To Stand Among Ruins

by Windcage

To say the Agreste family lies in ruins is nothing short of an understatement, Gabriel's grief having anchored him so deep to the past and the wife he lost, he is unable to face the present and a son who needs him - who hasn't given up on him. Will they remember to walk in the same direction and not leave each other behind?

7. The Painted Lady - Part 4

The Painted Lady

(part 4)

Gabriel

Mrs. Elaine Beckwitt surveyed the tray she had been preparing, her attention rummaging over bread and butter, cheese and ham, before what in any other day would have looked to her like a very poor excuse for breakfast, gained a smile and she closed her hands over the tray. Happy, the fearful rattling of the china cups she had put to the side of the teapot not fazing her in the slightest, she left the brightly illuminated kitchen and started to go down her home's corridor.

Her slow pace took her passed walls filled with family photographs, windows and a mirror, before Mrs. Beckwitt reached the end of the corridor, turned, and found that the door she had been aiming for had been left open, just like she had asked her husband to do. Stepping inside, however, to find him standing next to the window and staring nervously out into the street, she had but to look around to notice he hadn't done much of anything else.

The office was chaotic. History books and dictionaries were open over every surface available—and even over some that were certainly not available. There were notebooks on the floor, pages covered in Tibetan Script hanged from the bookshelves, some book or another holding them in place, and on the center of it all, on this white writing board that would have been the only thing in the middle of this disaster that was as it should — but that instead stood right to the middle of her path — there were photographs of some ancient document, one whose text seemed to be surrounded by drawings, just like the words were little but a part of a much larger page, just like someone hadn't thought them important enough to share.

Her attention not for the first time having been captured by the hand downing a red and black polka dotted glove on one of the pages, by this very beautiful tail of what seemed to be a blue jewel — one that looked a little bit like it could belong to a peacock — Mrs. Beckwitt shook her head at herself. The heavy tray in her hands was the only thing she should be worrying about right now, not her husband's present escapade from retirement.

"Dear—" she sighed, lips turning into a thin line when he remained where he was. "Samuel."

Samuel Beckwitt didn't react, not to the groan that over the last fifty years of marriage had announced his wife was seconds away from tidying up his office, his attention instead remaining as firmly outside as it had been all through the morning.

The street, he couldn't help but notice, was dreadfully empty. The rain that hammered incessantly against the tall window of his office, that fell in curtains over the elegant row of brick houses of the posh London neighborhood where he lived, having emptied the streets so thoroughly that now that his young neighbors had loaded their sons into the car and disappeared down the street, the world seemed deserted, abandoned, there was not a sparrow, a pigeon, a cat, nothing to break the monotonous undulation of the trees and shrubs under the continuous downpour. Nothing.

But then, finally, he saw movement.

A black cab had just appeared to the end of the road, and rather than ignore the street all together and keep on its way, it turned and started to make its way down the road, its march so slow it was obvious the driver was surveying the houses around him, looking for his client's destination.

Nervously adjusting his tie, Beckwitt watched the cab as it slowly approached his home, praying it would ignore it all together and move pass. His luck being what it usually was, however — and he should know it by now, he had had seventy years of it — it unsurprisingly stopped, tires sinking into the water streaming down to a nearby gutter, the bright red of its rear lights painting the damp road and sidewalk red.

They would be getting out any time now, Beckwitt told himself. This young couple who had hired him.

She glamorous and funny, a beautiful and absolutely charming woman.

He quiet, far too much so. Polite, but not a particularly pleasant man.

They would be getting out of the cab. They would be stepping up the stairs. They would enter this very office—

Beckwitt swallowed, he waited. Around him, the minutes ticked by without anyone stepping out of the car, without a living soul appearing on the street. It might have taken him a little longer than necessary to get what was a very clear message and to walk away from the window, move blindly passed the breakfast table his wife had prepared, passed her as she tidied up his desk, and step out of the office, the report he had been holding on to firmly on his hand.

Walking down the corridor as if in a dream — or more probably a nightmare — Beckwitt put on a coat, picked up the umbrella that was against the wall near the front door, opened said door and umbrella, and, leaving behind the water falling from the house's roof and the very corroded, very neglected plaque that read "Tibetan Linguistic Society" went down the small flight of stairs to the front garden. It took him only a few seconds to walk from there, across the sidewalk and to the black cab, and that wasn't nearly enough time to brace himself for what was to come. Not even considering he had been bracing himself all through the night.

Still, stopping near the cab, a deep steadying breath being taken, Beckwitt looked at the bounded copy of the thin linguistic report he had on his hand, put it between the arm with which he was holding his umbrella and his jacket, leaned forward and knocked on the backseat window.

The sound must have exploded inside the car like a clap of thunder for the man who sat inside, staring at his phone, jumped and immediately turned towards the street. Standing outside, the water hitting the car having blurred the lines of the sharp angular face that looked back at him, Beckwitt could nevertheless see a line of thin lips curl in distaste and the steel like gleam to the pair of grayish-blue orbs as they turned to the driver.

"Is it unlocked?" a deep muffled voice demanded to know.

"Sir."

The window went down, small rivers of water joining the ones already streaming down the car's door and to the ground as it did so. Not losing a moment Beckwitt's eyes darted inside the cab, searching, searching, it took him a few moments to acknowledge the elegantly dressed man in front of him.

"Mr. Agreste," Beckwitt saluted, nervously and in English, his eyes moving away from the car to run up and down the tree flanked street in search of someone else, desperately hoping to find a friendlier face, a warmer demeanor. "Your wife isn't with you today?"

Gabriel Agreste's large hand pressed around the cellphone he still held, the tip of his gloved fingers sinking into the display with such strength colorful ripples started to go through the image.

"No," he stated, whatever emotion had been behind his grip on the phone absent from his expression as he put the phone over this black binder that was resting on the seat to his side. "Let's keep this short."

The report was delivered through the open cab window. Watching Gabriel opening it over his legs, seeing both the plastic cover and the index left behind, Beckwitt could but swallow. If Emilie Agreste was here things would be different—but she wasn't and in her absence her husband flicked through the report at speed, attention rapidly running over the images, the words, stopping here and there when something caught his attention and left him frowning. Overall, however, he seemed about as interested in the contents of the report as on the droplets of water diving inside the car, dotting both the pages and the beige overcoat he had on. In the end, it went as expected: Gabriel Agreste snapped the report shut, dropped it over his legs, his eyes — the very same eyes Beckwitt was now forced to face through the rain cascading down the black canvas of his umbrella — burning blue.

"You have nothing," he hissed.

Beckwith could feel himself grow smaller under the glare.

"These things take time," he tried to say. It would have been better if he had not said it at all.

"I have given you months," Gabriel snapped, the flowing accent to his voice, that nasal sound to the words that made his nationality obvious enough without him having to share it, becoming deeper and deeper as the pretense of indifference, of cold detachment, turned his anger into a businessman's glacier professionalism. "And the only thing you can tell me is what it is not."

"I have tried to translate that form of Tibetan Script," Beckwitt tried to reason, the wind whistling as it cut through the street, filling it with the sounds of clapping branches and forcing him to hold on to his wobbling umbrella. "I have gone over every single language it is usually used for, I have tried Mandarin just like Mrs. Agreste suggested. If it is an entirely unknown language there is nothing I can do."

Silence. A silence in all ways worse than whatever he might have been told filled the space. Sat inside the cab, Gabriel seemed to have just forgotten how to breath, he seemed to be reminding himself how to. When he spoke, however, the unthinkable seemed to have happened: his already distant demeanor had grown colder still.

"Then, it is unfortunate that our association must be terminated," Gabriel hissed, fingers aiming to press the window's controls. Outside, knowing not what had just gotten into him, Beckwitt rushed forward, one hand trying to stop the ascending glass.

"It is my opinion it might be written in code!" he informed. "If you would allow me a team! Even just a cryptographer!"

A short ring cut through Beckwith's words, it silenced whatever glacier answer he was about to be offered, and in so doing it left him standing in the rain, vaguely aware of his wife peeking outside through the office's window, it left him to witness the way Gabriel's grayish-blue eyes darted away from him and towards the shivering phone at his side, the hopeful way his lips mouthed "Emilie," the relief, the concern, something that spoke perhaps too much of adoration. And for all the signs Beckwitt had failed to notice before, this time he saw him. The man under the mask. A man who was running his fingers down a phone's display, who was unlocking it, who was hitting the message he had received with a hopeful gaze—Who went to stare at the words just like his world was falling apart.

"Mr. Agreste?" Beckwitt called out. And for the first time, for the very first time, the anxiety he always faced his client with was absent. He just leaned towards the cab's open window, right hand closing over the open window, concerned. "Is something wrong?"

The question traveled through the steady streams of water cascading down Beckwitt's umbrella, it moved passed the curtain of rain between him and the car, it entered through the window unimpeded, and in its quiet honesty, in its sincere concern, it hit Gabriel like a punch. He was left shivering, his hands trembling as he reached for the black binder on the seat at his side, as he opened it, as he pulled his work drafts apart and grabbed the train ticket he had stored there.

"Is there something I—" Beckwitt's voice spoke from the street and through the corner of his eyes, Gabriel could see he was looking back towards the house, back at his wife who was now at the door, before coming back to him. "We can do?"

The pressure around his throat tightening like an hangman's noose, Gabriel could barely breathe to talk, he could barely think to know what to say.

"Get whatever you need," he ended up barking and that might have been English, it might have been French, it might be any other language he was comfortable with and it truly didn't matter to him for the window was going up and he was turning to the driver, fingers painfully pressed around the cellphone, the words *It happened again* burning from the display. "St. Pancras station."

The house was silent when Gabriel arrived back at the Loire Valley, the same sunlight that descended over the small chateau he called home, warming its red stone walls and glinting through the open windows, his only companion as Gabriel pushed the front door open and made his way inside.

The atrium opened in front of him, welcoming him much in the same way it had always done since his family had moved away from Paris some seven years ago. Closing the door behind him, however, eyes running over the winding stairway in front of him, Gabriel wasn't seeing anything of his surroundings. The pair of green sofas that were position in a an L, embraced by the walls the wooden stairway climbed up of; the large glass table lying on top of the red carpet; the books on the shelves behind the sofas — even that single one that laid there on top of a pillow, its juvenile cover making it clear Adrien had been here just a few minutes ago — all of that might as well have not existed at all for, shoes hammering on the wooden steps, Gabriel was rushing up the stairs, he was moving by the door to Adrien's bedroom, by the large stairway window, by the door to a guest room circumstances had forced Nathalie to occupy, and then, then he was aiming for the top floor, climbing up the last flight of stairs until he was standing on the upmost landing, until he could ignore the path to the left, the one leading to his own bedroom, and ran down the well-illuminated corridor to the right, the one that lead to Emilie's.

It wasn't until he was standing in front of her door, his knocking going unanswered that Gabriel forced himself to stop, to breath, to think, to tell himself that if what he dreaded had happened he would already know, and to, forcing himself to at the very least look composed, push the door open.

A cold breeze rushed from inside the room, moving passed him with the same impetus with which it whipped the transparent curtains covering the terrace shutters. Immediately letting the door click behind him, Gabriel found himself standing in the dark, the fading columns of light tentatively making their way inside struggling as much as him to reach the woman asleep on the bed, a woman who laid with her body curled around the book at her side, right hand over the drawing of a pair of spotted hearings just like she had fallen asleep looking at them.

As relieved as Gabriel felt at seeing her, however, that sense of peace was as short-lived as he knew it would be. Lately, even the smallest change in her breathing was enough to put his nerves on edge, the slightest shift to the rhythm in which her chest rose sufficient for his heart to feel like it had stopped, for him to stop breathing, to have to make sure she was fine—just like he was doing now, just like he was doing as he stopped next to the bed, as he leaned forward and combed Emilie's blond hair behind her ear.

