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“Verso, this is ridiculous. Even for you.”
Verso sighed, privately forced to admit that Clea was probably right, as she often (annoyingly, maddeningly) was. In his defense, though, he felt he had limited options; their family estate was vast, yes—the grounds sprawling, the manor grand in every sense—but he could count on one hand how many of his usual hiding places were truly hidden anymore. Maman and Papa had sused out most of them, and the household staff knew the rest. (And snitched! Frequently! The traitors.) He supposed there might had been a few places to go in town, but…that would require even greater stealth, as well as Clea’s cooperation.
Which. Was hard enough to obtain even at the best of times.
“Well? Get on with it, before the floor rots out from beneath us.”
Case in point.
“The floor’s fine,” Verso insisted, and gave one of the wooden planks a good slap to prove his point. It creaked audibly, but held. “Papa built this!”
“Five years ago,” Clea reminded him. She swatted at a very lived-in cobweb to prove her point, which only served to disturb the fine coating of yellow pollen that covered nearly every square meter of the structure. Verso’s nose stung with the promise of a sneeze. “Neither of us have been up here in ages, and I somehow doubt you fancy a game of checkers. Tell me what you’re really up to, or I’m leaving.” When Verso did not immediately cave to her threat, she gave a curt nod, and moved towards the ladder. Verso scrambled after. Or tried to; the tree house wasn’t really designed for two gangly adolescents—he was forced to simply scoot after her.
“Alright, alright!” He hissed, “I was getting to it!
Clea remained unconvinced. “Were you.”
“Yes, I—“
“Verso!” Verso groaned as a small voice called up from below. Clea’s eyebrows raised in both surprise and intrigue, but Verso was already scooting to the tiny, slightly-off-center window, and poking his head out.
“Yes, Alicia?”
“Maman and Papa aren’t here!” She told him from her place on the grass beside Monoco. The puppy’s dark fur was nearly golden with its own coating of pollen—though, his was the result of an afternoon of play, as opposed to age and neglect, as was the case with the treehouse. The pale yellow paired nicely with the grass stains on Alicia’s shirt and palms; they’d both be itching and in need of baths later, Verso was certain of it.
He took a deep breath, before he patiently replied, “thank you! But remember, you’re just supposed to tell me if Maman or Papa are coming this way. Alright?”
“Oh. Right!”
“And you’re supposed to use the code phrase.”
“…Okay.”
“…Do you remember the code?”
“…Yes.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“I do!” Alicia assured him, and though he remained skeptical, he nodded.
“Fine. Carry on.”
He scooted back and turned to see Clea, grinning wickedly.
“You’ve screwed up royally, then.”
Verso scowled. “Don’t look so pleased about it.”
Clea returned to her initial seat (looking just as ridiculous in her scooting, Verso was happy to note) and briefly regarded the window and, presumably, their younger sister below.
“I’m impressed,” she said, “I didn’t think she was capable of anything louder than a yelp.”
Verso waved her off. “She’s perfectly capable,” he insisted. If you can manage to persuade her…he silently had to admit. Alicia was much like a cat, in that way. He was fortunate, in that Alicia was often eager for his company, or keen to impress him, which made her amenable to his requests. He always endeavored to use that older brother privilege for good.
…Most of the time.
“…Noted,” Clea said, with something of a calculating look. Before Verso had too much time to regret divulging such valuable information, Clea returned her attention to him and his screw-up. “So. What did you do?”
Realizing he could no longer stall, he reached for a canvas rucksack in the corner.
“It’s because of the stupid spring cleaning,” he explained, referring to the annual tradition that wasn’t so much ‘cleaning’ as it was rotating the artwork and decor in the manor in anticipation of the Parisian social season, and the numerous Salons his parents were expected to host. Valuable, fragile items were moved from safe, out-of-the-way places such as alcoves and sitting rooms, into populated thoroughfares, like, say…Papa’s Atelier.
When Verso said this, Clea snorted. “Yes, there’s something stupid here, but it’s not the spring cleaning.”
