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The manor is quiet in a way it rarely ever is. No footsteps echoing in the halls, no raised voices drifting from door to door. Aline and Renoir are deep in the Canvas, their arguments and intensity swallowed into that strange Painted world, leaving only stillness behind.
Clea doesn’t trust the silence. It feels wrong. It presses in on her head until her temples pound. Her throat is raw, every swallow catching like glass. She’s been denying it for two days now—telling herself it’s nothing, that she has too much work to let an illness catch her—but even she, with how convincing of a liar she can be when it’s necessary, is starting to doubt herself. And when she finally lowers herself onto the couch in the parlor, just for a breath, the weight of her body betrays her.
Two seconds. That’s all she meant to sit. Just two.
But the cushions sink beneath her and the ache in her spine spreads out, loosening into a deep fatigue that seizes her all at once. Her eyes shut before she means them to, her limbs grow heavy, and then she is lost in the dark.
When she wakes, she is disoriented. Her head lolls to one side, words in her throat stick together like wet paper, and her skin burns with fever. The first thing she sees is a small silhouette at the edge of the couch—her little sister.
Alicia.
The girl is perched on the floor, knees tucked close, clutching a folded blanket in her lap. Her movements are careful, tentative, as though any sudden sound might shatter Clea into glass. When she sees Clea’s eyes flutter open, she startles, cheeks flushing pink.
Instinctively, she tries to speak, but nothing comes out—of course not. Instead, she fumbles for her slate, the chalk trembling in her hand. She scribbles quickly, then flips it toward Clea:
You’re sick.
Clea groans softly, trying to push herself up. Her muscles protest, her vision sways. “It’s nothing,” she rasps. But Alicia is already moving, gently pressing her back down against the cushions with both hands. For such a small, fragile girl, her insistence carries surprising weight.
Alicia writes again:
Lay down. I’ll help.
Clea stares at her. This is not the sister she expects—the one who usually hides behind Clea’s arm when strangers look at her too long, who curls inward when Aline’s voice sharpens. But Alicia is steady here, her dark eyes fierce in a way Clea has never quite seen before.
The girl pulls the blanket from her lap and carefully drapes it over Clea’s shoulders. She tucks the edges around her, mimicking the way Clea has done for her countless nights. Then she pads away on light feet, returning with a basin of cool water and a folded cloth. Her hands shake as she wrings it out, but her determination steadies her.
When she lays the cloth against Clea’s forehead, Clea actually sighs. The coolness is such a relief she almost weeps.
“You shouldn’t…” Clea starts, but her voice cracks.
Alicia shakes her head sharply and scribbles:
You always take care of me. Let me take care of you for once.
The words make Clea’s chest ache worse than any fever could. She watches her little sister climb back up onto the couch, sitting right beside her this time. Alicia presses her shoulder against Clea’s, as if to anchor her there, her small hand resting lightly on her arm.
The fever ebbs and surges. Sometimes Clea drifts into shallow sleep again, lulled by the steady presence at her side. Each time she wakes, Alicia is still there: adjusting the cloth, bringing her a cup of water with both hands, guiding it carefully to her lips. She is shy and silent as always, but her eyes never leave Clea, wide with worry and something fiercer—devotion, maybe.
At one point, Clea reaches out, brushing the back of her hand against Alicia’s cheek. “Mon trésor,” she whispers hoarsely. “You shouldn’t worry so much.”
Alicia only shakes her head, clutching Esquie to her chest with one arm while the other steadies the cloth on Clea’s brow. She doesn’t need words; the message is clear.
You’re mine, too. I’ll keep you safe.
By the next morning, the fever has loosened its grip on Clea, annoyingly, but the bone-deep exhaustion lingers. She stirs on the couch to find Alicia hovering beside her with a tray, balancing it in both trembling hands.
It looks like a battlefield. The tea is pale and watery, steeped far too briefly. The bread is scorched black on one side and soggy on the other. There’s even an apple with a knife jabbed into it like Alicia wasn’t sure what to do after fetching it.
Alicia’s face is crimson, her eyes darting between the tray and her sister. She sets it down on the low table with such care that it rattles anyway. Then she thrusts her slate forward, chalk scratching in frantic strokes:
I tried to make breakfast. I’m sorry.
Clea drags herself upright with a groan, propping her back against the cushions. Her throat is still rough, her head still heavy. “Looks…edible,” she mutters, eyeing the charred bread.
Alicia flinches like she’s about to bolt. Her fingers tighten on the slate, knuckles white.
“Non, non,” Clea adds quickly, lifting a hand. “I didn’t say bad. I’m…grateful, really.” She tears a corner of the bread, crunches down, and winces at the bitter char. “It’s just…you may have killed the toaster.”