She was fine.

She was still here.

And Gabriel had absolutely no idea how many times he had to say that to himself before he felt capable to reach out for the grimoire at her side, to see her hand slid over it and fall to the bedsheets, to risk losing Emilie from sight again and to walk away from the bed, away from the long bench at the end of it and across the room, towards the dressing table and the many many pictures Emilie kept there, towards these pictures Gabriel knew by heart and that showed Emilie standing in several red carpet events, Emilie in her wedding dress sitting in front of a blue lagoon, Emilie holding a baby in her arms, Emilie and her sister laughing along with their sons, Emilie resting her head against Adrien and looking at him—she always looked at him.

Tension slowly leaving his shoulders, Gabriel reached out for that last picture, the soft smile that found its way to his face as he looked at the happy duo was, however, met with an abrupt end when, having locked the grimoire inside the lowest of the dressing table's drawers, he stepped back, still looking at the picture, and felt a hard patch under his feet.

The softness to his gaze, faded. The timid ray of sunlight that had just reached through the darkness, braving its way passed the curtains and to the place where Gabriel stood, taking his attention to the carpet.

Something blue was shining from between the white fibers near his left foot. Something—

Gabriel's face lost all color. A glance behind him, towards the darkness hiding the bed, to where Emilie laid deep asleep, curled under the sheets, and he dropped the frame back on the dressing table, terror that he knew what laid on the floor and what that meant, hope that against all odds he was wrong, battling in his heart, on his mind, until Gabriel leaned forward, combed the long fibers of the carpet away and he saw it, right there in front of him.

A blue jewel.

A brooch in the shape of a peacock.

The very thing he knew he would find.

The very same thing he had desperately hoped he wouldn't.

Gabriel closed his eyes, the shivering breath coming from the bed pulling his attention back there. Through the darkness, the same one that had turned the bedroom and all in it into different tones of gray, he could see Emilie turn on the bed, pulling the bedsheets closer to her, he could hear a small gasp, mumbling, he could tell she was—

Asleep.

She was asleep.

She was fine.

And he had to stop looking at her, he had to pick the Miraculous right now, to lock the thing up before someone stumbled on it, before Adrien stumbled on it.

If only that thought could stop his fingers from recoiling just short of touching the peacock-shaped stone, if only it could stop them from trying to avoid it like they would a living flame—But it couldn't. Gabriel's fingers did recoil. They hesitated just inches above the carpet's white fibers and the Miraculous that rested there. And yet, despite his fear when Gabriel finally touched the brooch he did so without the creature that dwelt within waking up, without it darting into existence, large magenta eyes ablaze with happiness, words an excited squeal.

"You are better already!"

Gabriel's fingers closed around the Miraculous, plucking it from the carpet. The memory of Duusuu's words, of the kwami flying around in this very room, making him crush the brooch with enough strength his knuckles turned white, that he could feel the round borders sink into his skin, that he was sure he could at least bend the bloody thing—and yet, when he opened his hand, to see the blue peacock laying against his palm, the Miraculous remained unblemished.

Unlike everything he held dear.

Unlike his family.

Unlike Emilie.

Gabriel closed his eyes. The mirror in front of him would have showed him the lines of distress on his expression if he had cared to look at it, if he wasn't already opening the dressing table's top drawer, meaning to lock the Peacock Miraculous where Emilie usually hid it, right in the middle of her jewel collection and step outside, to forget all of this even if just for a moment. As things were, however, rather than do any of that, Gabriel found himself face to face with row after row of necklaces and brooches and earrings, eyes locked not with any of those, but with this purple stone that rested on a small black pillow on the corner, with the second Miraculous, the Butterfly one.

Loathing went through him like a roaring flame. In a flash, Gabriel had ripped the Miraculous out of the pillow where it rested, he had closed the drawer, he was marching across the room, aiming for the bedroom door and he would have left, he would be gone, if it was not for the soft moan rising from behind him, for the rustling of bedsheets, for his name being called in a woman's voice.

"Gabriel?"

Having just reached for the door handle, Gabriel's fingers closed tight over it, he swallowed, gathering himself before he turned towards the bed and the woman still lying there, this woman who was his life.

"I thought you were in London," she whispered.

"I was."

Through the darkness, Gabriel watched Emilie reach for the lamp on the single bedside table that was to her left and turn it on. The light washed over the bed, over her in her white nightgown, over the dressing table to the end of the room and all the rest of the modern looking black and white furniture of the room. It washed over everything before it reached Gabriel, leaving Emilie sitting in her bed, golden hair cascading down her shoulders, and blinking at him.

"What are you doing—?"

Bright green eyes became suddenly alert, sitting straight, it took Emilie a moment to let herself fall back into the bed. Whatever she meant to do, however, be it to sink dramatically into the pillows — and knowing her it was probably that — or to lean over one of them, she failed so completely in her intent she sank right through the gap between the pillows behind her, her upper body getting instantly swallowed and disappearing from view.

"Nathalie," Emilie nevertheless managed to say, unfazed by her present predicament, voice muffled by the pillows laying on top of her. "One day, I will get the hand of having her do what I say."

Stepping back into the room, Gabriel hid the two Miraculous he still held inside his trouser's pocket.

"You certainly got the hang of it with the rest of us," he teased, smiling when one of Emilie's arms immediately rose over the bed and her fingers opened and closed to mouth the good-humored "Ah-ah" crossing her lips.

"How are you?" Gabriel now asked.

There was a sigh. Forcing herself back to sit, waiting for Gabriel to straighten the pillows behind her back, Emilie shrugged.

"Tired," she simply stated.

Gabriel's fingers twitched over the pillow he was holding. Looking at Emilie as she leaned back, seeing the paleness to her face, the way her skin seemed to spread thin over her, he would have felt more at peace if she had continued, if she had done like she always had and gone into what Gabriel could only describe as far too much detail—if she had said anything other than what she followed that one word with.

"How was your trip?" she asked, patting the place on the bed at her side, her fingers reached out for Gabriel's face, pulling him down the very moment he sat there.

"It didn't go as planned," Gabriel whispered, once their lips parted.

Her eyes closed, Emilie kissed him again.

"How so?"

"Beckwitt suggested the grimoire might be encrypted."

Emilie pulled away, her fingers slipping from Gabriel's face as quickly as they had reached out for him. Watching her eyebrows draw in, her large green orbs studying him, Gabriel could only watch as she slipped out of the bed, moving away from him, going to open the curtains and the shutters that lead to the bedroom balcony.

"A code?" Emilie repeated as she turned her back on the garden beyond the window and picked the silk robe that was on the long bench to the end of the bed, sliding her arms through the sleeves. "He told you it was a code?"

Watching her make her way to her dressing table, sitting on the stool and picking up a comb, Gabriel went back to his feet.

"If he is right—" he started to say and fell silent, the hopeful gleam to his eyes turning apologetic as he tried and failed to meet Emilie's gaze through her reflection on the dresser's mirror. "I know you wished for me to end our association with—"

Emilie's eyebrows arched, in a moment she had turned her back to the mirror, to her pictures, and went back to face him, the elegant lines of her body drawn by the sun, beige nightgown wrapping around her figure, robe stretching to the floor.

"End?" she repeated, and immediately shook her head, voice turning into a caress. "No, no, no."

A small smile curled on Emilie's lips, green eyes sinking deep into Gabriel's, she let her hands rest on her lap.

"I only said that because I care about you," she said, fingers pressing around the comb she still held on her hands, one nail moving back and forth, scrapping at it. "I want this book translated as much as you do, I want our life back, but, Gabriel... People—I always see everyone take advantage of you, deceiving you. I would hate for that to happen again because of—"

The comb slipped from Emilie's fingers that same moment, falling to the carpet just as her fingers grabbed hold of her nightgown's long skirt. Still standing by the bed, watching a shiver go down her body, knowing far too well what it meant, Gabriel ran to her, closed his arms around Emilie and carried her back to bed before the coughing started, before all strength left her, before he was left holding a failing body, fearing it would be the last time he would do so.

"I trust you, dear," Emilie spoke once the coughing subsided, fingers running beneath Gabriel's chin, guiding him down, close enough to her that Gabriel could feel the warm air leaving her lips on his skin. "You will do what is right for us."

Gabriel closed his eyes, expecting Emilie to close what little distance remained between them, expecting their lips to met—but Emilie leaned over his shoulder instead, lips short of caressing his ear.

"We will always be together," she whispered, and she slipped from Gabriel's embrace, she got up and strode towards the bathroom, the door closing behind her.

Left behind, Gabriel waited. He waited for the silence to crumble like a house of cards, for that pained gasp at air, at life, to break through the silence again, he waited to run back to hold Emilie. He waited. And although it never came, the sound hounded him all the same, it hounded until it was all that he could hear, until his own footsteps on the stairway leading into the living room downstairs were but a side note to his mind, until it felt there was nothing else to the world, until—

Gabriel stopped, his breathing as labored as if he had been running, to find himself outside, in the back garden. Confused, he looked around. He didn't remember getting here, he didn't remember opening the backdoor or stepping into the terrace, but somehow he had walked passed the pool and gone down the ancient stone stairways, he had moved passed the flowerbeds left empty by the winter and the timid green crowning the trees already hopeful for spring, he had gone all the way down to the large reservoir on the lowest part of the estate and stood right in front of the re-purposed greenhouse that was his atelier, feet sank on the gravel, wind playing with loose locks of hair, shivers running down his spine.

"What is right for us," Gabriel heard himself whisper and looked back at the red walls of the chateau on the highest part of the garden, at the open windows to Emilie's bedroom, at Emilie herself as she stepped into her balcony. "What is right for us."

The black binder he didn't remember bringing with him was tossed to the stone bench under the atelier's open window, the rather careless gesture making it spill open just as cold wind broke through the estate. Paper sheets took flight right at that moment, the sketches and designs they held being pushed down the path where Gabriel stood and over the reservoir's stone borders, where they dived down the meter or so that separated the path from the water.

Watching them disappear, Gabriel busied himself with the beige scarf he was wearing.

He didn't care, he told himself. He didn't care.

And, his gray waistcoat joining the glasses and scarf he had just tossed over the stone bench, his shoes left behind, Gabriel walked passed his scattering work and to the reservoir's stone border, where he stood looking over into the faraway distance, to where the glassy black surface of the water gave way to white foam—and dived.

It felt like a thousand knives had just sunk into his skin, the frigid water swallowed him, closed overhead, left him to glide through darkness until his lungs were shouting for air, until it was either sinking into oblivion forever or pulling himself back to the surface, back to the light, back to feel the cold wind on his face.

Gabriel found himself shivering once he finally reached the other margin some minutes later. His movements hindered by the temperature, breathing coming in short gasps, he had to force himself to give one last stroke passed the water lilies and the bulrushes that grew near the reservoir's wall and grab hold of the stone barrier leading to the small incline he had been aiming for. Forcing his half-paralyzed muscles to hoist him up there was another struggle all together, but in the end, Gabriel found himself sitting on the safety wall that kept the reservoir from overflowing, watching the cold water run passed him, streaming down the long slope to join the river that hid passed the naked trees in front of him.

It took Gabriel a long moment to get enough feeling back on his hands to take the Miraculous from his pocket and let them rest on the palm of his hand, under the fading sun. Looking at them, then below, at the river he could hear running passed the trees and vegetation, Gabriel had to wonder if the creatures inside the Miraculous knew what he was about to do, if they were afraid.

Rising to his full height, cold water running passed his feet, the memory of Emilie shivering in his arms far too present, Gabriel hoped so.

He hoped so.

It was only fair that they—

"Father!"

