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The rain has just started when Clea steps out of the carriage.
It’s the quiet kind of rain—barely there, misty, clinging to her coat sleeves and eyelashes—but it settles deep in her clothes and bones all the same as a torrential downpour as she walks up the long cobble road toward the house.
The manor stands like a giant in sleep. Golden-orange light spills from the windows, a stark contrast against the dreary grey gloom outside. Clea unlocks the front door and pushes it open, boots squelching on the entry rug. The familiar scent of old wood, wine, and stale silence greets her like a sigh.
She closes the door behind her.
No one calls out. Not that she expects anyone to.
Not anymore.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Nobody human greets her. Because little Noco does come bounding over excitedly.
She shakes off her coat, already pulling her hair out of its bun, then bends down to pat Noco’s head. Down the main thoroughfare, she can already see the figure of her father.
Sitting at the dinner table, Renoir is hunched, a half-empty bottle of wine in one hand and a glass in front of him (the latter didn’t have a hint of a stain on it, so Clea is left to assume he’s been sipping straight from the former). The record player is on, low and crackling, playing some slow violin piece. He isn’t even pretending to read the papers beside him. He just stares at the wall.
“Papa,” she says evenly. “It’s not even five.”
He snorts. Doesn’t look up. “Time doesn’t matter anymore.”
Clea crosses her arms. “Clearly.”
He ignores her.
She walks over, picks up the bottle, and places it on the counter, far out of reach. He watches her with glassy eyes.
“Don’t bother,” he mutters. “Plenty more where that came from.”
“I’m sure.” She rubs her temple. “Where’s Alicia?”
That finally makes him laugh.
A sharp, bitter sound.
“Where do you think?” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Upstairs. Same place she’s always been. Just lying there. Moaning. Crying. Reaching for things she can’t hold.”
His tone is slurred, lazy, like the knife isn’t even worth the whetstone anymore. Just dull and falling from his tongue.
Clea walks back over. Her heels clack against the tile with quiet authority. “You were supposed to check on her today.”
“I did,” he says. “I gave her water. She spilled it all over herself. Looked at me like a dog someone forgot to shoot.”
Clea’s stomach twists.
“Don’t say things like that.”
Renoir laughs again, louder this time. “Why not? You’re thinking it.”
Clea stiffens. “I’m not.”
“You are.” He swirls the wine in the bottle, listening to it slosh. “Don’t lie. You hate going into that room as much as I do. The smell, and the twitching, and that eye that’s always following you like some half-dead bird.”
Clea presses her fingers to her temples, breathing slowly. She’s trying to stay calm. She’s trying.
“You know she pissed herself last week?” Renoir says. “Didn't even try to tell me. Just laid there in it. Like an animal.”
Clea freezes.
Renoir glances at her, sees the flicker of horror on her face, and smiles—like it gives him some twisted validation.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says. “You don’t see what she’s become. I have to feed her like a child. I wipe her chin. I change her sheets. Every day I watch her not get better.”
“She was burned alive,” Clea says sharply. “She nearly died.”
“I know,” he snaps. “I know that. I was there. I saw them carry her out.”
He looks away. His voice drops.
“I thought they were saving her,” he whispers. “But then we brought home something else.”
Clea swallows hard. “She’s still your daughter.”
He laughs again, but it’s quiet this time. “Is she?”
Clea stares at him. “You don’t mean that.”
He doesn’t respond. Just looks down at his hands, fingers trembling slightly. His wedding ring gleams under the lamplight, the only bright thing in the room.
“I used to talk to her, you know,” he murmurs. “When she came home. I read to her. Brushed her hair. She didn’t speak, but she listened. I thought maybe…”
He trails off.
Clea steps closer. “What happened?”
“I got tired,” he says.
Simple. Honest.
“I got tired, and your mother disappeared into the Canvas, and no one came to help, and now all I hear is her crying all day long. She doesn’t sleep. She doesn’t eat. She just lies there like she’s waiting to stop existing.”
Clea doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t want to feel sorry for him.
But she knows what it’s like. She knows what it’s like to sit outside Alicia’s room and hear the quiet, gasping sobs, the ones that never turn into real crying. She knows what it’s like to flinch when her sister mouths maman in the middle of the night, even though she knows that word doesn’t belong to anyone in this house anymore. She knows what it’s like to see Alicia flinch when someone raises their voice—even when it’s not at her.
Renoir turns his head slowly to look at her, and suddenly his face crumpled—not angry now, just tired. Broken. Lost.
“I don’t hate her,” he says. “I hate what she reminds me of. Every time I look at her, I see the fire. I see what’s left.”
She doesn’t know what to say at first.
Because part of her understands. That’s what makes it worse. That’s what makes it hurt —not the anger, not the disappointment, but the sympathy she doesn’t want to feel. The way her father's grief has curdled into something small and bitter and cruel. The way he looks like a man who’s already buried his daughter.
But Alicia isn’t dead.
She’s upstairs. She’s breathing.
And no matter how ruined or broken or silent she is now, Clea knows that somewhere under all that pain is the same little girl who used to tug on her sleeve and beg her to braid her hair. Who used to hum softly when she thought no one was listening. Who used to scribble hearts and stars into the margins of her notebooks. She’s still in there. Somewhere.
