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It was hard to mark the passage of time on Sirène’s island.
Visages had been the same. The strange, twisting vales made it difficult to determine the position of the sun, as the cliffs rose on either side of the canyon trails—literal rock faces that were by turns mocking and spiteful. The Sadness Vale was trapped in a perpetual downpour; Anger was bathed in a harsh, red light. Joy seemed to be the only marginally normal terrain, but even then, the Mask Keeper’s presence brought an immediate darkness that might have been nightfall, for all they knew. Maelle couldn’t remember what the sky had looked like, when they left.
On Sirène, at least, time seemed to pass in a linear fashion…something Maelle had never thought to be grateful for.
The problem, rather, was the spiraling maze of tunnels and passageways that looped around the Axon. It wasn’t uncommon to encounter a blocked path, or an unstable ledge that would send them backtracking into the darkened stone halls. Sometimes these detours felt like minutes, while others seemed to stretch for hours. It was only when their journey brought them back out into the sunlight, that they could begin to guess at their progress.
“I’d place sunset in about three hours, give or take.”
Maelle glanced up to see Lune regarding the sky beyond the towering columns with an appraising air.
“We won’t make it to the Axon before then,” Verso said. He had his eyes turned towards the gently swaying figure at the isle’s center, now draped in an elegant dress of purple shadow. “I don’t think we’ll want to travel at night.”
“We’ll have to make camp here,” Lune replied.
“…Here?” Monoco gestured to the crumbling ledge beneath their feet with a healthy dose of skepticism. Lune rolled her eyes as Verso smothered a laugh; Sciel did not bother to smother her own.
“Not here specifically, no,” Lune said, “ideally we’ll want something with a bit more cover.”
“Mmmm, yes,” Monoco agreed, oblivious to Lune’s mild exasperation, “and with less holes in the ground.”
With that decided, they somewhat reluctantly retreated back into the labyrinthine halls. Maelle dragged her feet, casting a longing look over her shoulder at the fading sunlight. She knew, of course, that staying out in the open like that, with roving hordes of Nevrons was out of the question, but…
She could feel Sciel at her side, having slowed to match her pace.
“It’ll be a nice change, yeah? Sleeping inside for once?” She offered Maelle an easy grin, and Maelle could tell she was trying to cheer her up; Sciel had no problem sleeping beneath the stars. In fact, it often seemed she preferred it.
But Maelle appreciated the effort, even if the words did little to settle the rattling unease that had plagued her since they’d arrived. She forced a smile in return.
“You think the Nevrons here sleep in beds?”
Sciel chuckled, “wouldn’t that be convenient?”
Their search did not turn up any beds, unfortunately, though some of the strange chambers seemed…almost padded with flowing textiles and plush cushions, as if the walls themselves had been woven, rather than forged. Ultimately, it was just a touch too unsettling to linger there, no matter how tempting the softer surfaces seemed.
Instead, they decided on a stretch of corridor they had discovered sometime earlier, marked by an Expedition flag. The number was too faded to decipher; Maelle couldn’t decide if its presence was a comfort, or vaguely haunting.
A little of both, maybe.
Once the rocks and pebbles had been cleared, and the airflow deemed sufficient for a small campfire, they set about organizing the watch rotation.
“It’ll be tricky to keep track of the hour in here,” Monoco said, taking a seat on the remains of a stone column. Lune nodded, though she had that far-away look in her eyes that meant she was already in the process of devising a solution.
“I wonder if we could use the censers somehow…” she murmured, referring to the golden instruments scattered throughout the passages. They hung at irregular intervals, emitting a faint, floral scent. “If the incense burns at a consistent rate…”
Sciel visibly shuddered. “No, thank you,” she said, eyeing the objects in question, “we’ve met a few too many Nevrons that make use of charmed lanterns and the like. I’d prefer not to be blighted in my sleep.”
“I’ll take first watch,” Monoco offered, squaring his shoulders in a display of selfless bravado, “you can test it on me.”
“…but you don’t have a nose,” Lune pointed out.
All of Monoco’s puffed-up pride left him in one mighty huff.
“Does that really matter though? Where Chroma and magic are concerned?” Sciel asked, genuinely curious.
Monoco grumbled in displeasure. “Noses are overrated.”
Maelle watched as the three of them continued to playfully bicker, giggling softly to herself. The nagging unease that remained stubbornly lodged beneath her rib cage loosened slightly.
As her gaze slid off to the side to see Verso pacing at the camp’s edge, however, she felt the unease coil tighter once more.