Gabriel froze on the spot, alarm filling his mind so completely he had no time to make sense of that calling, of that name, of who was running towards him before he shoved the Miraculous back inside his pocket and looked up at the path running by the reservoir's higher wall, to seeAdrien burst through the branches of a large willow.

"You really are—!"

Here, became as lost to the wind as Gabriel's surprised "Adrien." As bad as his vision was without his glasses, however, Gabriel could make out the frown that had put an end to his son's excited exclamation, he could see him through the unfocused blur as he came to a stop amid loose gravel and small clouds of dirt, the same cold wind that sent ripples through the water messing his blond hair as he stared down from the path to the place where Gabriel stood, the smile that had been on his face turning to perplexity when Adrien took in not only Gabriel's present location, but his soaked clothes.

"Did you fall into reservoir?" Adrien blurted out.

Looking up at him, fingers making sure the Miraculous really were inside his pocket, Gabriel rolled his eyes. His voice was hoarse from the cold when he spoke.

"I didn't fall in, son."

"You sure look like you did," Adrien replied, his voice way too loud for someone whose position was actually just a meter or so over the place where Gabriel stood. "Are you alright?"

Frigid water running passed his feet, Gabriel had to sigh, his already quiet "I'm fine" getting quieter still when Adrien frowned at him and went to look at the reservoir's other margin, eyebrows knitted.

"Did you swim here?"

Gabriel's nose twisted, he crossed his arms.

"I fell in the reservoir."

"You are always telling me not to go in there," Adrien continued, still surveying the waters, eyes ablaze with curiosity.

"It is not changing now."

The stern tone to the words was all it took for Adrien to look back at him, and for his attention to drop all the way down to the porous rock Gabriel was standing on, to the steady flow of water running passed his bare feet.

"You are always telling me not to stand there either," he pointed out, making this sweeping movement towards the trees outside the estate and the river they hid. "Unless I want to be swept away to the ocean and have you fish me out. Do you need help getting out of there?"

Gabriel didn't need help. Regardless of that, he found himself reaching out for the hand Adrien had just offered him, he let him help him to the path. The present reality considered, however, it was not at all clear if he should have.

"Cold! Cold! Cold!" Adrien exclaimed as soon as Gabriel was standing at his side, his words joined by him shaking his hands, rubbing them against his jeans and each other. Regardless of the spectacle that now made Adrien walk from Gabriel to the willow tree and from there back to Gabriel like that could warm his hands, he still looked up at Gabriel, expression bright.

"Nathalie told me you were swamped!" he said, now blowing into his hands. "That you had to go to London and all. Did you manage to finish early? Is that why you are here? They don't need you anymore and you get to come home?"

Gabriel had no chance to answer. He had no time to think of an answer. Adrien's smile had just soured, collapsed. He was no longer pacing, instead, he was standing on the old stone path, hands falling to his side, a sudden clarity filling his face with worry, making him drop his voice.

"It's because of Mom, isn't it?" he said, searching Gabriel's eyes. "Nathalie told you. About this morning."

A splash, the sound of a fish or toad diving into the water broke through Gabriel's quiet "Yes". Looking across the reservoir, towards the chateau and the balcony where his mother now sat at, looking at the garden, Adrien ended up dropping his eyes to the path where both of them stood and the willow to their side. A few moments went by, seconds where he moved a small stone back and forth with the tip of his shoe and that finally lead him to sit not on the wall over the incline leading out of the estate, but on the reservoir's border, feet hanging over the water lilies, attention wandering back to Gabriel.

"Nathalie told me to let Mom rest this morning," Adrien said while Gabriel followed behind him. "I sneaked into Mom's bedroom either way. I just wanted to ask her what was wrong."

Stopping, looking down at him, Gabriel found his voice quiet when he spoke.

"What did she tell you?"

Hands pressing against the wall where he sat, Adrien dangled his legs over the water.

"Mom said there isn't anything to worry about," he told him and then he smiled, brightly, hopefully. "That there isn't anything you can't fix!"

Gabriel's eyes flew away from the green ones now looking at him. Out in the distance, Emilie had just risen from her chair, she was stepping back inside her bedroom, closing the shutters behind her, the light of her room being turned off.

"Dad?" Adrien's voice called out to him and Gabriel looked down to find him studying his face. Fourteen Adrien might be, but he right now looked worried, he sounded suspicious. "Is Mom lying?"

Gabriel's heart seemed to very slowly stop, stealing a last glance at Emilie's window, he step closer to the reservoir border and dropped to sit at Adrien's side, his legs, just like his son's, hanging over the water lilies.

"Would your mother lie?" he asked.

Adrien's eyebrows immediately knitted.

"Would you?"

Cold wind rushed through the estate, whipping the curtain-like branches of the willow to their left and the trees beyond the estates borders. In the distance, the lights on the chateau's living room started going on, the approaching night allowing a long blade of light to rush down the ancient stone stairs of the garden when someone opened the backdoor.

Looking into the distance, knowing who had just stepped inside the house even if the unfocused world in the distance would never allow him to see her, Gabriel went to face the water in front of him, eyes as far away from Adrien as they could.

"You should head back," he told him. "Nathalie is bound to come looking for you if you are not home on time."

Adrien practically jumped to his feet with those words, he practically run back to the stone path. It only took a pair of seconds, however, for the sound of his footsteps to come to a halt. Looking back, Gabriel found Adrien already pulling the willow's branches to the side and looking back at him.

"Aren't you coming?" he asked, just like before looking at the drenched clothes Gabriel had on. "You have to change those before dinner and we can go back together!"

"I won't be long."

Adrien went absolutely still. Lips parting then closing, he let go of the branches and waited a moment, two, and then a much longer one. He waited and waited until the phone inside his pocket started to ring and was forced to give up, to start making his way down the path that lead to the house.

"Adrien," Gabriel suddenly called after him. On the path, Adrien turned, green eyes rushing behind him until they found where Gabriel still sat, the serene waters of the reservoir slowly flowing in front of him.

"Your mother is fine," Gabriel reassured him. "There is nothing for you to worry about."

Adrien blinked, he smiled, Gabriel knew he did even if Adrien himself was too far for him to clearly see his expression. He knew it for the smile was obvious in his voice. It was clear in his words.

"I will run ahead and tell Mom I found where she said!" he announced, happily, and just like he had said he would do he started to run, going down the path leading to the house, disappearing behind the shrubbery and the plants and the trees—leaving only Gabriel at the reservoir. Gabriel, the Miraculous and a lie. The first of many. The very first one.

"Your mother is fine," Gabriel whispered, attention stretching across the reservoir, across the large body of water night was painting as black as tar, and towards the illuminated windows of the chateau in the distance. "She is fine."

Gabriel's nails dug into the moss at his side. One second was all it took for him to be back on his feet, for his fingers to dive inside his pocket, for him to take out the Miraculous. Hatred taking over his expression, Gabriel marched towards the limits of the estate, he jumped back down to stand on the small incline where Adrien had found him, and looked over the valley and the trees surrounding the roaring river below. Both Miraculous shivered on his hand, just like they knew what he was about to do, like they were begging him not to.

"If it wasn't for you—" Gabriel hissed at them and closed his hand around the brooches. Raising his arm, he aimed at the river, at the angry waters he could hear and that would see both the Peacock and the Butterfly Miraculous disappear forever. The gesture seemed to take all he had, his hand falling back to his side Gabriel lost his strength, he dropped to sit on the running water, the night that slowly settled around him leaving him with nothing both darkness for company, nothing but a promise for comfort.

"We will always be together," Emilie whispered inside his mind.

Gabriel opened his hand, eyes meeting the two Miraculous that still rested safely against his palm, then following down the path Adrien had taken, to the place where he had been.

"We will always be together," Gabriel promised, fingers picking up the Butterfly Miraculous, pinning it to his shirt. "Always."

A small ball of light rose in the darkness, the purplish kwami that appeared from within going to stand in front of Gabriel, watching over him, just as a piece of paper came floating down the stream. Seeing it vault over the wall, going down the slope to the river below, Gabriel could still understand the lines he himself had drawn. They showed the reservoir, a boat, sun descending in columns over the couple sitting inside. They showed a summer that was the last, even if summer would arrive all the same, blinding and suffocating and as ruthless as time itself, to find the reservoir empty and the house closed, a pile of bags waiting just outside.

Driving out of the tree flanked path leading to the house on that day, Gabriel hit the brakes and stepped out of the car, marching up the front stairs. The door opened before he ever touched it, standing on the other side, serious blue eyes grabbing hold of his, Nathalie guided Gabriel's attention to the stairway behind her, to the boy sitting on the third step, to one of only two persons left in the world who never seemed to have any doubts that this was still him.

"Dad!"

Adrien jumped to his feet, starting to run across the atrium. Months into the future, the pale creature wearing his father's face, raised his hand to his side, calling out to the sketchbook that he had sent flying to the other side of the park. Answering his calling the sketchbook collided with his hand with strength enough to make him shudder and it was just as it should be for pain robbed him of the rest, of having to watch the moment Adrien ran to him, of having to see his tears, it robbed him of everything, and left him standing in front of an elegant corner store, eyes watching over a humanoid figure, a drawing that was climbing up the building. He stood watching over it, waiting, until this lively music that had no place in his world reached his ears and he stepped away from the building and into the road.

A terrified scream filled the night. The car that had been coming down the street veered to the left, entering the opposite lane, pointing itself at the empty sidewalk as it tried to avoid the person standing in the middle of the road—or maybe it was trying to escape him. If so, it was for naught. Not even the jolt that saw the car lose momentum as it climbed up the sidewalk could fool the sketchbook that went flying through the open passenger window, that went out of it, that made its way back across the road, passed the row of parked cars and the garden grates, back to its owner hand.

A derisive scoff cut through the joyful pop music now filling the night. Stormy gray eyes running over the formerly empty page, over the man that was now imprisoned within, the creature wearing Gabriel Agreste's face marched deeper into the park, not looking back even when the sound of breaking glass echoed behind him and the car he had attacked come to a stop against the nearest building.

Empty, its engine still running, the car shone its solitary headlight over the Dupain-Cheng's bakery, illuminating the black letters embellishing the store, its light climbing up to the empty bedroom over it, to the living room where two boys were deeply asleep, going up still to reach the round window of the attic and stretch inside, washing over this petite woman drawn in charcoal and the teenage girl backing away from her, eyes wide with terror.

"Mom!"

Marinette's fingers slipped away from the ladder she had been holding on to. One footstep, then another, slowly taking her away from the drawing that had been her mother, she nevertheless kept her gaze on her, hoping beyond hope she could reach her, that her mother would listen.

"Mom!"

A new step back and Marinette's feet become tangled on the pink rug of her bedroom. A moment of unbalance, of fighting to stay on her feet, and she fell backwards, large blue eyes left to stare up at the drawing that was now nearing the bunk bed's ladder.

"Mom!" Marinette cried out. "It's me!"

Her mother didn't seem to care. Not for that. Not for anything. She kept coming, marching from under the bunk bed, looking down on Marinette with empty eyes.

"Mom!"

A clicking sound cut through the frantic calling, light descended from the bunk bed and, hearing a soft "Oh no" coming from her pajamas neckline, Marinette looked up at her bed, Tikki's whisper giving way to Alya's drowsy voice.

"Marinette?" her best friend called out, her disheveled head appearing up on the bunk bed, right next to the ceiling. "What is going—?"

Marinette's eyes bulged, then sharpened, the fear that was on her face seeming to travel all the way to Alya the same moment she went to lean, arms dramatically hung, over the bed's side protection, and she immediately jumped back, wide awake, the drawing that stood near the ladder, that raised it's head to look up at her, making Alya's face pale.

"What the hell?!"

"Alya! Jump!"

