** Interlude 6 - Not youth itself thy clemency can gain; vigorous and strong, by thee untimely slain.

Tariq did not respond to his companion’s weary questions. The urchin was sure to feel the vampire’s lips move into a smile against his cheek. But he remained silent, settling against Fabien with a lazy shift that communicated the conversation was finished.

They slept, curled like animals in their den, their breath and limbs intertwined. The sun reached its zenith in the sky, the light and noise of the daylight world fading as it reached the walls of their room.

When the boy awoke, it was to stillness and the setting of the sun. The space at his side was tousled blankets and the incline where his body had been, but the vampire was gone.

There were no lights kindled in the room; the lamp with the small glass disc to reflect the light sat idle on the shelf. The room was alive with shadow. The quiet, still grey light that only the dying sun produced filtered bloody through the red curtains in the room. The windows concealed beneath the makeshift curtains were open, as evidenced by the breeze drenched with the earthy scent of night that rippled the swathes of cloth. The room appeared to breathe, its crimson walls like the heart of some great beast.

The cloth in front of the door to the balcony had been pushed aside and the encroaching dark of dusk waited in the gap. The curtains stirred; the room inhaled.

It was cool, the air saturated with the damp of the storm that had serenaded them through their slumber. The lingering smell of smoke was enough to conjure the vampire’s presence in the mind’s eye, the scent of him copper and chthonic, resinous and primeval. It drove Colombe’s perfumed ghost from every corner. The red walls exhaled.

Fabien awoke nestled in the thick blankets of the kingly four-poster bed that dominated the room. The dark curtains to his right, against the bedroom wall, had been loosened from their cords and draped along the edge of the bed, leaving only one glimpse of the room exposed between the draping fabric to his left.

Were his eyes to sweep the room for signs of his companion, they would be disappointed. The vampire’s high boots with their complicated laces idle near the tall wardrobe would offer the only clue as to his whereabouts. The rest of the room remained cryptically unhelpful. A soft breeze fluttered the curtained walls like a coy inhale.

To the boy’s left sat a small table flanked by two high-backed chairs. They were large enough for the boy to curl up into without touching the floor. The thief’s hoard on the table had changed character since the first time the boy had seen it. The fine silver chain with its ornate key remained, but the rest had vanished, replaced by a handful of miscellaneous coins and thin-banded rings. A gold pocket watch with a broken chain lay as still as the muted shape of a dead bird next to a small piece of ivory that upon close inspection was revealed to be a white tooth, spiked roots and all. A bronze censer with a patina of colourful tarnish rested in the center with a belly full of ash. It did not seem to have been used recently.

Against the far wall was a large desk on which a different assortment of items were strewn. A thick parchment lay unrolled on its surface, the words written on it in thick, maroon ink indecipherable even had the boy been able to read his mother tongue. Across the top of it lay something that appeared to be a smooth length of blasted wood. Its surface was blackened and pitted with fissures, and one end was split to a sharp point. Two books, their age revealed in cracking leather and thread-worn spines, lay stacked to one side.

The only other item of interest was the thick iron-bound chest squatting at the foot of the bed. The walls of the room were panelled in wood, and there were odd square-shaped gaps of faded colour as though something heavy had been removed from its habitual position on the walls.

The gentle breeze stilled. The curtains fell. For the first time, the room appeared to be holding its breath.

Fabien slept like a cadaver at the vampire's side. The urchin did not fret, nor murmur with agitation  as he so often did when sleeping in his own chamber. It seemed the press of the vampire's limbs, still and powerful, were enough to chase even the darkest terrors from his dreams.

The boy eased from sleep, stretching his youthful limbs with a soft groan that coiled its way down his lower back. Without opening his eyes, he reached for the vampire, his agile fingers searching for the smooth stretch of his chest.

When his palms met only soft sheets and empty air, the youth's heavily shadowed eyes opened. He shifted onto a scrawny elbow,  and eyed the empty space side where his companion had once been.