The lines of his shoulders were tense and drawn, fists clenched at his side. He’d been acting strange—well, stranger—ever since the confrontation with the Mask Keeper, and though he was working to hide it, he clearly had some kind of…deeper problem with this place.
Maelle decided to interrupt his brooding, if only to distract herself from her own disquieting emotions.
“You aren’t going to help Monoco make his case?”
Verso paused in his pacing and glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t seem opposed to her presence, which was encouraging.
“What case?” Verso asked. “…I’ve missed something, clearly.”
Maelle shrugged, “nothing important. Just Monoco and Lune arguing.”
“Ahhh, a duel Monoco will never win,” he said, and flashed his usual crooked grin. She could tell he was trying just as hard as she was to retreat into the safety of distraction. Maelle understood her own motives for doing so but…
What was bothering him?
He didn’t give her a chance to ask, as he gave her shoulder a gentle pat and returned to the others. She had no choice but to trot after him.
“—for that matter, if you don’t have a nose, how have you been snoring every night?”
“That’s a deep breathing exercise, very cleansing. You should try it.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Lively dinner conversation already underway, I see,” Verso interjected, stepping between Lune and Monoco. Sciel was quick to match his teasing tone.
“Yes, though a bit lacking in the ‘dinner’ part, I’m afraid.”
“A problem easily remedied,” Verso told them, and made for his pack, “I brought more rations than usual, as I expected these Axon islands to be something of a shit show.”
Lune was amused. “And your fix for that was dried meat and stale bread?”
“And cheese, obviously,” Verso said.
“Oh, right, obviously.”
Sciel smirk was mischievous as she interrupted, “flirt after we’ve eaten, please?” Lune coughed into her fist and Verso hid his faint blush by ducking to rummage through his bag. Maelle laughed at them both. “And you, young lady,” Sciel added, rounding on her, “can help me with the canteens.”
Maelle nodded, struggling to school her expression into something appropriately serious. Though they hadn’t come across any naturally-occurring sources of water on the island so far, they’d seen several decorative fountains and aqueducts. While a fair number were dry or stagnant, there had been points where the water flowed clear and clean.
“I think the nearest waterway is fifteen minutes back down the left path,” Maelle said, once she trusted herself not to dissolve into further giggling at Lune and Verso’s expense.
Sciel handed her one of the half-empty canteens. “That sounds about right,” she agreed, “think you can manage a solo mission?”
Maelle gave a firm nod. They’d been thorough in thinning the Nevrons on their way to the Axon; any that remained would be easy enough to either evade or pick off.
“If you aren’t back in half an hour, we’ll come look for you,” Lune told her as Maelle called forth her rapier and some ambient Chroma to light the path.
“You’re determined to test those censers, aren’t you?” Sciel cast a mildly accusing look in Lune’s direction. The mage waved off her concern.
“I’ll conjure a paint cage if it’ll make you feel better. It’s inefficient, wandering off from camp whenever we have to check the time.”
“Just use the song,” Maelle said before she could think better of it. She winced in near immediate regret as her fellow Expeditioners turned to face her, eyes narrowed in confusion and concern.
Naturally, it was Lune who spoke first.
“…The song?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“It…changes,” Maelle muttered, “it was singing, during the day. But now, it’s—”
“Humming” Sciel said, her head slightly tilted to one side as she caught the faint melody, “I wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Because you shouldn’t be listening,” Verso reminded them, though his hard gaze was firmly fixed on Maelle, “I told you, it’s dangerous.”
“…Sorry,” Maelle said, face warm with embarrassment at being scolded in front of everyone, “I wasn’t—I’ll be more careful.”
She waited to see if Verso would say anything more. His brows were pulled low, mouth pressed into a nearly invisible line. That tension was back—it seemed to radiate off his shoulders in barely contained waves.
He said nothing, though. Just let out a slow, shaking exhale, and resumed his prior task.
Maelle stared. She supposed she should have been…relieved, to have avoided whatever sort of verbal storm had just blown over, but. It did not feel settled. There was no sense of closure, just a looming ellipses. Leading to what, Maelle could not say.
Fortunately, the unpleasant, awkward tension left in the wake of the brief exchange was swiftly broken by Lune’s pragmatism. “It’s a valuable observation, regardless,” she decided, reaching for her notes, “if you notice anything else, let me know.”
It was not a dismissal, but Maelle took her leave, hardly in the mood to linger.