She didn't. Not even when Marinette got up to her feet, not even when Marinette started running for the ladder, shouting at best friend to get down. No. Instead, Alya started backing away further into the bed and, sprinting up the ladder, escaping the drawn hand that tried to catch her, Marinette found her best friend rummaging through the bedside shelf, searching for her glasses, trying to put them on like doing so would change what she saw, what the two of them were seeing: this drawing that was coming up the ladder and the charcoal lines that preceded it, that were stretching over the bed, rushing to meet them.

"Alya, come on!" Marinette called out and she grabbed Alya's hand, dragging her towards the bed's side protection, making her sit with her legs dangling over the vacuum.

"Jump," Marinette told her, the charcoal lines getting closer and closer behind her, her mother already standing on the mattress, making her hand close firmly around Alya's. "Jump!"

Adrien

Adrien woke up with a start, the loud crash coming from upstairs sending him flying out of bed, mind veering in fright, thoughts left so foggy by the convoluted manner in which he had woken that the panicked shout coming from the other side of the couch almost made him call out for Plagg rather than turn, and look, and catch Nino in the process of nose diving to the floor.

"Are you alright?!"

Nino, who was presently not so much lying on the floor as sticking upside down between the sofa-bed and the living room window, let out an aggravated grunt. Legs twitching in the air, the bedsheets he had tried to hold on to all tangled around him, Adrien's best friend nevertheless managed to twist himself to lie on the floor, one hand being raised over the edge of the mattress.

"Dude, can you—?"

Nino didn't need to say that twice. Or more exactly, he didn't need to say it at all. Adrien had already jumped onto the mattress and was running all the way to the window to help him up. A short struggle later and the two of them were sitting on the sofa-bed, crumbled bedsheets all around them, and looking up at the living room ceiling. The loud crash that had ripped them from sleep, that had almost made them shed their skins, had just now turned into footsteps. Quick, purposeful footsteps. Like someone was running.

"What the hell?" Nino whispered, fingers feeling around the support table for the glasses he left right under the lamp. "What are those two doing?"

Staring at the ceiling and the modern ceiling lamp there, Adrien couldn't look more confused if he tried.

"I have no idea," he stammered. "I—"

It happened before a very bewildered Adrien could finish. The footsteps echoing down from the attic, running across it in such a clear way Adrien could pinpoint with scary accuracy when Alya and Marinette went over them, moved passed the ceiling lamp and approached the trapdoor, came to a grinding halt. Not a second later and the trapdoor was being pulled open. Alya was the first to appear, bare feet moving quickly down the ladder, then Marinette came down, ran halfway down the steps and turned back to grab hold of the trapdoor. She sealed it over her before jumping to the floor. Before both she and Alya turned to them.

"Run!" they shouted.

"Run?" Adrien and Nino echoed.

Neither Alya nor Marinette stood there, under the trapdoor, waiting for Adrien and Nino to stop staring at them like they had never seen them before. No. They come sprinting across the living room, jumped on the sofa-bed and ran over the mattress to where they were sitting. Within seconds, Alya had grabbed Nino's hand and was half dragging him to the stairway. Following close behind her, Marinette reached for Adrien's arm and pulled him across the sofa-bed. Their feet had just hit the white rug, however, when Marinette came to a halt and started to retreat, back going to press against Adrien's chest, fingers closing tightly around his wrist.

"Why are we—?" Adrien started to say and found himself pulling Marinette behind him almost the same moment.

It was very possible, not to say probable, he hadn't been in any way awake up until now. That was the only justification Adrien could possibly think of for how long it took him to understand why Marinette had stopped, to understand that her gaze was stuck to the closed ceiling trapdoor and to look there.

His chin fell.

Something was coming out of the attic. Something that looked a disturbing lot like black lines and that was running through the ceiling and streaming down the walls, turning the trapdoor and the family pictures and everything it touched into drawings, and then this—this thing, this two-dimensional thing that looked like a human-sized paper sheet was slipping through the trapdoor's cracks, it was streaming across the ceiling, it was—

"What the hell is that?!"

Adrien jumped, Nino's exclamation, the horrified look to his eyes as he was dragged passed the stairs to the attic and towards the stairway by Alya, actually reaching Adrien's still numb mind. The next moment, Marinette and Adrien had traded a glance and were running, sprinting passed the thing coming out of the attic and going after Nino and Alya. That didn't mean, however, that they weren't still looking back and, behind them, the paper-thing that had slipped out of the attic was releasing itself from the ceiling, floating into the living room, swinging left and right as it approached the wooden floor. The instant it hit the carpet, however, rather than lying there, it got up just like a paper sheet would, bending and wobbling and—

Adrien's eyebrows jumped.

It was standing up straight now, right next to the attic ladder, the sofa-bed and the ruffled sheets behind it, and "it" wasn't a paper sheet, "it" was a drawing! A charcoal drawing! And what the charcoal lines that made it showed was this very life-like, very human-sized drawing of woman and that face, the one made in charcoal, it's expression jumping as if a sketchbook was being flipped through, he knew it. He knew her!

"That's your mother!" Adrien exclaimed.

Marinette pulled on his arm, dragging Adrien out of the living room and down the small landing leading to the stairs.

"I know it's her!" she remarked, again looking back, towards the threshold leading to the living room, the hand that was not holding Adrien's sliding over the metal handrail.

"What happened?" Adrien managed to get out as their feet hit the stairs, his attention jumping between Marinette, right at his side, Nino and Alya, who were already on the landing under them, hands hitting light switch after light switch, and the lines pursuing them, turning the stairway ceiling and walls and floor into a drawing. "What on earth is going on?!"

"I don't know!" Marinette exclaimed and again she pulled him, guiding him down a second landing and passed the door that undoubtedly led to her parents' bedroom. "I woke up and she was like—Dad!"

Still looking over his shoulder, towards the Sabine-drawing that was now pursuing them, following them down the stairs, Adrien turned still in time to see the timid blade of light that had been peeking from under the bakery door fill the stairway, to see Tom Dupain-Cheng's shadow rush up the stairs, and to watch Tom himself stop at the base of the stairs, drying his hands on a cloth, wheat still covering his forearms and apron.

"Now, now," he sighed, patiently, his eyes following all four of them as they thundered down the stairs. "There is school tomorrow and it's getting pretty late—"

"Dad, run!"

"No, no, Marinette," her father stated, putting the cloth over his shoulder and starting to move away from the bakery door and towards stairs. "There is nothing to eat at this hour. Come on, all of you, back into—"

Tom's words faded. Now in the middle of the last flight of stairs, looking up, he stood as if frozen, the drawing they were fleeing seemingly having come into view behind them for Tom's mouth went agape, incredulity flashing through his eyes.

"Sabine?!"

All four of them grabbed hold of Marinette's father as they went by him. Marinette and Alya pulling on his hands. Adrien and Nino pushing his back. All forcing him to move down the stairs and enter the bakery's kitchen to the left. They were going by the wooden table now, running passed the croissants and bread Tom had been baking and the working oven. Still, for all their efforts to keep him moving, Tom kept looking back, slowing down, trying to catch a glimpse of the drawing that was his wife.

"Sabine!" he shouted back as soon as she appeared on the door to the bakery, the charcoal lines around her blasting inside to turn the oven and the tables and the pastries into drawings. "What happened to you?!"

Marinette looked back at her mother then up at him, her eyes huge.

"You don't know either?!" she exclaimed, pulling her father, and really all of them, into the store. "Was Mom upset?!"

"Upset?!"

Tom's eyes widened. Still being pulled by the teenagers around him, he let his attention run over the store's counter and the tables that laid with their respective chairs turned over them, and went to stare at one of the tables nearest the store's windows. A distressed glance at the computer and receipts lying there, then back towards the kitchen to find Alya closing the door between them and Sabine, and Tom turned back to his daughter, visibly distressed.

"She wouldn't get turned into a drawing just because I was singing, would she?!"

If it sounded silly, it probably was, but from his vantage point as Chat Noir, Adrien couldn't help but cringe. He sincerely hoped that was not the case, because if Hawkmoth started akumatizing people over something as trivial as someone else's singing—

Adrien rammed into Tom Dupain-Cheng's back before he could finish that thought, the sheer strength of the impact making him stagger and fall back first to the floor. Air knocked out of his lungs, Plagg's 'Auch!' coming from inside his pajamas, Adrien sat, massaging the back of his head and leaned to the side, trying to see passed Tom, Alya and Nino's backs and to the front of the group, to Marinette, who was standing right in front of the bakery's front door, right hand closed over the handle, eyes gazing through the shutter's crooked blades to the street outside.

"Why are we stopping?" Adrien asked her.

"I–It's–The—" Marinette babbled, before managing to put out something coherent, attention still stuck outside. "I don't think Mom was akumatized."

What?

Adrien got himself back to his feet. A clear limp breaking his stride, feeling the cold slabs under his bare feet, he joined the group rushing to the bakery's windows, stopped right at Nino's side, pulled the shutter's blades apart and felt his chin drop.

For all the many many times, Hawkmoth had decided to allow his victims to mind control crowds, this one, he feared, was bound to take the cake. Marinette's house, as he had long known, was located on a street corner, the large window panels of the store offering this wide view over the roads around it, the quiet neighborhood to the left and the trees and high grates of Place des Vosges to the right. And, right now, in all those streets, crossing the roads, moving down sidewalks that were themselves being turned into drawings, the headlight of this car that seemed to have hit a nearby building shining over them, were the drawings of people. Dozens and dozens of them!

"Oh heck no!" Nino whispered from Adrien's left, fingers lifting the shutters' blades a tad bit more so he could watch the street. "It's like The Night of the Living Dead out there!"

Looking back over his shoulder, over the store's tables and counter and towards the bakery door Alya had closed, Adrien felt his heart trying to jump out of his throat.

"It is a lot like The Night of the Living Dead in here too!" he tossed at Nino and he seriously should have kept his mouth shut because the moment he spoke Nino let go of the shutter's blades, looked over his shoulder and saw it. He saw it.

"Dude, are you freaking kidding me?!" Nino gasped, eyes bulging, back immediately hitting the shutters. "No! Don't look back!"

If there was one thing Nino should say when nobody was meant to look back that definitely wasn't it. Now Tom Dupain-Cheng was turning away from the windows! And Alya! And Marinette! They were all looking back into the store and what they saw—what they saw—

"Get that door open!" Adrien ordered, Sabine's two-dimensional upper body having just slipped under the bakery's door, the way the entire group seemed to have frozen while staring at her, making him sound more like his father than Adrien ever thought he could. "Open it!"

"Open the door!" Alya and Nino joined in, rushing to Marinette's side, crowding her, them too trying to reach for the handle.

"I'm opening it!" Marinette shouted back.

The hanging bell tolled when the door was finally opened. Without hesitation all four of them moved passed Tom and into the street, all looking back to see him close the bakery's door and follow them.

"Run!"

They did. They ran away from the store as fast as they could, a quick look up and down the street sending them passed the parked cars and across the road, the drawing of Sabine stepping outside the store sending them fleeing towards the only place that didn't look to be overrun by drawings just yet.

The park.

Place des Vosges.

It was their first mistake and they just had to run passed the cars parked on the other side of the road, to enter the park and leave the garden's high metallic grates behind to understand that.

Passed the real trees and grates that surrounded the park, passed the first meters of the park's gravel path, the park itself was no longer a mix of greens and browns with the elegant structures of fountains peeking from here and there. The park itself was a drawing and it was changing. In fact, it felt like it was growing, stretching in all directions the buildings getting more and more distant, trees sprouting from where there had been none, fountains and park benches turning to nothing. And what was worse was that under their feet, moving through the drawing, were people, or the drawings of what had been people, and they were rushing to catch up to them!