“Monsieur?” The boy rasped softly, his voice still dulled from sleep.  When no reply came, only the faint call of a bird ushering in the dark, the boy felt a twinge of fear.  He turned his head to peer through the gap in the curtains, the room alive with movement around him.

Aware that he had been left to his own devices, the urchin slipped from the bed and sought his clothes.  His eye at once caught the blackened stain of blood upon the collar, and he turned his hand towards his throat. His fingertips brushed over the  raised bumps where the vampire's teeth had split his skin, and the boy shivered.

He began to dress lazily before making his way towards the foreboding door. But just as he was about to leave, the boy hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as though something in the room called to him. He turned aside, his grey eyes moving warily across the room. With a sigh he began to slowly make his way towards the table with its tall chairs, his bare feet silent on the floor.

Fabien's fingertips skimmed the surface of the table, stirring the rings, scraping the key before the tip of his index finger nudged the tooth. His expression changed liked water through wine, his dark eyes wide with grim fascination and something which may have been pity.

“Dieu nous préserve,” he whispered, his heart heavy in his throat. His fingertips brushed over the tooth as if it were a reliquary.

His hand moved away in nervous flutter, and he turned to look upon the shining watch with its broken chain. The boy plucked it from the table, overturning the smooth surface in his hands as he sought a latch to flip open the lid and examine the smooth face inside.

The bloodied curtains rolled and sighed as Fabien turned back to the darkening room. This place felt insulated from even the calling birds just outside the balcony. There was no noise from the other side of the door to indicate the activities of the house’s other inhabitants. For all he could gather, he was well and truly alone.

The tooth on the table rolled easily under the boy’s gentle touch. It was perfectly clean, a gleaming white, and unmistakably human. It was only this last trait that lent it a sinister air.

There was a curious diversity among the pilfered items - some of the rings were shaped iron and worn smooth by use, while the watch in the boy’s hand was clearly finely-made, a luxury item. There was something crow-like about the hoard, as though the vampire had plucked them for some unfathomable aesthetic value. The hinges gave and the watch cover opened at the application of the boy’s fingers to the latch. His reflection solemnly watched back from the smooth glass that encased the delicate details of the face.

The pointed hands were still, the hour hand not quite having reached the 2. The mechanical organs were not beating. It was impossible to say if it was broken or simply had not been wound. On the opposite side was a curled engraving that looked to be spelling out a name.

Fabien's eyes lingered on the soundless timepiece. He brushed his thumb over the indecipherable inscription, and paused to examine his reflection in the polished surface. The expression that greeted him  was one of quiet unease, and disliking the look of it, he carefully closed the case and set the treasure back in its place.  

The boy sped a hesitant glance over his slim shoulder, and after a pause, took a determined backward step towards the door. As he began to turn slowly away, his limbs  stiffened as though some force worked to prevent his retreat.  He swayed a moment, the flesh of his lower lip caught between his teeth, and his fingers clenched against his hips.

“Peut-être qu'il ne serait pas fâché...” the boy breathed, as he turned his attention towards the vampire's desk.

He remained still a moment more, fingers clenching and un-clenching, expression fraught with uncertainly. Until at last it seemed that whatever inner conflict the boy had been battling with was suddenly overcome, and he began to edge closer.

The urchin moved with all the slinking caution of a feral fox, his bony knuckles skimming the edge of the desk as his sharp eyes drifted over the strange assortment of objects. He paused once more, and his slim fingered hand hovered in mid-air before  curling around the piece of blasted wood. With the item firm in his grasp, the boy overturned it with careful interest, testing the sharpness of the point with a school-boyish curiosity.

Once satisfied, his grey gaze turned toward the aged parchment, if only for the sake of tracing over the shape of a letter with his fingertip. With his examination exhausted, he returned the blackened wood haphazardly back to its place.

“Quel aveugle a le temps de lire?” The urchin whispered, his voice flush with fond amusement.

Now bold in his investigation, he reached for the first book with a nonchalant air, flipping open the cover first, before delving further into the pages to see if they proved of interest.