She retraced their earlier steps, mindful of the gathering darkness and occasional bits of crumbling architecture. The ambient Chroma helped, tossing a circle of light at her feet, just enough to avoid any immediate pitfalls or obstacles. Compared to the wilds of the rest of the Continent however, these passageways were far easier to navigate, as they were...well. Not man-made, apparently. Verso had said they'd appeared after the Fracture so...presumably Paintress-made, then? The point being. Even with the occasional bits of crumbling stone, the halls were built to be navigated, and that alone made a great deal of difference.
Thus, Maelle made good time, rounding a familiar corner that opened to a larger chamber, where the soft sounds of running water echoed across the vast space. She let the Chroma dim, and paused briefly to listen for any movement that wasn’t her own.
Nothing, save for the Axon’s song.
She hurried to distract herself, Verso’s warning fresh in her mind. She swallowed thickly, something like guilt, cloying and obtrusive, at the back of her throat.
Fortunately, her current task was just tedious enough to keep her from focusing on the enchanted notes and Verso's reprimand; she made her way to the far side of the chamber and knelt beside a narrow stone trench on the ground. A dark ribbon of water gurgled within, and as Maelle reached a tentative hand into its shallow depths, she was relieved to feel it flowing fast and cool.
She set about filling the canteens, though was careful to keep her head up, surveying the chamber as she waited.
She nearly jumped out of her skin as something moved in her peripheral vision.
She jerked to one side, ready to call her rapier back, but there was no need; the movement she’d caught was just the distant figure of the Axon, visible through a stone arch that led to a small balcony. She remembered investigating the archway earlier; the balcony was a dead end, cut off from any exterior paths.
Maelle waited for her heartbeat to slow, taking deep breaths. Sirène continued her dance, and Maelle found herself staring, just as she had when they’d first beheld the Axon.
She knew this dance. Had said so, several times, mostly because she herself could not quite understand how such a thing was possible. Sciel had insisted it wasn’t a dance from Lumière—but she must have been mistaken. There was no other explanation that made sense.
…Right?
Maelle stood slowly. Only half the canteens had been filled, and she was on a time limit.
Nevertheless, she found herself carefully approaching the stone arch, to get a better look at Sirène, all the while thinking back to Monoco and Verso telling them about those who had lost their minds, thanks to the thrall of her song.
Maelle let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, as she had to admit she might have been losing her mind, but. She doubted it was the Axon's doing.
It was true, of course, that upon their arrival, she had fallen under Sirene's spell, just as the others had. But once the strange, supernatural haze cleared, she found that she felt no fear or hatred for the towering creature at the isle’s center; she did not feel threatened by the music, or the dance.
That’s the point, she could imagine Verso saying, that’s how she kills you.
And that was the unsettling bit, the source of her unease: she knew she should be wary and yet...she wasn't. At all.
She sat down heavily on the sandy stones. Sirène’s arms moved in a graceful arc; Maelle knew exactly where it would begin and end.
“…It’s like the Goblu,” she muttered to no one in particular. “…what is wrong with me?”
The Axon held no answers.
Maelle wondered—not for the first time—if maybe the answers remained with her parents. It seemed plausible; the years before their Gommage would have been formative, foundational. And yet, whenever she reached for memories from that time, it was frustratingly fuzzy.
Her foster families could never agree on whether or not that was normal. Some would say that losing her parents so young had been traumatic—that the lack of concrete memories was the mind’s way of protecting itself.
Others felt that three was old enough to have retained something, at least, and that her inability to remember much of anything was troubling.
She kicked at a stray pebble on the ground and missed. Was it so strange that her mother’s voice was a mystery to her, or that she could not rightly recall if her father ever wore a beard?
…Well, probably. But it was hardly the strangest thing about her, if she was being honest.
She let her head fall back against the stone wall and tried—really tried—to pinpoint where, exactly, in her memories Sirène’s dance resided.
In her mind’s eye, it was still just the Axon, dressed in flowing finery, her robed acolytes twirling just beyond the path of her languid movements. Maelle tried to imagine a person dancing as the Axon had.
Unsurprisingly, the clearest and most recent memories were of Sciel—of the dances she’d taught to Maelle, as well as those performed yearly at the harbor for the Gommage. But the more she thought about it, the more Maelle believed the other woman’s assertion—that Sirène’s dance had not been one of those found at festivals or dance halls in Lumière.
Of course, Maelle had never been outside of Lumière before the Expedition, so someone would had to have known it—someone Maelle would have met, or the very least seen. Not Emma or Gustave—Emma was not the type inclined to dance, and Gustave could only be persuaded when in the company of close friends…
She had a sudden memory of her brother being cajoled into joining whatever ridiculous jig Amandine and Andre had come up with, overjoyed at having solved some sort of problem or equation, or maybe just having fixed a particularly troubling boiler, all three laughing and alive.
