*chunks a mug of milk*
Welcome. It's time for a new update - pretty much exactly eight months after the last proper chapter (and about six months since the last upload in general).
I really did try to get this chapter finished before the end of 2019, but, well, things seldom work out the way you want them to which meant that the final chapter of 2019 was the Zucchini one and I'm so sorry.
Anyway.
I outlined like a third of Arc 4 all the way back in July 2018. Back then, all that mattered for me was to keep the arc as short as possible with as few chapters as possible. But then I started actually writing it and uhm, uh…
Well. The chapter-length exploded. "Travelling" was 18k, "Mystery" 19k + extra.
12k into "Malady" and only like 4-5 bullet points into my outline, I thought about either splitting the chapter into two separate proper chapters (Like I did before; the "Malady" content was actually supposed to be in "Mystery" too, July 2018!Me was super optimistic.) or just doing a Part 1 and Part 2. I chose the latter because I am too lazy to find a new chapter title I think they just belong very closely together.
Apart from not finding time to write, I actually had a bit of a hard time writing when I did find some. Trying to test my luck and just wanting to write something else for a change of pace so that I wouldn't get sick of "Watchdog," I applied for a zine last July. I actually got picked for it, and I wrote my piece in November. The word limit was 1,500 (!). My initial draft for it was more than twice as long and, of course, I had to cut it. It was super traumatic in a way (but also an interesting challenge) to trim it down through rounds and rounds and rounds of editing. Anyway, I'm sure something inside me short-circuited while editing my zine piece, and I just went crazy finishing "Malady."
"Mystery" is 19,330 words long and the bonus file has a length of 1,511 (total: 20841).
And "Malady"? "Malady" ended up at a whopping 21,440 words. Less than 3k more and it would have been half a novel!
While editing it and seeing the word count hit 21k (the 21,000th word was "murderer" btw), my soul left my body for a second and I asked some other fanfiction writers about their average word lengths per chapter which ranged from 800-4,000 with 7,000 being a super long chapter. And I could have cut "Malady" not only once in half but many times more. I only didn't because a) it has been months since my last update and I wanted to give you something longer as compensation and b) I wanted to trick myself because "relatively few chapters = short fanfiction! and I want to keep it short!" (We are only 23 proper chapters in and the entire thing has over 200,000 words yikes.)
Anyway, TL;DR: This chapter is 21k. It's ridiculously long. I will try my very best to cut the chapters into more reasonable lengths starting with the next proper chapter (not "Malady - Part 2″, but the one after that which may or may not be named "Clockmaker," let's see).
I hope you'll like reading it regardless of its length^^'
Chapter Twenty-Three:
The Countess, Malady - Part 1
"To bring order to a disordered world was the detective's job."
London, England, United Kingdom – February 1846
~Cloudia~
I was six years old when I first read "Snow White."
My goal had been to read all the Children's and Household Tales from "The Frog Prince" to "A Riddling Tale." Cathleen had always been fascinated in fairy tales, and on the rare occasions I was allowed to see her, she would tell me about dwarves and witches, evil stepmothers and magic, bravery and curse-breaking love.
Never had I read them on my own until I had stumbled across the volumes in the manor's library and had taken them with me to read whenever Agatha was not troubling me. I had blown through the first fifty-two fairy tales, but "Snow White" had brought me to a momentary halt.
It was not the princess that had captivated me – nor the evil queen, the dwarves, the assassination attempts.
It had been the huntsman.
I could still remember how I had finished the story with a frown on my face and read it anew immediately. Something had irritated me. Only, I had been unable to pinpoint what it was exactly. I had gone through the story over and over again, and during my fourth and final reread, I had realised that it was the huntsman who had been bothering me.
Because he was like me.
Both hunting and Watchdog work involved setting your mind on your prey, tracking it, putting it down. It involved a lot of struggling and, sometimes, weighting down your decision when you found what you had sought. And, of course, both the huntsman and Watchdog were sent out by their Queen to get rid of the people who troubled her.
I had not liked this realisation at all. After all, the huntsman spared Snow White, rebelled against his Queen. If we were alike, would I do the same? Rebel against my Queen when I believed it to be right?
As I got older, the thought kept clinging to me. As I got older, I began to think of it as silly. It was a fairy-tale, nothing more, nothing less – why should I pay much attention to it then?
As I got older, I started to think that, maybe, it had never bothered me that the huntsman was like me.
Maybe what had actually been bothering me all along was the fact that you never learned his fate.
Now, years later, this thought returned to me when I drove to Beaumont Manor.
Keegan was the one who had been invited by the Disaster Trio to go hunting. However, as I had nothing else to do, I had offered Keegan to go for him. And although he would rather eat mud than join the Disaster Trio on their hunt, he had been sceptical: He had been invited because of his tracking abilities, not because they desperately needed a fourth person for whatever they planned to do. Even if it had been like that, would they accept it if I filled in for Keegan? A girl going hunting was not unheard of, but many were not particularly fond of it. And who knew the Disaster Trio's stance to this?
So, I thought: What if Keegan was the one who went?
The carriage stopped, and Cloudia put on her hat. An excited smile spread across her face. On every other day, she would have gladly joined her cousin to eat mud instead of spending an entire day with the Disaster Trio. Today, she was quite eager to meet them; still, she wiped her smile away when the butler opened the carriage door to allow her to climb out into the fresh, cold air. After having spent a relatively long time in London, Cloudia happily soaked in the crisp countryside air. Even if everything else turned out horridly today, breathing clean air again would have made all the nuisances worth it.
Grasping her hat so that the wind would not carry it away, Cloudia walked up to Beaumont Manor, a simple two-story building with ivy climbing up its façade. It must look stunning in spring and summer, but now, the tendrils were bare and drew over the manor like dark veins.
Cadell Beaumont stood by the manor's entrance and held out his hand when Cloudia approached him. "It is wonderful that you could make it, Morrow," he said, a bright smile on his face.
Cloudia took his hand, fighting back a smile of her own. "Isn't it?"
There was always a lot of ridicule involved when people dressed "down" their rank: A nobleman posing as a servant, a doctor as a nurse, a businessman as a worker. It was a joke – something that was done once to elicit laughter in some and make fun of others. They did not really try to impersonate someone, did not mean what they did. They did not lie. They did not fake. They did not need to be servants, nurses, workers; at the end of the day, they would only shed their costume and that was the end of the story, the end of the charade.
In all that laughter, in all that joking and ridicule, nobody ever expected for anyone to dress "up": It was a breach of society's unspoken laws after all. A servant could not pretend to be a nobleman, a worker not to be their boss. It was not something people did – and the sheer possibility of a "What if?" was too laughable to most.
Like that, a worker could con their way up the career ladder; like that, a beggar could climb their way up the noble ranks.
And I could pose as my male cousin.
After all, who paid attention to something that was not expected?
Keegan had had his doubts and worries. We had had so little time and so much to do – and what if Cadell, Falk, and Geoffrey found out about me? What if they realised that I was not Keegan?
It had taken me an hour or two until Keegan had finally sighed and said: "Let's see if you can even do it..."
And so I had.
Keegan and I had the same deep-blue eyes we had inherited from our grandfather, and because Keegan had still not gone through his growth spurt, we were approximately the same height. Miss Greene had taken care of the rest: She had proven herself to be quite skilled when it came to sewing clothes and applying make-up – and with a wig, adjusted pieces from Keegan's wardrobe, and some magic with her brushes, my exterior had been perfected. When I had shown myself all dressed up to Ceara, she had burst out laughing. "I am so glad that there are not actually two of you, Kee," she had said, and with that, we had gone to the interior...
I was not my mother's daughter for nothing, and Keegan was not a stranger, but to complete the illusion, Keegan had taught me all he knew about tracking that he could put into words. Of course, I had not become an expert overnight, but I hoped to know enough to fool the Disaster Trio. As far as I knew them, they would bicker for the entire hunt and not pay much attention to me anyway.
Like that and with Keegan's butler at my side, I had travelled to Beaumont Manor this morning.
"It's so nice to get to talk to you, Morrow," said Cadell as he guided Cloudia through the manor. Its interior was surprisingly neat and elegant – no crooked paintings, no misplaced items – and the scarcity of furniture made the manor seem more spacious than it was in reality.
"I don't think we have ever talked," continued Cadell, his brown eyes shining with excitement and joy. "I know that I saw you at some parties, but only from afar. Don't you have a younger sister? How is she?"
Out of the trio, Cadell was the most pleasant one. He was quite cheerful and slightly dim-witted and on his own, he was actually bearable. His friends, however, were always obnoxiously loud and chaotic.
Cloudia scowled at him. "My sister Ceara got sick a while ago, but she is better now," she said after a while. "And yes, we have never talked before."
"That's good, and... oh! We're here!"
A butler opened the door to the parlour where Falk Flanagan and Geoffrey Bentley were engaging in their favourite pastime: arguing. They stood next to a buffet of cakes in all sizes, biscuits, and sandwiches. Falk pointed at it, then at Geoffrey's plate on which he had piled all the orange muffins, and, lastly, at his own empty plate before he started to gesticulate wildly. Geoffrey shrugged and kept eating his muffins while Falk became more and more furious.
"Flanagan, Bentley! Say hello: Morrow has arrived," Cadell announced with a smile and a nod in Cloudia's direction when they walked to the buffet.
"A pleasure to meet you," Falk said roughly, his head still red. Geoffrey only nodded because his mouth was stuffed with orange muffins.
"Likewise," Cloudia replied at the same time Cadell looked around and said, "Huh? Where did he go?"
I combed through my memories to find some mention of yet another guest, but I could not find any. How odd. Keegan would have told me if he had known – so why had he not been informed that there would be another guest?
Falk looked around himself. "He was here a moment ago, but you know how he is: always sneaking around, always hard to spot. For all we know, he may still be in the parlour – we simply cannot see him right now. Maybe he even spotted something interesting outside and went investigating."
"That's not good. Morrow has just arrived," said Cadell, frowning. "He should be here to greet him."
"Perhaps we should look for him?" suggested Geoffrey after he had finally swallowed his food. "I will start with behind the curtains," he said and pushed them back, revealing nothing but glass doors and wall.
"Since when does he hide behind curtains?" said Falk and rubbed his temple.
"He may have started doing it now."
"He is not five years old, and we are not playing hide-and-seek. Can you use your brain for once, buffoon?"
"Who are you calling a buffoon?"
"I am calling you a buffoon, moron!"
"Who are you calling a moron?!"
Before Falk and Geoffrey went on like this forever – Cloudia had no doubt that they could – the door to the drawing room reopened and the mysterious other guest stepped inside. And like the last time Cloudia had crossed paths with him, his gaze lingered just a second too long on her.
"There you are, Milt!" called Falk, smiling as if he had not been about to smash Geoffrey's head in a second ago. "We were about to search for you. Where have you been?"
"I am sorry to have vanished without saying anything first. I went to the kitchen. I did not think that it would take me so long…" said Milton Salisbury and briefly looked down at the plate of fresh orange muffins in his hands.
Of all the places where I could have met him again… why here?
Nanteuil-la-Forêt, Marne, France – June 1848
~Cedric~
I felt dirty.
There was no other way to describe my current state. Not even Alfred's perfectly heated and scented bath could wash this dirt away from me and divert my thoughts.
I had not slept after I had finished reading Milton's file. Its contents did not want to let go of me, followed me whenever I closed my eyes. The heavy rain during the night had not helped either.
Dead parents, dead sister; all the family he had lost in such a short period of time. Left alone to do something he might have never wanted.
I barely knew Milton. I could count the conversations we had on a single hand. Now, every word from Cecelia's notes was burned into my memory, leaving scars I would never lose.
It was making me sick.
Still feeling dirty, Cedric stepped out of the bathtub. Newman entered only a few minutes later with Cedric's clothes.
Cedric was more than capable to dress himself, but to keep up appearances, Newman helped him. At first, it had been a very odd and very embarrassing experience as nobody had dressed him since he was a child and Newman was his friend, but Cedric had quickly learned to clench his teeth and go on with it. It was easier if you did not think about it too much.
He always tried to dry himself and put on his undergarments before Newman came in, though.
"Did you sleep well?" Newman asked while he helped Cedric put on his shirt.
"Not really. The... uh... bed is a bit too... soft and I could not sleep," said Cedric. "And you?"
"I have slept rather formidably – thank you for inquiring. Shall I talk to the other staff members to organise you a new, more solid mattress? Sleep insufficiency is not a light affair by any means, Duke Kristopher."
"Well, if you have some time to spare..." Cedric said. Although the softness of his mattress had not robbed him of his sleep last night, it was indeed too soft and it would only be a matter of time until it did. "But are you not busy? I barely saw you yesterday. What were you even doing?"
Newman closed the last of the shirt buttons and retrieved Cedric's trousers. "Mr Wentworth was so kind as to show me a few things. Most I know, Mr Clifford taught me; the rest, I learned on my own. Still, it is tremendously insightful to exchange me with others about this craft. I have found that you can never learn enough, and I had a very enjoyable and insightful experience yesterday. I hope to learn even more in the following days."
