Chapter Text
A pair of silhouettes moved through the quiet streets of central Paris.
“I assume you’ve heard,” he said, tone neutral, almost casual. “About the fire at the print house.”
Clea didn’t look at him.
“Of course I have,” she replied. “Tragedy...”
The sarcasm came through unhidden, effortless.
He let out a quiet breath, something close to amusement.
“Please... The only tragedy to you is that you weren’t there to witness it.”
A beat, then
“If you're wondering… no one made it out.”
“I made sure of it.”
Clea slowed. Just slightly.
A glance over her shoulder.
“Did you really burn them all alive?”
A beat
“The fire wasn’t what killed most of them.”
Clea looked over.
“The structure gave way first.”
He glanced toward the street ahead.
“This isn't a conventional fire. It didn’t need air to burn.”
A pause.
“The building made enough smoke that the rest never got out.”
For a moment, something flickered across Clea’s expression.
A fleeting glimpse of satisfaction, buried just beneath the surface.
“I knew bringing you in was the right choice.”
Her tone remained even, but it didn’t quite hide it.
Then
The man faltered, and he caught himself before he collapsed.
It was subtle at first. A shift in balance. A step that didn’t land quite right. He caught himself against a lamppost, breath tightening just enough to notice.
“Lyle?”
Something slipped through the usual restraint. Brief, but unmistakable.
He straightened quickly, brushing it off before it could settle.
“I’m fine.”
The words came steadily. Practiced.
“That was… a delicate piece,” he said, a touch too fast.
He steadied himself against the lamppost, fingers tightening briefly.
“The finer the work… the more it demands.”
“You need t…”
“I’ll manage.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
By the time they reached the estate, the moment had already been buried.
The estate rose in black marble, drinking in the night rather than standing against it, gold tracing its edges in quiet, deliberate lines, opulence without warmth, untouched by the world beyond its gates.
Lyle slowed, almost without meaning to.
But he doesn’t let that hold him.
“I’ll need time,” he said as he turned around. “But I’ll be in touch.”
Clea stopped at the gate.
“I’m afraid that won’t be necessary.”
He frowned, not picking up where this is going.
“Your little display had… touched more than a few nerves.”
Her hand rested lightly against the ironwork.
“The Writers will be looking. Officially or otherwise.”
A glance toward him, measured.
“It’s in our best interest that you remain here. For now.”
Lyle exhaled sharply.
“I don’t need…”
“I’m not asking.”
The interruption was quiet, but absolute.
“At this rate, you either follow my arrangement…” she continued, almost idly,
“Or you can turn around, and I’ll find your name on the headline soon after.”
A beat.
“But I still have a long list of names to get through.”
That was all.
No threat in her tone.
None needed.
Lyle opened his mouth.
Then thought better of it.
He stepped past her instead.
Clea let out a small scoff as she followed.
“Don’t look so offended,” she said. “You’re staying in one of the finest estates Paris has to offer.”
No reply.
The doors opened.
Then closed behind them.
And just like that, the street was quiet again.
The interior was no less imposing than the facade.
A broad foyer opened beneath polished marble, the staircase dividing cleanly at the landing before disappearing into opposite wings. Gold traced the railings and moulding with enough restraint to suggest that restraint itself had been expensive.
Nothing barred entry.
Nothing needed to.
The house seemed built on the assumption that anyone stepping inside already knew where they belonged.
Lyle barely had time to take it in before a woman approached them, posture straight, attire immaculate. Her role was clear long before she spoke.
“Good evening, Mademoiselle Des…”
“Clea will do,” she cut in, closing the door behind her. “Save the formalities for when my parents are around.”
The woman adjusted without hesitation.
“My apologies… Clea. Welcome home.”
Clea gestured lightly toward Lyle.
“Monsieur Cendrier will be staying with us for the coming weeks.”
“Weeks?”
Neither acknowledged him.
“Would you see that our guest is accommodated?”
“Of course.”
Clea was already halfway up the stairs.
“Thank you, Golgra.”
The woman turned to him.
“Monsieur Cendrier, if you would follow me.”
The Estate unfolded in careful succession.
Dining hall. Atelier. Library. Rooms intended to be seen.