Maelle took a shuddering breath; the memory was more painful than expected.
She quickly moved on.
Foster families, then. One of the women who looked after her before Gustave and Emma had taken her in. She was fairly certain it had been a woman…a woman with hair a darker, duskier red than her own. That…seemed right?
She once again found herself in the smudged rememberings of her childhood, where images were frustratingly contradictory. But she felt she was close. A woman in a sitting room, far nicer than any home in Lumière, drifting along with music from a piano…
But was her hair short, and tousled? Or did it fall in gentle waves past her waist?
Both. Neither. Maelle could feel her patience rapidly waning.
Douceur de l’âme
Elle chante, souffle calme
Maelle abruptly sat forward, eyes snapping open. She’s been so preoccupied with her thoughts, lost in her efforts to remember, that she’d forgotten the danger of the towering creature mere paces away, and had allowed its song to lodge itself in her mind.
Though…
The Axon was still just humming, as far as Maelle could tell. So, the lyrics…?
Maelle scowled and shook her head. She’d wasted enough time on this; she needed to fill the rest of the canteens and get back to camp.
She hurried to the stream and completed the task, calling back her rapier and glowing Chroma. There was movement again, at the edge of her vision, and she cast a brief glance to the side to confirm that it was still just Sirène—
Except, it wasn’t.
She tensed. In the muted blues of the stone chamber, a dark shape hovered gently back and forth.
A Nevron.
A Ballet, if the violent tangle of red hair was anything to go by. Maelle let out a soft, wry huff—her own hair sometimes looked just as wild in the morning.
She stood silent and waiting, expecting several more Nevrons to appear, at which point she could decide if it was better to simply run, or deal with them here and now.
But the lone Ballet remained as such, bobbing like a tethered balloon. It struck Maelle as odd. Every Nevron encounter had involved a group of at least three or so...She made a mental note to tell Lune about this, once she was back at camp. She was certain the scientist would be thrilled at this new, interesting wrinkle in Nevron behavior.
For now, though, she had to make up her mind: fight, or flight?
On the one hand, she could hear Lune’s advice on mitigating risk and conserving both energy and resources—live to fight another day, and all that—but on the other, if she made a break for it, and it followed, or worse, called in some friends, well. That would make for a much bigger mess, than just dealing with it.
Fight it is. She gathered the Chroma necessary for a strike, launching the energy squarely at the Ballet. It hit its mark perfectly, the Nevron letting out a screech that almost sounded indignant. Maelle paid it no mind, taking advantage of the distraction provided by the blow. She moved fast and fierce, blade drawn and poised to strike.
The Ballet easily dodged, and Maelle cursed—she’d forgotten, that the best approach to dealing with the floating Nevrons was a ranged attack.
She let her momentum carry her past the Ballet, ducking into a roll as it thrashed and spun. As Maelle hurried to her feet, she felt the air pulse with the Nevron’s enchantments, dense purple fog swirling like searching tendrils, eager for a victim.
Maelle quickly danced out of their range, dropping into a more defensive position as she hurled bursts of Chroma at the Nevron.
Again it shrieked, writhing and incensed. Its white face took on a ghostly glow each time the Chroma struck its body, though the single black eye remained dark and impenetrable. It resembled Sirène, in that sense.
And the Reacher, Maelle thought.
But then,
…wait…?
Her foot slipped on a patch of sand covered stone. The Ballet charged, swooping like a vengeful bird of prey. Maelle struggled to move her rapier fast enough to counter, and felt the impact jar both the blade and her arm as the Ballet made violent contact, knocking her to the side.
Stupid—! She silently fumed at her own rookie mistakes. She knew better. And yet…
And yet something was decidedly off.
She ground her teeth, the biting sting of frustration far more acute than the accumulating abrasions and aches. She was stronger than one lone, troublesome Nevron, and would not fall to such a mundane threat.
The Pictos etched on her rapier shimmered with elemental energy—nothing like Lune’s Stains, of course, but enough to do the job.
This time, when the Ballet dived, Maelle was ready. She brought her rapier up in a sweeping arc, a trail of cast fire crackling in its wake. The Nevron ignited the moment both the blade and the flames caught; it let out a pained scream that bordered on human.
Maelle let herself fall backwards into a crouch, breathing heavily, relieved the bout was over.