"That's nice to hear, but wasn't Wentworth with Milton yesterday? Didn't they want to go on a walk?" Cedric asked, slightly adjusting his pants while Newman helped him into his shoes. This was the only part of this whole dressing affair Cedric appreciated. His "Duke Underwood"-shoes were not as complicated as his regular ones, but when he had been picking clothes with Cloudia, he simply had to choose shoes with at least a few clasps and slightly higher heels than what others wore. Their familiarity was all that mattered for Cedric; he cared very little about the fact that it was a chore to put them on. It was still nice to have someone to help him with them though.
"They did explore the château's surroundings," Newman replied. "However, they did not spend the entire day in the woods."
"Yes, but isn't Wentworth with Milton all the time? I thought he is."
"Is that your perception? That is interesting as, according to Mr Wentworth, Baron Milton is quite independent. There is no need for Mr Wentworth to govern him every minute of the day."
Newman finished fastening one shoe and went to the next. Cedric had to ask him how he did this so quickly. "Well, when I think about it," said Cedric. "Milton was all alone yesterday right after breakfast. And when I met him in the salon in the evening, he was alone as well. Weird. I thought that Wentworth followed him everywhere because he kept such a close eye on Milton while we were travelling."
"This may be the possible answer to your question: Mr Wentworth watched Baron Milton more carefully than usual because we were travelling. I have read that travelling such distances can bear its risks."
"But aren't they travelling all the time?"
"We do not accompany them in their usual travels," said Newman and closed the last clasp. "Therefore, we may only speculate about their travelling customs. Furthermore... was Baron Milton not subject to an assassination before? This is a profound reason for Mr Wentworth to worry about him. Especially when they are on the road and strangers are everywhere. In contrast, we are currently in a rather isolated place where no one bears any hostile feelings towards Baron Milton which means that Mr Wentworth does not need to watch his every step."
No hostile feelings? Cecelia certainly did not qualify, but I could not tell Alfred about her farfetched speculations without worrying him too much and potentially drawing her wrath to me.
"I can understand why Wentworth can be very watchful of Milton. If anything were to happen, I doubt that he would be able to protect Milton though. Wentworth is only an elderly man after all. Would it not be logical if Milton had another servant or a bodyguard to accompany him? Or, if he only wants one servant, why not have one that can actually protect him?"
Newman held out Cedric's coat and helped him put it on. "We can never be sure whether or not Mr Wentworth possesses any combative prowess. Who knows? He may be very agile for his age. Furthermore, according to Lady Cloudia's tales when she was actively engaging with Baron Milton, Mr Wentworth's duty exceeds both ordinary butler work and shielding Baron Milton from physical harm," Newman said, rectified the coat's position, and went to get a brush.
Cedric looked after him. Cecelia's notes on Milton had ended with his and Cloudia's first meeting; apart from that, there had been no comments whatsoever on their relationship. Cedric had almost forgotten that Newman had already been Cloudia's butler when she had met Milton. Even if Newman had not met Milton himself until a few days ago, he must know a thing or two about him and Cloudia.
But if Cloudia wanted Cedric to know, she would tell him. He should ask her, not anyone else. She would be furious if she learned that Cedric had gone and asked others about it. Still…
Still, Cedric could not quite extinguish the urge to ask Newman. It was unbearable, and he was thankful when Newman told him that they were late and speed-ran him through the rest of the routine. Two minutes later, polished and ready, Cedric said goodbye and left his bedroom.
"Good morning, Not-Kristopher," said Cecelia the very instant the door fell into its lock.
Good heavens. Could this woman not bother someone else for a change?
"Good morning, Cecelia. If you don't mind, I am going to the Countess so that we can head to breakfast together – which means just me and her, not the three of us. We will see you there," said Cedric and proceeded to walk away, but Cecelia linked arms with him before he could get far enough.
"How endearing. However, I presume you two lovebirds can do this another day? I have something for you, Not-Kristopher," said Cecelia and handed him a small bottle. She smiled. "You may like it."
Cedric scowled at her and took the bottle. "Thinking back to the last thing you gave to me, I very much doubt I will," he said, took a sip, and gagged. It had only been a drop, a single tiny drop, but Cedric's entire body was screaming. He struggled to keep the bottle in his hand, his body feeling like it was burning from the inside out.
If I let the bottle fall, would the floor dissolve?
"What… what is this?" said Cedric hoarsely and leaned against a wall. He put a hand to his throat and coughed. "Fire! I feel like I'm on fire! How did you get fire in there?!"
Cecelia shrugged. "That's the reason why I gave it to you to test. Didn't you smell how evil it is when you opened the bottle?"
"I… I thought that was you!" he struggled to say and sank to the floor, gasping for air. Cedric put a hand over his heart, its fast rhythm reminding him that he was still alive while he waited for the burning to subside.
"How could you ever imagine that I might like this abomination of a beverage? If I drank one more drop, my organs would melt!"
"I have said that you 'may' like it. If you want, I can phrase things as such from now on: 'There is a 0.1% chance that you could like it.'"
"A 0.1% chance is a 'may' for you?" Cedric held up the bottle and kept it purposefully as far as possible from him. "Now, tell me what exactly is in here? I want to know what nearly killed me. It's not really bottled, liquefied fire, is it?"
Cecelia laughed. "How amusing! Frankly, I mixed so many different substances together, I cannot recall them all. All I can say is that this 'liquefied fire' is the last drink I gave our dearest Baron Milton Salisbury during our little drinking session last evening."
Cedric stared at her and, for a moment, his shock overpowered his burning throat and body. "You gave this to Milton? And you made him drink an entire glass of it? I hope for you that we will meet him safe and sound at breakfast and that he did not die overnight. What if he did die in the night? How will you explain yourself? How will I explain myself? How can any of this be explained? What am I even talking about? The liquor must have burned my brain away." He rubbed his face and swallowed to try to get rid of the itching in his throat. It didn't work.
"Don't be ridiculous, Not-Kristopher. If our dear Baron had passed away last night, his butler would have noticed it, and we would all know about it by now," replied Cecelia, straightening the lace on her black gloves. "Speaking of the Baron – you must be very eager to talk to me after finishing the excellent reading material I have given to you." She grinned at him. "And do not attempt to convince me that you haven't read it. Your face has 'guilty' written all over it."
Cedric sighed and stood back up. His legs were still a bit weak, but he would live. Hopefully. "You have no hobbies, have you?"
"What are you talking about? Your agony, your despair at seeing me at such an early hour is fuelling me – is nourishing me with entertainment and indescribable joy. Isn't that what hobbies should do?"
"Not at the expense of others, no," Cedric argued, but Cecelia ignored him and took his arm again, guiding him down the right corridor and not the left one leading to the dining hall.
Cecelia leaned towards him. "Did you do as I told you?"
"Yes. It was the first thing I did after getting up. I would love to say that it was the first thing I did after waking up, but that would be a lie because I have not slept at all last night."
"If Eve truly had not wanted to eat the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, she would not have given into the serpent's deceit," said Cecelia in a bored tone. "I offered you my notes, but I have never forced you to read them, Not-Kristopher. That you still did says more about you than me."
Cedric was silent for a while before he said, "Why did you give me those papers? They were not even well-composed."
Cecelia blinked at him. "Not well-composed? Not well-composed?" she said, giving her words enough force without raising the volume of her voice. "I beg your pardon, but it has taken me a considerably long time to put them together. I even consulted Quirino about the family tree, and he was so kind as to draw it for me. Unfortunately, while he has undoubtedly lovely handwriting, he does not write as fast as he speaks. It took at least an hour for him to finish it, and when Quirino noticed that he forgot to include Leland's middle name, he wanted to crumble the paper and start anew. While my training with Cloudia did not make me a good fighter in any way, it did give me the agility I would not have possessed otherwise to allow me to snatch the paper from Quirino's eager hands before he could steal another hour of my precious lifetime. I am a busy lady and have neither the time nor the patience to watch Quirino turn a simple family tree into a piece of art at the speed of a dying snail. It has never taken me so long to compose a file on someone, and I will not allow you to insult my hard work, you imbecilic Not-Kristopher."
"I did not insult your hard work," Cedric replied, intuitively lowering his voice too. "All I meant is that the papers only said that almost his entire family is dead. In fact, they said very little about Milton himself and focused more on his family situation and your ridiculous conspiracy theories. The file was not about him at all. I am still as clueless about what he did and does as before."
"I contemplated about covering his current affairs as well. Ultimately, I decided to focus on his past. I could not bring myself to write down what he is doing now – my poor, poor eyes might have rolled out of my head if I had!" said Cecelia. "Or I might have died due to a sugary overdose. I give you my permission to catch me if I pass out while I tell you about the Baron's current doings, Not-Kristopher.
"As you know, Baron Milton Salisbury has been the head of Salisbury Trading for two and a half years. What you might not know is that the Salisbury baronage is not as old as other noble titles –Milton is only the sixth person to hold it; his great-great-grandfather was the first. In comparison, the Phantomhive earldom exists since the Elizabethan era.
"The Salisburys used to belong to the gentry and were well-known and successful tradesmen before they were granted a title through a Letters patent of creation. They are often the subject of ridicule and disapproval because many do not like that those 'lowly Barons' are one of the richest noble families despite their title being so young. As you can guess, the reason for their wealth is the fact that they owned Salisbury Trading for many more years and generations than they owned their title. The company is the pride of Milton's family – and has been doing phenomenally since its creation.
"When his uncle was baron and company head, Salisbury Trading suffered a few cracks here and there – cracks Milton's father Leland managed to almost completely fill during his tenure. Ever since Milton inherited his family's title and properties, Salisbury Trading has returned to its old glory – and more: In only two and a half years, he elevated it to new heights on the market and was able to double its worth. And it is still going upwards.
"That's very impressive for anyone to achieve in such a short period of time – especially considering the rather… unusual changes Milton has made: His employees do not only get Sundays off but Saturdays as well. Everyone, even cleaning staff, gets a rise when the company makes enough profits to justify it. All medical bills are covered by Salisbury Trading. When one of the employees dies, their family receives help for as long as they need. Paid holidays. Christmas money. Regulated, safe workplaces everywhere. There are reports of Salisbury Trading employees who met Milton and were pleasantly surprised that he knew their names. For Heaven's sake, everyone even gets gifts on their birthdays!" Cecelia shuddered and kept guiding Cedric in a zig-zag through the château.
"What are you talking about? This sounds amazing!" meant Cedric, struggling to keep up with Cecelia's frantic movements. "It sounds better than my job. What do you think are the employment criteria?"
Cecelia glared at him. "Please, let me finish. When Cloudia got involved with Milton, he had just taken over his family's company and the changes were coming slowly and gradually. Respecting Cloudia's wish, I did not look into him – but every now and then, I heard people talking about Milton's reforms. People, amongst them Flavian Hunt, were ridiculing him for how naïve he was, and while everyone else was laughing at him, Milton's employees began to love him more and more.
"People say that you can tell a person's true nature from how they treat those in the classes below them – and from what Milton's employees say, he seems to be an angel. It is sickeningly sweet how they are talking about him; and whatever he is doing, it is working. Salisbury Trading is stronger than ever before."
"This sounds wonderful to me," Cedric said. "Are you done? Can we please stop walking around like that? This place is already making me dizzy without your constant direction changes. What's even the point of them?"
"The point," Cecelia replied, her words hard and punctuated, "is to irritate Milton's shadow if he has chosen to follow us."
Cedric chuckled. "Wentworth? You're afraid Wentworth will shadow us?"
"I trust him as much as his master," she said. "And do I have to remind you to be quiet and listen to me without interfering?" Cecelia scowled at him and continued.
"Anyway, when I heard about Milton's unusual methods, I knew that this was too good to be true. You have no idea how much it bothered me that I could not do any research on him because of Cloudia. I had to satisfy myself with everything that came to me organically: too loud conversations, people wanting to share their gossip on him with me. Anything like that. It was driving me insane not to know everything about Milton. Now, two years later, I have finally done my research – and all I could find were scraps!" Cecelia's eyes turned stone cold. "Not-Kristopher, I may or may not be the very best in my field, but I can and will say that I am very, very good – outstanding, even. Never in my entire life, not even when my ways of gathering intelligence were painfully limited, I found so little about someone. In every other case, I could have given you an entire book and not those few pathetic papers. No matter how private and secretive a person is, there is no way that so little is known about their life. There was nothing – absolutely nothing – I could find about the first fourteen years of Milton's life. And the information I could gather for the other eleven looks like Swiss cheese!"
She stared at Cedric, her gaze icy. "You cannot tell me that you do not think that this is odd. Where was he born? Where did he grow up? What did he do that his uncle despised him so much? That his stepmother cannot even stand hearing his name in her vicinity? Why did he leave the country right after his uncle was found dead in the Thames? Why did he never visit when he supposedly cared for his father? And then there's the rumour.