He lingered there a time, until a sudden sharp rippling motion in the curtain walls breathed sharp terror into the boy's heart. With a panicked gasp he pulled away from the desk, dropping the book clumsily at his feet as he turned about to offer swift apologies. His grey eyes flitted about the room in search of the vampire's dark silhouette, but found only the stirring motion of red cloth.

The youth could feel his pulse in his temples, and his breath continued to leave his throat in a trembling pant. Finally certain he was alone, he released a nervous laugh, and dragged his fingertips through hair which was becoming far too long. He reached for the book, turning it over to check for flaws, before it was carefully returned to its position.

Or at least, where he thought it had once been.

The wood in the boy’s curious hands was lightweight. It was the creamy brown of an acorn’s husk and not as smooth as it had appeared to be - his fingers were apt to catch on the cracks in its porous sides. The sharp point of its split end was blackened as though by fire and it left a smudge of dark ash where he tested its sharp point against his skin.

It was likely only when he turned the cracked edge toward his inquisitive eyes and saw it was hollow that he would realize it was not wood, but a broken shard of bone. It was old, the ash on its pointed end smelling only of dust, and too large to have belonged to anything smaller than a wolf. There were no more clues to its origin.

The thick maroon ink on the unrolled parchment felt gritty beneath the boy’s fingers. The words were written in a looping language by a neat hand. The unfamiliar characters were interspersed by numbers and were arranged in lists, “k. 80 …… لا تحاول ترجمة هذا k. 12.5 …... إنه الغش,” and so on.

The pages of the book were no less confounding. He held the smaller of the two that had been resting on the desk’s surface and a perfunctory glance would reveal its rough condition. The cover was cracked, the pages torn and stained sometimes to the point of illegibility. The letters on these weathered pages, at least, would be familiar to the urchin’s roving gaze, although he would not understand their meaning. The spidery hand-writing was consistent throughout, but the character and colour of the ink used fluctuated, as though it were written over a long period of time.

Occasionally the author devoted space to a simple sketch - although they were clearly intended to be more functional than aesthetic, and might have been more aptly called diagrams - whose subjects were dominated by plants. Here a box accompanied by a flurry of notes segregated a cobweb of tangled roots from a slender stalk. There the spiked flower had been circled and redrawn to emphasize the unusual shape of its many petals. This one was accompanied by a quick outline of it jutting from the side of a tree, that one indicated on a crude ma--

It was then that the book fell from the boy’s startled hands. It landed heavily on the floor, its brittle pages showering a cloud of dust and flecks of chipped paper to the floor.

The room was quiet and still, red with the light of the late afternoon. The vampire’s wrath did not fill the room with its heat, and the boy was allowed to slip the book into its place and leave unmolested.

Should his path eventually take him down the long curve of the stairs, it would not be long until the murmur of a soft voice alerted him to the presence of his host in the foyer at the foot of those stairs. From the sound of the vampire’s instructive tone, it was likely he would find Colombe there as well, engaged in dutifully absorbing the master of the house’s directions.

Fabien swept his palms over the front of his shirt, hoping to rid his prying hands of the dust that clung to his skin. He did not bother to look the books over a second time, nor seemed much disturbed by his potential disruption. Books had little use or interest to one who could not read, and had never gained benefit from them.

Instead, the urchin struck out on a determined route towards the door, his inspection of the vampire's intimate belongings complete.

But as he passed by the bed, the boy paused, his eyes lowering down towards the sturdy chest. His pace began to slow, until evenyually the urchin dropped to his knees, crouching before the object to see whether it was easily accessible. He swept a palm across the side of the chest, testing the lid for any sign of give.


If he discovered it locked, no doubt he would continue on his way out to join the vampire and the girl.

But if it was open... the boy was sure to pry further.

The chest was large enough to have accommodated the boy, albeit uncomfortably, and smelled of its metallic bindings and the warm fragrance of old wood. Its surface was much pitted and crossed with old wounds. The lid was heavy and although there were thick locks on the face, it opened without much trouble under the boy’s touch, the hinges groaning with the effort of the intrusion.