Alicia’s lips twitch, uncertain between tears and laughter. She presses the chalk hard:
I didn’t know how long. I panicked.
Clea sighs through her nose and nudges Alicia’s knee with hers. “You panic about everything, little shadow. It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long.”
The words come out gruff, but there’s no bite in them, not really. She watches as Alicia sets the apple in her lap, still stabbed through with the knife, as though this presentation is entirely normal. Clea blinks at it, then at Alicia.
“…You know you’re supposed to cut it, right?”
Alicia’s face crumples. She grabs the knife back, fumbling, nearly slicing her thumb before Clea snatches it away. “God,” Clea mutters, rubbing her forehead. “You’ll kill me quicker with your help than the fever ever could.”
Alicia’s slate flies up again, desperate, the words jagged and messy:
I just don’t want you to hurt.
That stops Clea cold. The irritation drains out of her as quickly as it came. She sets the knife down carefully and cups Alicia’s wrist, guiding the slate back into her lap. “I know, Alicia. I know.”
The girl ducks her head, shoulders trembling. Her attempts at caretaking are clumsy—spilled tea, burnt toast, and all—but her devotion is raw, almost painful in its intensity. Clea watches her fidget, gnawing at her lower lip, her body tight as if bracing for scolding.
Instead, Clea leans over and presses her forehead gently to Alicia’s temple. “Merci, ma petite. You’ve done enough. More than enough.”
Alicia’s breath hitches, and though she still looks guilty, a faint flush of relief softens her expression. She curls against Clea’s side, clutching the hem of her sleeve like a lifeline, as though even now she’s terrified she’s failed.
Clea strokes her hair absently, letting her stay there. The bread is inedible, the tea lukewarm, but none of it matters. What matters is the warmth pressed into her ribs, the silent plea in her little sister’s grip.
The morning continues on, stretching like taffy. Clea lounges against the couch cushions, blanket pulled up to her chin, trying to sip at the pale tea without scalding her tongue. Alicia flits around the room like a small, nervous bird, carrying everything she can think of that might soothe her sister’s discomfort: a second cup of cooler tea, a folded towel damp with cold water, a small, half-melted ice cube in a saucer.
Every step Alicia takes is careful, measured, almost like walking on a tightrope. But her anxiety betrays her; she drops the saucer halfway across the rug. Clea flinches at the crash, but only lets out a small groan. “It’s fine,” she says, voice rough but not angry. “It’s just a saucer.”
Alicia freezes, eyes wide, cheeks pinking, and scurries over to pick it up, muttering into her slate in rapid, jagged strokes:
I’m sorry! I ruined it! I’ll fix it!
Clea waves a hand, forcing herself to be patient. She knows Alicia doesn’t need scolding; she needs reassurance. “No one’s mad,” Clea says, taking the saucer from her hands and setting it aside herself. “Really. You’re trying.”
The girl watches her like she might have said something violent, and then, slowly, sits cross-legged on the rug nearby. She presses the slate to her knees again:
I just want you to get better.
Clea exhales, a tiny smile ghosting her lips. She reaches over, brushing a hand over Alicia’s dark hair. “I know. And that’s very sweet, but you’re exhausting yourself.”
Alicia fidgets, shifting in place, but immediately leaps up when Clea shifts slightly, worried she’s uncomfortable. She drapes another folded blanket across Clea’s shoulders, tugging it tight, and tucks her arm around the back of the couch cushion to anchor it.
“You’re going to suffocate me under all this care,” Clea mutters with a teasing grumble. Alicia doesn’t understand the joke fully but smiles faintly anyway, chalky fingers brushing against her slate nervously.
Next comes water. Alicia brings a small carafe she’s filled with ice from the kitchen. She sets it carefully on the side table, almost holding her breath as Clea tips the glass to her lips. But the ice cube bumps the rim, water sloshing over the edge. Clea coughs and wipes her mouth on the blanket.
Alicia gasps and scribbles frantically:
I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!
“You’re fine,” Clea says again, more firmly this time. Her patience is worn thin by the clumsy fussing, but her heart softens anyway at the sight of Alicia’s terrified, earnest expression. “Really. I’m not going to break.”
But Alicia won’t hear it. She hovers beside Clea, adjusting pillows, patting her back, checking her forehead, fussing over the blanket again. When Clea shifts to reach the glass of tea, Alicia immediately tugs the blanket taut over her sister’s lap again, eyes darting up anxiously.
“You’re like a very small, very intense nurse,” Clea mutters, a laugh slipping through despite herself. “I can’t even be mad. You’re…too devoted.”