He bristled at the accusation. It wasn’t as though the atelier was off-limits; Maman held their Painting lessons there, and Papa was fairly permissive with both the space and supplies therein, provided they were being responsible and careful.
…It was the ‘careful’ part that perhaps Verso had neglected. He’d tossed Monoco’s ball a bit too far, maybe, with a bit too much force, sending it bouncing into the large room…which was currently housing a fair number of displaced furnishings.
He was nearly finished with his explanation when the shattered earthenware inside the satchel scraped in a manner most incriminating.
“A broken vase?” Clea surmised, sounding disappointed. “I mean. It is embarrassing at your age, but that’s what all this drama was about?” Verso started to protest, but Clea continued, “just use your allowance to buy a replacement. Hell, Maman can probably just throw a new one on the pottery wheel. I could throw a new—” she narrowed her eyes as realization struck. “—No.”
“Listen—“
“No. It’s a waste of my time.”
“Clea,” Verso tipped his head back in exasperation, “I wouldn’t ask you if it was just…one of the vases from the hall, or something. This one looked different, and I think it was from their personal things.” It had been grouped along with some other items from the master bedroom, anyway.
That gave his sister pause. She stared at him for a moment, considering, before her gaze fell to the rucksack.
“Let me see.”
With very little ceremony (he didn’t need Clea accusing him of being dramatic again) he dumped the broken pieces onto the floor, and carefully watched for Clea’s reaction.
She sifted through the wreckage slowly, her expression unreadable. Verso somehow managed not to vibrate with impatience, but only just.
He felt bad, of course, for breaking the vase—especially if it was one that held some sort of sentimental value—and if he was being honest with himself, confessing and accepting the consequences probably would have been the best course of action. Maman and Papa would be impressed with his maturity, maybe…and that could count for something.
…But.
He imagined the disappointment, the upset, the hurt. If he could just…spare them all the trouble, then that would be best, right? There was also the looming prospect of discipline. His parents were not overly harsh or excessive in their punishments, but Maman was exacting, and Papa was just. There was a concert series coming to one of the nearby theaters, and he was so close to convincing his parents to let him go. He couldn’t let a broken bit of pottery ruin all that hard work!
He shook his head. It wouldn’t come to that, surely. With a bit of luck—
“You might have the worst luck in all of France,” Clea informed him, dashing his hopes almost as thoroughly as he had dashed the vase. “A house full of inconsequential flower pots and somehow, you manage to break the only one that matters.”
“What?” Verso yelped with such fervor, his voice cracked, but he was too distraught to care.
“This,” Clea gestured grandly to the pile of broken ceramic, “was a wedding gift.”
Verso felt the beginnings of a cold sweat break out on his neck. “…So? Maman and Papa recieved…a lot of wedding gifts. I’m sure.”
“From Maman to Papa.”
The cold sweat turned into a cold chill that ran down the length of his spine, “…O-oh?”
Clea folded her hands in her lap, “You know Papa’s fondness for the Egyptian collections at the Louvre,” Verso did know. “Well. Maman commissioned a famed, reclusive sculptor to create a piece in the Amarna style,” she poked at a shard, making the whole collection clank; Verso let out a strained wheeze. “He came out of hermitage just to make this piece, as a special favor to Maman.
“When he presented it to them, on their wedding day,” Verso held his head in his hands, “he declared the vase, not just a culmination of his decades of artistic acumen, but also, a symbol of their nascent love, to be cherished and protected, like the priceless, fragile vessel itself.”
“Is that all?” Verso grumbled miserably.
“No,” Clea told him. “The artist dropped dead two days later.”
Shit.
“Making it truly one-of-a-kind,” Clea finished with a dispassionate sigh. She gave his shoulder a light pat. “It was nice knowing you.”
“You’re not going to help me?!”
Clea scoffed, “there’s no point. I just told you, the original artist is dead, and it would be nearly impossibly to replicate—“
“Ah! Nearly! So someone—say, someone very skilled—could potentially recreate it, yes?”
“…Appealing to my ego won’t help you.”
“…What about bribery?”