Inside, the dark travelling cloak in which Fabien had first seen the vampire lay neatly folded on top. Tucked beside it were a thick sheath of papers bound together with a frayed leather thong. They appeared to be letters, and closer inspection would confirm the careful handwriting of correspondence. The pommel of what appeared to be a dagger jutted up from the far corner of the chest. Its blade was concealed within a cracked scabbard, its leather dark and stiff with age.

A sizeable satchel lay beneath the cloak. It appeared to be full, its sides distended with the items inside, but it was belted securely shut and would require a good deal of attention to tease open. If it were jostled, it chimed with the crystalline sound of glass striking glass.


These items rested on a wooden trunk that occupied the bulk of the chest. It was too heavy for him to lift comfortably, and should he try the lid he would not be so lucky as to find this one unlocked. This wood was lighter, newer, although similarly worn.

The seams of the wood on the inside of the chest were black with rust or dirt or unidentifiable grime. It was clearly very old, age seeped like the stain of blood into the clouded metal, the almost peppery scent of dust and aged wood. However, its contents were orderly, packed snug to make the most of the space. It was disconcertingly unremarkable. Any person who travelled often might possess such a case.

It would only be when he went to close the lid that he would be apt to notice the marks on the underside. Trails of splintered wood had been scratched into the bottom of the lid, revealing the lighter wood beneath the tarnish of age. They resembled nothing so much as the marks left by the frantic clawing of fingernails.

Fabien's pulse had yet begun to slow, and his fingers had a faint tremble to them as they trailed over the lip of the chest's lid. Despite his reservations, as soon as the boy discovered the chest was easily accessible, he seized upon his chance. The boy heaved the immense lid open, a look of trepidation etched upon his youthful face. When he found the contents, at least on the surface, reasonably common place he released a low breath.

He reached for the dagger first, slipping it from where it was nestled. His fingers worked to slip the blade free from its ancient scabbard, his head angled with bright interest. When he had satisfied his curiosity, it was returned to its place. From there, the youth paused a moment, his hands held in mid-air as he examined the dark fabric of the vampire's cloak.

The urchin drew in closer, and slipped the back of his knuckles over the familiar fabric. His touch was slow and gentle, his storm cloud eyes softened by warm affection. He fancied he could detect the vampire's scent, something which he had no words for, but reminded him of autumn night air and something... sharp.

Fabien dared to delve deeper, his lock-picker's fingertips seizing briefly on the satchel. But after a moment spent plucking idly at the buckle to see if it would give, it was abandoned. He may have pried further, had not the sounds of floorboards creaking on the floors below caused him to pause. Fabien's head turned towards the door, and he slowly began to close the lid. As he did so, the scored marks and strange patterns caught his eye.

A frown pinched at the boy's young features, followed slowly by a creeping  look of thoughtful disquiet. He reached out, placing his fingertips upon the raw marks until they aligned, and following their unhappy patterns across the aged wood. The fine hairs upon the boy's neck and arms rose, and he quickly shut the lid and began to back away from the great chest.

Without a single further delay, the boy clambered to his feet and stumbled towards the door.  The bloodied walls trembled about him, their frightful motion hastening his progress until he had broke into a half-run, half-stagger towards the door.

His fingertips fumbled briefly upon the handle,  and it took some concentrated effort to make his way out in the hallway. He stepped towards the top of the stairs, his chest rising and falling with his sharp breath, and lingered there like a spirited called from the grave.

Light, scarlet as murder, skittered across the edge of the dagger’s blade. It was clearly sharp, the tip narrowing to a thin point, and unmarked by so much as a speck of rust or age. It slid easily back into its cracked sheath.

The hinges of the chest groaned as though in reproach when the lid was closed. It was the only sound that disturbed the room beside the incessant whispering of the dreadful curtains. They seemed to laugh softly at the boy as he fled the room.

The vampire’s voice echoed on the bare walls of the staircase as though he were speaking to a congregation. The boy would be able to catch the occasional snippet as he descended.