"Whatever you say, whatever you think of me and my 'conspiracy theories,' I am a woman of facts. I love everything concrete, and when something is blurry, I work until I can make it clear. I am not blindly believing the rumour that Milton is an arms smuggler. It is a very thin lead, and the rumour practically dissolved as soon as it hit the air." Cecelia stopped talking when they heard a muffled cry and voice from around the corner. She took Cedric's arm and guided him back the way they came and down another corridor. "I do not believe it to be true," Cecelia continued seamlessly and let go of him. "However, I cannot help but notice how strange this is: Rumours catch fire quickly – they are not extinguished in seconds. People love rumours and gossip. There is no way that something like this can happen without interference. There is also the question of how the rumour started: Was it strewn by an enraged business rival? Or did it sprout – no matter how distorted – from a factual root? My goal is to find this root, this undeniable truth, and to fill the gaps in my file. I am going to get to the bottom of this – and that's where you come into play."
Cedric laughed dryly. "After telling me that you are one of the best, you say that you need my help?"
"You cannot gather intelligence solely by keeping to yourself," Cecelia replied and walked right in front of him, walking backwards to be face-to-face to him. "And there is no shame in asking others for help." She looked into his eyes, and Cedric had to contain the urge to turn away. "Milton's reaction to me in Dover clarified that I have no chance of getting anything out of him myself. On our way here, I learned that he is not only accessible for Cloudia, but for you and Bookstore Boy as well. As Cloudia would never help me and I cannot justify consulting the boy, that leaves me only with you – my colleague – as my ally."
"Won't you even ask me if I want to?"
Cecelia grinned at him. "Oh, I don't have to, Not-Kristopher. Because I know that you will. After all, you have already proven that you are just as curious as I am."
~Cloudia~
I woke up as I went to bed last night: thinking about the murders down in Nanteuil-la-Forêt.
According to Yvette, the outsider had checked into Maxime's pension the morning of the day Nadia Allemand was killed. He had only come out in the evening. No other guest had seen him because he had come so early and left so late. During mealtimes, he had been notably absent. This meant that only Maxime had seen him from the front. I would have to question him about it later.
So far, the stranger was the prime suspect in these murders and the only suspect I had. But if he was truly an outsider, what was his motive for murdering the village's seamstress and the baker's son? For murdering any of the villagers? This question had been troubling me since yesterday. If he had come to the village to satisfy his desire to kill people, why had he walked around publicly and rented a room in the first place? Why had he not simply come, killed Nadia, and left? Why had he killed Dominique too? The townsfolk must have definitely become more cautious after the first murder, especially towards the stranger. Why had he risked to kill someone else then?
Maybe the outsider was not the murderer. Maybe he was someone who had only come to explore Nanteuil-la-Forêt and its surroundings? No, this didn't make any sense. If he had been nothing but an explorer, he would not have locked himself into his room for a day and then left without telling anyone.
Wait – what if the stranger was, in fact, yet another victim? It was more likely that the murderer was one of the residents; and if it was one of the villagers, they might have waited for an outsider to walk into Nanteuil-la-Forêt so that they could put any blame on him. In a place where everyone knew everyone, people would rather accept a stranger than brethren to be the murderer.
While Lisa helped me into my dress, a dark green one today, I had the feeling that Cedric would come to my room at any second to pick me up for breakfast. It was a silly feeling, of course. Absolutely silly. Still, I would lie if I said the absence of a knock on my door did not disappoint me. I had been so sure that he would come.
I did not run into Cedric on my way to breakfast. Maybe he was already there, and when I got to the dining hall, I would find the breakfast choices decimated. After all, Cedric Kristopher Rossdale was always punctual when it came to food.
But when I arrived, Cedric was nowhere to be seen. Only Aurèle, Jacques, Arnaud, Anaïs, and Kamden were there.
What could have possibly delayed Cedric? And where were Gérard, Cecelia, and Milton?
"To me, to me!" exclaimed Anaïs and waved when she spotted Cloudia. It would never stop to astonish Cloudia how children could be so energetic so early in the morning.
"Good morning, Claudette. Please, please sit down next to me."
Briefly looking at Kamden who nodded, Cloudia took place next to her little cousin. A big smile appeared on Anaïs' face when Cloudia was finally seated.
"How did you sleep?" Anaïs asked, her blue eyes shining. "I hope you slept well."
"I slept quite well. Thank you for asking. And you?"
"Oh, me too!"
"Anaïs wants to find out more about your investigation, Claudette," Jacques informed her without looking up from his newspaper.
"Jacques, you tattler!" Anaïs glared at him across a rather uneasy-looking Arnaud. Then, she turned back to Cloudia with wide eyes. "As Jacques has said... can you please, please tell me something about your investigation? Please, please do! Before Baron Milton comes and you cannot anymore."
Cloudia smiled at her. "Of course, I can," she said, and not only Anaïs pricked up her ears at her answer: Everyone else at the table – even Jacques who put his newspaper away – looked at her in expectation too.
Oh, how I wished for Cecelia to be here!
"As you know, the Duke and I went down to the village yesterday to talk with Mayor Guilloux and ask for his assistance in finding Nicodemus Townsend," Cloudia began. "However, Guilloux is only willing to help us if we help him first: In the last few days, two villagers – Nadia Allemand, a seamstress, and Dominique Duhamel, the baker's son – have been brutally killed. The villagers believe that the murderer is someone who arrived in Nanteuil-la-Forêt on the day of the first murder. The stranger officially checked into an inn in the village. We searched his apparent room yesterday and it seemed as if nobody is living there. At least, at first glance. I intend to inspect the room further today. The stranger has also not been spotted anywhere since his arrival."
"I cannot believe something like that happened in that little place," remarked Aurèle. "It's a bit too, uh, grand scale for Nanteuil-la-Forêt."
"Exactly," Jacques said and nodded. "We often visit Baron de Charbonneau and his family. Papa is friends with him, and we are friends with the Baron's children Emmanuel, Hubert, and Andrée. We always go down to the village to play. We knew Madame Nadia and Dominique, and we know the rest of the villagers. If someone murdered them, it must have been an outsider."
Aurèle raised an eyebrow. "You and Arnaud are friends with them."
"Huh? I thought you were friends with Emmanuel."
"Friends with that idiot? Never. He only prefers to spend time with me rather than with you or Arnaud because we are the same age. I prefer it when he leaves me alone."
"But Emmanuel is so nice! Why don't you like him?"
Aurèle mumbled something Cloudia could not hear before he turned to her. "You said that the stranger has a room in an inn? In Nanteuil-la-Forêt?"
"Yes."
"That's odd. I could swear that the innkeeper wanted to close it last summer."
"Maybe he changed his mind?" Cloudia proposed, and Aurèle was about to reply something when Cedric entered the dining room, looking like he had crawled through hell the entire night and only had time to dress and comb himself properly after he had stumbled out of it. Absentminded and with an unusual crease between his brows, Cedric fell into the chair next to Kamden. Cloudia slightly raised an eyebrow. She would ask about it later.
"Oh, you have finally decided to honour us with your presence, 'Détective Vidocq'?" Cloudia said cheerfully.
Jacques' eyes lit up. "Eugène-François Vidocq, criminal-turned-legendary criminalist? The first detective? The first number one? The founder and director of the Sûreté nationale? The person who revolutionised the police and whose methods influenced police work in various other countries? That Détective Eugène-François Vidocq? But why are you calling His Grace by this name? No offence, Your Grace, but Détective Vidocq is a legend. And you are, well, not."
Cloudia propped her elbows on the table and rested her head on her hands. "We went to Nanteuil-la-Forêt in disguise, and the Duke suggested that we call ourselves 'Jeanne Gauthier' and 'Alexandre Vidocq' after I proposed to pretend that he is a Parisian detective embarrassed by his voice and I am his meditator. Please don't ask me what went through his mind when he suggested these names though, Jacques. I would rather not know what goes on in that head of his."
"Wait – what?" Cedric exclaimed, the conversation having awakened him from his half-slumber, and abruptly stood up. "I heard the name 'Vidocq' before, but I didn't know it belonged to a famous person! Is he still alive?"
"Very much so."
"D…" He glanced at Anaïs, Arnaud, and Jacques before turning to Cloudia again. "Please tell me that he is, at least, not active."
"Don't worry. Vidocq resigned in 1827."
"Oh. That's good."
"But he became self-employed in 1833 when he founded his own detective agency. The last few years have been rough on him, though.
Cedric sank back into his chair. "Do you think that there is… that there is a possibility that the villagers may believe me to be him? A very slight possibility?"
"I don't think so. After all, not everyone knows Eugène-François Vidocq, the first name you chose is different, and you do not seem to be anyone important," Cloudia said with a grin on her face.
"Ha-ha, very funny."
Kamden cleared his throat when nobody said anything for a moment. "Cloudie, you said that the stranger, the supposed culprit, was only seen for a brief period of time? When he arrived and paid for a room? A room he has seemingly never used?"
"Yes. Did you think of something?"
"It… It… It's a bit of a silly suggestion, but this reminds me of something," he said, staring down at his plate.
Cloudia sat up straighter. "Don't say that. Please, tell us what does it remind you of?"
Kamden looked up again. "A couple of weeks ago, two men came into my bookshop and asked whether I had anything on a chain of killings which happened in the north of England sometime in 1841. Apparently, hundreds of people died on the hands of a single… a single person."
"A single person? If such a large number of people were killed by one person only, why have I never heard of it before? Have you heard of it?" Cloudia asked Cedric.
"No, never. If you don't know about it, Countess, it's certainly odd," Cedric pointed out. "You always know about such events."
"The two men thought it's odd too," Kamden interjected. "They told me that they have been searching for information regarding these murders in vain for years. They lost loved ones to the murderer, and they nearly lost their own lives too when they encountered him. The men reported that the culprit suddenly left without a trace: He came, killed, and vanished."
"Isn't that what murderers do? Kill and run?" said Cedric.
Kamden shifted a bit on his chair. "Yes... but it was not like that; not exactly. He did not 'vanish' in the sense that he ran and escaped. The men said that he was like a shadow or a phantom or a ghost and that when he disappeared for good, he vanished into the woods."
"So… you are saying that this 'stranger' in the village may be something rather than someone like in the two men's tale?" asked Cloudia at the same time as Anaïs blurted out, "So it is some faerie-like creature?"
Jacques started to groan, but quickly caught himself and said, "Anaïs, will you ever stop with this faerie-nonsense? They belong to fairy-tales, to stories, to myths, to fiction. There are no faeries in the real world, Anaïs."
"How will –" Anaïs began before she cut herself off when a butler opened the dining hall doors and Milton stepped inside. Milton thanked him, and the butler closed the door again.
"Good morning," Milton said sheepishly while he went to sit to Kamden's left. "I am sorry for being late. I had a bit of trouble finding the correct room."
"If you don't know the way, why didn't you come to one of our rooms and ask to go together?" Cedric wanted to know. "Aren't our rooms not close to one another?"
"Yours, Emyr's, Cecelia's, and mine are in the same area. Milton's room is on the other side of the château," Cloudia informed him.
"On the other side? Who was responsible for the distribution of the rooms?"
"I was," said Aurèle and narrowed his eyes at Milton. "You don't have a problem with it, do you?"
"Of course not," Milton replied with a smile, and Aurèle looked at him for a little while longer before turning away.
"I hope I did not interrupt anything with my untimely appearance," said Milton, awkwardly slicing a roll in half.
Cloudia glanced at the others. "Don't worry. You didn't. Emyr had just finished telling us some horror story."
"A horror story?"
"It… it is not exactly a horror story," Kamden was quick to say. "I have only heard of two men who are searching for some kind of… entity that used to lurk around in Northern England. Apparently, it killed a considerable amount of people, and the men want to avenge them. Milton, as you travel so often, have you heard of this before?"
"I… Well, I do not exactly travel through the kingdom," Milton told him, putting his knife down and clutching his hands together. "I am sorry that I cannot be of any help."
"Oh, no, that's fine. Don't worry."
"Also you are not that late," said Cloudia. "Cecelia has still not shown up, after all."
"I have met Cecelia earlier. She said that she would take her breakfast in her room," Cedric said, and Cloudia blinked at him.
Cedric and Cecelia? It was Cecelia who had delayed him? This could not mean anything good. I would have to talk to them later.
As soon as breakfast was over and everyone went their own ways, Cloudia snatched Cedric away.
"So… you talked to Cecelia this morning?" she asked while they walked to her bedroom.
"Yes, unfortunately. She appeared out of nowhere the very moment I set foot outside my room," Cedric told her and rubbed his eyes. "Cecelia has displayed this rather annoying talent of hers to me before, and I am getting tired of it. How does she even do that? Was her childhood dream to become a magician?"
"Less magical childhood dream and more natural affinity for sneakiness mixed with Oscar's teaching."
Cedric gaped at her. "Oscar's teaching? I thought they could not stand each other! Why is he teaching her anything then?"
"You are right that they do not like each other. But they do make a good team, and Oscar is, as you know, quite manic when it comes to the capabilities of his associates."
"How could I ever forget this. Do you think I can ask him to pay for my clothes and trauma? Or will he rip off my arms and throw me into the next-best river?"
"Well, you can ask him. I doubt that he will pay you anything though – but he also won't kill you. Anyway, to answer your question: Cecelia is not a good fighter, and to make her less of a 'dead weight' in serious situations, Oscar taught her how she could sneak away effectively. Cecelia does not like Oscar at all and only because of her eagerness to learn and her understanding of its merit, she allowed Oscar to teach her," Cloudia explained.