However, the Nevron continued to twist and writhe and scream; Maelle kept waiting for it to collapse into Lumina dust and yet—
Maelle scrambled backwards as it suddenly lunged at her, a nightmarish column of living flame. A blackened limb shot out, and before Maelle could fully react, she felt the casting of a Burn bite her shoulder.
She let out a yell and had to fight the reflex to reach up and pat out the fire—it would only make it spread. She hurriedly tried to locate where she’d dropped the canteens and her small pack—it contained healing Tints.
A Ballet can’t cast Burn! The fevered thought was as desperate as it was unhelpful; the painful magic spread down her arm and up her neck. Distantly, she felt her rapier fall from her grip, and Sirène’s song, which had been a gentle whisper, now seemed to roar with the same intensity as the fire.
Sans toi,
Sans elle,
Maelle
She dropped to her knees, sand biting into her palms. That’s not right—it, it shouldn’t be singing, it’s—
The fire climbed the side of her face. She clawed at the flames, no longer caring if they spread because not her face, not again—!
Sans toit,
Sans ailes,
Maelle
It wasn’t Sirène’s song echoing around them, it was another song, from another memory, it had to be, because—because the Axon wouldn’t know her, right? It wouldn’t know her name or—
Of course it would, Papa painted it.
The Burn consumes. She’s in the manor, trapped, unable to yell for help as her lungs fill with smoke. She’s at the base of the Monolith, thrashing against the heat, Lune and Sciel’s cries loud in her ears, Verso’s arms tight around her shoulders.
She’s on Sirène’s island, unable to move as the immolated Nevron’s death throes bring it hurtling back towards her, screeching, twisting in the embers, its hair and mask melted, dripping in fetid chunks—
Revealing her own scarred face beneath.
“No!”
—//—
Alicia wakes to the sound of a hoarse shout, disoriented and unable to make sense of where—or even when—she is. Her breath comes in scraping gasps, and the memory (dream?) sits like a lead weight on her chest.
Her heartbeat is loud in her own ears, the only sound in the darkened room, which is otherwise oppressively silent. It only confuses her further. She presses a shaking hand to her shoulder, and finds thin cotton, where she expects oilskin.
There are other incongruous details, as her vision adjusts to the lack of light—a bedside table and lamp, and a stack of piled books beyond it. It’s familiar—hers. And yet…
And yet the fight with the Ballet is still fresh. She can feel the adrenaline, the ache in her limbs, the prickle of sweat at her hairline and base of her neck—she was there!
Or you just think you were, a traitorous voice whispers, and all you’re feeling is the beginnings of a panic attack.
It’s distressing enough to have her heaving again. She pushes herself upright with trembling arms and tries to calm down.
Breathe. Just breathe. She can hear Sciel’s instructions, imagines her face…or—is it Clea? Were they seated by the fire at camp, or in the manor’s gardens with the dogs?
She can’t sort the memories—real, or not real? They bleed and warp like wet media on cheap paper.
“Hnnrg—“ she lets out a formless sound that is something between an angry shout and a sob, but her throat is agitated from the hyperventilating. She is forced to swallow whatever other outcry she’s planned on, which is both maddening and sobering.
Water, her mind grasps at the simple, straightforward need. Water will help.
Gustave used to say that, when she was little and she’d wake up from a nightmare. …No, not Gustave. Verso. Or—no, wait. Papa…?
She shoves aside the bedding (heavy and soft and again, familiar, but not the thin bedroll and scratchy blanket she expects) and sets her bare feet down on the cold marble floor. The feel of it—the texture, the press, the chill—is immediate and grounding. She leans forward and sucks in a thin breath.
She’s in her bedroom. In the manor—in Paris.
She takes a few tentative steps, navigating the space with practiced ease, in spite of the darkness and her impaired vision. Each step is bracing and wakes her further.
The Nevron fight had been a dream. The Canvas is gone. Lune and Sciel and Verso are all—
She stops just shy of her bedroom door, tipping forward slightly to rest her forehead on the wood. Her heartbeat is less frenzied, but her throat is still uncomfortable, now burning with the subtle ache of unshed tears.
It was Papa, who insisted that water was the cure for any late-night ailments; Gustave preferred chamomile tea for bouts of insomnia.
She reaches for the door handle, calmer but no less emotionally raw.
She nearly jumps when the handle turns on its own.
The door swings open and she reflexively reaches for her sword, silently cursing when the weapon does not materialize, and the dark shape blocking her path makes a tenuous move towards her, willowy and spectral. Her mind screams, Nevron—the Ballet!