Clea shrugged. “You can buy my silence, but I doubt you could afford a commission.”
“Surely, as your only brother, you’ll take pity on me?” Clea was unmoved. “…or offer me a discount? Come on!”
“Verso!” Alicia interrupted. Verso’s heart stuttered in his chest. He hurriedly scooted to the window, frantically looking to see if their parents were headed this way.
However, there was no sign of either of them. He glared down at Alicia in confusion.
“…What’s the code, again?”
He nearly howled. Both sisters were seemingly intent on driving him mad today. What a novel experience.
“Forget it!” He told her.
“Yeah, I did!”
He looked back to Clea, beseeching. “Anything. Anything you want. Just help me, please.”
His sister pursed her lips, and then, “have they noticed that it’s missing yet?”
It was doubtful. When Verso and Clea were younger, Maman had been fairly fastidious in the running of the household. But as time passed, and the Painters’ Council demanded more of her attention, the majority of tasks fell to the head butler and housekeeper. Therefore, news would have to go through several people before reaching their parents. And even then, the manor was in such a state of disarray, one misplaced vase could be easily explained away; ‘oh, I’m sure it’ll turn up eventually…’
Clea nodded along with his reasoning. “Two days, I’d say. Three at most, before they get suspicious…but that might be pressing your luck. Which, as we’ve established,” she eyed him, “is shit.”
Verso leaned forward, ignoring the (accurate) remark, “are you saying you’ll help me?”
“Yes. I’ll help you,” Clea rolled her eyes. Verso let out a breathy laugh.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Expect a bill,” Clea said over her shoulder, before disappearing down the ladder. “I require sixty percent payment up front, by the way.”
“Six—!” Verso sputtered. “Since when?!”
“Since now.”
—//—
In Renoir’s experience, it was rarely a good sign when the manor was so…deliberately quiet.
The observation seemed patently absurd, of course, given how much activity and indeed, sound, filled the halls at the moment, what with all the rearranging, but suspiciously absent from the mundane symphony?
His children.
From a statistical standpoint, if one child was missing from the fray, fine. Two? Worth noting, but not necessarily cause for alarm.
But all three? Troubling.
Mercifully, his search was short; he found Alicia out in the gardens, decorating Monoco in all manner of yard clippings. The dog basked in the attention, happy to roll on the warm grass and permit the child to sprinkle him in wildflowers.
With a quiet grunt, Renoir took a seat beside her. Instead of offering a greeting, Alicia reached for his hand, uncurling his fingers so that his palm was held open and flat, on which she placed a pile of leaves and blades of grass.
“That’s yours, Papa,” she told him. He nodded, even though he could not even begin to guess the parameters of the game.
“…Shall I put it on Monoco?” He asked.
Alicia thought for a moment, before reaching to cradle Monoco’s head in her hands. She rubbed at his snout, gently tugging his jowls this way and that. Monoco sneezed, but otherwise permitted the manhandling.
Renoir chuckled. Bless that good-natured creature.
“No, you can keep it,” Alicia finally decided, but offered no further explanation or instruction. Renoir was forced to simply accept his gift of greenery, holding it as he continued the conversation.
“Have you seen your brother or sister?” He asked. Alicia nodded.
“They played in the tree house,” she said. Renoir raised his eyebrows in surprise. That was unexpected; he could not recall the last time Verso or Clea had paid any attention to the ramshackle fort. Nostalgia, and rationalizing that Alicia might someday show an interest in it, had spared the tree house from removal, but…admittedly no one was really maintaining it. He cast a wary eye in its direction.
“…And it…held?”
“Hold what?”
“Well, in this case, Verso and Clea, I suppose.” Alicia’s tiny face scrunched with confusion, not quite old enough to appreciate the wordplay. “Do you know what game they were playing?”
She shook her head, “no. Verso only let me play the lookout part,” she said. “‘Cause we can’t all fit up there.”
“…I see,” Renoir said slowly, suspicions sufficiently raised that something was amiss, “how do you play ‘lookout?’”
