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Asked to recall what she remembers or misses most about their old life, Alicia hesitates. The girl lingers on the faces of those they’ve lost over the long decades. She thinks of the boulangerie, walking there in the early stretches of summer mornings with her hand tucked in the crook of Papa’s arm, or lingering with Clea and Verso. She thinks of Lumiere’s gardens, still in their infancy, but riotous with life, and feels an ache so deep in her chest she wonders if some bone has splintered and lodged itself in her organs.
Alicia considers all these things—misses all these things—but none of them stand out most starkly.
What Alicia remembers most is the music. In those years before the Fracture—before Painters and Paintresses, Monoliths, and Mirrors—the manor was full of music. Clea on her harp, or Verso and Maman at the piano, or Papa with his guitar; there’d been no shortage of songs.
A contrast to their dying world’s omnipresent silence.
Alicia’s struck by it now. The absence of life exacerbates the cavernous quality of the Dessendre family home. Every one of her light steps echoes on the stairs, a little thing in comparison to Bernast’s infinitely heavier steps. The lion grumbles, ducking its head to butt it against her shoulders when she lingers on the landing, listening for other signs of life. Alicia huffs, pushing its muzzle half-heartedly.
Papa had gone away this morning, promising he’d be back before nightfall. She doesn’t know why. He’s already seen to this year’s Expeditioners. When Alicia tugged at his sleeve, demanding an explanation, he’d only flashed her a tired smile, smoothing a hand over her hair as he leaned in to kiss her forehead.
“Until tonight, ma petit,” was all he’d offered, striding out the manor’s front doors and into the early morning light.
The sun set hours ago. Still no Papa. Bernast nudges her.
The girl sighs. She could wander the gardens or visit the glasshouse. She could call for Maman. The latter option leaves her heart aching; she longs to see her mother’s face again, not the Paintress, but her mother in truth. She wants to curl against the other woman’s side, feel her fingers play through her hair, and doze.
She crosses to the sitting area in the great hall instead; no, she will not inconvenience Maman. Bernast, seeming to divine her intent, pads across the room to collapse in front of the fire, splaying out on his side. Alicia shakes her head, rolling her eye. The great cat lifts its head just enough to look at her before flopping back down, huffing with a sound that resembles a storm.
The young woman collects her book from the table, settling against Bernast’s side. She fully intends to read for a time while waiting for Papa.
Alicia sleeps instead. In sleep, she dreams.
~~~~~~~~~~
It’s a perfect winter day, better for its simplicity. Music drifts up the stairs. The more hollow quality says it’s one of Verso’s records rather than a live performance. Alicia pauses, resting her books on her knees, closing her eyes to listen. Papa and Maman were purists—they insisted nothing could ever equal the real thing. On the merit of pure quality, the young woman supposes they are correct.
But there is a warmth, almost sweetly nostalgic, to the records. Something in them reminds Alicia of curling up against Verso’s side, listening as he went on about the musician, or the musical signature, or the composition itself. Her love for the craft is far less technical, but that matters less than nothing. Verso is always in rare form, vivacious, gesturing so freely, overly expressive—it’s real passion, not the coat he sometimes slips on for the rest of them.
Couldn’t you record something? She remembers writing, tugging on Verso’s sleeve. His smile still haunts her—uncharacteristically shy as he scrubbed the back of his neck. You compose enough.
“Compositions and good compositions are very different things, baby sister,” Alicia remembers scowling, tapping him square in the center of his forehead. He’d laughed, the sweet high sound that always accompanied him changing the topic, retreating to more neutral ground. “And besides, Maman and Papa—it’s a struggle for them to accept my position at the Opera. Can you imagine? A Dessendre on record.”
You’d turn their hair white.
He’d hugged her more tightly against his side. “Best avoid it then, eh? They don’t need help looking any older.”
The song ends. The record scratches briefly before the music begins again. Alicia sets her book aside, rising, stretching, and heading out into the hall. She shivers. The spaces between their bedrooms or the main hall made for strangely hollow patches, far cooler than the surrounding chambers, where fires burned at all hours of the day. The staff have kept the hearths particularly stoked today. The young woman worries her scarred lip between her teeth, biting back a smile.