“—Alicia?” The voice that comes out of the darkness is decidedly human, and soft. Though, there is an undercurrent of concern that vibrates like a plucked, tremulous thread. “I—I thought I heard…”
Some of the tension bleeds from Alicia’s shoulders.
“…Maman?”
(Except, of course, her exhausted throat has it sounding more like, ‘Mmn?’)
Her mother does not immediately respond, leaving Alicia to stare into the space where she assumes Maman’s face to be—
—the Paintress standing over a sea of guttering candles, Verso pleading softly, ‘No. No, no no no—‘ as a ghostly hand reaches out, and then—
Alicia abruptly takes a half step back, hand flying to her face. The scars are there, yes, but she has to remind herself they came from…from a different fire…
She lets out a rough exhale.
There is a faint shifting of fabric, and then, she feels her mother’s hand on her own.
“Ma fille,” Maman murmurs, “what’s wrong?”
Everything would probably be the most truthful answer, but Alicia knows that’s not what she’s asking. She opts for something less than the truth, but not entirely a lie, and moves her mother’s hand so that it comes to rest against the column of her throat.
As Maman’s fingers brush the scars there, Alicia feels them faintly recoil.
It stings, but she’s not surprised. She’s ruined the illusion, after all. Here, in the dark, Maman can pretend the scars aren’t there; she can stand to face her, to speak with her.
Maman pulls her hand away completely, and Alicia is seized by a desire to simply run—to flee the discomfort and unpleasantness.
Before she can, however, a small, glowing spark appears in the air in front of her. It quivers lightly, flickering before it is joined by several other larger, luminous spheres, casting a ring of warm, white light in the hallway.
Raw Chroma.
There are perhaps four or five Painters in all of France capable of manipulating Chroma outside of a Canvas; Alicia knows that her mother is one of them, but she cannot recall having ever seen her do it. It was commonplace, in Lumière, as Chroma manipulation was the basis of all magecraft, but here—
Alicia quickly shakes her head at her mother. It’s a draining technique, and Maman is still recovering from Verso’s Canvas. She’s seen it herself, in the weeks since: her mother is quick to tire, and uncharacteristically frail at Papa’s side.
Here, it’s even more starkly evident in the light of the Chroma. The lines in her face are pronounced, her eyes red-rimmed and set deep in their sockets.
Alicia winces, belatedly realizing what she must look like, and hurries to hide her face. Her scars are bad enough in daylight; cast in such harsh shadow, she imagines she resembles her painted counterpart, warped and—and pitiable.
She waits for her mother to extinguish the lights, so that they might both hide in the safety of the dark.
Instead, a gentle hand settles beneath her chin, coaxing her to turn. Alicia considers resisting, tentatively peeking out from behind the fringe of her hair.
There is a tightness in the lines around Maman’s eyes, but the curve of her mouth is gentle.
“Come sit,” she says, guiding her to one of the chaises in the hall.
Alicia lets herself be led, and is surprised to see that the furniture has been moved. Rather than being tucked in the reading nook nearest Verso’s room, the chaise is situated in the stretch of hallway between Alicia’s bedroom door and Clea’s study.
There is also a conspicuous knitted throw draped over one of the arms, and the decorative pillow looks suspiciously slept-on.
Alicia makes a questioning sort of sound, and inclines her head towards the relocated chaise.
Maman is hesitant in her response. “I…” she starts to say, folding her hands stiffly over her middle.
Long seconds pass; Alicia wonders if she will answer at all.
“I worry,” she finally says, and her voice strains with the admission.
It strikes Alicia, then, just how quickly her mother had appeared at her door, as well as her explanation: that she heard something. She would not have been able to manage either, sleeping in her own bed, in her own room.
Guilt gnaws at the pit of Alicia’s stomach, joined by its close companion, shame. She wants to tell Maman that she doesn’t need to…stand guard, but then again, Clea has been rather vocal with her theories about the Writers planning to ‘finish the job.’ (An overwrought turn-of-phrase if Alicia’s ever heard one—she’s made sure to give her sister grief about it at every opportunity.)
But that traitorous voice in her mind is there as well; small and quiet, but undeniably present. After weeks of avoidance, and halting, awkward interactions, to say nothing of the doubt and hurt that has hovered at the edge of all things since the fire—and perhaps even before…
Alicia is simply relieved. That her mother still cares.
Maman directs her to one end of the chaise, but does not join her. Alicia is momentarily confused as she disappears down the hall, electing to leave the Chroma (and a bewildered Alicia) behind.