Alicia’s face warms, but she doesn’t stop. She runs a hand along Clea’s arm, adjusting the blanket, and then notices Clea wincing when she shifts again. Immediately she’s at her feet, pulling a chair closer, tucking pillows around her sister, whispering into her slate:
Is it better now? I can fix more.
Clea can’t help the soft laugh that escapes, though it’s hoarse. She leans back, letting Alicia fuss as she likes, letting the girl’s small hands pat the blanket, brush her hair, smooth the pillow, and fuss over every minor detail. “You’re ridiculous,” she mutters fondly. “Completely ridiculous—but…thank you.”
Alicia blinks at her, fingers frozen mid-pat, unsure if she did the right thing. Then, as though reassured, she settles beside Clea, still shuffling blankets and straightening cushions. Clea watches her closely, heart aching a little at how anxious and earnest she is. Every movement Alicia makes seems to be an act of love, however clumsy.
Hours pass like this. Alicia brings more water, fusses over the tea, presses cool cloths to Clea’s forehead, adjusts pillows again, checks the blanket a dozen times. Clea alternates between dozing and watching, letting herself be amused, exasperated, and strangely comforted by the tiny whirlwind of care beside her.
At one point, Alicia curls a little closer, tucking her arm against Clea’s side, Esquie pressed to her chest. Clea glances down, sees the small, nervous smile that Alicia dares not speak aloud, and she sighs, the sound soft and warm.
“You’re a terrible nurse,” she mutters, one hand brushing Alicia’s hair back, “but I can’t hate you for it. Not even a little.”
Alicia freezes, slate dropping slightly. Then, after a long moment, she lifts it again and scribbles:
I just want you better. That’s all I want.
Clea leans her head back against the couch, letting the heat of Alicia’s small hand against hers, the soft presence of the girl, and the quiet chaos of care settle over her. Grumpy she may be, fevered and worn she may still feel—but beneath it all, she allows herself to sink a little deeper into the comfort of her little sister’s anxious, clumsy devotion.
And for once, the chaos feels like a kind of safety.
Sometime later, Clea stirs awake with a groan, the afternoon sun slanting harshly through the parlor windows. Her head pounds faintly, the remnants of fever and exhaustion tugging at her temples, and for a moment she thinks of nothing but sinking back into the soft couch cushions.
Then—clatter, crash, bang!
Her eyes snap open. Something is happening in the kitchen. Something loud, chaotic, and, judging by the panicked squeaks and the occasional thud of fur paws on tile, involving Noco and Monoco the Third.
Clea swings her legs over the edge of the couch, blankets slipping around her shoulders. “Oh no,” she mutters, voice thick with both weariness and dread. “Please tell me she’s not…”
She doesn’t need to finish. The answer comes to her as she pads quietly down the hall. The kitchen door is ajar, and from the tiny gap spills the full orchestra of disaster: pots clanging, utensils rattling, water spilling onto the floor, and a tiny, panicked voice trying desperately to keep up with it all.
Alicia.
The girl is on her tiptoes, balancing on the edge of a chair, one hand reaching for a saucepan while the other presses a dish towel awkwardly against the counter to catch a spill. Noco, their older dog, is weaving between her legs with deliberate curiosity, nosing at a stray carrot slice. Monoco the Third, the puppy, is a blur of fur and teeth, leaping excitedly at every dangling kitchen towel, yipping every time it flops out of Alicia’s grasp.
Alicia’s slate lies on the counter, scrawled in determined but jagged letters, like she wrote it to motivate herself:
Dinner! I can do it! I won’t hurt her!
Clea heaves a great sigh. “What are you doing?”
Alicia squeaks and nearly falls off of the stool and to the ground. Seeing her wobble, Clea lurches forward instinctively, the sharp motion making her head spin, a flash of nausea stirring her guts. Luckily, Alicia manages to steady herself, and she gets down to her feet.
Clea asks again, hoarser this time, and she has to clear her throat immediately after, “What are you doing?”
Alicia gestures frantically around the kitchen, and Clea can understand her without her even needing to write anything- Cooking!
Clea sighs once more, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I can see that,” she mutters, voice thick with tired amusement. “You’re doing…something.”
Alicia doesn’t hear her—or, more accurately, she doesn’t register that she’s being observed. She hisses at Monoco the Third, who has latched onto the corner of the dish towel and is now yanking it across the floor. Noco barks, as if scolding the pup for its insolence. Alicia teeters, one hand clutching the counter, the other flailing wildly as she tries to keep the pan upright.
“No! Stop! Please!” she mouths desperately, slamming her hand against the edge of the counter in frustration.
The puppy yips and skids across the tile, sending a small pile of chopped vegetables flying. Alicia whirls, knocking her chair backward with a squeak. She catches herself against the counter, knocking over a jar of utensils that clatters across the floor, making Noco jump.