"I'm sure that Oscar will be very amused if he finds out that something he taught Cecelia is annoying me," said Cedric and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Suddenly appearing and freaking out people on purpose. Truly awful."
Cloudia blinked at him. "You say that? Of all people? Do I have to remind you how many times you have come to the manor kitchen in the middle of the night because you ran out of flour or sugar in your Dispatch room? And how many times you appeared in my bedroom crying because I did not have any too?"
"Well, you always scare the hell out of me because you keep attacking or pointing guns at me."
"I would not have to do it if you did not appear in my bedroom in the middle of the night to cry about flour!"
"I never cry."
"The next time, I will get a bucket to show you how much you filled of it. Anyway, do you know why I don't have flour or sugar or chocolate drops en masse anymore? Because you keep using them up! I had to cook up a story about the devilish cousins of the brownies which use up your ingredients and misplace your utensils for Armstrong! Also…" Cloudia pointed her finger at Cedric. "One day, I will get used to your ridiculous magical break-ins and stop waking up and being ready to fight. And when there is really a killer in my bedroom, I will be snoring into my doom because I believe it's you!"
Cedric put a hand on his chest. "I promise you, loveliest Countess, I will better myself."
That's what he had said the last fifteen times. I doubted that it would stick this time, but I did not want to say anything.
"Let's see," Cloudia said. "To get back to what I wanted to ask: Cecelia is not bothering you in any way, is she? After all, we both know how she is like, and I also know that her methods are not exactly… orthodox. Especially in your case when it's impossible to find out who you are without pressing the truth out of you directly, Cecelia would be particularly nagging." Cloudia put a hand on his arm and looked at him intently. "She did not try anything 'funny' with you, right?"
Cedric returned her gaze, and Cloudia hated that, for once, she could not read his eyes, could not read his face – that he looked at her, all closed up and impervious, and all she could do was to fear for the worst. Then, a grin appeared on his face as it always did, and she knew that it had been a ruse. How rude.
"Of course not, Countess. All she does is annoying me," Cedric told her. "To be honest, Cecelia has not badgered me about me in quite a long while now. Therefore, I have not had the pleasure to become a victim of her 'unorthodox methods' and have no idea what you mean with them. Don't tell me what they are because I don't want to know. I need to sleep at night. Especially after last night. I couldn't sleep at all."
Cloudia chuckled and dropped her hand. "It's not that bad."
"Oh, now I'm intrigued. Wait – will knowing them make me lose my appetite?"
"I would love to say yes, but I doubt that anything in the world could make you lose your appetite," she said the instant they arrived in front of her bedroom. "Get yourself ready, Undertaker." Cloudia put a hand on the doorknob. "I expect to meet you here in fifteen minutes in full Vidocq-attire. We are going to Nanteuil-la-Forêt. We have a mystery to solve after all."
~Cedric~
"When the boy grew older, he ventured into the lands, wandered from place to place. Whenever he met someone on the verge of death along his way, he would use his ability to see Death and his all-healing herb and soon, he became known as the physician who knew who would die and who would live," said Cedric against the wind, holding on tight to Cloudia and trying not to think about Denis' insane driving, about how glad he was that he had hidden his hair beneath a cap, about how nobody could survive falling out of this wagon… "It made him so rich and so well-known that he was even summoned to save the King," continued Cedric even louder to fight against the roaring airstreams and closed his eyes. Perhaps, it was better to keep them open, but at this very moment, all that mattered to him was to block out the rapidly passing trees.
"When the physician came to the King, Death appeared at the foot of the King's bed. The physician did not want the King to die though, so he turned him upside down on his bed and gave him the all-healing herb. Godson or not, Death was very mad with the physician and told him that his actions would have terrible consequences as every soul saved from Death had to come with a sacrifice. Death did not punish the physician, let him have his way this one time, but threatened to take his life if he were to trick him again.
"And because the physician had saved the King from Death, the princess, His Majesty's only child, fell very ill. The King was devastated because no remedy seemed to be able to cure his daughter's illness and so he sent out messengers to find someone who could heal the princess. Whoever succeeded would be given her hand in marriage and be king himself.
"Eventually, the physician came to see the princess and saw Death standing at the foot of her bed. He did not forget Death's threat, but he had fallen in love with the princess the moment he had laid eyes on her and he could not bear to see her die. So the physician tricked Death again, turned the princess around in her bed, and cured her with his herb.
"Death, who had been chosen as the physician's godfather because he favoured no one and treated all equally, took his godson to an underground cave where the candles of every living person were stored. He led the physician to his, and when the physician saw how tiny his candle was, he begged Death to spare him: He should put his candle on a new one so that his candle would not go out when it became smaller. Instead, it would light the new one and extend his life. After all, he had saved the princess and would, thus, be able to marry her and be king. Death pretended to fulfil his godson's dying wish. However, when he brought the physician's candle to a new one, he deliberately dropped it. The candle's flame went out, and the physician died immediately."
Cedric opened his eyes again and found Cloudia smiling at him. "How can you smile when we are driving like that?"
"Undertaker, we are not driving anymore."
"Huh?" He looked around and indeed: They had come to a halt.
"We arrived about two or three minutes ago, but you were so immersed in your story and you had shut your eyes so tightly… I thought I should better let you be and finish the fairy-tale."
"I was freed of my torment three minutes ago – and you haven't told me?" Cedric yanked open the wagon door and tumbled to the ground. "My dear solid – and muddy – ground! How I have missed you!"
"This makes me wonder how we are supposed to get you back to England. You weren't doing well on the way here either after all," remarked Cloudia when she stepped next to him and waved goodbye to Denis who raced the rest of the path to Nanteuil-la-Forêt.
"I could simply lock myself in my cabin, then whisk myself away to my cosy Dispatch room, and return to the ship when it has arrived in Dover."
"What if someone comes to your cabin to see how you are doing?"
"That's why I gave you the skull pendant necklace: You can contact me, and I will promptly reappear in my cabin and nobody will ever know that I was gone. Well, except you, of course."
"Can you even do that? Teleport to a moving place? What if you appear in the air and fall into the sea? What if you get stuck in a wall or a piece of furniture or the turbines?"
Cedric groaned. "I think we already had this conversation, Countie. I – very hopefully – won't get stuck in any walls." He scrambled himself up to his feet and saw Cloudia raising an eyebrow at him.
"'Countie'?"
"I think the drive rattled my brain a bit too much." He brushed the dirt from his clothes. "Alexandre Vidocq" could not walk into a place with dirty clothes even if he was not the father of the Sûreté nationale. After all, he was still a renowned and respected member of it.
"I second that," said Cloudia with a smile, and for a moment, Cedric got caught in it. Even dressed as a man, she looked beautiful and when she was also smiling, she was… Cedric turned away to finish dusting his clothes.
"I also wanted to say that you got macabre surprisingly quickly with your fairy-tales," Cloudia continued and started to walk to the village. Cedric jogged after her.
"I guess it's because I'm taking a vacation for my death-related work to help with your death-related work."
"If I had gone on my own and you had still taken a few weeks off… what would you have done? You don't have any friends at the Dispatch as far as I know. Would you have filled your room with dog biscuits? Explored England on your own?" Cloudia put a hand on her chest and gasped. "Read a book?"
"Very funny. And it's 'bone-shaped biscuits for humans and Grim Reapers.' How many times do I have to tell you this?"
"You can go on forever. I will never stop calling them dog biscuits. Mostly because their 'official' name is far too long. Give me a shorter one and I may call them by that name."
"How about BSBFHGR? Or, if you don't like saying every letter on its own: Bisibfhgur."
"I thought we were searching for an improvement."
"No, you said that I should give you a shorter name and I did! Bisi… Bisibfi… Bisibfghur is shorter than bone-shaped biscuits for humans and Grim Reapers!"
"You can barely say that name yourself!"
"Well, at least, I am trying!"
"And I am trying to keep my brain cells intact. I think talking to you for a few minutes rattled my brain more than the wagon drive rattled yours – and oh! We have arrived," Cloudia said when they saw that the village border was only a few paces away. Quickly, they made their way to it, and Cedric put a hand on his skull necklace. Don't think I won't be able to drive you crazy only because I cannot speak.
I have never doubted this.
~Cloudia~
"Monsieur Vidocq! Monsieur Gauthier!" greeted Yvette Cedric and Cloudia when they arrived at the townhall. Yesterday, the villagers had gossiped about them, wondering who they were and what they wanted in Nanteuil-la-Forêt. Some had watched them with disdain – most likely because they did not want more strangers in their village after the last one had supposedly murdered two of their brethren. Today, there were less wary gazes and more finger-pointing and informing others about who Cloudia and Cedric were. Apparently, they had become quite famous overnight.
"Good morning," Yvette said with a perfect curtsy.
"Good morning," Cloudia replied, and Cedric tipped on his hat as a greeting. "Mademoiselle Guilloux, Détective Vidocq meant to ask whether it would be possible for us to take another look at the outsider's room? We had so little time yesterday and had to hurry through all the crime scenes; it would be good if we took a closer look today. I hope nothing has been touched or disarranged?"
Yvette beamed. "Of course, you can return to the stranger's room and the other crime scenes! And do not worry: We protected the room, the church, and the tailor's shop from trespassers. Furthermore, we followed your suggestion to implement a curfew and tell everyone to keep their windows and doors shut during the night to forestall more deaths. Come, I will lead you to the pension first."
Cloudia had not been able to meet Maxime Guilbert yesterday. He had been away when they had come to the inn, and after taking a first glimpse at the church and the tailor's shop, it had become too late to seek him out. Now, Maxime greeted Cloudia, Cedric, and Yvette from his place behind the desk when they entered his pension.
"Good morning! You must be the Messieurs Vidocq and Gauthier," said Maxime with a little smile on his face. He was a fairly tall man with a beard, greying hair, and laughter lines around his eyes. "We are very glad and grateful that you decided to help us."
Cloudia returned his smile. "We are very glad to help, and we would be grateful too if you were to answer a few questions for us, Monsieur Guilbert."
"Of course, I will answer your questions. First, I have a question of my own though." Maxime slightly narrowed his grey eyes at Cedric. "Why doesn't he speak?"
"Oh, have I forgotten to inform you about it?" said Yvette, putting a hand in front of her mouth. "I am so sorry, Maxime! Monsieur Vidocq does not like his voice – he is outright embarrassed by it – and for this reason, his assistant Monsieur Gauthier talks for him."
"We always discuss what I should say and ask beforehand," added Cloudia and took a notebook and a pen out of her pocket. "All I ask I ask for Détective Vidocq."
"I see," Maxime said slowly and turned to Cloudia. "What are the questions you are supposed to ask for the detective then?"
"I am to ask you about the outsider that rented a room here two days ago. Can you please describe him for us?"
"He didn't say much," said Maxime, glancing at Cedric again who kept his eyes fixed on the papers and signs on top of the desk. "He spoke a little dryly. No accent, no obvious characteristics."
Cloudia wrote down what he had said. "I see. Usually, witnesses do not notice such small, relatively unremarkable aspects. At least, not consciously. Is there a reason why that's not the case with you?"
"Not a lot of people come to Nanteuil-la-Forêt. I didn't know him and consciously paid more attention to him."
"It is indeed a 'he' then?"
"Yes. This stature was male, his clothes, his voice. I don't think it was a woman."
"I see… What can you tell me about his clothes?"
"They were very odd."
"In what manner were they odd? Please clarify."
"It's summer, and he wore clothes fit for winter. Too thick material. He wore a scarf but didn't seem to mind it. Covered half his face." Maxime gesticulated to his chin and mouth and cheeks.
"I saw him too from afar," interjected Yvette. "It was rather peculiar to see someone in winter clothes in June. Maybe he gets cold easily?"
Why would anyone who came into a village with the intention of murdering its residents walk around looking so suspicious? Did he intend to be noticed, to stick out, or was he no more than a failure of a murderer?
"Apart from his clothes, what else can you tell me about his physical appearance?" continued Cloudia, hastily taking notes. This case was getting weirder and weirder, and her mind was happily spinning possibilities. "Was he tall? Short?"
Maxime tilted his head to the side. "He was quite tall, I think. Yes, he was taller than me by a little bit."
"You are fairly tall – you are taller than Vidocq and me. So, you would say that the outsider was remarkably tall?"
"Hm… Yes. Yes, I would."
"What else can you tell me? What is his hair colour? Did you notice his eye colour? Anything distinctive like a scar? A crooked nose?"
"The stranger wore a hat, couldn't see his hair underneath. His eyes were visible despite the hat and scarf and glasses, and I do remember that I thought they had a nice colour, but I cannot recall what colour they were." Maxime scratched his head. "Although I looked at the stranger's eyes for a while…"
"I see. That's all?" asked Cloudia.
"Yes, I think that's all I remember… no… he also wore glasses. That's all now. Yes."
"Were the glasses round or rectangular?"
"I... I cannot remember."
"Is there anything else you might want to add? Something you noticed about how he walked and moved? Odd requests? Anything else?"