The vast manor is silent once more, though Alicia can hear the ticking of one of the clocks.
Maman eventually returns, and a small glass of water is pressed into Alicia’s hand.
“For your throat,” she says. Alicia blinks. She’d already forgotten.
She accepts it, though, and does have to admit that it helps. Her throat is still sore, but. The edge has been taken off.
Maman finally sits beside her, letting out a small huff of irritation as she realizes the end of her robe has awkwardly bunched beneath her, and she is forced to try once more, smoothing the fabric and sweeping it to the side, as she would her skirts.
In that moment, she is not matriarch, but maman, and suddenly the image of the Paintress--the ethereal sculpture, scarred, bleeding stardust--seems altogether dreamlike when contrasted against memories of her mother seated by the fireplace, feet bare and tucked beside her on the chaise as she scratches Noco's ears, pleased at his tiny wuffs; her mother trying very hard to pretend as though she had not been kissing Papa out on the garden path, and failing spectacularly; her mother shaking her head, but smiling, at a pair of small handprints on the hem of her dress, hue suspiciously similar to the one on a young Alicia's palms...
She feels a flare of nostalgia, and reflexively leans against her mother’s shoulder before she has time to doubt, or second guess.
Maman huffs again, “my arm, child,” she says, adjusting until her limb is free. But she drapes it over Alicia’s shoulders, and after another moment, Alicia can feel her carding her fingers through her hair, soothing. It catches Alicia by surprise, bringing forth another wave of emotion. Her eye and socket well with sudden tears; she turns her face further into her mother’s shoulder, embarrassed.
If Maman notices, she doesn’t say anything. Just continues to brush her fingers through her hair.
They remain that way for a time…Alicia does not know how long. She only knows that it is a rare moment of right among all the recent wrong, and she does not want it to end.
…But they aren’t Canvas walking. Time flows forward for them, whether Alicia wants it to or not.
“Alicia,” Maman says eventually, voice quiet and…careful, “was it…just your throat , that woke you?”
Reluctance roots itself in Alicia’s mind and heart for a myriad of reasons, chief among them that they have not discussed any of what transpired in Verso’s Canvas; it’s been like a held breath, unsustainable but stubbornly kept.
Alicia is certain the avoidance comes from a potent mixture of exhaustion and fear—none of them know how to broach such an immense, volatile subject. They all saw one another at their worst, at their most vulnerable—they hurt one another.
She wants to run again. Hide from it—lie, like she lied to Papa about—about leaving the Canvas. She’s perhaps not as practiced as her brother was, but…
The thought of Verso and his lies gives her momentary pause. What exactly had all that lying accomplished, in the end?
Just more hurt. For himself and others—the same thing he’d accused her of.
All just hypocrites, repeating the same cycle, he’d said. Or…something like that.
And there is another memory, dredged up as her thoughts circle. Kneeling in the red grass of the Ancient Sanctuary, Karatom’s small, square mask tilted towards her, listening.
Trust me, I hate liars.
She winces. It’s…so much.
The clock ticks. Her mother waits.
It is a mixture, ultimately, of Verso’s condemnation and Maelle’s conviction that forces her to slowly sit up and shake her head.
Maman’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.
With a somewhat unsure hand, Alicia reaches for her mother’s, turning it palm-up and uncurling her fingers. With no notebook nearby, she’ll have to use the method she and Clea relied on, early in her recovery, when managing a pen was still too difficult.
She spells out the words on Maman’s palm. A dream, she admits.
Maman squints for a moment, and with her hand that is not being used as a scratch pad, beckons the Chroma lights closer.
Then she nods at her, expectant.
Alicia momentarily falters. It’s...not exactly an ideal form of communication for…for all that needs to be said.
About the Canvas, she writes, pausing briefly before adding, the Axon, Sirène.
You.
Maman purses her lips. “I…remember. From the confrontation with your father.”
Alicia shakes her head. No, she writes, and notices Maman’s eyebrows raise in confusion, it was—
She pauses.
Before that. During the Expedition. The islands.
Maman’s brow smooths with recognition. “Oh,” she says softly. “I—I knew of the islands. But I don’t think I ever…” she glances to the side, “…most of my time was spent in Lumière. And then, the Monolith.”
Alicia nods, your Lumière. On the Continent.
“Yes,” she says.
You added trains.
“I did.”