Snow—there’s snow in Lumiere for the first time in so many years, beautiful flurries of white. She’s halfway to the stairs when she catches the first drift of her siblings’ conversation.
“—Half of Lumiere will be there, do you really think they’ll notice one absence?”
“Your absence?” Clea asks, incredulous. “Tell me, brother dear, did you forget that you all but volunteered to perform for the evening?”
“So—?”
Alicia can hear Clea rolling her eyes. “Yes, Verso. Our parents will notice your absence.”
The girl strides down the stairs, cocking her head at her siblings. Verso waves their eldest sister off, taking another step towards the middle landing. Clea makes to grab his wrist. He snatches it back, glancing up at Alicia. “Very well, then—we’ll ask an impartial party. Alicia, where do you stand on the matter? Would our dear parents be averse to my—say—slipping out the side door?”
Alica snickers, plucking the pen and paper from her breast pocket. Verso, that’s like asking if they’d notice the sky falling.
“Mm, I’d like my odds if the sky were falling.”
“Don’t bother indulging him, Alicia,” Clea said, massaging her temple. Their elder sister strode past them, waving Verso off as she went. “Our brother has made up his fool mind. We’ll be the ones footing the bill.”
Alicia makes a show of pursing her lips. She takes a moment, letting the tension simmer as she searches Verso’s face, then drops her eyes, hesitating before putting her pen to paper. Clea might have been the more talented Paintress and the oldest. Alicia had her skills, too. She holds the note out. In a slightly wavering hand, as if overcome with emotion, she’s written:
I was looking forward to listening to you play.
Clea scoffs, loudly, the sound just this side of laughter. Verso stares at her in abject betrayal. “Clea’s hamfisted attempts at manipulation, I expect. But you?”
Alicia shrugs, rocking forward onto the tips of her toes. Whatever secondary retort her brother has planned is cut short by the familiar echo of Papa’s cane on the tile. The sound never ceases to amuse her; Papa and his theatrics. He’ll traverse the house in near silence, unless he’s trying to make a point or alert them to his presence. She supposes, in that respect, it’s a courtesy. She shares a look with Verso and Clea, all three fighting not to snicker as they fall into line on the stairs. Papa arches a questioning brow when he finds them so neatly arranged.
“Has your brother finally made his play, mes filles?” He asks, the corner of his mouth twitching up in the familiar, indulgent smile she loves so well. Today, the expression looks more than a little exhausted. Papa rests both hands on his cane. “You may postpone your escape attempts—your mother has cancelled the event.”
“So close to the date?” Clea asks, tone carefully measured. “Lumiere will—”
“—will understand and make do,” Papa finishes. He glances at Verso. “She’s asked for you.”
Verso nods, frowning. He heads back the way Papa had come without a word. Clea mutters something about making a proper announcement. It leaves her alone with Papa. The man holds his arm out to her. Alicia goes to him with a smile, winding her arms around his waist. The scent of his cologne and the warmth of him never fail to fill her with a sense of well-being—he is safety and home.
Papa sighs, brushing a hand over her hair. “Aline asked for you as well, little one.” Alicia indicates herself, cocking her head to the side. “Since the fire—” he seems to remember exactly who he’s speaking to, grunting an apology. He pulls her back against his chest. “ —seeing you would reassure her.”
She’s uncertain that she agrees. Alicia pulls away just enough to stare up into her father’s face; she sees his quiet desperation, the exhaustion this time of year always elicits. The stolidness of his energy has a more frenetic current that she struggles to justify with the man. She nods.
Papa relaxes. Nothing matters next to that.
~~~~~~~~~~
Verso’s eyes are overbright when he passes them, his face a touch too pale. Her brother offers her a wan smile—a sloppy effort by anyone’s standards, clearly false. When she reaches out to him, Verso waves her off. He pauses long enough to squeeze Alicia’s shoulder and exchange a glance with Papa. He leaves without a word.
Papa nudges her forward, voice gentle, but insistent. “Go on, child.”
