Chapter Text
It’s quiet in the mansion. A whole day of noise, then silence. The servants have long since retired to their quarters, and Joseph is left alone with the scattered guts of a camera, a battered notebook, and his own racing thoughts.
It’s almost a miracle this worked, really.
Joseph smiles at the small grey photo in his hand, but the glee fades from his face all too quickly.
Hm.
Attempting to smooth over the casual disorientation that’s come along with his aging body and emotional disconnect, Joseph tosses the photo aside, pleased with its perfect arc, landing it on a messy table.
Shall he retire--
The sound of knuckles against glass demands his attention, and his hand immediately settles on his sword as he spots…
A figure…
In the window.
This is the second story.
However, the tapping continues, and turns from demanding to rhythmic. Joseph edges closer, and pauses as he recognizes the song.
A song Mary made up… and used to play for him and… Claude. Joseph had only seen her a few times before the Desaulniers had left for England, but her exquisite taste paired with her arrogant personality had left a lasting impression.
Though, it couldn’t be Mary, because the bourgeoisie had made huge news of her public execution about thirty years back--or was it more?
Joseph starts to feel uneasy as the song continues along the rhythm he’d heard all those years ago, but his sword doesn’t glow in the moonlight when drawn, the figure in the window copying Mary’s tune and blocking out the moon.
Then the rhythm stops.
Though it should be a relief, it isn’t.
It’s even less of a relief when Joseph hears the old lock on the window crack, actually crack, and the shadowy figure shoves open the window with an exasperated huff.
“Ooooh, Joooooseph~” a familiar voice calls, and Joseph’s sword leaves his grip and clatters to the floor in a moment of weakness.
It is Mary.
Somehow.
Joseph hasn’t seen her face in person ever since his twelfth birthday. He’d seen a portrait of her as a young adult, once, and her pudgy face and haughty expression are just the same, and her hair is still the same pale blonde.
“Well? Are you really not going to greet me? This is your mansion; I am your guest! Come, now, Desaulneirs, make me some tea!”
Joseph’s shock turns to sourness in the blink of an eye. “Now, why would a corpse have business drinking tea? You quite look the part.”
The insult is baseless--almost. Mary’s skin is pale and her makeup glitters in the moonlight. She looks even younger than the thirty-one years she died at.
The only giveaway is the malevolent tearing of her neck, the guillotine’s unclean cuts sewed back together with messy silver strands that gleam in the moon as well.
Joseph looks back up at Mary’s scowling face.
“Ugh! A corpse?! Really? You look more the part of someone about to be given a nap in a casket, and you still don’t possess even half the grace I do. Get me some tea and I’ll explain why I decided to waste my time on you, of all people.” Mary huffs and glares down at Joseph with those black eyes, and Joseph wonders how his hands aren’t shaking any more than usual, how he hasn’t fainted from this phenomenon of meeting a literal dead woman walking.
Though, it can’t matter too much, can it?
Joseph decides now is not a good time to argue. “...Stay here, and don’t touch my cameras. I’ll return with black tea and sugar.”
“Hm, alright, I will accept,” Mary purrs, settling down into one of the padded armchairs, her elaborate skirts rustling as she settles. “Be quick! I don’t want to tarry until midday!”
It’s hardly midnight.
With a sigh, Joseph leaves to make some tea. He doesn’t slow himself down to spite Mary, as much as he wants to, as he has questions. A lot.
Whatever may be happening, it is most certainly not natural.
He’s learned well enough what dead people look like, and Mary looks quite far from it. It’s not that she was spared from public execution either--so what happened? How can she have her… her head sewn back on?
Preposterous, Joseph thinks, closing his eyes in an attempt to cease the headache blooming in his temples. The water is nowhere near boiling yet, either.
Yet the tea is somehow finished in what feels like a reasonable amount of time, and Joseph carries the elaborately painted china cups back to his workshop only to find Mary fiddling with a small piece of metal.
She looks up, and Joseph grits his teeth, steeling his voice. “Set it down, Mary.”
Mary tosses it back onto the table unceremoniously, and Joseph is surprised by her compliance. He resumes his route to the table and hands Mary her cup, which she takes with a critical expression.
“Now,” Joseph continues, before Mary can complain, “I would certainly find satisfaction in an actual explanation as to how you’ve supposedly come back to life, looking as young as ever with that gash in your neck.”
Mary snickers and takes her time sipping her tea, seeming thoughtful while simultaneously appearing empty-headed.
“Wouldn't you wish to live forever? You want to be remembered, not to be taken away in an untimely manner you’ve already experienced firsthand, no? To practice your trade?”
…
Joseph says nothing and lets the words sit in his head like stones. He can’t tell the golden tongue of an aristocrat from a spiel with malicious intent, and it’s tearing him apart in the few seconds of silence between Mary’s sentences.
“I’ve had to rely almost entirely on rumors about you to figure out how to approach you; appreciate the effort! I’m making an offer you’ll never get again--”
“This is a dream,” Joseph interrupts sternly. “This is a dream, and I am going to wake up. Mary is long dead, and death is inevitable for myself as well.”
Mary tilts her head back and laughs, interrupted by a gurgling noise as she grasps her head and yanks down. When she’s satisfied with supposedly adjusting her head, she looks back at Joseph, who still hasn’t taken a seat.
“Dearest cousin, this is quite real. I reached out to you because, shockingly, I do care for you! Joseph, can’t you tell? I’d quite like to save you from another lonely death. If you wish to remain adamant that this is a dream…”
Mary extends her hand.
“Feel that I am real, and revel in your stupidity.”
Realizing he’s been clenching his teacup far too tightly, Joseph sets it on the table and stares at Mary for just a moment before grazing his fingertips across the back of her hand.
Mary grabs his wrist before he can jerk back in surprise at how cold her skin is.
“It’s so rude to doubt me when I tell the truth, Joseph!”
Joseph yanks his hand back, a silent yet haughty refusal to apologize. “I’d assume you’d have some sort of tact, or at least have obtained some once becoming an adult, yet you are simply the same!”
“Oh, calm down,” Mary spits, standing up and fluffing her skirts angrily, but then she seems to relax and smiles at Joseph. He notices, just for a moment, that two of her teeth look monstrously sharp. “It’s hilarious to frustrate you!”
“It is not--”
“Anyways! The offer! Do you accept?”
“Mary, you’ve hardly explained a thing--”
“You’ll live forever, and you’ll come with me and leave this bland life behind.”
Joseph purses his lips. “...I’m going to bring my camera. Where are we ‘going’, anyway?”
“Not far from here! Oh, and I’ve befriended the most beautiful lady you’d ever see! Oh, she’s kind and endlessly talented--but don’t you dare fancy her--I’ll have your head.” Mary’s eyes narrow.
Joseph goes to pick up his sword from the floor, sheathing it with a dull clunk. “I harbor no interest in maidens at this age. There’s no need to be so dramatic.”
Mary tosses her hair. “Dramatic? It’s a necessity… Tch, you’ll forever be so ridiculously old, a serious old man… but! There’s just one thing I need to seal the deal!”
“And what might that be, Mary?”
“Well, you’re about to find out! Some people act like it hurts, but I’d never harm a precious relative on purpose!”
Aware of the severity of such a thing, yet unable to wave away the allure, Joseph sighs and steps closer.
It hurts terribly, and then it doesn’t.