“She’s not what’s left,” Clea says quietly.
Renoir doesn’t move.
“She’s what survived.”
The words hit the floor like glass. Neither of them breathes for a second.
Then, Renoir laughs again—but this time it’s not sharp or mocking. It’s hollow. Deflated.
“I don’t have your strength,” he mutters.
Clea’s jaw clenches. “It’s not strength. It’s not like I want to do this either.”
He looks up at her.
“I get tired, too,” she continues. “I get so tired. I’m having to leave every day, fighting the Writers on my own. Aline is chasing ghosts in the Canvas while we struggle out here in real life!”
She swallows hard. Her hands are shaking now. She curls them into fists.
“But I still go into that room. Even when I don’t want to. Even when I’m tired or upset or annoyed. I sit with her. I help her up. I clean her sheets when she can’t. I do all the things you used to do. Because she’s still here. Because she’s still Alicia. Even if you’ve forgotten.”
Silence.
Renoir stares at her. Then, he closes his eyes, like the sound of her name physically hurts him.
“I miss who she was,” he whispers.
“So do I,” Clea says.
She turns before he can say anything else, before her voice can break. She walks down the hall, up the stairs, her footsteps slow, steady. Her hands brush the wall out of habit—counting the frames.
Aline has put up more of Verso’s paintings.
She reaches Alicia’s door.
It’s slightly ajar.
A faint light glows inside—warm and golden, from the little lamp Renoir must have left on earlier.
Clea breathes in. Softly.
Then, she pushes the door open.
Alicia is awake.
She’s still bound in bandages, the harsh pink scars hidden from view. Only one eye peeks out from the white wraps around her head. It stares intently at Clea.
Just like Renoir said.
Just like always.
Clea steps inside.
Alicia doesn’t make a sound, but her lip trembles. Her fingers twitch slightly, like she’s trying to reach for something.
Clea’s anger melts.
All of it—her exhaustion, her grief, her shame—it all crumples into something quieter, softer, something like sorrow.
She sits at the edge of the bed.
“Hey,” she murmurs.
Alicia blinks slowly.
Clea reaches out and brushes a lock of hair from her sister’s brow. It’s damp. Her skin is hot.
“Bad dreams?” Clea asks gently.
Alicia’s lips part. Then close.
Then she nods.
Only once.
Clea lets out a soft sigh. “Well… I gotta change your bandages.”
Alicia whines softly.
“I know, I know,” Clea says. “I’ll be gentle, okay?”
Alicia doesn’t nod. Doesn’t blink. Just stares with that hollow-eyed silence that makes Clea want to scream into her pillow at night.
Clea shifts forward with care, gathering the supplies from the basket by the foot of the bed: clean gauze, burn cream, scissors, a water basin and sponge. She pauses, steadying her hands. They always shake, no matter how many times she’s done this.
She then carefully peels back the blanket. The room is cool, but Alicia doesn’t shiver—her body runs feverish almost constantly now, some broken switch inside her stuck on fire. Clea drapes a warm towel over her lap anyway.
The first bandage is around her left arm, just below the elbow. It’s stained yellow and pink, the adhesive curling at the corners. Clea wets the edge with a cloth before starting to peel it away. The skin beneath is angry, tight, and warped—glossy in places, raw in others. She bites her lip and keeps going.
Alicia doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cry. Just breathes, shallow and steady, like she isn’t even in the room.
The worst of it is her chest and face. Clea hesitates before reaching for the collar of the oversized shirt Alicia wears like armor. It’s so loose it practically falls off her bones—Clea has had to tie it in the back with ribbon to keep it from slipping down entirely. She brushes her fingers over Alicia’s collarbone.
“Can I?” she asks softly.
Alicia still doesn’t respond. But her good hand, slow and shaking, lifts to tug at the hem. A silent answer.
Clea helps her ease it off. Underneath, the full extent of the damage is laid bare. Ribcage. Shoulder. Neck. A patchwork of grafts and melted tissue, twisting up toward her throat like vines. Clea swallows hard. She doesn’t let herself look away.
“You’re okay,” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”
Alicia’s eyes close. Her lashes are singed on one side, uneven. Clea dips the cloth in the basin and begins to dab gently along the burns. She’s memorized every contour, every blistered seam and ridge. The doctors say the tissue will always be fragile. That her body will never fully stop trying to reject itself. That she’ll always be in pain.
“Tell me if it hurts,” Clea murmurs.
Alicia says nothing.
Clea moves slowly, cleaning each wound with infinite care. She applies the salve in thin, trembling layers, smoothing it over the worst of the burns. The smell of it is sharp—medicinal, bitter—but Alicia doesn’t react. Clea’s hands ache by the time she’s finished, the fine motor work demanding more focus than she wants to admit.
She wraps the fresh gauze next. It’s soft, and she warms it in her palms before laying it down. Over the shoulder. Around the ribs. Gently beneath the arm. She tucks it in place like a gift, tying the ends with a precision that would’ve made Verso tease her for being such a perfectionist.