"What level of insanity is this?!" Nino cried out, and he looked back, at Adrien, at the bandages around his ankle. "Good thing your foot healed super fast, dude!"

Caught by surprise, still looking around at the trees, at this new drawn path they were running through, Adrien pulled his best smile forward.

"Oh, it was not that bad in the first place!"

That was an incredibly huge lie, but not one of the many he so often found himself worrying about. In fact, the thing to worry about right now was how in the world was he going to turn into Chat Noir in this scenario and, more importantly, to answer the question that he didn't know was also making rounds on Marinette's mind.

If Sabine Dupain-Cheng wasn't akumatized—Who was?

Nathalie

Water was gently streaming down the fountain Nathalie sat at, curtains of water falling from each of its levels in transparent curtains that broke every time wind hit them.

Small droplets of water being sprayed into her hands and skirt, the night breeze taking to play with her hair finally forcing her to reach out and grab it with her hand, Nathalie lost a few seconds searching through her pockets for a hair tie, sighed when she failed to find any and shook her head, the soft gesture stopping when she glanced down.

The gravel near her feet, the same one where the tip of her ankle high boots were sank, was being ran over by dark lines, they were creeping forward, consuming each of the individual pebbles, turning them into drawings.

A sad expression going through her face, Nathalie closed her eyes. All it took was a few seconds, once she opened them again the fountain she sat at was no longer stone, the water was no longer water, instead she sat on a tri-dimensional drawing, watching an uninterrupted veil of water fall from each plate on the fountain, all but indifferent to the blowing wind. Beyond it, the lines that had been near her feet a moment ago were making their way over the gravel path, climbing up the nearest flowerbed, creeping over grass and trees and bushes, getting closer and closer to the carousel to the back of the park.

Watching one of the wooden horses being turned into a drawing, Nathalie dropped her attention to her lap, going to stare at own her hands. Her mood was so sullen she didn't even notice the man now making his way across the park or the way he stopped just a few steps to her left, studying the slight grimace on her lips, the distant gleam to her eyes. There was something to his expression while he looked at her that might have been remorse, but if it was it was rapidly pulled under, the man himself remaining as he was, quiet and studying Nathalie, watching her, looking at her as if he could read her.

"You are not pleased," Gabriel's voice finally spoke, the soft cadence to his words, the almost apologetic note to his voice, doing little but make Nathalie sit straighter and gaze at the way the drawn water cascaded from the fountain's plates in front of her.

"Does it matter if I am pleased?" she spoke.

There was a heartbeat. A moment of silence. The shadow Nathalie could glimpse near her feet, moved closer, sliding over the side of the fountain until the lines that made the water started to twist and draw the reflection of the person at her side. Stealing a glance at the pale grayish face, at the way short locks of black and white hair fell to his forehead, Nathalie averted her eyes, fleeing Gabriel's gaze.

She might have done so a moment too late.

"You are unhappy," Gabriel's voice noted. "With this."

Gabriel's sweeping gesture, the one her mind could picture, nearly causing her to turn, Nathalie let her attention wander back to the fountain, to a solitary but real flower bud floating among the drawn lines.

"I haven't thought about any of it," she stated. On the reflection, Gabriel's eyebrows jumped.

"You haven't thought about any of it?" came the disbelieving answer.

Her fingers touching the drawn lines that had replaced the fountain's water, trying to reach the flower bud floating there, Nathalie could feel Gabriel's eyes watching her.

"You haven't thought," he repeated, quietly, a pensive note filling his voice, footsteps taking him closer to the fountain, closer to her. "I find that improbable."

The lines Nathalie's fingers were immersed in twisted; softly, gently, they closed and circled around each other until the flower bud was pushed against the side of the fountain. Leaning forward at her side, fingers reaching out for the small piece of reality in the midst of his drawing, the creature that had been Gabriel plucked it away from the lines. Water, or at least the drawn equivalent of it, dripping from his gloved hand and back into the fountain, he put the bud inside the sketchbook he carried and, after just a moment, pulled it back out.

"Your hand."

Gazing at Gabriel's fingers, then at what he had made of himself, Nathalie hesitated before she reached out for the bud, her frown only growing when Gabriel's long fingers touched her hand. The bud she was being given was just as lifeless as when it was floating on the fountain, the only difference being that now it was drawing. The bud was just that, just a drawing—and yet the moment Gabriel's fingers let go of it, the moment it touched her open palm, it bloomed, opening fully, the petals springing into life, unfolding, until the drawing of not a bud but a carnation laid in her hand, looking as alive as if it was real.

It may be that Nathalie smiled then, her fingers touching the jagged edges of the petals. It may be that she sat at the fountain, looking at the flower in wonder, having forgotten everything else. It may be. It was. For it was only when she turned, smiling, that she recalled that the man standing at her side wasn't himself, that her attention fell on the notebook he carried, that she recoiled from him—and it might be that he noticed.

"You are afraid," the Collector whispered, eyebrows arching in surprise, his eyes studying her through the reflection on the fountain. "Of me."

Nathalie looked at the flower he had given her, the one she had just put over the dark blue fabric of her skirt, shoulders tense.

"I would argue that is a rather sensible reaction," she remarked and gathering her courage she turned to the Collector, forcing herself to face him. "You locked me inside a book last time."

The way the Collector's gray eyes had just fallen away from hers, that small twitch to his lips—that might have been regret. But if it was it was rapidly buried away and the Collector turned away from the fountain, from her, going to face the now fully transformed carousel and the lines climbing over the trees behind it, sketchbook dancing on his hand.

"You would have served well as an inspiration," he stated, attention returning to her. "But I can't think of any reason to reinvent you. Speak."

Nathalie's fingers closed over her skirt, a new glance at the carnation on her lap, however, and she found herself turning to the Collector, brow furrowed.

"This was not what you had in mind," she pointed out, a note of clear displeasure in her voice as she glanced around. "Your plan was just to get Marinette's diary. There are other ways of achieving that. Simpler ways."

The Collector's gray eyes fell away from the fountain he was now studying. A moment of frowning at Nathalie and he strode to stand at her side, his reflection again on the surface of the drawing of water.

"What would you propose?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.

Nathalie looked straight into his eyes, jaw set.

"You have said Marinette is talented," she stated, watching him go through his sketchbook, what she knew to be drawing after drawing of those imprisoned inside being flicked through. "If you were to mentor her it would be a question of—"

"Too much time," the Collector finished. "I need those Miraculous—"

A ripple went through the drawn lines around them. It shook the trees, the benches, the fountain, it moved passed them and over the carousel and the grates to their back. Seeing the Collector drop the sketchbook to his side, opening it, the black lines cascading from inside going to grab the ones that made the world around them, Nathalie looked into the distance, trying to see passed the still real trees to the other side of the park and to the small corner building that was the Dupain-Cheng's household.

"What happened?" she asked, concerned.

"Something went wrong."

Looking at back at the Collector to find him frowning, then again at the bakery, Nathalie leaned over the fountain and squinted.

"I see nothing," she told him.

The Collector glanced her way.

"No?" he asked, and just like that an elegant hand, all gloved in black, was raised in theatrical fashion. "And then there was—Light."

It happened just as the Collector snapped his fingers, even if not because he did. On the Dupain-Cheng's household, on what little of it could be glimpsed through the naked tree branches in the distance, the lights started going on, the figures — one, two, three, four — Nathalie could glimpse going down the stairway, their shadows appearing and disappearing in the windows, making her grab the flower she had over her skirt and step towards the Collector.

"Adrien is in there," she reminded him, alarmed, and only to be met with a pair of tempestuous gray eyes.

"He is safe," the Collector retorted.

A tense glance over her shoulder, passed the fountain and the trees and towards the bakery, and Nathalie closed her hand over the Collector's arm.

"You don't want him to see you like this."

The Collector blinked, he rose his left hand, going to stare at the black fabric covering his fingers like he had just remembered what he was, what he had done to himself — what Adrien was bound to see.

"Sir," Nathalie called out to him, fingers digging deeper into his arm, pressing around the dark fabric he was wearing. "M. Agreste."

Anger cut through the Collector's face:

"I'm not Gabriel Agreste."

Indifferent to that, a bell tolled in the distance. Looking back at the bakery, a 'tsk' going through his lips, the Collector closed his fingers around Nathalie's hand, the alarmed "Run!" that cut through the night reaching them just as he opened his book and turned the pages back to the floor.

Black lines fell from inside once again, they cascaded until they connected to the ones on the floor, grabbing onto them, and the same moment they did, the park started to change, to grow in all directions, the still real red buildings surrounding Place des Vosges becoming more and more distant while trees sprouted from where had been none, twisting and stretching towards the sky, shrubs growing as big as edges, the once open park growing as thick as a forest.

"What level of insanity is this?!" a young voice cried out in response.

Standing behind a group of large black and white shrubs, small drawn leaves sprouting from the branches to hide them from the path cutting through the drawing in front of them, Nathalie and the Collector looked to the side.

There were five people running up the tree flanked path the Collector had just imagined. Just five. And Tom Dupain-Cheng, standing high to the end of the group, his friendly face filled with worry, was as easily recognizable to Nathalie as the teenagers with him. They were Alya, Marinette, Nino and, behind them, clearly trying to hide the limp breaking his stride, Adrien. He was on his pajamas, barefooted — but then again all of them were and they were running right in front of the bushes hiding her and the Collector, looking back at the drawings that could be see streaming through the lines that made the floor.

"We have to get out of here!" the girl that was in front of the group — Alya — shouted at her friends. Her next words seemed to give voice to what Marinette, who ran right behind her, was thinking. "If we aren't caught by them, we are sure to bump into whoever did this!"

To the end of the group, Adrien gave a weird jump. Right hand moving to massage his chest, he glanced at the red buildings that could be glimpsed in the distance and turned back to the group.

"We can hide there!" he suggested, making the entirety of the group look to where he was pointing. "There are these huge arches further down that lead to the city, right? If we hide in the galleries, we can reach it and get out of here!"

Stealing a careful glance at the Collector, Nahalie was still in time to see him turn towards the place Adrien had pointed, the place the group was now trying to reach. A frown going through his expression, he ended up turning his sketchbook up, swiping his fingers over one of the drawings that was inside and bringing it back to the real world.

"The blond boy," he said once the drawing of a tall middle aged man with a goatee stood at their side. "Keep away from him."

The drawing nodded and waited. The orders where quick to come.

"Break the rest of that group and bring them to me."

The drawing slid inside the lines on the ground with those orders, streaming passed the tall drawn trees and edges like paper on water.

Turning his back on the group now disappearing down the tree flanked path, his attention lingering for an instant on Adrien's back, the Collector brought his attention back to the sketchbook, to the black lines connecting it to the drawing around him. It was all it took. The world around them was back to changing, and this time so fast Nathalie barely had time to understand what was replacing the trees and the edges and the path in front of them, before she and the Collector were standing right at the very edge of the drawing, the black lines around them giving way to browns and greens and all the colors that made the world, before she found the two of them standing just across the street from the Dupain-Cheng's bakery.

"This place is empty," the Collector commented, the spine of his sketchbook going to rest against his chin as he stood there, looking at the half-real bakery, thoughtful. "It shouldn't be too hard to find that diary now that no one is there."

Looking at the boundary between real world and drawing, the one the Collector hadn't made a gesture to cross, Nathalie pressed her lips tight.

"But?"

"But," Nathalie expected to hear, instead she found herself rushing to grab hold of the Collector's shoulders, the pained gasp that had just crossed his lips all the warning she needed to help him to the ground before gravity did that for her.