Alicia had turned her attention back to her own pile of stems and such, but absently explained, “if I see you or Maman, I tell Verso. With the code.”
“Ahhh,” Renoir replied. Whatever his children were up to, then, they wanted kept secret. And while he could admit to a…bemused appreciation for Verso’s stratagem, the boy was out of his depth, where stealth maneuvers were concerned; Renoir was already formulating countermeasures. “Well then, shouldn’t you let him know I’m here?”
“We stopped playing,” Alicia said, “‘cause Clea left. And Verso did too,” she patted Monoco’s head, “so now I’m playing garden with Monoco.”
“Oh!” Renoir smiled, “garden. Of course. I see your lovely flowerbed here.” He rubbed Monoco’s belly. The puppy snorted in approval.
“They’re just pretend flowers,” Alicia was forced to admit. She chose one from her collection and held it up for him to see, “Maman says this one’s a weed,” she sighed, fiddling with the mostly-bare stem in her hands, “but I think it’s pretty. And it’s fun to blow on the little whiskers.”
Renoir offered a thoughtful nod, “it is pretty,” he agreed, “but Maman is right—they are weeds, and those little whiskers, once they land on the soil, will take root and grow, and ruin the other flowers. And we don’t want that.”
“No,” Alicia shook her head, very serious, “we don’t.”
“Good girl,” Renoir smiled, and pulled her into his arms. She beamed, and pressed her cheek to his beard. “Maman probably told you—the points on the leaves look like lions’ teeth. That’s where the name comes from. Dents-de-lion.”
Alicia leaned back, her expression one of profound disappointment.
“No, Papa,” she said, “it’s called bed-wetter.”
Renoir laughed, and Alicia felt his chest rumble, almost as if he was a big, purring lion himself. She leaned her head on his shoulder, delighted by this observation.
“Of course, little one,” Renoir said, “my mistake.”
It was at this point that Monoco decided he didn’t like being left out. He rolled to his feet and gave himself a good shake, sending pollen and grass flying. Before Renoir could stop him, the puppy threw himself at the two of them, excitedly licking hands, arms, faces—whatever surface he could conceivably reach. Alicia squealed with laughter, high and bright; Renoir could think of no lovelier sound.
His declaration of ‘bath time’, however, brought the laughter to a swift end. Alicia’s smile was drawn downward, into a pout.
“Can’t I play with Monoco a little more?” She asked.
“You can play in the bath,” Renoir suggested, “not ‘garden’, I suppose, but something else?” Alicia stared, obviously waiting for him to offer a compelling alternative. He scratched at his neck, trying to recall how the nannies had coaxed Verso or Clea into the tub, all those years ago. “Ahhh…Clea quite liked to imagine toads and turtles—“
“No turtles,” Alicia insisted, “François bit me!” Renoir sighed, not at all surprised. Biting was the reptile’s sole joy in life.
“No turtles,” Renoir agreed, and moved to stand. Despite the familiar ache in his leg, he scooped Alicia up into his arms. She didn’t protest that at least. “We’ll think of another game. In fact,” he offered her a conspiratorial smile, “perhaps you can help me with my own game of ‘lookout’. I’d like to play against your brother this time. What do you say?”
His daughter grinned, the imposition of bath time forgiven.
“Yes!”
—//—
Verso rubbed his temples, wondering what malevolent deity he had crossed, to warrant his current misfortune.
“Clea,” he frowned, “it’s too good.”
His sister chuckled, “I’d hardly consider you an authority on ceramics,” she said, “but in this case, I agree with you.”
“They’ll know it’s not the same vase,” Verso hissed, “we agreed on an exact replica!”
Clea made a show of examining her fingernails. “I refuse to sell a subpar piece.”
Verso scrubbed his face in irritation. Clea was his closest companion in life; he took pride in the fact that, where others balked at her trying personality, he took it in stride, and he even loved his sister for it…at least on occasion.
But, god, she could be an ass sometimes.
“I’m a paying customer,” he reminded her, and silently mourned the loss of so much pocket money. “You should have done as I asked.”