Only when the last bandage is secured does she pause and sit back. Her knees pop as she straightens, and she winces at the stiffness. Alicia hasn’t moved.
Clea brushes a strand of hair from her sister’s face. “All done,” she says quietly. “See? Easy.”
Alicia’s lips part slightly. Her brow furrows.
Clea stills. “Alicia?”
Alicia releases a breath. She lifts a hand to point at the stack of books beside her bed.
“What?” Clea says. “Do you want me to read to you?”
Alicia nods.
Clea exhales slowly. “Sure.”
She reaches out and pulls the blanket back up, tucking it gently beneath Alicia’s chin. Then, after a pause, she climbs into the bed beside her, careful not to jostle her healing skin. Alicia doesn’t protest. She leans into her, small and birdlike, her body radiating too much heat.
Clea looks at the little stack of books beside the nightstand—most of them worn out, with spines cracked and pages yellowing at the edges. Not because they’re old, necessarily. Just over-loved. Alicia has always treated books the way other children treated toys.
Clea fingers the spine of The Silver Cloak, an old favorite from when Verso was little, and opens it to the first page. She reads aloud, voice steady and soft, keeping pace with Alicia’s blinking eye. The girl doesn’t move much, doesn’t react, but Clea knows she’s listening. She always does.
As she reads, her voice trailing from line to line, Clea feels something unspool inside her. A memory rising up like smoke from a snuffed-out candle.
The manor had always smelled like turpentine and linseed oil. Aline insisted on keeping every studio pristine, even the ones that weren’t used. Sunlight poured through skylights that tinted it golden. When Clea was very small, she thought Painting was just another word for breathing—because her mother did it constantly. Because everyone did.
She could remember standing at her easel in the morning classes Aline held in the gallery. The brushes were always clean, the palettes heavy and wet. Aline would circle behind them like a hawk, judging every shadow, every smudge.
“You want to bring life into the world?” she’d say. “Then get it right. No one wants to look at something half-alive.”
Aline insisted upon this—because perfection meant life. Meant talent. Meant success. In the early mornings, you could hear the thick stroke of brushes on canvas, the tapping of charcoal on wood, the murmuring of spells coaxing light and breath into painted beings. By afternoon, the music would start—Verso’s piano first, then Clea’s soothing harp, and sometimes even a little trumpet when Alicia was feeling brave. Painting ran in their blood, a family gift passed down from generation to generation. And Aline made sure they never forgot it.
Verso was never as focused as he should’ve been. He loved to Paint, yes—but he loved music more. He could play anything by ear, would spend hours in the parlor tapping keys or scribbling little melodies into a leather journal he kept tucked in his coat. He’d hum to himself while Painting, harmonizing with the very things he was bringing to life—roses that blushed and blinked, swans that preened under the ceiling beams.
But Alicia?
Alicia wasn’t like them.
From the beginning, she preferred ink to pigment. Preferred the company of books to anything else.
Clea remembers watching her, curled on the floor of her room with a dozen books spread around her. Not even picture books. Heavy ones. Novels. Thick with footnotes and emotion. She’d hoard them under her bed like treasure.
And she wrote.
She was barely seven when she started scribbling poems in the margins of her notebooks. Little things about stars and moths and dreams. Then, she moved onto full stories. She was so proud of them. She showed Verso, once. He smiled and told her they were beautiful.
But then Aline saw.
Clea remembers the sound of papers tearing in two. The way Alicia screamed and cried and shrank in on herself. The silence afterward.
“You are a Painter,” Aline had hissed. “Not a Writer.”
Because Painters and Writers had never gotten along.
The Writers were—are—dangerous. That was Aline’s stance. They didn’t use paint and brush; they used ink and quill. They wove their spells into words . Into metaphor. Into trickery. Their stories could trap you if you weren’t careful. They could bring whole fictions to life and then set them loose like animals.
Painting had structure. Discipline. Control.
Writing was chaos.
That’s what Aline always said.
That’s why she forbade Alicia from ever seeking them out.
But Alicia was always small. Always sweet. Always too lonely for her own good.
Clea swallows around the lump forming in her throat and turns the page. Alicia’s eye tracks her movements, her little hand reaching to trace the corner of the book like she wants to hold it, like it’s grounding her.
It had been winter when the Writers came.
Clea was away in the city. Renoir and Aline were at a meeting with the Council.
And Alicia had been left alone at the manor.
Just for a few hours.
That’s all it took.
They’d come at dusk—two young Writers, charming and clever and dripping with praise. They told Alicia she was brilliant. Special. That she had a gift . They brought her pages to read, stories wrapped in magic, each one written to flatter her, to make her feel seen. And when she laughed, when she clapped her hands and said “You’re like me!” —they smiled and asked her if they could come in.
And she said yes.
And then everything went up in flames after that.
Clea blinks. She breathes out. She shakes her head to clear the smoke filling up her brain.
The memories still burn.
Beside her, Alicia inches closer, resting her head against Clea’s shoulder. Clea wraps an arm around her, letting her snuggle, knowing that’s what she wants. She’s always been cuddly.
She keeps reading.
They stay like that—two broken things in a silent room, clinging to what little is left.