Helping him sit against a nearby tree, however, watching the Collector, much like Gabriel not even a hour ago, press his head, fingers clawing around his forehead, she might be forgiven for not giving a second thought to the akuma or the sketchbook it hid inside, and the thing, the thing slipped from the Collector's long fingers the same instant his back hit the tree, falling to their side, closing, breaking the black lines that connected it to the world.

From where Nathalie stood, it felt like an earthquake had just hit the park.

The trees, the bushes, the benches and paths and cars were all shifting, swaying, they were crashing into the lines under them and Nathalie barely had time to lock her arms around the Collector's shoulders, to try to keep him safe, before the entire drawing came crashing down on them.

Head buried on the Collector's shoulder, she expected pain, she felt—nothing. And raising her head to look around, arms still firmly closed around his shoulders, Nathalie found them not in front of the Dupain-Cheng's bakery just like a moment ago, she found them not on the forest path the Collector had imagined, but back where they had started. By the fountain. The carousel and the flowerbeds and the park benches all around them again.

Nathalie closed her eyes, she looked down, to the man she was still embracing. As much as she would wish to hold Gabriel even if just for a moment longer, she stepped back, knelled at his side, and looked around to the park, a park that, worryingly enough, had lost everything he had imagined.

"Are you in a condition to do this?" she asked, softly.

Her concern was the same as nothing. The pain that was all too obvious on the Collector's face turned to amusement. Sitting on the floor, his back against what was no longer a tree but the park's fountain, the black and white locks to his hair falling around his face, the Collector forced himself to raise his head and grinned.

"It's fortuitous then that I have you with me."

Nathalie's fingers went to close over his shoulder, her thumb running back and forth over it when that grin faded and he dropped his head back down. It took a moment, a long long moment before he even risked moving, but when he did, Nathalie found herself looking at the sketchbook fallen over the gravel at his side, she found herself picking it up and offering it back.

"I will find that diary," she promised once the Collector's hand closed over the black and red cover. "I will bring it back to you."

The Collector's gaze met hers, then it dropped back down, to the drawn carnation he had given her, the one Nathalie still held, the one that rested against the sketchbook she was giving him, the one he didn't seem to have expected her too keep.

"Why?" his eyes seemed to ask, but the words remained locked behind the thin white line of his lips. Instead of talking, he rose, waited for the drawings that were raising from the paths and flowerbeds and even from the carousel behind them to flank him, and stepped away from her. He had just entered one of the garden's paths, attention already on the red buildings and the prey he knew was there, when he stopped.

"Ladybug and Chat Noir," the Collector spoke, calling her attention to where he stood right next to one of the parks benches. "Would it mean anything to you, if I don't engage them?"

It felt to Nathalie like her heart had just stopped.

"Yes," she whispered.

The Collector's fingers closed tighter over his sketchbook. Standing to the other side of the fountain, he looked back, at her, through the curtains of drawn water—

And left.

Watching the Collector step away, moving down the black and white gravel path, the drawings of the people he had transformed at his side, Nathalie glanced at the flower in her hand, gazing at it before reaching for the scarf Gabriel had given her. It wasn't until she reached to put the flower there, and this small purplish kwami disentangled himself from the scarf, fleeing a drawing that had almost gone to rest on top of him, that Nathalie remembered Gabriel had not left her alone.

"Dark wings rise," Nooroo whispered and Nathalie looked at him, watching the kwami's large eyes gaze into hers as he hovered in front of her, the drawn fountain just behind him. "Master trusted the Miraculous to the Lady."

He dropped his head, pressing his hands against each other, large delicate wings moving softly behind him.

"That is all she has to say."

Adrien

Adrien landed on his side with a pained grunt, the ground having just snapped like an overstretched elastic under his feet and sent him up in the air before gravity wisely, but not at all kindly, took again hold of him, leaving him panting on the floor for a pair of seconds before he forced himself to sit, to breathe and to look around.

He did know what the hell had just happened, he didn't know where his friends had just disappeared to when they had been right in front of him just a few seconds ago, what he did know was that this forest path he had just been running down off, that forced him to squint to try and see pass the trees and to the palace-like buildings all five of them had been trying to reach, was gone. There were no longer tall trees around him, the forest had disappeared, instead he sat here looking at a drawn but normal looking Place des Vosges.

This was absolutely insane, he knew, but he was presently sitting in what had been one of the parks flowerbeds. Well, in what still was a flowerbed, he had crashed right on top of a bunch of flowers, but they were all drawing-like. Anyway, it didn't matter. There were the benches, the paths, the patches of grass, the shrubs! And what really mattered, just to his right, passed the boundary of the flowerbed, passed the path, passed this very clear frontier between reality and drawing that seemed to have stopped moving were the trees that surrounded the park, the metallic grates. He could even see the still very real cars parked on the street outside! And most wondrous of all? There wasn't anyone here. Not his friends, not a drawing, not anyone, and as far as that worried him immensely, the order of things right now should be to transform first, worry later.

And so, jumping on one leg for a moment, the pain climbing up his ankle seeing him limp as he tried to get somewhere safe where he could turn into Chat Noir, Adrien forced himself to take a turn towards the path to his side, walk all the way to the metal grates surrounding Place des Vosges and vault over them.

A triumphant smile going across his face when he landed, or rather crashed inelegantly, to the sidewalk, Adrien found himself diving behind a nearby car to peek over its hood and almost immediately ran across the road, disappearing inside an alley that was just a few meters away.

His back hitting one of the building's wall, looking up and down what was simply this very narrow gray path with tall buildings on both sides, Adrien peeked inside his pajamas' chest pocket. Inside, laying belly up like he was vacationing at the beach, Plagg looked up at him with sleepy eyes.

"Do you remember when I asked if Hawkmoth slept?" he yawned, mouth going way more wide than it was usual, fingers rubbing his belly. "Well, he doesn't."

Pressing his lips not to chuckle, Adrien pulled Plagg out of the pocket.

"So, what's the plan?" the kwami asked once he was outside and hovering and pretty much still yawning in front of Adrien. "Do we have a plan?"

Adrien shook his head.

"I don't do plans," he reminded Plagg with a gentle smile. "I am just taking everyone out of the way before Ladybug gets here."

Plagg smirked, row after row of sharp white teeth coming to view as he rose out of the pocket.

"You know that is a plaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!"

The kwami disappeared inside the Miraculous, a burst of light all that was left of him when Adrien, or rather Chat Noir, stepped out of the alley, stretching, yawning, his cat-like pupils going suddenly round.

"My turn," he grinned and he jumped up to grab hold of a nearby streetlamp.

Going to stand on it, a theatrical bow being given to the empty street under him, Adrien looked around, searching the galleries he had pointed his friends towards, concern giving way to relief when, seeing movement a hundred or so meters up ahead, he squinted to see Marinette and her father ran across the road.

A smile taking over his face, eyes following Marinette for a moment, Adrien tilted his head.

He seriously should control himself.

He really really should.

But — Chat Noir took the staff from his belt and twirled it in one hand, his mischievous grin now so wide it seemed to fill his entire face — where was the fun in that?

Marinette

They were running. They were pretty much still running. The drawings that by now seemed to be absolutely everywhere pursuing them as Marinette and her father went by column after column, panting, sweating, her father not so much jogging alongside her as being dragged behind her, the hand she kept locked over his wrist pulling him along.

"Don't stop, Dad!"

Her answer was little but a grunt. Looking over her shoulder, the lines that were consuming the galleries getting closer and closer, Marinette took a glance at her father's very red face. The way he was clearly out of breath, the way his pace was getting slower and slower, making her eyes fill with distress.

She had honestly thought hiding in the galleries was a good idea. She really really had, it had not been just because Adrien had been the one to suggest it. In fact, the moment he had talked, the moment she had turned to see the red buildings she knew so well passed the drawings of trees, she had been certain hiding there was her way out of this, that it was how she could evade everyone, turn into Ladybug and solve whatever insane scheme Hawkmoth had chosen to top Robostus with. But, running through the archways, beige column after beige column falling behind her, the drawings she could see sliding through the walls and ceilings and floor, breathing down her neck, Marinette was becoming certain she had walked into a trap. This place, the archways, it being a trap was the only justification for what was happening now. And, at this point, trying to get her dad to move, having lost Nino and Alya and Adrien, when the drawing of that forest path had suddenly fallen apart, Marinette was so distressed by not being able to find any solution, by being stuck here — by Ladybug being stuck here — that she very nearly missed the figure leaning against the column she had just now ran passed. This figure who stood there, shoulder against the beige stone, messy blond hair falling to his face, a friendly grin on his lips.

"We meet again."

Marinette stopped so abruptly she not only let go of her dad's hand, she almost fell right there and then, her unbalance such Chat Noir rushed forward to get hold of her. For how fast Chat Noir's reaction had been, however, it seemed to take him a moment to understand that, now back on her feet, Marinette was not holding onto his arm for the sake of keeping her balance. No. Marinette's concerns were a lot more practical.

"Stop flirting!" Marinette exclaimed, pulling Chat Noir and shoving him between her, her father and the tidal wave of people-drawings that were now jumping from the drawn lines and falling from the arched ceiling, that were stepping their way, closing around them in a circle and leaving them with their backs against all these watches on a store's window display. "Do something!"

Chat Noir made a theatrical twirl with his staff, winking at her.

"Right on it," he said, and he stepped forward, towards the approaching drawings, confident and bold and—

Marinette looked away from the drawings he had been about to engage to find Chat Noir frozen in front of her, expression suddenly tense.

"What are you doing?" she blurted out, watching him look around, towards the store behind them and the ceiling and the drawings that blocked their escape, his staff raised. "Why did you stop?"

And why was she having this feeling she wasn't going to like his answer?

"Everything they touch turns to a drawing," Chat Noir whispered at her through the corner of his lips. "I can't hit them."

Hands closing over his arm, fingers actually digging into the dark fabric of his suit, Marinette looked up at him, at the friendly face hidden behind the black mask.

"Did you even think this through?!"

It was that smile. The one Chat Noir always gave her — or rather, the one he gave Ladybug — when he knew he had completely messed up and Marinette would have taken her hands to her head if she wasn't looking everywhere now. They were surrounded. Completely surrounded and not only by the drawings, the building itself, with its arched ceiling overhead and stores, was keeping them here as well. There was no way they were getting out. There was no way out. There wasn't anything except—

"Drawings," Marinette blurted out, attention running over the faces around her, all of them changing like pages were being flipped through. "They are drawings! Drawings, Chat! They were made on paper, they must behave like paper! Swing the staff! Swing it!"

He did. And really it was a good thing Ladybug wasn't the only person Chat Noir listened to for the way this was going they would have been in serious trouble if he had even hesitated. But Chat Noir didn't hesitate. He raised the staff and twirled it, using it like a kind of giant fan. Marinette had been right. Despite being only charcoal lines the drawings were paper. They behaved like paper and the instant the wind hit them they were catapulted backwards, blasting away from the archways and towards the park.

"Quick before they come back!"

Marinette closed her hand over her father's wrist once again, pulling him in the same direction the drawings had disappeared to and towards the street. She didn't know for how long they fled, only that they moved along the parked cars until drawing gave way to the real world and she and her father stopped, panting, backs hitting the very real building behind them.

Stopping at their side, for some reason holding only the tip of his right foot to the floor, weight resting fully over his left one, Chat Noir ended up turning to Marinette with a smile.

"Seems like I have swept in just in time to save you," he joked.

Marinette's eyes probably hadn't ever gone this wide.

"Save me?" she repeated, looking up and down his face, incredulous and still out of breath. "I was the one who saved you back there!"

Chat Noir raised his eyebrows. Putting one of the ends of the staff on the floor, his chin going to rest on the opposite one he leaned forward, a deeply charming smile on his face.

