” Guy-Manuel looks at the floor, unsure of what to say. “Yes, I suppose we are.”
“Good, that’s good. I’ve heard they’re throwing a party this week. Do you know anything about that?”
“Yes, Mlle. de Villeneuve, she-” He cuts himself off, needing to gather himself before telling her. “She asked today that I dance the first two dances with her.”
His mother gasps. He somehow manages not to wince. She stands, smile growing as elation colors her face.
“Oh, that- That-” Teary-eyed, she grabs his hands. “Guy-Manuel, you know what she means by that, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, I do,” he says, compelling himself to smile towards her. A second later she’s laughing in relief as she embraces him. After a brief hesitation, Guy-Manuel hugs her back, silently telling himself it’s all for the best.
The blackness surrounding them is all-consuming. The light from the lanterns, throwing tall shadows and highlighting the absurd shapes of the forest, only makes the darkness seem so much hungrier. Looking around, Francisco must ask himself if agreeing to take M. Marmontel’s shortcut wasn’t a bad idea after all.
“My friend, where are you taking us?” he asks.
“Yes, this shortcut is taking an awfully long time,” M. Chaussée adds.
In front of them, M. Marmontel growls in exasperation.
“Be patient! I’ve only taken this route during the daytime before, not nighttime!”
“In other words, this was a mistake,” M. Chaussée mutters under this breath so that only Francisco and the horses can hear. Francisco chuckles quietly, right as M. Marmontel makes a triumphant cry.
“Aha! Here we are! Down this hill, gentlemen, and we’ll be back on the road again!”
The steep hill mostly consists of loose earth. For large sections of it, the horses nervously glide downwards. Thankfully, they all make it to solid ground in one piece. Just as M. Marmontel said there’s a road below, which they continue on. However, the farther they get, the heavier the terrain becomes. Trees growing with their limbs intertwined, large bushes jumping out onto the path and into their way, and logs stacked upon each other that the horses must jump over. The path is littered with weeds, as though was a very long time since anyone walked on it. Every additional step causes Francisco to doubt this is the right way; he’s proven right when the road ends in front of a huge castle. It’s enormous, an angular metal monstrosity that shoots out of the earth. Some spots shine beneath the moonlight, but most of the exterior appears to be covered in patches of rust.
“Where have you brought us?” M. Chaussée asks.
M. Marmontel slowly shakes his head. “I don’t know … Should we enter?”
Uncertain glances are exchanged between them.
“It’s late, and we’re lost. I don’t think we’ll become any less lost in this darkness,” he argues. “Even if it’s abandoned, we’ll have a roof over our heads while we await dawn.”
“I suppose that’s true …” Francisco says.
“Then it’s settled,” M. Marmontel says, dismounting his steed.
The inside is only slightly better than the outside. A thick layer of dirt coats every surface, and every piece of furniture is as metallic as the castle itself. A low whirring sound catches Francisco’s the moment they step inside. He looks to the ground, and jumps in surprise at small creatures circling his feet. At first, they appear to be mice, but soon he realizes they’re not animals at all – they’re small, round, mechanical objects. After racing a few laps around the three men, they zoom out of the hallway in a straight line.
“What was that?!” M. Chaussée asks.
“Looked a bit like toys!” Francisco says.
They carry on farther into the castle. Apart from their echoing footsteps, it’s as quiet as a grave, and just about as dark. The chill of the atmosphere seeps through their clothes. Every few seconds, Francisco thinks sees something in the corner of his eye – a moving shadow, a short-lived gleam – but when he looks, he finds nothing there. He tries telling himself it’s just his imagination, but still can’t shake off the feeling that something is watching them.
After what could have been anything hours and minutes of exploring, they come across a room which has the curtains pulled aside. The moonlight pouring in through the giant windows reveals they’re standing in a library, with bookcases covering every wall, from floor to ceiling.
“This is a goldmine!” Laughing, M. Chaussée pulls out a book to read its title. “Why, this library alone would give us the means to live like kings for the rest of our lives!”
M. Marmontel snickers in agreement. Francisco pulls out a book of his own. It’s surprisingly clean compared to the remainder of the castle, with not a speck of dust on it. Almost as if someone had read it not too long ago-
A crash interrupts his thoughts. He starts, dropping the book and his lantern to the ground, where it’s smashed to bits. In the door opening across the room stands a tall, skeletal shape. It rushes towards them, feet clanking against the floor. Before any of them has time to react, the shape picks up M. Chaussée, rips the book from his hand, and tosses him aside. He crashes against a wall, and falls with a thud. The shape then swivels to M. Marmontel, marching up to him with heavy steps. He begins to stutter out an explanation, an excuse, a plea of mercy, holding his arms up to shield himself. The shape doesn’t slow down, instead striking M. Marmontel’s head, sending him flying to the ground.
Shaking, Francisco presses himself against the bookcase, wishing he could turn incorporeal and phase through it. Should he run? Could he outrun it? Deciding he has nothing to lose, he makes a dash to the side, only to have an ice-cold fist wrap its fingers around his throat and lift him off the ground. The grip is relentless, squeezing the life out of him. A bit firmer and it could probably snap his neck.
“P-please, I have a family!” he wheezes out. “I have a wife and- and sons!”
The shape halts its movement, its grip lessening slightly. It stares at him, motionless.
“Sons?” it says, in a voice that isn’t from this world. Too cold; too flat.
“Yes!” Francisco says, gasping for air. Could it be that it’s not completely monstrous, despite its appearance? Could he awaken its empathy? “Th-the oldest, he, he would enjoy this library! He’s mentioned-”
“How old is he?” The voice is still callous, having practically gained a businesslike quality.
Francisco gulps as well as he can. “E-eighteen.”
The shape brings him closer to it, forcing him to look directly into what he guesses is its eyes. The face is sharp and hard, just like the castle itself.
“Interesting.”