"Hm…" Maxime squinted his eyes in thought. "All I remember is that he said he didn't want to be disturbed."
"That's fine. I have two more questions: Did you notice anything regarding the stranger's money?"
Maxime blinked at her in surprise, and Yvette seemed taken aback by the question too. "His money? No, I can't say I did. They were perfectly regular francs."
"Very well. My second and final question is: Monsieur Guilbert, where were you when Madame Allemand and Monsieur Duhamel were murdered on the 17th and 18th of June?"
Yvette and Maxime gaped at her. "Monsieur Gauthier, by all respect," began Yvette, "you cannot possibly believe Maxime to be the murderer!"
Cedric looked at her with a raised eyebrow, and Cloudia bit back a chuckle. "This is only a routine question," Cloudia assured her. "I believe nothing until I have more evidence and testimonies. And, Monsieur Guilbert?"
"I…" Maxime tilted his head again. "Every evening, I count the earnings of the day, check the inventory, and walk through the entire pension before going to bed. My wife can confirm that this is all I did on those days too."
Cloudia finished her notes and closed the book with a smile on her face. "Thank you very much, Monsieur Guilbert. This was very helpful. If you remember anything else, please tell us the next time we are here. No matter how unimportant it may seem to you. Now – may we get permission to inspect the outsider's room again?"
Room 245 looked the exact same as yesterday: untouched bed, empty desk, impeccable order, and a lack of any personal items. But yesterday, they had not come any further than a quick first glance, had not been able to scrutinise every nook and cranny with the needed attention and thoroughness.
Yvette had told them that Maxime took great care to lock the room, making it impossible that the stranger had returned and taken something he had left behind. Now, Yvette watched Cloudia and Cedric from the doorsill while they walked through the room and carefully examined every centimetre.
Nothing in the wardrobe. Nothing by the window. Nothing on and in the desk. Wherever she searched, Cloudia found nothing, and it was equal parts frustrating her and cementing her hypothesis that it was all a gigantic ruse. Or maybe – maybe – Kamden was right and the outsider was not a person at all, but some spectre-like entity. It would explain his peculiar clothing choice and why this room was so blank – after all, if you barely existed at all, how were you supposed to leave any marks?
Do you think our mysterious Mr Stranger's favourite pastime is to book rooms and just stand motionless in a corner and do nothing at all? Only to disappear at sunset? Cloudia heard Cedric's voice in her head. He might pursue a career as a folktale phantom so that, one day, people will tell their children to beware of the ghostly man in the corner doing nothing at all…
If that's the case, I would love to meet him. He deserves to be threshed.
Oh, I want to see that! And what if it's an actual phantom like in Kamden's story?
This would explain a lot, but I am fairly certain that there are no phantoms. There must be a logical explanation for the story the two men told Kamden. For example, the men might have simply lied. You can never know.
How can you not believe in phantoms? First of all, your family name must come from somewhere or something. Second, how can you say something like that when I am right here: A breathing Grim Rea–
"Mademoiselle Guilloux?" said Cloudia when she walked to the bed, interrupting Cedric and ignoring the nasty glare he gave her.
"Yes, Monsieur Gauthier?"
"The bedspread is interestingly folded and laid upon the bed. Does this have a special reason?"
"Oh, that's because…" Yvette said before someone yelled, "Yvette! Yvette!" and a young boy appeared at her side shortly afterwards. He was breathing heavily, seemingly having run for quite a while. His face was pale and his expression horrified.
"Marc, what is wrong? Did something happen?" Yvette asked, gently putting her hands on his shoulders.
The boy, Marc, looked at her with wide eyes. "There… there has been another murder. It's… it's…" Tears filled his eyes. "It's Gustave."
"Gustave… Oh no… I…" Yvette turned to Cloudia and Cedric, now looking as distraught as the boy. "Marc, they… they are Détective Vidocq and his assistant Monsieur Gauthier. They are investigating the murders, and I agreed to show them to the crime scenes and… I am not sure if I can go to Gustave or if I should… and…" Yvette leaned against the doorframe and breathed heavily, a hand clasped over her mouth and tears glistering in her eyes. Cloudia quickly glanced at Cedric.
"Monsieur Vidocq will go with Marc to the crime scene," she said firmly. A murdered person was no reason to lose composure. "You and I will stay here, Mademoiselle Guilloux, until I am done. Then, we will join them. This will be the best."
Cedric nodded in agreement although he said in her head: You cannot make me go there without you, Countess. You cannot. What can I do?
Look for clues. The only thing you cannot do is talk to people, so you have to do the rest. You followed me around for such a long time. I am sure you can do this.
Do you really have faith in me?
Do I have a choice?
"Vidocq does not need me to investigate a crime scene after all," Cloudia continued. "All I ask is that nobody shall try to speak to him. He may start to feel pressured and anxious and he cannot think when he is pressured and anxious. And we need him to think, don't we, Mademoiselle Guilloux?"
Yvette gawked at her for a moment before she slowly nodded. "Yes, yes. Détective Vidocq? Marc will lead you to where Gu…" She took a deep breath. "Marc will lead you to the crime scene. Marc, do you think you can do this?"
Marc stared at Yvette.
"We need to see the crime scene to find out who did this to Gustave," Cloudia said gently and knelt down to be on the same level as Marc was. Even after all this time, after doing this plenty of times, and having seen him do it numerous times more, it still surprised her how naturally all this came to her. "It is a difficult task to bring Monsieur Vidocq there. I know it is. Still, I believe you can do this, Marc.
"Marc, tell me – do you know what a detective does?"
Timidly, the boy shook his head, and Cloudia smiled faintly. "A criminal upsets the order in the world – a detective restores it. Vidocq and I are here to bring back order to Nanteuil-la-Forêt, to bring back the calm that was once yours. However, we are incapable of doing it alone. We need help. I will not force you to do it, but I want to ask: Can you do this, Marc? Will you do this?"
Marc stared at Cloudia. For a second. Two, three…
"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I can."
Cloudia smiled at him. "Thanks."
Marc turned to Yvette who nodded at him reassuringly, then to Cedric and together, they withdrew from Room 245.
"This leaves the two of us," said Cloudia and stood up again. "How are you feeling? I would offer to bring you the chair there" – she pointed at it – "but I do not want to disturb anything here."
Yvette shook her head. "That's fine. I can simply… I can, well…" She slid to the ground and leaned her head against the doorframe. "I can simply sit here like this. I think."
"Oh, that's good. How are you feeling?"
"I…" Yvette wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't know."
"Were you close to the victim… Gustave…?"
"Gustave Beaubois. He was a schoolmate of mine. Was expected to inherit his father's woodcutting business…" She gazed ahead, tears gleaming in her eyes again.
Cloudia scrutinised her for a moment before she returned her attention to the bed and the coverlet which was big enough for a double bed. It was folded in half and laid upon the regular blanket with its corners positioned to the top, end, and the sides. The corner pointing to the top had been folded a few more times while the others dangled from the sides like triangles. "What did you want to tell me about the bedspread before Marc came?"
"Oh, that… Maxime's wife Violaine makes sure that every room is clean and tidy. She brooms the rooms, changes the bedsheets, makes the beds… And she has the habit to fold and lay out the bedspreads like that. I have never seen anyone else fold them like she does – or wash them as thoroughly."
"Apart from Madame Violaine…" Cloudia said while taking a pincette out of her coat. "… are there any other maids? Maids specifically tasked to tend to the guest rooms?"
"This is a small pension, Monsieur Gauthier, in a small place. It is very unlike Paris: There are barely any guests, so there is no need to have numerous servants and attendants: Maxime and his family tend for the inn all on their own. They are cook, receptionist, housekeeper, maid, footman… whatever they are required to be."
"I know. I only wanted to be thoroughly confirmed. And now confirm something else for me: What hair colours do Madame Violaine and her daughter have?"
"They are a very dark shade of brown. Why?"
"Because this means that neither they nor brown-grey-haired Maxime Guilbert can be the owner of those…" Cloudia picked up a few loose hairs from the coverlet with her pincette. "…particular specimens."
Yvette's eyes widened, and Cloudia grinned. "May I present to you? Evidence A. I have to admit it is not much, but a step is a step, no matter how small. And if we can trust it, our stranger seems to be a blond-haired man."
~Cedric~
Cloudia should not have let him go alone.
It had been a miserable walk through the side valleys of Nanteuil-la-Forêt to where Gustave was lying, and Marc had teared up with every other step. The whole situation was uncomfortable enough as it was; a sobbing child was the last straw to make Cedric wish that Cloudia was here too. Especially because the poor boy was still trying to talk to him although Cloudia had informed him about Détective Vidocq's idiosyncrasy, and Cedric had no clue what Marc was saying. He must ask him very intricate questions, but Cedric only nodded every now and then while he clumsily paved his way across the crime scene.
Compared to Nadia Allemand's and Dominique Duhamel's, Gustave's crime scene was very tame. While the former two had been slaughtered and decoratively placed, Gustave was simply lying in the woods, just shy to the village border, with a knife in his back and his neck twisted to make him look empty-eyed upwards.
What would Cloudia do? Cedric thought while he tried to take in everything that might be of importance: He inspected the knife as well as he could without removing it, registering it as a regular kitchen knife with no apparent peculiarities. Carefully, Cedric knelt down next to the corpse and searched it for clues. There was nothing in his pockets. His clothes were still damp from the rain and his body had not become rigid. If the rain had not brought coldness with it, a coldness that had seeped through Gustave's clothes and into his body, Cedric could have tried to figure out a more definitive time of death than "sometime last night or shortly after the rain's conclusion this morning." Furthermore, from awkwardly frisking Gustave the Curfew Breaker's clothes, he could also note that Gustave seemed to be quite muscular and strong.
With a sigh, Cedric got back to his feet and scrutinised the surroundings. This would be infinitely easier if he were to do it his way, not Cloudia's. If only she had not strictly forbidden it a year ago when they had figured out the details of their arrangement! Cedric glanced at Marc who kept on crying and chattering. Not that he could have done it his way anyway with the boy around.
No matter how well or how closely I looked, I could not make out any significant disturbances. So, all I did until Cloudia and Yvette arrived was to feign that I was still investigating and vainly trying to decipher anything Marc said beside "Détective Vidocq" and "Gustave." The boy must believe me to be an insensitive, cold-hearted buffoon of a man.
When the sun broke out behind the screen of clouds, pushing them away and sending them astray, when the forest folk peaked out of their homes, curious to gaze upon such a clear summer day, and when Cedric's thread of patience nearly reached its breaking point twenty-five minutes later, Yvette and Cloudia arrived. Crying, Marc pushed himself to his feet and ran to Yvette. He had stopped trying to talk to Cedric a little while ago and had spent his time curled into a ball and whimpering by a tree instead.
While Yvette comforted Marc, Cloudia said something in French before she repeated her words for Cedric in her mind. Did you find anything?
Cedric nodded. Smiling, Cloudia briefly checked the corpse and the area herself. When Marc seemed to be a little bit better, she spoke to him and Yvette while Cedric stood there as a silver-haired piece of decoration and watched squirrels hush over the ground and collect nuts which was a surprisingly delightful and entertaining pastime when you could not understand a single word the people around you said. If only Cedric had chosen to learn French at the Dispatch…
He was very relieved when Cloudia tugged on his arm, indicating that she was finally done. She said goodbye to Marc and Yvette while Cedric waved tentatively before they left Nanteuil-la-Forêt again.
"What did you find out? What did you and Yvette talk about?" blurted it out of Cedric the instant they had put enough distance between them and the village.
Cloudia shook her head. "How impatient, Undertaker! Don't you want to discuss everything in the winter garden with a freshly brewed pot of tea and a plethora of biscuits?"
"Countess…"
She chuckled. "Goodness gracious, I am joking! I have found these very interesting and exciting specimens," Cloudia said and took out a piece of cloth which she unwrapped to reveal some blond hairs. "Yvette told me that no member of the Guilbert family has blond hair – and apparently, they do not employ any external staff." She sighed. "I cannot believe that this is all we have found so far."
"At the very least we now know that our mystery murderer has blond hair, a preference for winter clothes, and that he cannot be an actual phantom. Kamden will be disappointed."
"Yes. At least," Cloudia replied, rewrapped the hair strands, and put them back into her pocket. "You remember how you offered to tell me everything about how the police will proceed in the far-away future for our anniversary? You listed a few things before I interrupted you and told you that it's fine and I wasn't mad at you for forgetting our anniversary."
Cedric's eyes widened, excitement tickling through his body. "Are you willing to learn about these things now?"
"Absolutely not. You mentioned something about testing samples like skin and hair and saliva. I remembered it and thought 'Oh, for police officers in the future this whole ordeal must be infinitely easier. How convenient for them!'"
"Are you mad at people who haven't even been born yet?"
"Of course not, silly. I hope that I will be there when it's time for those new innovations – even if I am a very, very old lady when the time comes. I am curious about them after all. I only don't want to hear about them from you." Cloudia looked at him and clenched a fist together. "All we agreed on was that you would warn me if someone dear to me were to die. I don't want to hear anything else regarding the future. Even if this means that I cannot ask you about any upcoming Dickens novels."