"You know," he purred, eyes gleaming. "I enjoy being saved. If you want to fill in for Ladybug—"

Marinette pushed his head back and she really didn't want to know what her expression looked like for Chat Noir to be doubling over his stomach laughing that much. Of course, now she must be looking aggravated. She certainly felt so!

"I'm just joking," Chat Noir said, still chuckling, head dropping, hands joining in front of his face for a sincere apology. "Just joking."

Marinette had her hands on her hips.

"What makes you think this is the right time for a joke?"

Chat Noir's eyebrows visibly raised behind his mask.

"Is there ever a bad moment for those ?"

One of her father's large hands landed on Chat Noir's head before Marinette could come up with the answer, turning his head towards the park and this huge mass of drawings that were jumping out of the lines there.

"Is that a bad moment?" her father mumbled.

It certainly was for Chat Noir's eyes narrowed, he turned, one of the ends of the staff immediately hitting the ground.

"Hold!" he shouted.

They would have even if hadn't said it. In fact, Marinette had her arms around his neck already, so had her father, and it was possible Chat Noir was being slowly strangled by the two of them for when he extended the staff, pulling all three of them away from the street, his breathing sounded strained. Still, the floor rushed away from them, window after window going by while below them hundreds drawings clamored around the staff, trying to make it fall, trying to—

Marinette's head snapped up, a sound she could only describe as air hitting paper making her look right and left and—

"Chat!"

Chat Noir followed her eyes the same instant. To their left, on the sky, flying and coming straight for them was a group of drawings. They were soaring over the naked trees branches on the other side of the road, looking like they were being carried by the wind. And the moment he saw them, Chat Noir clenched his teeth, he pulled on the staff, pushing it backwards, making it lose balance and sending all three of them crashing backwards.

They fell on their backs over the nearest rooftop, both her and Chat Noir landing straight on her dad, the sound of tiles cracking and breaking beneath them being heard before Chat Noir jumped from the top of them, pulled Marinette and her father to their feet and ran to the opposite edge of the roof, his staff, even if it was half-charcoal now, being sent downwards, to the garden underneath.

"Sir, go down!" Chat Noir ordered, a tense glance being given to the airborne drawings on the night sky. "You, hold this!"

Marinette was in charge of the staff now, eyes following her father who was already halfway down and then darting after Chat Noir who was sliding down the rooftop, heading right for the drawings. Seeing that, her heart seemed to have just become stuck in her throat.

"What are you—?!"

Chat Noir had just ripped one of the broken roof tiles, tossing it right towards their approaching pursuers. Not a second later and he himself had jumped, the shout of "Cataclysm!" left behind him seeing Chat Noir's hand boil as he flew from the roof and reached for the tile midair.

The tile exploded the moment he touched it, the blast sending the drawings and Chat Noir flying in opposite directions. The drawings back towards Place des Vosges and the floor. Chat Noir crashing back into the roof. A pained grimace going through his face and he was up, running Marinette's way, one arm wrapping around her waist before he jumped towards the garden underneath.

They were falling. Down and down, windows going passed them. And Marinette didn't exactly remember throwing her arms around Chat Noir's neck, but she definitely did for when they landed she was holding onto him, she was still holding onto him even as he ran to the dark arches just behind them and Chat Noir's back hit the wall, his eyes still stuck to the dark night sky.

"They were flying," Chat Noir panted, incredulous. "Do you think that was us? With the staff?"

"That was definitely us," Marinette cringed and she looked up to find Chat Noir giving her an awkward smile.

"Can we agree to never tell Ladybug about it?"

That might be a tad bit difficult, Marinette thought. Even so she nodded, her arms remaining around Chat Noir's shoulders as he lowered her to stand and the Miraculous on his fingered beeped its first warning. Unconcerned, he smiled.

"When this strikes twelve I will turn into a pumpkin," he joked, pointing at the black ring on his finger. A glance at Marinette's absolutely incredulous expression was all it took for him to chuckle. "What?"

"A pumpkin," Marinette repeated and she shook her head, leading the way out of hiding, entering the open space beyond the columns where they had stood.

The garden they had landed on was flanked by high buildings in all directions, a group of young fruit trees and a really pleasant vegetable garden all there was to it. Still, looking around it, it took Marinette a pair of seconds to point Chat Noir's attention to their left, towards a large chest pushed against one of the buildings' red wall:

"Hiding place."

Still keeping an eye on the sky, Chat Noir turned his attention the way she was pointing.

"Good catch," he said, immediately jogging forward. "Sir!"

Marinette's dad, who, she now discovered, had been hiding behind a group of high bushes, rose carefully from behind it and walked to were Chat Noir already stood, taking a pile of tools from inside the chest.

"I don't think you and your daughter can fit in there, Sir," Chat Noir commented once he was finished, frowning at how much space Tom took inside the storage chest once he laid there. "I will find somewhere else for her to—"

"No need!" Marinette announced and truly it was a good thing she didn't get to see herself through Chat Noir's perspective right now, because without her single-minded determination to hide, to turn into Ladybug as quickly as she could, Marinette wouldn't be seeing herself simply jumping into hiding. No. Was she Chat Noir and she would have just turned away from Tom Dupain-Cheng to find her petite black-haired self diving straight into the garden's compost bin.

"I found one for myself!" Marinette even now announced and the wooden lid banged in place over her, the words she could hear in the distance making her press both sides of her head in disbelief while sitting, legs crossed, in the midst of rotting pumpkin and onions and potato peels.

"Is she serious?" Chat Noir's voice rose from outside. And if he had ever sounded incredulous, her father—

"Very."

Marinette let her head fall to her hands.

Dad—

"O–Okay?" Chat Noir stuttered.

Wasn't it for the sound of Chat Noir's Miraculous going off again making her head stand straight, Marinette might have groaned.

"Stay inside, Sir," she instead heard Chat Noir say, the sound of the lid closing over her father coming along with his words. "And, please, please, don't peek outside right now!"

And with that his footsteps echoed down the garden path, all the way, it seemed, to the dark archways where he and Marinette had originally been at. A moment later, and this croaky voice floating to Marinette's ears was enough for her to know Chat Noir had de-transformed. Also, that his kwami was having a blast over the exploding tile.

"You better have brought a truckload of cheese if we are solving things like that!"

"We won't need a truckload if—Small bites!"

Getting out of Marinette's pajamas, going to sit on her shoulder, Tikki shook her head upon seeing Marinette curious expression.

"That's Chat Noir's kwami," she informed. "He—"

"Don't you dare swallow the entire cheese—Plagg! Spit that out!"

Tikki sighed, turning her attention back to Marinette.

"He really likes cheese," she informed and Marinette chuckled, she did, even if she was presently sitting right on top of watermelon peels and—Her expression fell.

Looking up at her, Tikki flew down, landing on her knee.

"We are getting your mother back to normal," she promised, reaching for Marinette's hand. "We will bring her back in no time."

Marinette closed her eyes.

"I know," Marinette whispered and smiled, looking down at the kwami. "Thank you, Tikki."

A smile being sent her way, Tikki joined her on listening to the world behind the compost bin wooden walls. Chat Noir was still outside, still discussing with his kwami about cheese and then—

"Plagg, claws out!"

He had transformed. And she could hear his footsteps coming back into the garden. He was leaving now that was for sure, one more moment and—

"Still hanging in there?"

Marinette might have died. She might have died right there and then. And judging by Tikki diving headfirst into the stack of potato peelings next to Marinette's left leg so could she. Chat Noir wasn't leaving like both of them had thought. In fact, judging by how close his voice sounded he had made his way to the compost bin and was standing right—

The hinges on the lid overhead groaned, light from a nearby lamp flooded the compost bin's interior. In a second, Chat Noir's head appeared right above Marinette, one hand keeping the lid open, the other used to support his head, green eyes gleaming behind his mask.

"I can find you another hiding place, you know?" he offered.

"W-Why?" Marinette stammered, her voice filled with nervous laughter. A glance to her left and her right hand fell right on the potato peels covering the still dangerously in view Tikki. "It's super cozy in here!"

Chat Noir's eyebrows rose behind the mask.

"O-Okay," he stammered, sounding doubtful. Still, he smiled. "Stay put! Me and Ladybug will have this solved in no time!"

The lid was closed over her, leaving Marinette again in the dark, surrounded by the bin's wooden walls. Raising the hand with which she had been hiding Tikki, Marinette let her blue gaze fall on her.

"Why didn't I take his offer, Tikki?"

Covered from head to toe in potato peels the kwami chuckled. Waiting for the sound of Chat Noir's footsteps to disappear, they finally raised the lid a pair of minutes later and took a peek outside.

The garden was empty, the fruit trees to the left and vegetable garden to the right the only things in view. There weren't any drawings here, or in the sky. And as for Chat Noir—

Risking lifting the lid a little more, Marinette took her attention up, to the rooftops above the buildings' red walls.

She could still see Chat Noir's blond head standing over the black rooftops. He was still here. But he wasn't looking down. And so, onion cuttings being tossed to the side, Marinette jumped out of the compost bin and jogged across the garden, dropping behind the dark archways to transform like she was sure Chat Noir had done. Coming out of hiding a moment later, the garden illumination falling over her bright red suit, Ladybug gave one last glance to the chest hiding her father, a soft—

"Sorry, Dad."

—crossing her lips, before, gravel getting crushed under her feet, she marched all the way to the other side of the garden, and hide behind a lime tree.

It wasn't until Chat Noir was gone, his staff catapulting him in the garden's direction that she aimed for the rooftops and stood high over Place des Vosges, gaze following his back as he fell to the distance.

Determination written on her face, Marinette took quick glance around the park and jumped away from the palace-like buildings she stood on, moving towards the corner building that was her home, and landing among the plants on the terrace.

Raising the trapdoor leading to her bedroom, Marinette jumped inside, looked around and de-transformed, both she and Tikki immediately running to the chaise long, pushing it across the room, leaving one of its legs right over the trapdoor.

"This should do," Marinette whispered. Even with the lines running through her bedroom, even with her bunk-bed and the trapdoor and some of the cabinets having turned to drawings this should be safe enough and thinking that she turned to Tikki. "We will get Adrien, Alya and Nino first, we bring them back here and—Tikki?"

Until now listening to her, Tikki had just turned her back on her, her eyes and then herself dropping until she was hovering right over the trapdoor.

"Tikki?" Marinette called out again and stopped, right feet just short of stepping into the lines that cut through the room.

She had just heard it. The thing that had captured Tikki's attention. There were—It sounded like footsteps coming from the floor below. It sounded just like someone was making their way up the stairs.

"Should we go look?" Tikki asked.

Marinette glanced at the kwami, then back at the trapdoor.

"That's Mom for sure," she whispered, biting into her lower lip. "I thought she had came after us."

Tikki flew back up, going to hover over the chaise long, eyes on Marinette's.

"We can't leave your friends here with her," she whispered, voicing Marinette's exact thoughts. "What are we going to do? Find somewhere else?"

A glance through round window, at the garden outside, showing her a tree turning fully into a drawing right in front of her eyes, had Marinette shaking her head.

"We can't just leave Alya and everyone else alone with whoever is roaming around," she said. "We have to find them first."

Tikki nodded, together she and Marinette made her way back to the terrace, the trapdoor left to fall as they stepped onto the terrace and the flash of light surrounding them saw Ladybug toss her yo-yo towards the higher rooftops over the small building that was her house.

For Nathalie, as she entered the Dupain-Cheng's living room, the loud crash of the trapdoor making her and the kwami hovering at her side run to hide behind the kitchen counters, it was nothing short of luck Ladybug never made her way inside.

Nooroo

"The Lady doesn't like me, does she?" Nooroo was whispering, a deep sense of sadness touching his voice as he remained nestled on the golden and red scarf he had taken to hide in, large eyes peeking through one of the fabric's many folds. "I don't mind if she tells me. Does she hate me?"