“I offer revisions,” she told him smoothly. “They cost extra.”
Verso let loose a mighty sigh. “Of course they do.”
There was no time for revisions however, even if he had the means to pay for them. (Which he very much did not.) In the two days since the deal was struck, the maids and footmen had made quick work of getting the manor back in order; only a handful of items remained housed in Papa’s atelier, and as Verso lurked at the periphery, being so inconspicuous about the whole thing, he’d heard some of the staff remark on the missing vase.
“--Might’ve been moved to the basement by accident?”
“…It’s possible, I suppose. I can check once the end tables are sorted.”
A stressful development, to say the least.
Verso cast a weary eye towards the new vase once more. It really was too good, and if not for his current predicament, he might’ve even been impressed at his sister’s improvements on the original. The basic shape was the same, if a little more…robust? The differences became more apparent when looking at the painted scenes on the vase’s surface—Verso could practically feel Clea’s enthusiasm for the subject matter. The Amarna style was particularly suited to his sister’s artistic sensibilities; atypical of most Egyptian art, the figures bore exaggerated, broadened shoulders, slender limbs, and rounded bellies. Clea had pushed these proportions into the realm of a sinister sort of beauty. The scene itself—a procession from a red-tinged dawn on the ceramic sands above, to the blackened glaze of the underworld below—had probably been more romantic in the original, as the Pharaoh was joined by his Queen and children in the afterlife; Verso could easily imagine his mother commissioning such a piece from the artist.
Unfortunately, his sister was wholly uninterested in romanticism of any sort, instead more excited to highlight the deities of the Egyptian religion. Anubis, Sekhmet, Ra…they all looked fearsome and detailed and dignified…
And not at all like the original piece.
…Well. The colors were close, anyway.
It would have to work. Verso was out of time and options. He gathered the vase into his arms, tucking it beneath an old winter coat he had pulled from the depths of his armoire.
“…Maybe they won’t notice…” he murmured. Clea raised an eyebrow, skeptical. Verso braced himself for more berating, or gloating, but instead was met with a surprisingly measured tone.
“You could still just…confess, you know,” she suggested.
He blinked, searching her face for a tell, still half waiting for a scathing verbal barb. All he found, however, was Clea’s version of sincerity.
She scowled under his scrutiny of course, “what?” She barked.
Verso hesitated as he seriously considered her suggestion. He could just give up this ridiculous endeavor—it wasn’t as though it was really life and death. It felt like it, certainly, but that little voice of maturity—the one that was getting harder to ignore with each passing day—assured him that was not the case.
The other voice, though…the voice of doubt. The voice that spoke of the expectations of others, their opinions and judgment…that voice said, like hell it isn’t.
“It’s close enough,” he asserted again. This was the path he had carved for himself. He was sticking to it.
Verso could feel the weight of Clea’s gaze as she silently judged him. Now it was his turn to squirm uncomfortably.
A long moment passed, and then finally, with a flippant shrug, she declared, “fine. Your funeral.”
—//—
In Aline’s experience, when the manor was so deliberately quiet? It typically meant that her children were up to something.
If she wanted to be specific about it, statistically it was probably Verso. Aline did not like to admit it, but her eldest was rather accomplished when it came to subterfuge; they would often only learn of her carefully-laid plans after the fact.
Verso, though?
Not nearly as sly as he liked to believe, bless him. She could still catch him out, at least.
And Alicia…
Aline chuckled. Alicia was still young enough that she simply trailed after whichever sibling was available. A dutiful little shadow, that one.
As it happened, that same little shadow had elected to follow her today; Alicia’s small hand clutched at a fold in her skirt as they made their way to the kitchens.
“Don’t tug, ma petite,” Aline told her gently. Alicia nodded, but looked at a loss when they continued and she tried to keep up, grip still tight.
Aline stooped once more, offering her a hand instead. “There. That will work better for the both of us, I think.”
Alicia beamed, and Aline could think of no lovelier sight.
The rest of their journey proceeded without incident; the week’s menu decided, lists drawn up, credits paid, and a handful of mulberries pilfered, as reward for a job well done.