Cedric laughed. "You're really something, Countess. Also, I didn't forget our anniversary."
"I'm certain you did. 'A lecture on future police proceedings' sounds like a last-minute gift to me."
"I beg your pardon! All the hours I have spent researching the topic…"
"And you still didn't know Eugène-François Vidocq is alive," Cloudia said, and Cedric stopped in his tracks while she kept walking.
"I focused on future police stuff! Not past or current stuff!" he called after her.
"Stop yelling in the forest! Someone might hear you."
"Why are you yelling back at me then?"
"I am not yelling. I am only talking loudly."
"That is yelling, Countess! And… wait! Don't leave me here!"
There had been few instances in Cedric's life in which he had to interact with children – the last major, lengthy one had happened a century ago. Despite his lack of knowledge of children, despite nausea still grumbling in his stomach from the ride back to the château, Cedric knew that Anaïs' friendly greeting and brilliant smile upon their return did not mean anything good.
And that he was part of the devilish plan she seemed to have concocted.
"Claudette! Duke Kristopher!" Anaïs said and walked towards them. Behind her, her loyal shadow Arnaud followed her with a more reserved smile on his face.
"I am so very happy that you have returned so soon! I was a bit afraid that you might have lunch at Nanteuil-la-Forêt." Anaïs bobbed up and down. Cedric glanced at Cloudia and raised his hand to his skull pendant necklace. We have to escape. I have a bad feeling.
Cloudia turned to Cedric, visibly confused and reaching for her own necklace when Anaïs – sneaky little demon – took hold of her hands and said, "Claudette, come with me! Let's get you ready for lunch!" Cedric had not noticed that she had come so close to them. One quick glance at Cloudia had been enough distraction for Anaïs to reach them inconspicuously – and now, the second it took for Cedric to realise what had happened and to decide to step forward, take Cloudia's arm, and make up an excuse, Arnaud pulled gently on his coat and said, "Duke Kristopher, you can come with me."
Dread filled every fibre of my being. What were they scheming?
"How do you like it?" asked Arnaud when Cedric stepped out from behind the divider.
Perhaps I had overreacted the slightest of bits. Instead of cooking us alive or feeding us to the wolves, all Anaïs and Arnaud had planned was to get us changed in time for Anaïs' picnic luncheon. Still, the faintest drop of dread continued to flow through my veins, unable to leave my system.
"It is very stiff. And isn't black reserved for funerals and mourning?" Cedric said, fumbling with his collar and looking down at his clothes. He wore a simple black suit underneath a black frock with grey lace alongside the seams and sleeves. Fine grey embroidery covered the entire coat. The stitching was delicate everywhere except the area around the buttons where the pattern was more lavishly placed, and the light grey colour shone faintly silver when it caught the light. The suit and the frock came with polished dark shoes and a top hat decorated with a single silver-grey feather. The clothes might have been a dream for someone else, but for Cedric, the material was too stiff, the clothes too finely cut and fitting. He preferred it when his wrists were covered – now, they were mostly exposed with only the lace softly brushing them. It itched Cedric to pull down the sleeves to his wrists although he knew very well that they would not move to cover an additional millimetre.
"Yes," Arnaud replied, "but Anaïs liked the idea of you in black too much. She hopes that the embroidery turns the frock and the feather the hat cheerful enough to be acceptable."
Cedric adjusted his hat and stared into the mirror. He did not look like himself at all; only his chartreuse eyes reminded him that he was, in fact, not staring into a stranger's face. "I look like a ridiculous mannequin."
"It's supposed to be like that. Anaïs loves to host picnics or tea parties for which she can put others into costumes – and herself too, of course."
"If making me feel like a ridiculous mannequin was her objective, I can only congratulate Anaïs for succeeding." Cedric tore himself away from his reflection and turned back to Arnaud who was sitting on an armchair. In contrast to Cedric's bleak palette, Arnaud was draped in various shades of blue: a powder blue shirt, midnight blue waistcoat and trousers, a sky blue bow.
"I think Anaïs and Claudette must be ready now," Arnaud said and stood up. "We should go and escort them down to the garden, don't you think, Duke Kristopher?"
Cedric grinned. What would Cloudia's costume look like? "Of course, we should."
When nobody opened upon numerous knocks, Cedric and Arnaud allowed themselves to enter Cloudia's room uninvited – only to see that Anaïs herself was knocking on the door to the adjourning bathroom. Like her fiancé, she wore blue; unlike him whose main colour was a deep dark blue, her dress was a mix of brighter shades and her shoes and accessories were in darker colours. Anaïs turned to Arnaud and Cedric. "Claudette won't come out!"
Cedric and Arnaud exchanged glances. "In what kind of dress did you put her?" asked Cedric.
"In the cutest of all!" Anaïs crossed her arms in front of her chest. "As you may have noticed, Duke Kristopher, I never have the opportunity to dress-up another girl. I only have a brother, and all my cousins are male! Now, I finally got a chance, and Claudette decided to lock herself in the bathroom!"
Cedric stepped forward and knocked on the door. "Countess? I know you don't like your dress, but I look a jester. No, not even a jester. I am a goddamn clown. I look like a clown with too much money to buy fancy clown clothes. I look like the richest clown around. You cannot look worse – and if you look as ridiculous as I do, we can be clowns together. A clown for a clown. No clown left alone. No lonely clowning. Clowns are not forever, but together. Clowns–"
The door slammed open, startling Cedric and the children. "If I hear you say 'clown' one more time, I am going to use you as bait for the Nanteuil-la-Forêt-murderer!" Cloudia fumed. "And what does 'Clowns are not forever, but together' even mean?"
A comeback was on the tip of Cedric's tongue, readied as quickly as it was dissolved when he saw Cloudia.
No stiffness, no heavy embroidery, not the faintest touch of "mannequin."
Instead, her dress was bright pink; its skirt big and fluffy, a sheer sparkling layer splayed over the soft pink fabric. The bodice was magenta too with bands in the same colour crisscrossing in the front and bound to ribbons on the back. Her sleeves were short and puffy, and her long gloves made out of the same material as the utmost layer of her skirt – transparent and gleaming. Cloudia's hair had been curled and pinned up. A single rosy peony had been clipped into the hair-do.
She looked like a princess. But not like an existing one; not like those displayed in newspapers, seen in public on rare, formal occasions.
Cloudia looked like a princess who had stepped right out of a little girl's fairy-tale dream.
"I have never seen you in anything so bright," blurted it out of Cedric, his own voice faint and muffled in his ears, stifled by his pounding heart.
"That's because nobody wears such bright colours," Cloudia said, scowling. "It's ridiculous and unacceptable." She touched her skirt. "I would make a fine replacement for a lighthouse lamp."
"At least, you will not die from overheating. I think my time has finally come to get a sunstroke and become bed-ridden for the rest of our stay."
"Very funny, Underwood."
Cedric grinned and offered her his arm. "Let me escort you to this delightfully intriguing gathering of harlequins."
She scowled at him but still took his arm.
"I didn't say it."
She raised an eyebrow. "Synonyms count."
"You didn't tell me! How should I know? I cannot read your mind. That's not my circus act of choice." His grin widened, and Cloudia sighed. "Please, let us go now so that it gets over quickly and I can be put out of my misery as soon as possible."
"Oh, Claudette, you look heavenly! And, Duke Kristopher…" Anaïs grinned up at Cedric. "Thank you for getting her out!" She linked arms with Arnaud. "Come! It's time to join the others."
The garden of the Château de Charbonneau was framed by trees. There was no visible fence and not a single tree within the garden area; it would have looked like a glade if lawn and stone paths were not alternating and interweaving to form a perfectly symmetrical pattern on the ground. If there were not statues placed in even distances from each other and a circular gazebo in the middle of the garden.
It looked artificial and strange, and if Cedric had to choose between this garden and Phantomhive Manor's, he would always pick the latter. Sure, it was also rather stiff, but not as much as this one. He turned to Cloudia, ready to make a comment on the garden's awful rigidity; then he saw her eyes lighting up upon seeing it and he bit back his words. Of course, she would be entranced by it.
"Isn't it lovely?" said Anaïs, her own eyes glowing. "It is even more beautiful in spring when the flowers are in bloom. If only you had come a bit earlier!" She sighed. "Still, the Charbonneau garden is not as breathtaking as the one at home. In no season, it can compete with ours. Right, Arnaud?"
Arnaud nodded. "You are. Our garden also has a bosquet, topiary, water gardens…"
"And high hedges forming patterns!" added Anaïs. "I can understand why the Charbonneaus decided against high hedges though. The château is enough of a labyrinth as it is." She pulled her fiancé down the steps and along the curvated stone paths to the gazebo where Cedric spotted Aurèle, Kamden, and Jacques. "Come! The others are waiting!"
Cedric led Cloudia down the path and after Arnaud and Anaïs. "Everything was so meticulously made," Cloudia said, looking right and left to take in the entire garden. "The designer took great care to make sure that the garden is both rather simple and absolutely stunning at the same time. Of course, the size does not allow much, and Anaïs is right that the Charbonneaus must have wished the garden to be clearer and more straightforward in contrast to the château. Still…" She stopped to look at Cedric, one eyebrow raised. "Why haven't you said a single word yet? You must hate it here. Usually, you don't hesitate to voice your distaste."
Cedric smiled. "I do hate it here. I hate it so much that it took my voice away for a moment."
"That's more like it," Cloudia said with a nod as they ascended the steps to the gazebo. "I think this garden is wonderful, but I prefer my own at the manor. Emyr! You look a little bit like a leprechaun." From one moment to the other, Cloudia let go of Cedric and stepped towards Kamden who seemed vastly uncomfortable in his luminous light green suit and with his hair combed back.
"For a moment, I thought you were Milton," Cedric said and lowered his voice. "The hair colour still throws me off."
"I know." Kamden lifted his arms, looked at them, and dropped them again with a sigh. "I do not… I do not feel like me at all."
Cloudia gently took his arm. "It is definitely too much colour, but the green looks lovely with your eyes."
He looked down at her and gave her a little smile. "Thanks. You look…"
"Ridiculous?"
"Beautiful."
Cloudia poked his arm. "Old liar."
"I agree with Mr Emyr," said Jacques, joining them with Aurèle. "Anaïs gave you the best attire by far, Claudette." He pointed at his and his brother's matching suits: Jacques' was yellow with thin black pinstripes and auburn embroidery on his waistcoat while Aurèle's suit was black with yellow patterns. "I look like a yellow warbler. Anaïs," Jacques called to her across the gazebo, "I hope this does not mean that you wish for me not to be here? Yellow warblers don't exist in France after all."
Anaïs rolled her eyes. "Jacques, stop overthinking everything. I thought you would look cute in yellow and you do."
"You didn't think of yellow warblers at all? The auburn embroidery Aurèle lacks is only coincidental?"
"Well… I did think of yellow warblers, but only because they are adorable little birds."
Jacques opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it to walk over to Anaïs and Arnaud. He must have got tired of yelling.
"They are very lively. How do you manage them?" Cloudia asked Aurèle.
"Thankfully, we have, uh, nursery maids for that."
"Good answer." Cloudia craned her head to look at Anaïs who was still arguing with Jacques. "Anaïs, will Gérard come too?"
"No, he wanted to stay with Maman and Papa!" Anaïs called to her before resuming her argument.
Cloudia turned back to the others. "Now, only Milton is left. Has anyone seen him?"
"I am here," said Milton and stepped away from a pillar. Cedric blinked in surprise. Despite Milton's faint existence, he was still fairly easy to detect, but until just now, his clothes had made him melt into the pillar; it had been the perfect camouflage against the white stone because, in stark contrast to them all, Milton had been draped in white from head to toe: white shirt, white vest, white trousers and shoes. Even the fine flowery embroidery running over his floaty shirt had been stitched in white. If it was not for his hair and eyes, he would be completely colourless. Still…
"You look like a ghost, Milton," Cedric remarked, unable to stop the words from breaking free.
"How fitting," added Aurèle. Milton smiled shyly and fumbled with his shirt sleeves. "I am sorry for surprising you like this. I didn't know when to join you because I didn't want to interrupt you…"
"That's fine, Milton," Cloudia said. "You do look like a ghost though."
Milton's eyes widened when he turned to gaze at her and his cheeks rosed a bit. "And you look absolutely…"
"A ghost, a yellow warbler, a pink princess, a leprechaun, a bee, a funeral clown. What a funny lot we are," said Cedric.
"I'm not a bee," Aurèle replied and knitted his brow. "I think I'm a reverse yellow warbler?"
"Oh, a warbler, front and back then."
"What are you talking about? Baron Milton isn't a ghost! He's a faerie!" said Anaïs and walked over to them. She clutched her face and looked up at Milton in delight. "Oh, I was right! All in white you look even more otherworldly and faerie-like, Baron Milton. It is your colour."
Milton continued to fumble with his sleeves. "Thanks?"
"Anaïs," Jacques said, annoyed, and she glared at him. "Look at him and tell me that Baron Milton does not look like a faerie."
"He does not look like a faerie."
"Jacques!"
"He – I mean no offence, Milton – looks like a ghost faerie. Are you both content now?" said Cedric. "Isn't this supposed to be a picnic? Can we finally start eating?"