The air around her Maman has a different quality when she sinks into these moods. Alicia doesn’t know how that’s possible, only knows it’s true. She tastes grief on her tongue, thick in her lungs, stifling and choking her. It makes the room unbearable; it feels like a screaming, agonized cry in her head. Alicia clutches her arms over her chest, hesitant as she crosses the room.
She wants to ask her why she’s strayed away from the atelier, from the glasshouse, from all sunlight; Maman is bright—the manor’s hungry shadows jar against her edges. Swallowing, Alicia raises one hand in greeting, grunting.
For a moment, Maman doesn’t lift her head. She’s curled on the far end of the sofa, tucked away near the fire, her nails pulled between her teeth. The Paintress has chewed them down to the quick. Alicia makes a noise of protest, sliding in beside her and curling her fingers around the woman’s wrist to lead her touch away. A small crescent of blood pools around the top of her index finger where she’s torn the nail too low.
“Alicia?” Maman asks, staring at her with wide eyes. Alicia starts under the full force of her attention. Since the fire, it’s been stolen glances out of the corners of her eyes, or Maman focusing on her shoulder, something to distract from the ruin of scars. Her lips purse as she reaches out to cup the girl’s cheek, sliding around to cradle the base of her skull. Warmth radiates from her touch, that same lightness, an inexplicable feeling of standing at the heart of a storm. Maman pulls her close even as she leans in to bury her face in Alicia’s hair. Her lips move against Alicia’s temple, mouthing words she struggles to catch. Something like “still here.”
Alicia nods, tweaking her nose against the other woman’s sternum, melting into the embrace. It feels safe here. The world cannot reach her, cannot hurt her; Maman would not allow it. That last thought registered in her head like a snarl, a voice unlike her own interior monologue manifesting within her skull. She shivers, pressing nearer.
Maman eases her away, her pupils blown wide, caught somewhere between a prey animal and a cornered predator. She strokes the back of her fingers over the worst of the girl’s scars, drifting upwards to brush the bangs away from her forehead. Alicia snickers, tossing her head so they fall resolutely back into place.
It earns her a small smile, if nothing else. “Obstinate girl.”
Alicia nods, winking with her good eye. The momentary blackness means she misses the way Maman winces, the hand between her shoulder blades pressing again. She opens her mouth to say something else, only to stop short. Alicia frowns, tugging on her sleeve.
“It’s nothing—only paranoia.” Her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip, gaze flicking away, back towards the fire. A log snaps, popping; the woman stiffens. She shakes her head. “You are well?”
Alicia huffs. The question is ridiculous. She writes her own instead. You cancelled the party?
“Ah, yes. Filling the manor with people—” she scrubs a hand over her upper arms, lips thinning—flashing back to the fire again. Alicia’s own nightmares of the event have faded somewhat—they come only rarely, these days, but Maman’s—
—stay. Trapped, as if Papa hadn’t lugged them all out of the flames.
“ —Do you mind? If we were to have a more intimate evening? To celebrate your—?”
Alicia beams. Just us? No strangers?
Maman snorts, raising a brow. “You could pretend to be more heartbroken, ma fille.”
Alicia scowls for her benefit, tapping the note again. Just us? No strangers?
Maman chuckles, embracing her. The world seems to brighten.
~~~~~~~~~~
The dream skips forward.
She doesn’t remember the food or the conversation that came before. Alicia remembers the music.
She sits beside Verso at the piano, humming, swaying as his fingers dance over the keys. Clea and Simon sway together, not attempting the proper steps. It stands in stark contrast to their parents, slowly revolving together around the room. Papa dips his head, murmuring something in Maman’s ear. In the firelight, it’s impossible to tell. Alicia thinks she might color. Her eyes narrow in something like a challenge as she presses more tightly against him.
Alicia shares a look with her brother, rolling their eyes.
The song ends.
Clea and Simon move over towards the fire. Papa and Maman drift towards the piano, arms slung loosely around the other’s waists. The sight fills her with warmth. Verso nudges her shoulder. “Go on—go see them. Dance a little while you’re at it.”