And at Monoco’s Station—Verso said you went skiing. We didn’t get snow in Lumière after the Fracture, so it wasn’t until the Expedition that I—
“Wait a moment, I can't see—”
Alicia does not hear her mother, or. She does, but she's distracted, because that’s…not right. She had seen snow before the Expedition—they had gone skiing when she was little, not…?
She quickly pulls her hand away. The memories are overlapping again; she inhales sharply.
“Alicia…?” Maman asks, worry in her tone.
She closes her eyes and shakes her head. She—how can she explain? She can’t write this out on her palm; she can scarcely think of the words to convey it.
“I remember both lives,” she struggles through the pain and discomfort, infuriated with the effort it takes, “here and…the Canvas…” she tries, she tries to say more but that is it, her precious few words are spent. Her throat throbs and she wheezes at the irritation, too weak and sore to even cough.
Her mother hurriedly and somewhat clumsily offers her the remainder of her glass of water but Alicia just waves it off, feeling small and defeated. Because it’s not just the limitations of her own body that frustrate her.
Her parents—and even Clea, to some extent—have lived multiple lifetimes in Canvases; have walked for hundreds, thousands of years as literal gods in their painted worlds. How small her sixteen years in Lumière must seem by comparison, and yet her mind struggles with these measly two sets of memories.
Maman hugs her then, with a strength and surety that catches Alicia off-guard.
“...It’s late,” she murmurs, “and—and you need rest. We both do.”
Alicia exhales bitterly in spite of the soreness. She attempts to take the smallest step forward, and fails even that.
But then, “tomorrow...you can tell me more. About the Expedition and Lumière,” Maman offers, “when you have a...more suitable writing surface to work with,” and here, she sighs, “or your…typewriter, if you prefer.”
Alicia sits back so that her mother can truly appreciate her incredulous expression.
“Your father is not the sole arbiter of open-mindedness in this household, ma chère.”
Alicia finds herself smiling at the trace of levity in Maman’s tone, even if she worries that, like so many things in their life at the moment, it won’t last.
What if…what if tomorrow Maman wakes up and remembers her grief? What if she remembers her own? What if it pulls them under once more and all this talk of writing about Verso’s Canvas is put off and forgotten? Or, what if they do talk, and it goes badly, or--
“But if you'd rather not...” Maman murmurs, and it occurs to Alicia that her spiraling thoughts have shown on her face.
She has a choice, then. She can hide from an unfavorable outcome, she can avoid any potential hurt.
Or.
Alicia takes her mother’s hand and spells out: I want to.
A long moment passes. Her mother wraps her hands around her own. Alicia feels her mother brush a finger over her pulse point—it lingers, as if to assure herself of presence. Of life. That it's real.
“Then we will.”
—//—
It is well after sunrise—time enough for the family to have dressed and gone down to breakfast, and allow the household staff to begin their work, tidying the upper floors.
However.
Renoir has been slow to call them back, still deciding who can and cannot be trusted. They’ve kept the bare minimum in order to uphold appearances, but otherwise maintenance has either been neglected, or fallen to him.
...And Clea.
“You indulge them so,” she complains, catching sight of her mother and sister, sleeping soundly—if rather gracelessly—on a piece of furniture that definitely does not belong in the middle of the hall.
Renoir hums. She is not wrong.
But when he found them that morning, tucked beneath the insufficient throw (which Alicia has monopolized) and failing to share the single decorative pillow (Aline’s consolation prize, clearly)…
He simply could not bring himself to wake them.
“When have I ever done otherwise?” he asks with a gentle grin, and graciously does not point out the fact that Clea has kept her own voice low.
Clea scoffs, but cannot disagree with his statement.
“Come downstairs, we’ll have breakfast.”
“I thought we had work to do,” Clea reminds him, but her resolve is already crumbling because breakfast…does sound appealing.
Renoir nods, “we do. Later.” He holds out his arm, waiting.
Clea takes her time in moving to his side, “indulgent,” she insists.
“Amiable,” he counters, “hopeful.”
Clea offers some sort of remark, but Renoir’s mind is on a blank canvas in his atelier. It’s been prepped, waiting for the right idea to come along…
She Who Plays with Wonder. She Who Grasps the Sky.
The portraits are not quite...right. Not anymore, anyway.
New portraits, then. Something to do with dreams perhaps…
—//—
Alicia dreams. Or remembers. Or both.
Of a childhood in Lumière. In Paris. With her sisters and brothers and her mother’s dancing and her father’s warm embrace—they overlap and blur and it becomes difficult to separate them.
She worries about that, sometimes.
But when she struggles with the two lives lived, she is calmed by the reassurance that in both, she is loved.