~Cloudia~
It was always a delight to watch Cedric's eyes light up in utter, child-like joy when he was presented with a plethora of food: For their outdoor luncheon, goat's cheese vol-au-vent, Chicken Marengo, and quiche lorraine had been brought out alongside a variety of cheeses and baguettes and brioche. Especially sweets warmed Cedric's heart, and he must put a lot of willpower into not losing his self-control and falling right into a dream of chocolate mousse, madeleines, biscuits, and muffins. Instead, he reached out to the savouries first, very visible in conflict with himself. It was a bit amusing to witness.
"What were you all doing today? What will you do later?" asked Anaïs, looking around. When nobody wanted to start immediately, she nonchalantly continued herself. "Arnaud and I were making sure that our picnic preparations were doing well."
"I've been meaning to ask – for how long have you been planning this?" Cloudia said, taking a slice of quiche and handing it down to Kamden who sat to her right. "After all, we have only arrived two days ago in the evening and we were never measured. Still, our clothes seem to fit perfectly."
Anaïs smiled proudly. "I had Aurèle's, Jacques', Arnaud's, and my attire prepared before we came here. I had a vague idea of how your dress should be, Claudette, but I wanted to meet you first. I wanted to see Duke Kristopher, Baron Milton, and Mr Emyr first too before I made any decisions. To our luck, our seamstress Michelle is the best seamstress in the entire world. She is so amazing that she can almost correctly guess someone's sizes without even having to measure them. Michelle studied you when you first arrived, she and I talked yesterday, and she made all this as quickly as possible. She finished everything this forenoon."
"Not even Michelle can do this much work in a single day," Jacques pointed out and watched the quiche wander from Kamden to Milton who gave it to Aurèle without taking a slice himself.
"She pre-made some suits in different colours and only had to adjust them."
"You were very eager to do this, weren't you?" said Jacques when he finally got his hands on the quiche.
Anaïs grinned. "Of course! Now – what were you doing all day, Jacques?"
"I was helping Papa sort through the sketches he made yesterday."
"What sketches? Is your father a painter?" Cedric wanted to know.
"No, he is not. He studies animals and plants."
"Ah! I remember. Milton told me about it yesterday. That's a rather interesting pastime for a nobleman."
Aurèle narrowed his eyes at Cedric. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Just that it is unusual for a nobleman to do the work of a common scholar. As far as I have noticed, most do not study wildlife, but hunt it down."
"Papa dislikes hunting," Arnaud chimed in for the first time. "No one of us ever goes hunting animals. Emmanuel always tries to persuade Aurèle though."
"And I always decline," said Aurèle and put a piece of quiche into his mouth.
"I know that Claudette sometimes goes hunting, but did you ever, Mr Emyr?" asked Anaïs.
"No, never."
"And you, Baron Milton?"
Milton halted in his movement to take a vol-au-vent and let his left hand fall to the other on his lap, most likely to hide his restless fumbling. "I have not gone hunting in years, Miss Anaïs."
"I understand! It's because you travel so much, isn't it? Do you miss it?"
"No," Milton said. "I have never liked hunting."
Cedric shook his head. "Milton, it is slightly unsettling to see you all in white, especially considering that you are so pale. You really do look like a ghost. Anaïs, I think your colour choice for him was not the best. Milton's almost translucent."
"I think it fits," Anaïs replied, crossing her arms.
"I agree with Anaïs," said Aurèle, his dark eyes narrowed. "Baron Milton, I noticed that you have barely any… what is the word? Presence. Earlier, you must have been standing by that pillar for minutes, and still, we did not notice you."
Anaïs' eyes glistered. "Is this some kind of magical trick?"
"I…" Milton started and shifted on his chair, and Cloudia could see that the erratic movement of his hands was creeping up his arms, setting them in slight, but noticeable motion as well. Milton had been doing much better at the beginning of this trip; now, the nervous energy radiating from him was almost palpable. Maybe it had been a terrible mistake to ask him for this favour, to bring him here. He had never liked it to be amongst strangers.
"I have always had a rather mild presence as you say," Milton continued. "And I have already said that I did not mean to intrude you earlier and you were deep in conversation…"
"Aha," drawled Aurèle. "Returning to Anaïs' original question: What were you doing today, Baron?"
Once again, Milton shifted on his chair, and Cloudia was about to chip in when they were both bested by Anaïs. "Baron Milton was assisting Arnaud and me," she said with a smile on her lips. "We found him all by himself in the salon doing paperwork and whisked him away to the kitchen to oversee the meal preparations with us."
"More paperwork?" Cedric groaned. "Haven't you gone through a lot yesterday?"
"I…" Milton caught his breath. "There's always more."
"But how did you even fit that many papers into…" Cedric began, but Cloudia promptly cut him off. "His Grace and I were strolling all forenoon through the forest," she said. "Much like you did yesterday. Say, Emyr, did you see anything of note during your exploration? Because we were utterly unlucky. Maybe having a proper guide like Firmin amongst you heightened your experience?"
It was my fault that Milton was here in the first place; it was my fault to have ever thought that it was a good idea to push Milton into a place full of people he didn't know, to insert him into what was, in his eyes, a friendly family visit. And it did not matter that almost everyone treated him nicely because Milton was still an outsider. I should have known better; I should have never asked him for help.
Thus, it was my duty to make sure that Milton was doing well during his stay. So, seeing him calming down as soon as everyone's attention drifted away from him, was a relief to me as well.
"It was indeed quite insightful," Kamden answered her. "B… Firmin is very knowledgeable in his field."
"And what were you doing all day, Emyr?" Cloudia asked.
"I spent the day with Miss Lisa."
"With Miss Greene?" exclaimed Cedric at the same time Jacques said, "With Claudette's maid?"
"We have overlapping interests," Kamden explained. "And she seemed a bit annoyed because…" he trailed away and picked mindlessly on his food. Cloudia raised an eyebrow.
"Isn't Miss Greene always annoyed?" Cedric said and finished his quiche. He was about to reach out for the Chicken Marengo when Cloudia touched her skull pendant and thought: Did you know that Spinetta Marengo is a village in Italy? During the War of the Second Coalition, Napoleon fought against Austrian forces in that village in June 1800 and won. Two years ago, a museum showcasing weapons and relics from that battle opened in Spinetta Marengo.
From the corner of her eye, Cloudia saw Cedric lifting his hand to his own necklace. And you're telling me this why…?
Chicken Marengo was named after the Battle of Marengo. I thought you may want to know. It's a fact about food after all.
Who would name something to eat after a battle?
The dish was most likely named after it to honour Napoleon's victory over Austria.
Still… Isn't it macabre to eat something named after an event at which people died? Why are you telling me this? Do you intend to make me lose my appetite? You need something scarier, heavier to make me lose my appetite. This? This is nothing.
You have answered your own question.
Which question?
You asked who would eat a dish named after an event at which people died: You would because the knowledge does not decrease your appetite.
Cedric let his hand sink back to the table and scowled at Cloudia who grinned at him and cut a piece off her quiche.
Everyone continued to eat and talk, each conversation spiralling into another, none finding a proper end. The savoury dishes were promptly cleared despite their constant chattering, and Cloudia could see glee glimmering in Cedric's eyes when he could finally advance to his beloved sweets, drown in cake and softness and chocolate. In this moment of meal shift, a footman emerged from the château and walked towards the gazebo. If Cloudia was not completely wrong, it was Olivier Lièvremont, the footman assigned to run errands for the Marquis.
Upon arriving at the gazebo, Lièvremont bowed to them and then circled the table until he reached Jacques. Lièvremont whispered something to him and then bid his farewell with yet another elegant bow. As soon as the footman had vanished in the château, Jacques pushed back his chair and stood up. "Grand-père wants to speak to me in fifteen minutes." His words sounded half like a statement, half like a question.
Arnaud's and Anaïs' eyes widened, but it was Aurèle who asked, "Did Lièvremont tell you why?"
Jacques shook his head. "No. If you may excuse me now… I should hurry if I want to change out of my costume before meeting Grand-père," he said and rushed back inside. His brothers and cousin watched after him.
"Grand-père rarely sends for us nowadays," said Arnaud, playing with his napkin. "I hope Jacky will be fine."
"Of course, he will be," Anaïs replied intently, but the expression on her face told Cloudia that she was not quite convinced of her own words.
Aurèle leaned back in his chair. "Anaïs, Arnaud, calm down. There is no reason to be worried about Jacques. It is only Grand-père," he said, and Cedric looked at him with a challenge in his eyes.
"Why are you even worried in the first place?" Cloudia wanted to know. "I know his reputation as the Marquis is terrifying but isn't he your grandfather in the first place?"
Anaïs and Arnaud looked at each other while Aurèle rolled his eyes.
"It's just that it happens so rarely lately," said Arnaud.
"If he only wanted to see us, he would have called us all," Anaïs meant.
"Of course, he is our grandfather in the first place," Aurèle mumbled, annoyed. "Claudette, they are only overreacting. Grand-père never does anything without a reason and purpose, and he never intends to harm one of us. He wants to speak with Jacques because he needs help with something and, in his eyes, solely Jacques is capable of providing this help. That's it." He sat up properly again and ferociously dunked a spoon in his chocolate mousse.
Anaïs raised an eyebrow. "How will you know, Aurèle? Jacques didn't even know himself, and you have never been good at…"
"You are only eight, Anaïs. I am the oldest and…" Aurèle stood up, shaking his head. "Forget it. Excuse me…" he said, turned on his heel, and walked back inside in long, fast strides. Cloudia had seldom seen anyone walk so aggressively.
And here I thought your maternal family was chaotic, she heard Cedric's voice in her head.
~Cedric~
The rest of the picnic was streaked with suffocating silence and stilted attempts from Anaïs' side to revive the previous string of conversations. Neither Jacques nor Aurèle ever returned to the gazebo. It was a miserable meal, and Cedric felt sorry for Anaïs. Yes, he had been scared for his life when he had returned to the château. Yes, he hated his clothes with passion. Still, he could see that she had tried her best, and it was never a good feeling when all your carefully crafted plans fell apart.
Afterwards, they retreated separately to their rooms.
How sad it was when a meal was disturbed. At least, I could finally get out of these ineffable clothes… I only hoped that Cecelia would not try to snatch me away before I reached my bedroom. I did not have the nerves to deal with her right now. Especially not while I was looking as ridiculous as I did now. Unlike Cloudia who had no reason to mock me as long as she was wearing – in her eyes – a dress as hideous as my suit, Cecelia would definitely not let me forget this whole ordeal…
Thankfully, there was no surprise for him anywhere on his way from the garden to his room. Right before its door, however, did wait one: deep in thought and walking back and forth.
"Jacques?" Cedric said, and Jacques abruptly halted and craned his head to him. As he had said before, he had changed out of his outrageous yellow suit and was now wearing a simple dark blue one. "Duke Kristopher, there you are!"
"Hello, Jacques. Why are you here? Not that I do not want you to be here. It's just that this is a premiere. But then we have only been here for two days… Anyway, how can I help you?"
"Oh, well…" Jacques looked down to his shoes for a second before he lifted his head again. "Instead of asking for your assistance, I am here to tell you something."
Cedric frowned. "Tell me something?"
"Yes," said Jacques with a nod and shifted from his left foot to his right and back. "From Grand-père."
"From the Marquis?" Cedric said, instinctively standing up straighter. His heart started to beat a little bit faster. If the Marquis wanted to speak to him again…
"Grand-père wants you to go to the Clockmaker…"
"Me? Not only me, right? The Countess should go too – she's his niece or something. He did not specifically ask for me, right? He has no reason to ask solely for me after all and…"
Jacques took a deep breath. "…and for me to accompany you."
Cedric stared at him. "The Marquis wants you to come with me and the Countess to meet the Clockmaker, why…"
"No, not with you and Claudette. Just with you, Duke Kristopher."
"Only Kristopher please, and what do you mean that the Countess won't go? Did she say so? Because if she did not decide it herself, I doubt anyone could make her stay here while I go to the Clockmaker."
"With me."
"With you, yes. But the Countess –"
"Du… Kristopher," Jacques said softly. "Grand-père thinks that it is the best when one of you goes and the other stays because of the murders down in Nanteuil-la-Forêt. He wants you to stay because your persona cannot function without your interpreter…"
"Call me cold-hearted, but the folks in Nanteuil-la-Forêt can work this mystery out themselves."
"… but Claudette's can function without yours. Furthermore, you need the villagers' help to find Nicodemus Townsend. You cannot abandon them now."
Cedric's shoulders sacked down. Cloudia would be annoyed, but she would understand. Of course, she would understand. He closed his eyes. "It will be only you and me."
Jacques nodded.
"But why?"
"I have told you a minute ago that Claudette…"
"No. Why does he want you to come with me?" Cedric's eyes fluttered open. "You are a child and have no association with our case."