Their parents pull her in close, one hand on her shoulders. That feeling of rightness suffuses her again. Her scars, her lack of a voice, pale in comparison to the warmth of being surrounded by her family, whole, living. She tips her head against Maman’s shoulder before pressing her forehead to Papa’s chest.
“Despite my best effort, time refuses to slow his march,” Papa murmurs, embracing her. “My little one, another year older.”
“No melancholy tonight, mon coeur.” Maman chides, stroking her daughter’s hair.
“Tomorrow, then,” he says with exaggerated gravity.
Maman’s eyes dart to the side. She inhales before leaning in to press a kiss above the girl’s empty socket. “My love.”
Alicia’s heart clenches in her chest.
Papa steps back, dropping into a low bow. “If you are not too old for it, would you indulge your father with a dance?”
It’s the most ridiculous question in the world. Alicia goes to him eagerly. Verso begins another song. Maman settles beside him on the bench, an absent smile tugging at her lips as she watches him play. It’s a livelier number, the sort she’s always preferred. Papa spins her away with perhaps too much enthusiasm—another of her preferences. She loves the temporary feeling of weightlessness, hair flying out in a wild arch, only for him to tug on her hand and bring her spinning back.
She hears herself laughing. Verso picks up speed, grinning broadly. Simon cheers. She’s young and spritely enough to keep time with the breakneck pace, spinning until she’s dizzy and a little delirious. Papa shakes his head, chuckling and pulling her back into his arms. The world won’t stop swaying.
Later in the evening, they will gather by the fire. Clea will play her harp. Papa will strum something out on his guitar as the children argue amongst themselves.
She’s happy. She stares around at her family’s faces, up at her father, beaming, and cannot remember feeling so full of love.
~~~~~~~~~~
Alicia awakens from her dream still suffused with that sensation. The girl turns her face into Bernast’s fur, sighing. She misses the simplicity of those halcyon days.
The sound of Papa’s cane on the tile keeps her from slipping too far into those grim thoughts. She lifts her head in time to see him crossing to her little sitting area, hair slick with rain or sweat. He offers her a weary smile as he settles on the couch. Alicia raises a brow.
“My apologies. Business kept me longer than expected.”
You never said what business.
He smiles. “Such is the nature of surprises, my dear. Come.” She crosses to him without comment, settling on the sofa. Papa clucks his tongue, reaching over to pluck a strand of Bernast’s hair from her jacket. She catches his hand, squeezing it, revelling in the warmth and the calluses. “Forgive an old man. It would have made more sense to collect your gifts before settling.”
“You speak as if I’m incapable of assisting.” Maman’s voice fills the room. Papa’s eyes glitter with mischief, a marked contrast to Alicia’s clear shock. It isn’t the Paintress that joins them—beautiful, but surreally other. It’s her Maman in the flesh. Alicia wants to protest; she knows the toll this takes, that it is a fundamental waste of chroma, but—
—She cannot fight the joy of seeing her again. She wants to rush to her mother, hold her again after years of absence. Maman smiles. She grasps a guitar by the neck in one hand and a small patisserie box in the other. She offers both to Papa.
Alicia blanches at the sight of the label, scribbling out an unsteady note. You went to Lumiere?
He shifts, clearing his throat. “The journey was…greater than expected. Hence the delay.” He presses the box into her hands. Inside are a medley of sweet pastries, the sort they’d often gone for on lazy summer outings in Old Lumiere. “The proprietor of the boulangerie went so far as to provide her recipe.”
And the guitar?
Papa smiles. “The manor is too silent. The chromatic instruments have never had the same richness.”
Alicia purses her lips to fight a laugh. So you went all the way to Lumiere for a real guitar?
He touches her cheek. “I would travel infinitely further to see your smile, child. The venture is already worthwhile.”
She ducks her head. Maman settles beside her on the sofa, hesitating before pulling her into an embrace. “Play us a song then, mon coeur."
He mutters something about needing their patience. It has been years since he last played. Papa’s fingers move over the strings hesitantly at first and then with more confidence. Alicia relaxes back into her mother’s hold, listening to the sound of the other woman’s heartbeat.
It feels right. The world feels like it did so many years ago, if only for a little while.
For tonight, life is as it should be.