Corridors narrowed as they moved farther from the foyer. The paintings changed too. Less exhibition. More family.
No doors were locked.
Lyle found himself less inclined to test them anyway.
At the upper landing, Golgra turned west.
Lyle's attention wandered east for half a second.
Family quarters, apparently.
Golgra never said so.
She simply continued walking, with the effortless certainty of someone for whom there had never been another direction to take.
His room waited near the end of the corridor.
“Please make yourself comfortable, Monsieur Cendrier. Should you require anything…”
“Golgra?”
She stopped.
“Please. Lyle is fine.”
A brief pause.
“As you wish… Monsieur Cendrier.”
The door closed behind her.
Lyle stared at it for a moment.
The coming weeks already felt longer.
The grandfather clock sounds once, its chime echoing through the stillness of the manor. A new day begins, though sleep has long since abandoned him.
Fragments of memory cloud him, like they always had.
“Your talent was wasted on the Painter’s Council.”
“They cast you out for doing what none of them could.”
“And somehow... you still think they get to decide what your work is worth?”
The words came unbidden, familiar in a way that makes them difficult to ignore.
Sleep never came, and Lyle had given up pretending otherwise.
He left the room.
The Estate was quieter without anyone moving through it. Not empty. Somehow that would have been easier.
Lamps had been lowered along the corridors, leaving stretches of polished floor and darkened paintings between pools of light. The route Golgra had shown him remained easy enough to follow.
Downstairs, the rooms intended for guests felt different without anyone inside them. The dining hall had lost its purpose entirely. Chairs stood neatly beneath the table, every place waiting for people who were not there.
He headed for the library instead.
Halfway there, light caught beneath a distant door.
Lyle slowed.
The atelier.
He stood there for a moment longer than necessary.
Then changed direction.
Clea stood at its centre, working.
The atelier was less immaculate than the rest of the Estate.
Canvases leaned against walls instead of hanging from them. Tools remained where they had last been useful. Clay, frames, pigments, unfinished work. Controlled clutter that prioritized convenience rather than display.
But something felt wrong at the far end.
Too much room had been left open there. Not the careless emptiness of an unused floor, but space preserved around something that was no longer present.
Lyle noticed it.
Then let his attention move elsewhere.
“When was the last time you painted something?” she asked, not looking up from her work.
“Long enough.”
Clea continued working.
“That wasn’t an answer.”
"It was mine."
Her tool scraped lightly across the clay.
Lyle watched her remove another imperfection too small for him to see from where he stood.
“Still doing that, then.”
Her hand stopped, sparing him a glance.
"What?"
“I do wonder... do you still snuff out the ones that don’t meet your standards?”
Clea scoffed, soft but dismissive.
“Spare me, Lyle.”
She returned to the clay.
“There’s enough blood attached to your work already.”
A beat.
“I’m not pretending mine is cleaner.”
“Besides…”
She gave him a look, but thought better of it.
The words settled between them, unchallenged.
Clea continued her work.
Lyle stayed.
When she finished, she moved to wash the clay from her hands, the motion unhurried. Then, without looking at him,
“Come with me.”
She walks toward the far wall.
Then through it. The illusion gives way without resistance, as though it had never been there to begin with.
More Painter trickery… of course.
Lyle follows.
The room beyond is dim, its light drawn almost entirely toward a single frame at its centre, if it can even be called that.
Colour moves within it, alive, shifting and folding in on itself like something breathing just beneath the surface. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, and longer still before he notices that the canvas is not alone.
Someone is standing before it.
Still. Silent.
Watching.
It takes a while to adjust to the lighting, but he manages to make out the shape of a young lady of petite stature.
Not far from his own age. Perhaps a little younger.
A white blouse, stark against the dimness. Black tailored breeches. Her hair is fiery red, catching what little light there is.
And then her face.
The scars lay bare, etched into her, marking everything she survived.
Lyle stopped.
Something about the arrangement suddenly felt much less abstract.
Clea passed him, stepping forward until she stood beside the girl.
“This,” she says, her gaze fixed ahead, “is why I brought you here.”
There is a pause before she continues, her voice colder now, more precise.
“This is what we’re dealing with, Lyle.”
“The kind of monsters who burn a house down on a child’s birthday.”