"Grand-père does not want to entrust the directions to the Clockmaker to someone who is not a blood-relative. I am supposed to lead you to the Clockmaker. I…" Jacques removed his glasses and mindlessly cleaned them with a handkerchief although they were spotless. "I understand why he did not ask Anaïs or Arnaud or Gérard – they are too little – but why did he choose me over Maman? Oncle Anselme? Even Aurèle?" He sighed and put his glasses back on. "It cannot be helped anymore. Grand-père has made his decision, and his word is unshakable. It will be an honour to assist you, Du… Kristopher, to help save your kingdom," continued Jacques and straightened up.
Conversations had never been so exhausting before I came here.
"Is that everything?" Cedric asked.
"Yes," Jacques said. "I will see you later, presumably at dinner then."
Cedric nodded absent-mindedly and stepped to his door while Jacques walked away. He had only come as far as turning the doorknob when he heard Jacques' steps stopping, heard him hovering only a couple of metres away, not knowing whether to bother Cedric again or not.
"Jacques?" Cedric said and rubbed his face. "What else do you want to say?"
Jacques turned back to face Cedric, an apologetic smile on his face. "It's just that something has been troubling me."
"What exactly?"
"I am only asking you this because I assume you know him better than I do. You see, I managed to change out of my costume faster than expected. Therefore, when I arrived at Grand-père's room, I was a few minutes too early – and I saw someone walk out of his room. It struck me as odd because nobody is allowed to enter Grand-père's room without his invitation and approval. And he never invites someone without a proper reason. But I cannot think of any kind of reason why Grand-père would have wished to speak to him and I meant to ask you…"
"Meant to ask me what?"
"Do you know why Grand-père might have wanted to talk to Baron Milton's butler?"
As soon as Cedric came close to his bed, he collapsed on top of it in his uncomfortable, stiff clothes. His lack of sleep and exhaustion had finally caught up with him, and he promptly fell asleep. He only woke up when Newman came to help him change for dinner.
At dinner, Cedric was glad that he was barely involved in any conversations because Jacques' question from before had been swirling inside his already foggy mind since he had woken up.
Why had the Marquis called Wentworth to him? Surely not to bring him a cup of tea.
Next to him, Kamden gestured for Cedric to give him the bread basket which he did numbly. And even after the basket had left his hand, Cedric stared into Kamden's direction for a while and observed him talking to Milton who looked more at ease and was more smiling than at lunch.
If the Marquis had wanted to discuss Milton, he would have spoken to him directly instead of consulting Wentworth, wouldn't he? He had not asked Cloudia about me after all but had talked to me. So, their conversation could not have been about Milton.
What could the Marquis possibly want from Wentworth?
Cedric tore his gaze away from Kamden and Milton and directed it back to his soup.
No.
When I had gone to see the Marquis, he had wanted to talk about me – my name, my identity. Because he had known that "Kristopher Underwood" was a lie. Because he had wanted me to give him my real name and possess the power it gave to him.
Could it be that "Abraham Wentworth" was not his real name either then? Or was there something else the Marquis had wanted to know about Wentworth that would give him a certain kind of power? When I had spoken to him, it seemed as if he had already guessed that I was a Rossdale and only sought confirmation. Had Wentworth been supposed to confirm something for the Marquis too?
But what could Wentworth's secret be that it could be guessed and grant someone power?
With a jolt, Cedric sat up straighter, and he had never been gladder to be thoroughly ignored by his fellows who were all deep in conversations with one another.
What if Wentworth was the weapon smuggler?
People rarely paid attention to the butler; they only cared for the master – and with a master like Milton, it would be fairly easy to hide your own doings: Milton had lived far away with only his parents for fourteen years? Erase everything from that time and cause exorbitant eyebrow-raising when someone stumbled over this huge empty space. Milton moved to London afterwards? Blow some holes into his intact biography to raise even more suspicion. And because Milton was so awkward and gone so often, it was hard to ask him about anything. His constant – and, for someone in his position, unnecessary – travelling would only aide people's distrust.
And did Alfred not tell me that Milton was quite "independent"? That Wentworth did not really do things other butlers did?
When Milton looked after himself and drowned himself in paperwork, what did Wentworth do? He must certainly have a lot of time to spare – and who knew what he did in that time?
They were so close. Pinning everything on Milton was so easy, hiding behind him was so simple. And because they were so close, Wentworth had not only erased records of Milton's life – but of his own as well. So, what if the sections he had chosen to delete from Milton's biography had not been chosen at random? What if those lost sections led to things Wentworth had done?
Cecelia was undoubtedly talented, but in her mania to find something incriminating about Milton, she might have overlooked Wentworth – obscure, shadowy Wentworth.
The thought clung to Cedric until dinner was over and only dissipated when he heard Cloudia's voice in his head: Meet me in my room at midnight. The message revived his tired bones, gave him new energy, rejuvenated his immortal soul. He had wished for it for so long: A quiet nocturnal chat with Cloudia about murder with biscuits and tea as they had done so often before. Now, Cedric's wish had been fulfilled, and with his heart full and feeling as if he was walking on air, he retreated to his room.
Cedric had longed for it for months. Still, it surprised him how much he was looking forward to it. To midnight talks. To biscuits. To joyful ramblings. To be all alone with Cloudia…
Cedric halted in the middle of the corridor, cold realisation washing over him when he remembered Cecelia's words: "And to you, Not-Kristopher? To you, she is the person you love the most – the Queen of Your Heart."
I… I could not be…
Was I…
There was no way I…
Cedric shook his head. "Cecelia is only getting to me," he mumbled to himself while he resumed walking and quickened his pace. "And I did get an insufficient amount of sleep lately."
He closed the door behind himself when he arrived and slumped against it. "I am not in love with the Countess," Cedric spoke into the empty space, but the words did not ring quite true in his ears.
Waiting was agony.
Cedric did not feel like leaving his bedroom again to do anything with the others. Partially because he was not in the mood for it, partially because he did not want to risk running into Cecelia although he had not exchanged a single word with her since this morning. Newman came around ten o'clock to see if Cedric wished to go to bed, but Cedric dismissed him and said that he would change later on his own.
The hours before going to meet Cloudia felt awfully long – and terribly inaccessible as every activity Cedric tried to fill them with did not hold, but fell apart after a few moments. Not even sleep wanted to come to him. But when the clockhands finally moved past eleven, Cedric's life magically returned to him: He got up energetically from the sofa and was now on his way to the kitchen.
After all, it was always Cedric who brought the biscuits and tea to their little midnight meetings.
I sincerely hoped that I would not get lost on my way.
After taking the third wrong turn and cursing the fact that he did not see anyone but servants who did not speak English on his way through the château, Cedric was ready to teleport himself to the kitchen from the next-best dark corner or unlocked empty room, but then he spotted Milton passing by downstairs. Cedric hurried down, relieved to have finally found someone who might help him. Milton was about to vanish around a corner when Cedric had descended the stairs. Cedric only had to run a bit to catch up with him or call after him and everything would be fine. However, before he could do either of those options, a nasty little thought infested his mind: What was Milton doing walking around the château so late?
Cedric stopped and watched Milton round the corner and leave his field of vision. Making sure that no one else was there, Cedric turned himself invisible and followed Milton with fast strides and a pounding heart.
What am I even doing? Cedric asked himself while Milton unwittingly guided him through the building's intricate spider web layout.
Milton had not done anything to him. It was Cecelia's bad influence that had made Cedric doubt him. He seemed too innocent to be a weapon smuggler or to have ever done something bad. Wentworth might be the criminal. This was the second time Cedric intruded on Milton's privacy and he should feel ashamed.
Cloudia was waiting for him, and the time was running out until midnight.
But no matter what Cedric told himself to stop following Milton and try to find the kitchen instead, it did not work. Milton's near-midnight tour through the château had caught his curiosity, and Cedric would not rest until he had found out where Milton was heading.
And here I was – sounding like Cloudia.
I needed to sleep. I needed to go. I needed to…
… find the kitchen?
Cedric halted and he almost could not believe his eyes when he saw Milton enter the kitchen out of all places.
A midnight snack.
Milton had come to grab himself something to eat before bed – just like Cedric had! There was nothing suspicious about Milton's behaviour at all. Cecelia was wrong, and he had overreacted. Feeling sufficiently idiotic, Cedric made himself visible again and stepped into the kitchen with a "Hello, Milton, I have seen you enter the kitchen and thought 'What a coincidence! I wanted to come here too'" on his lips. But the words he had thought of were never spoken aloud.
Because Milton was not inside the kitchen.
The kitchen of the Château de Charbonneau was a spacious place, ideal for numerous cooks and helpers to scurry around and prepare meals for the house masters. As long as Milton had not contorted himself into a pretzel and was hiding in one of the cupboards, it was impossible for Cedric not to see him upon entering – if Milton was still here. Tentatively, Cedric opened a few more drawers and cupboards than necessary before going to where the biscuits were stored. Cedric looked around one more time in case he was too sleep-deprived and Milton was indeed here but stopped himself to call his name.
Left, right. A turn on his heel to take in everything.
Nothing.
With a sigh, Cedric ran a hand over his face and left.
~Cloudia~
Cloudia sighed and looked once again at her clock. It was quarter past midnight which was odd because Cedric was always late, but never to their little midnight meetings.
It was twenty past midnight when Cloudia sat down in an armchair, pulling her dressing gown closer around her and leaning her head into the pillows.
It was a few minutes past half past midnight when Cloudia was about to doze off in her cosy chair and Cedric finally materialised himself in her bedroom.
"You're late," she yawned and rubbed her eyes. "What took you so long?"
Very weakly, Cedric put a tray of biscuits on the side table and fell onto the sofa opposite from her armchair. Cloudia sat up straighter and leaned forward a bit. "Undertaker, are you fine?"
Cedric had looked miserable this morning and at dinner again. And he had been unwell for part of our travel too.
He had said that he could get sick. I had never left the kingdom before, but had Cedric in his long life? What if the sudden change in place had made him ill?
"Look at you getting worried about me," Cedric said, giving her a grin that did not even have a drop of his usual mockery in it.
"You're unwell."
Cedric waved about with his hand. "I am only tired, Countess."
Cloudia crossed her arms in front of her chest and raised an eyebrow.
"I am only a little bit tired, Countess. Do you know how late it is? Did you forget that you were half-snoring when I came here?" He wiggled with his index finger. "Also, you wanted to talk and I am here to talk – and to tell you something."
"Oh really? What do you have to say?" she asked and stood up.
"Your great-uncle or something wants Jacques and me to go to the Clockmaker because he believes it's the best for you to stay here and focus on the Nanteuil-la-Forêt-murders."
Cloudia rounded the table. "Hm, I see."
Cedric craned his head to her. "I mean I expected you to understand his reasoning, but I also expected you to be at least a little bit upset, Countess."
"I am upset," she said, knelt in front of him, and pressed her hand to his forehead. Cedric stiffened but did not back away. "I am upset because you have been looking awful lately and although you are most definitely unwell now too, you still came here instead of telling me about it and going to sleep. What did you think? That I would be mad at you for not coming?" Cloudia put her hand down and looked into his eyes. "Your temperature seems fine, but you look dreadful. I wanted to ask this sooner but forgot. This morning, you told me that you didn't sleep well – is there a reason why you didn't?"
"My mattress was too soft and the long travel might have still affected me, but that's it," protested Cedric. "Now, I am –"
"No, you're not," Cloudia cut him off. "As soon as you came here, you collapsed onto this sofa." She poked the cushion. "You are most definitely not fine."
Cedric shook his head and sat up. "But you need me to be here so that we can discuss the case and what we will do now and…"
"No, I do not." Cloudia stood up and her gaze softened. "I do not need to do this now. I need you to return to your room and get some rest."
"But…"
She put a finger on his mouth, and his eyes widened. "You are always upset and call me out when I neglect my health. Now, it's my turn. Go to sleep, Undertaker. It is late. We will see each other tomorrow."
I hope you enjoyed reading the chapter!^^ Please let me know your thoughts! So that I don't get the ever-increasing feeling of talking against a wall^^'
The explanation for "Jeanne/Jean Gauthier" and "Alexandre Vidocq": It's John Watson and Sherlock Holmes :) Sorta.
Jean is a French John, Jeanne is a French female John. Watson derives from "Walter" and Gauthier is a French Walter.
"Sherlock Holmes" is just a super weird name. So I couldn't do it the same way. Instead, I googled "real-life French Sherlock Holmes" or something like that. Alexandre Lacassagne and Eugène-François Vidocq popped up, and I just combined their names.
The "anniversary" mentioned in "Malady 1″ is January 19, the day the events of the first three chapters happened.
Finding French food they could eat was a bit annoying. Because I would find sites saying that "Tarte Tatin is something eaten at French afternoon teas!" but Tarte Tatin was created in the 1880s. Anyway, now I know at least about the "Club des grands estomacs."
Lastly, Tangled: The Series/Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure ends tomorrow. It saddens me beyond imagination, but it was a wonderful run and I am very grateful for it. The series and its songs influenced a lot of "Watchdog" and I feel quite bad not being able to talk about it because we are not far enough into the story. :( Still, I wanted to mention it here briefly because it's ending and it means so much to me (and "Watchdog"). I will really miss getting new content.
(There's a small song reference in "Malady 1″ which I added during the final read-through because I saw the opportunity and just had to change the wording to make it a little reference.)