“Don’t scrub, ma petite,” Aline chuckled as Alicia attempted to wipe the berry juice from her mouth with her shirtsleeve. This intervention did not go as well as the prior hand-holding, as Aline found herself without a suitable alternative to Alicia’s stained cuff. They’d left the kitchen, by that point, and were nearer the bedrooms on the first floor landing.
“Sorry, Maman,” Alicia said, regarding her sticky hands with a frown, but Aline shook her head.
“It’s my fault, I should have thought to bring a rag,” she sighed. “Come! We’ll both need a hand wash, now.”
Alicia let out a tiny huff. “Too much washing,” she mumbled, and Aline had to suppress her laughter as she bent to pick her up.
“Because you insist on getting dirty,” she teased her. Alicia considered this.
“Getting dirty is fun,” she argued.
“Then you will have to endure the washing, I’m afraid.”
“Hrmph.” Alicia crossed her arms, but argued no further as Aline climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. It was closer than the hall bath, which, to Aline’s mind, meant less time spent with sticky, purple hands and therefore, less chance of leaving sticky, purple hand prints. (Though, as Alicia settled in her arms, she was keenly aware that her blouse would not survive the endeavor unscathed.)
They entered just as one of the maids finished her rounds.
“Pardon, Madame,” she said quickly, and, with a small smile, added, “and mademoiselle.” Alicia ducked her head, shy, but Aline could hear a soft giggle against her shoulder. “That’s the second floor, done.” Aline nodded, and let her on her way.
“Alright,” she declared, rounding the corner into the spacious bathroom. Early afternoon light gave the room a warm glow. “There’s to be no touching while I run the water and fetch the soap,” she instructed, using the tone she reserved for the children’s lessons. Alicia recognized it immediately, and quickly clasped her hand together behind her back.
“No touching,” she agreed.
“Very good.”
Aline wagered she had about three minutes before Alicia began to wander, and indeed, as she waited for the water in the sink to warm, she saw her pace a bit in her periphery. Though, to Alicia’s credit, her hands were still together, firmly behind her back.
Well, she reasoned silently, reaching for a bar of soap and wash rag, I suppose a bit of wandering is fine, as long as she’s not—
“SAKAPATATE!”
—//—
In theory, Verso’s plan was quite simple.
Sneak into the master bedroom, leave the vase, and run.
In execution, however, it was proving…slightly more difficult.
Because of course Papa had decided to sleep in, and of course Maman had decided to work in the gardens, thus needing to change mid-morning, and of course the staff had been delayed in their cleaning as a result, delayed in the cleaning thanks to his family lingering on the upper floors for the better part of the day.
Could no one in this family appreciate that he was trying to pull off a reverse heist, here?
He watched this all from his hiding place down the hall, waiting on pins and needles. Rather literally, actually, as his right leg had fallen asleep thanks to his prolonged crouching.
“Ugh.” He was forced to get up and stretch, though he was careful to stay out of sight; last he’d seen, the maids were nearly done with the bedrooms.
“Come on,” he muttered, annoyed. He shook his leg, willing feeling to return to his foot. It was slow going. It was at this point that Monoco—who had been dozing on one of the nearby chairs—woke with a start. Monoco believed that any sort of movement meant: playtime!
He rolled to his feet and trotted over to Verso’s hiding spot.
“Not now, Monoco!” Verso whispered, and attempted to wave him off.
Monoco was only encouraged by this development. He dropped into a bow, chest grazing the floor and hindquarters wiggling in time with his wagging tail. He let out a wuff of excitement.
“Shhhh, shhhh! No!” Verso flailed, which did not help. Monoco wuffed louder. “Fine, fine!” Verso carefully clambered from his spot behind the credenza, and trotted down the hall, urging Monoco to follow.
The puppy happily bounded after, delighted when Verso ducked into his bedroom and rummaged through one the drawers in his armoire. Monoco watched intently, though…one ear did twitch, as it sounded as though someone—or someones—had come up the far stairs…
All of that was forgotten, however, when Verso tossed him a sock.