Sat on the cold kitchen floor, back against the kitchen aisle, the delicate line of her neck all Nooroo could see, Nathalie flexed her fingers, attention set on the ladder leading to the attic and the trapdoor over it.

"Is there someone up there?" she queried.

Nooroo took his attention away from her and upwards, looking up to the half-real, half-drawn living room ceiling, and tilted his head.

"I–I don't think so," he whispered.

"I need to be sure."

Careful as to not make the drawn flower that was right at his side fall to the floor, Nooroo disentangled his wings from the scarf and rose up until he was peeking over the counter.

"There is no one there," he assured after a moment and turned back to the woman that presently held his Miraculous to find her still sitting on the floor and watching him, pondering, pondering—until she got to her feet and her lips finally parted.

"I don't hate you," Nathalie said.

"But she doesn't like me," Nooroo noted, sadly.

They went all the way across the living room, the kitchen counters and aisle left behind. Stopping at the foot of the stairs to the attic, Nooroo watched as Nathalie climb up the drawing, try to force the trapdoor open and, giving her own effort a head shake, go back down, striding back to the kitchen. It wasn't until they were there and Nooroo was hovering right over shoulder, the sound of cutlery being shuffled around inside the drawer Nathalie had just open mixing with his voice, that he again gathered enough courage to speak.

"It's because of today, isn't it?" Nooroo asked, softly, trying to read Nathalie's emotions, trying to see passed the determined lines to her expression. "Back home?"

The sound ceased. Glancing down, Nooroo found Nathalie's fingers over a ladle, her piercing blue eyes once he looked back up where bored on him.

"Home?" she repeated, quietly.

"When she saw me?" Nooroo offered, hopeful, and flew to stand in front of her, hands clasped together. "I didn't mean to scare her, I just—"

The blue eyes turned sharper still.

"You just?" Nathalie probed and looking at her like this made him feel like he was back on the temple, like he was back there trying to cover for one of his holders.

"I just wanted Master to rest," Nooroo explained, apologetic. "He would get better if he did. I wasn't hurting him."

Nathalie tilted her head, searching his eyes as if she was trying to find the traces of a lie. In the end, she dropped her attention to the drawer she had opened, the one under Nooroo, fingers again running over its contents.

"Does—" Nooroo risked saying, attention going over Nathalie's furrowing brow and pinched lips. "Does she believe me?"

A feeling of triumph hit Nooroo rather than the answer he sought. Curious, he looked down, peeking to the drawer she had opened. Her hand had just closed over something. A dark blue handle. And now she was closing the drawer. She was getting from behind the counter. She was holding—

Nooroo's eyes went wide.

"The Lady knows the Butterfly's weapon is a sword!" Nooroo shrieked, flying after her, anxiety taken over his mind as he watched Nathalie leaving the kitchen, determined, and with a knife on her hands. "She doesn't have to go around with that!"

A pair of blue eyes glanced back.

"I don't know how to use a sword."

"She doesn't have to! I do! Lady!"

Nathalie was to the top of the stairs to the attic already, shoving the pointed end of the knife through the drawing that was the attic's trapdoor, cutting through it. A moment later, fingers forcing their way through the gap, ripping it wider and wider, she was peeking inside the room, the reason why she had been unable to open the trapdoor was obvious enough. There was something overhead. Some piece of furniture. And before Nathalie could hurt herself while trying to push it out of the way like Nooroo feared she was about to do, he squeezed himself through the gap and entered the room, rose from under what turned out to be a pink chaise long and pushed it aside.

Nathalie opened the trapdoor a moment later, going to sit on the attic's wood floor, her feet still on the ladder's topmost step.

Stopping over her shoulder, landing there, still fidgeting, Nooroo gave a nervous glance to his surroundings.

The room where they stood was unmistakably feminine, pink and very tidy. There was this high bed. The chaise long he had pushed out of the way. A long cabinet, covered with books, clothes and—

Nooroo didn't have time to go over anything else. There was this call inside this mind, this glimpse of a building's entrance, of a notebook cutting a thin charcoal line through the floor, a whisper that tried to raise his attention—or the Lady's attention, for the very moment his holder noticed this was him, Nooroo, and not her, the careful probing ceased.

"Where is she?" his holder's voice exploded from the other side.

Nooroo swallowed, turning to where Nathalie sat, her legs still on the stairs leading to the attic, fingers touching the Miraculous, this distant look to her eyes.

"Lady," he called out to her. All it took was a glance to the butterfly-shaped light around his eyes, for that distant look to Nathalie's eyes to disappear. "Master already knows she is here."

A glance at the lines she had been touching, her fingers closing over the small center jewel of the Miraculous and she was up, looking around the room.

"Tell M. Agreste that if he wants me to search this room, he will have to buy me time. If anyone finds me here—" She looked at the meat cleaver she stilll had on her hand. "If someone finds me here with this—"

The light surrounded Nooroo's eyes faded, perplexity taking over his voice.

"Does she want to tell Master she is holding a knife?" he queried in a tiny voice.

Nathalie frowned, eyes surveying the lines that cut right through the room, that stretched all the way from where she stood to some of the cabinets under the bed and that then made their way up it.

"I would much rather you ask if he had the presence of mind to bring an eraser," she retorted, and Nooroo might have stood here staring at her in utter bewilderment, wondering if he truly should say that, but—

"Was—Was that a joke?" Nooroo risked asking, embarrassment written on the flutter to his wings, on the gentle melancholy to his smile. "I was never any good with those."

Nathalie's eyebrows rose. For a moment, just for a moment, she stood with the room's round window to her back and looking at him like she was seeing someone else—then she turned away from him, eyebrows in a sharp line.

"I need time."

Nooroo nodded. Immediately, the garden outside filled his mind, the sketchbook the Collector was holding, that he took to flip through while listening to Nooroo coming into view.

"Master says no one will come in here," Nooroo announced once the exchange was over, his attention going back to Nathalie. "He says the Lady doesn't have to worry."

But standing with her left hand over the stairs to the bunk bed, fingers pressed around the drawn lines, Nathalie worried. She worried all the same.

"If anything happens to him, anything at all," she said, tone becoming forceful. "Tell me."

Again, Nooroo nodded, diving back inside the connection. His holder was jumping down from the rooftops now, landing on one of the street lamps, eyes surveying the drawings that filled the streets and the garden, then he raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.

That sound, the same sound that made the entirety of the drawings roaming the street look up, that made them follow the Collector the instant his feet hit the large slabs of the sidewalk, went through Nooroo's mind like a lightning bolt. The streets, the palace-like red buildings, the notebook his holder had just opened, all shattered, all faded away, all were replaced by the pink of Marinette's bedroom, by her bunk bed and books. What it meant that he was still here, that he was the one looking through the connection, that he was not inside the Miraculous, left Nooroo staring at Nathalie, utterly perplexed.

"She—" Nooroo stammered, watching Nathalie make her way across the room, towards the desk that ran near the wall, her footsteps made loud by the wooden floor. "She isn't going to transform?"

Nathalie looked back at him, fingers already closing over a drawer's knob:

"I assume four eyes are better than two."

Nooroo's eyes widened.

"The Lady wants my help?" he whispered, and he looked around, attention going from the bunk-bend to the cabinets under it, to the pink chaise right next to the trapdoor and from there to the wall opposite, right at the other side of the room, where he could see a small group of shelves.

A new glance towards Nathalie, to find her already searching through a drawer, and Nooroo flew across the room, stopping near the shelves.

He was searching through them now. Opening each book and putting it back in place, looking behind a stuffed teddy bear and struggling to sit it back up when it almost fell on him, closing the lid on a small box when a pile of magazines cuts of his holder's son appeared from inside, searching—

Nooroo stopped, the picture that was in front of him now, the picture he had actually just slightly pushed to the side so he could search behind it, leaving him to stare at its occupants, at this teenage girl smiling along with her parents, at this girl with kind blue eyes his holder thought was Ladybug.

His fingers stretched until they touched her face.

He remembered her. She had been the one that had come to his holder's home once, to give back the grimoire Adrien had lost. She was the same girl who had been at headquarters just a week ago, the one his holder had taught how to make a jacket.

He remembered her. She was timid, unsure, and she hadn't felt anything like Ladybug to him, she felt nothing like the unstoppable force Tikki's new partner had proven herself to be. But people — and at that Nooroo's eyes sharpened — people changed. And if his holder was right, if this young lady, Marinette, was Ladybug, then Tikki—

Nooroo looked around the room, his hand falling away from the picture, attention going over the books and the stuffed animals, the clothes and the sewing machine, heart getting heavier and heavier.

He wanted to help. He did. But he didn't want to find Tikki. If she lived here he would rather not know. But the Lady — Nooroo's attention slipped to where Nathalie was, leaning over Marinette's desk, searching each drawer — she had asked.

Master would have ordered.

The Lady had asked.

And Nooroo, he stood here, looking at the photo of Marinette with her parents, not knowing what to do.

Adrien

Chat Noir was peeking from behind a brick chimney, eyes searching around him, hopefully, before the empty skies he had been surveying made him sigh. Getting back to his feet, something he regretted the moment his ankle screamed at him to get back down, Chat Noir looked left and right and let himself slide down the roof's incline, slipping away quietly until his feet hit the small wall at the end of the roof. A moment of looking down, watching the still real street and cars down below, of squinting at the side of the park that was under the control of whoever Hawkmoth had sank his claws into this time and he extended his staff downwards, slid down it until his feet hit the beige slabs of the sidewalk and disappeared quietly into the still real galleries on this side of Place des Vosges.

A flash of light went over the archways a moment later. Pulling his leg up, right hand closing over his ankle, feeling the rough fabric of the bandages, Adrien limped all the way to this elegant nook that was one of the buildings entrances and, careful as not to step on the drawn slabs that cut the space right in front of it went to sit against the door.

It took a few seconds, more than a few actually, for Adrien's voice to cut through the quiet.

"Please, do something about this, Plagg," he whispered, fingers pressing around the bandages around his ankle. "I think it is getting worse."

A small black dot flew down from his shoulder and stopped right to the side of his leg, one very tiny hand reaching out to touch his ankle.

"I'm already doing something about it," Plagg's croaky voice answered. "I told you if I went around messing with it was going to get worse."

"Well, I can't afford it to get worse!" Adrien retorted. "Not now!"

"You said the same yesterday."

Adrien grunted something under his breath, the cackle that answered it echoing up to the elegant if very old column of doorbells over his head and then blasting forwards towards the galleries, before he again talked.

"We have to find Alya and Nino," Adrien said, testing his feet once he was up. "So, Plagg, claws—!"

If only he had said that just a moment earlier. If only he had said it rather than snap his lips shut, the incomplete incantation hanging in the air causing Plagg to crash like a bullet into the Miraculous rather than disappear inside it. If only he had done anything but stare wide-eyed at the floor when this sound like paper being crushed came right from under his foot and he found himself over not the drawn slabs he had tried to avoid but a small line right in front of them. If only he had shouted the incantation right then!

But he didn't. And because of that Adrien, not Chat Noir, was left standing on the galleries when this ripple went through the drawn slabs he left behind. He was the one standing here when a drawn hand reached from under him and he was pulled down, straight into the drawing.

---

Author's Notes:

Hope you enjoyed it!

About the next parts: For keeping the size under control sake, the last chapter of the Painted Lady is now two. The next part is nearly finished, there is just some trouble going on that might delay it a bit but I do hope I can make it go up two weeks from now (so, may I risk saying the 24th?). So strap on, because there might be sanity in publishing yet and we are almost ready to enter a new chapter.

In the meanwhile and considering the all-around situation in the world, I hope every one of you and those around you are fine. Keep safe.

~Windcage