Clea leans against the doorframe, biting back laughter. “You might actually set the kitchen on fire,” she says, shaking her head. “Or die trying.”
Alicia whirls at her, slate held like a shield:
I’m trying! I can do this! I just want to feed you!
Clea steps forward, moving slowly, careful not to startle the flailing girl or the dogs. “I know, ma petite. But maybe… slow down a little?”
Alicia nods frantically, eyes wide, then immediately tries to scoop Monoco the Third into her arms. The puppy wriggles free, yipping as he darts under the table. Noco barks again, and Alicia spins, almost losing her balance, before grabbing a pot lid to wave it like a shield at both dogs. The lid clanks against the counter with a hollow ring.
Clea groans, crouching to grab Noco by the collar while Alicia stumbles, trying to keep the puppy away from the half-burnt bread. “You’re a menace,” she mutters, giving the older dog a gentle shove back. “All three of you.”
Alicia freezes, cheeks flaming, slate shaking in her hands. She scribbles furiously:
I just want it to be perfect! I want you to eat something!
Clea kneels beside her, gently taking Alicia’s trembling hands and setting them on the counter. “Ma petite… it doesn’t have to be perfect. You just want to help. That’s enough.”
The girl bites her lip, looking like she might cry, before a small sigh escapes her. Slowly, she sets the pan on the stove, adjusting the heat with shaking fingers. Noco and Monoco the Third settle slightly, sensing that Clea is in charge. Alicia leans over, eyes scanning the ingredients, muttering silently to herself as she tries to focus.
By the time the soup is stirred—mostly without spilling—and the bread has been carefully removed from the blackened edges, Alicia’s hands are trembling. Noco and Monoco the Third sit nearby, panting and wagging, sensing the tension but blissfully unaware of the chaos they helped cause.
Clea leans against the counter, arms folded, grumpy but trying to look patient. She watches her sister fumble with the dishes, her tiny movements tense, determined, and entirely too earnest.
Then, out of nowhere, Alicia’s lip trembles. She freezes, the slate clutched against her chest like a shield, and a small, almost inaudible whimper escapes her throat.
Clea notices immediately. “Alicia?” she says softly, moving closer.
But Alicia doesn’t look up. Her cheeks flush bright red, tears pricking her eyes. Her hands shake as she presses the slate to her chest again, scribbling jaggedly:
I… I can’t do this. I’m…ruining everything.
Her breath catches, and she lets out a small, stifled sob. She hates it. Hates the helplessness, hates that she can’t just keep Clea safe like she wants to. She’s always the one who needs comfort, the one who crumbles first, the one who trembles when the world demands she be strong—and now, she’s failing even at helping.
Clea kneels beside her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” she says quietly, voice soft but steady. “It’s okay. Really. You’re not ruining anything.”
Alicia shakes her head violently, tears spilling freely now. Her body curls inward as if she could disappear entirely. She presses the slate to her face and writes furiously, scratching letters across the worn surface:
I hate that I need help. I hate that I cry. I… I’m supposed to take care of you, not the other way around.
Clea’s chest tightens. She crouches lower, pressing her hand gently over Alicia’s, guiding it down so the slate isn’t pressed to her cheek. “Ma petite,” she murmurs, brushing damp hair back from Alicia’s forehead. “You don’t have to hate it. You don’t have to hate yourself for needing me. It’s… normal. And I’m right here.”
Alicia sniffles, flinching at the warmth, at the gentle weight of Clea’s hand. “But…” she presses the slate again, her letters jagged and shaky:
I… I’m always the broken one. Always.
Clea shakes her head, voice firm but tender. “No. You’re not broken. You’re…human. And even if you feel like you should be the strong one, it’s okay to lean on someone else sometimes.” She leans forward, resting her forehead against Alicia’s, just a touch, anchoring them both. “You’re not failing. Not even close.”
Alicia hiccups, curling closer, tears still flowing but somehow softened by Clea’s closeness. She presses the slate lightly against the counter this time, not shielding herself, and scribbles one last note:
I… I just want to be good at this. I want to take care of you.
Clea chuckles softly, voice cracked with warmth. “Little shadow, you are. You try so hard, and that’s enough. Even if the bread’s burnt and the soup is watery—you’re enough. You always are.”
Alicia’s sobs gradually quiet, her small body trembling as Clea hugs her close. Noco leans in for a sniff, Monoco the Third curls at her feet, and the kitchen, once a battlefield, finally settles into quiet.
Even if Alicia hates being on the receiving end, even if she feels guilty, even if she’s not perfect—Clea’s patient presence tells her, without words, that needing care doesn’t make her weak.
It just makes her human.