“Go crazy,” Verso told him.
Monoco was all too happy to oblige.
Verso rolled his eyes and carefully crept from his room back to his hiding spot. The hall was still clear, though a set of buckets and brushes outside of Clea’s bedroom meant the maids were still cleaning.
He exhaled through gritted teeth. How much longer…?
A few tense minutes passed before he heard the echo of footsteps.
Slowly, sloooooowly, he peeked around the credenza.
Two maids stood at the top of the stairs, buckets and brushes in hand, and began their descent.
Finally!
He hurried and gathered the concealed vase into his arms and ran as quickly and quietly as he could to his parents’ bedroom. His heart pounded loudly in his ears as he stood at the threshold, scanning the space for any vacant spot where he might dump the pot and go.
…There! A space on the dark shelving that ran along the left hand side of the room, over next to Papa’s accordion. Verso had no clue if this was the correct place for it, but it didn’t matter; just as before, the mistake could be explained away by ‘spring cleaning.’
He unwrapped the coat, letting it fall in a faint rustle of fabric as he took care to hold the vase with both hands.
With a deep breath, he crossed the length of the bedroom as fast as he could manage without actually running, and arrived at the empty shelf. Gently, gently, he lowered the vase into place. The ceramic scraped lightly as it settled against the dark wood, revealing a bit of a wobble and warp on the surface. Verso pushed it back, centimeter by grueling centimeter, until at last it was level.
He pulled his hands back, and finally dared to breathe. He had done it. Now, all that remained was to—
“SAKAPATATE!”
“Fecking HELL!” Verso screeched, and whipped around so fast that his feet tangled beneath him. He tipped backwards, hand flailing for purchase against the shelves, bumping the piece of furniture and—
Hell NO, he asserted as threw out a hand to stabilize the tipping vase. He stopped it just in time.
“What on earth—?”
Verso’s head snapped up and he watched in dawning horror as his mother and sister emerged from the master bath.
“I remembered the code for ‘lookout’ with Papa,” Alicia explained, and went a bit shamefaced as Maman glared, “…sorry I shouted.”
“…We will address that in a moment,” Maman said before turning her glare on him, “Verso. Do you care to explain what you are doing?”
Verso’s mind raced, grasping for some sort of logical reason for him to be here, “I was. Um. Looking for…you…?”
“Hmmm. And did looking for me involve the vase that’s been missing for the last two days?” Maman looked pointedly at the vase just behind him, but then, her eyes narrowed. “…if that’s even the same vase…”
“Oh, uh, I wouldn’t know,” Verso rushed to say, “I mean. I just uh…I saw this out on a random table downstairs and uhhh…I just. Um. Assumed it was the missing vase. That I just heard about! Today!” He swallowed. “But, uh…if. If it’s not the right one, I can go put it back downstairs and—“
“No.” Maman said, and pointed to one of the armchairs in the corner of the room. “Sit.”
“…Yes, Maman.”
And so he sat and waited while Maman helped Alicia wash her hands. A short while later his little sister came over and clambered up into the seat with him. She was small, but it was still something of a close fit.
“Papa and I played a new game of lookout,” she told him as she leaned into his side, “I was s’posed to say the code if I saw you being sneaky.”
Verso sighed. Trust Papa to have already found him out.
Still. He gave Alicia’s hair an affectionate ruffle, but sobered as Maman came to join them.
“You,” she nodded at Alicia, who looked up at her through her now thoroughly-mussed waves of red hair, “may go, but remember that proper young ladies use their inside voices, even when playing games with Papa, alright?”
“Yes, Maman,” Alicia said, and happily hopped off the chair. Verso watched, envious, as she went to join Monoco out in the hall.
“But you,” Maman continued, arms crossed, “are another matter. Setting aside the vulgar outburst for the moment,” she raised an eyebrow in clear displeasure; Verso squirmed, “what were you doing with the vase?”
She glanced back over her shoulder as she said it, eyeing the piece of pottery in question, and Verso could see the subtle shift in her expression. The line of her mouth thinned, and her brow was drawn inward. Her pale eyes seemed almost alight with curiosity as her head turned in a nearly imperceptible tilt. She was truly looking at the vase for the first time since Verso had clumsily put it in place—she was examining, not a bit of decorative furnishing, but a piece of art.
He slumped forward. There was no point in lying, now.
“I…was playing with Monoco in the Atelier the other day and…broke. The vase,” he admitted, “and. I saw that it was with your and Papa’s things so…so I figured it was probably special, so I didn’t want to—I didn’t tell anyone because I thought I could just. Fix it,” this part came out in a guilty rush, “and then Clea told me about the commission and the wedding and the dead artist and—“
Maman turned around, “the what?”
Verso paused, “the…the dead—“ he stammered, “how you commissioned the famous artist to make the case for Papa, as a wedding present…?”
Maman frowned, “it was a gift,” she said, “but I bought it for your father at a travel shop in Cairo,” Verso’s eyes widened, and, and he swore Maman looked amused as he gaped, “it was a cheap reproduction; your father liked the colors.”
Verso continued to stare, shocked. “But—but Clea said—!”
“I said what?” Verso flinched as Clea suddenly appeared in the doorway. Maman crossed her arms again, a dry smile pulling at the corners of her lips.
“Am I to assume this is your work, Clea?” She inclined her head towards the vase.
Clea nodded. “A gift,” she replied smoothly, “to replace the one Verso broke.”
“That’s not—!” Verso yelped in protest, but a sharp look from Maman silenced the outburst.
“It’s very good,” Maman allowed. Clea dipped her head.
“Thank you.”
“I am less enthused about the lying, of course,” Maman told her with a disapproving frown, but Clea merely shrugged.
“I told him he should just tell you and Papa,” she said. Verso leapt from his seat.
“Yeah, after your fake story about the vase and overcharging for the commission!”
“Overcharging?” Of course Clea was more offended about that.
“If you had been honest from the start,” his mother was quick to interject, “you could have avoided all of this, Verso.”
He opened his mouth, ready to argue, but…
That little voice. The mature one. It was saying something and…and perhaps it was time for Verso to listen. It was saying:
“…You’re right,” he agreed quietly, but then, in a flare of youthful defensiveness, he added, “but I—I didn’t want to upset you and Papa.”
Maman stepped closer, cupping his face with her hand. She brushed a gentle thumb over his cheek; he was nearly eye-level with her now, thanks to a recent growth-spurt, and he was not sure how he felt about that.
“You won’t always be able to spare our feelings,” she told him. He offered her a hopeful smile.
“I can try?”
She let out an exasperated breath, “Verso…”
“Kidding, Maman,” he assured her, and then, “I’m sorry. For breaking the vase, and lying.”
She moved her hand to his shoulder, and gave it a loving squeeze, “good boy,” she said.
But of course, it couldn't be that easy. With a heavy heart, he had to ask, even if he was already fairly certain of the answer, “…so…no concert?”
“No concert, mon ange,” Maman confirmed, but then, her gaze slid to Clea, “instead, you may chaperon your sister on her trip to Deauville with Papa next month, as punishment.” Verso grinned as Clea let out a groan.
“That is a low blow, mother.”
“Your brother is not the only one who dealt underhandedly,” Maman reminded her, “we don’t swindle patrons, mon couer.”
Clea raised an eyebrow.
“Do not give me that look, child,” Maman warned, though Verso could see her struggling not to laugh, “alright. Off with you both.”
She ushered them from the room with instructions not to waste the lovely afternoon weather. They trotted off obediently, but not before Clea gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs.
“I told you to just confess, dummy,” she chided him. He elbowed her right back.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, “from now on, I’ll be honest to a fault. Like you,” he teased. Clea scoffed.
“No, you won’t,” she said, “because you care too much about what people think.”
As Verso trotted after her, out into the pleasantly sun-warmed gardens to join Alicia and Monoco in their game of tag, he had to admit that his sister was probably right.
As she so often, annoyingly, maddeningly was.
—//—