“-ot have to remind you what the consequences of that would be. I en-”

His voice dipped low and was lost to the house. The window at the landing to the stairs was concealed beneath its thick curtains. A single golden sliver of light penetrated the air like the shaft of a spear. The vampire’s voice became audible once more;

“-and yours, my dove. That will be all.” And then his voice raised, “Fabien, I have something to ask. Viens ici.”

Should the boy do as he was bid and finish his descent, his host would come into view near the foot of the stairs. He was not dressed to leave the house. His feet were bare, his long hair unbound and spilling about his shoulders and although his shirt was fresh it bared a good deal of his chest. His scars winked silver about his throat.

Colombe, to the contrary, wore the attire she only ever donned when leaving the confines of the quiet house, her skirts rustling and her hair hidden beneath a bonnet. She tipped her head back to catch sight of Fabien’s approach. The smile she directed at him wilted as he came into view, the stain of blood at his collar nearly black in the dim light. Her dark gaze flicked to the vampire and back to the boy before she busied herself in fussing with the basket she held in her hand with eyes downcast.

Fabien descended the stairs in slow, measured steps, his hand resting on  the polished smoothness of the banister. He had lingered at a distance at first, but at the sound of his name he came closer.

As he drew near, the boy appeared evidently shaken, his feline-sharp eyes wide, and his skin as pale as freshly bleached bones. He met the girl's eyes for little more than a second, but it was enough for his expression to soften, and his hand to begin to rise in quiet greeting.

But at the sudden change in the Colombe's expression, the boy appeared perplexed, and offered her a questioning look before she withdrew her gaze.

He stepped closer to his host then, raising his eyes to look upon his sightless gaze.

There was something different in the way he moved, in the ease with which he stood at the vampire's side.  No doubt  the boy had no awareness of it. He did not realise the way he stepped just a little too near, nor how he no longer appeared to keep a firm, wary distance between himself and the vampire. But there, on the stairway, he leaned in with something terribly like fond familiarity.

And when he spoke, his voice had a softness to it that had not been there before.

“Oui, Monsieur? What is it?”

The vampire’s demeanor had been brooding, contemplative, his shoulders taut and his blank eyes distant as he spoke to Colombe. But as the boy leaned in to make his soft inquiry, the tension of his spine loosened. He responded to the warmth in the boy’s tone as a serpent does to the sight of a mouse. He reached out, as though by instinct, and cupped Fabien’s face in his hand.

The touch of his hand was warm. His skin was rich with colour, mouth red and eyes attentive despite their inability to see. The blood he had taken had clearly had an effect.

“Good morning,” he greeted him, his tone quiet and rough with affection. His hand slipped to just below the boy’s chin and he paused. Fabien might have been accustomed enough to his pulse being observed to recognize the covert gesture for what it was.

Satisfied with what he found, Tariq withdrew his hand and flicked it toward the waiting girl. “Colombe has asked that you accompany her on her errands this evening. As you so seemed to enjoy our stroll last night-” There was a raking of mirth through the words, although it was not unkind. “-I thought I might oblige her. If you would like, bien sûr.”

Colombe had been watching the pair through her eyelashes, her gaze averted. It was impossible to say what she had gleaned from their interaction. But at her name she inclined her head as though to accept the acknowledgement. Her dark eyes lingered on Fabien. They were as somber as seemed to come naturally to her.

The vampire continued, “I trust you have the sense to be prudent in what you say where idle ears can hear.” It was, of course, a threat, although his mouth held the words as though they were the sweetest of praise. “And I imagine a change of clothes is in order. She can wait. You may bathe when you return.”

It was only as an afterthought that he added, “And to eat. S'il vous plaît, eat before you go.”

At the vampire's touch, the boy's lips subtly softened into a half-smile. His pulse was rapid before, and under his host's touch it became ever quicker.  But if the vampire's hands had made the urchin's heart quicken, his words made it fit to burst.

“You are letting me go out once more?” Fabien responded sharply, almost breathless with pleasure.

He quickly turned his storm cloud eyes back towards Colombe, his weight swaying upon his heels muscles as if he intended to lurch forward and embrace her.

“Oui, Monsieur. You can trust me, Monsieur.” The youth rasped in response, his feet shifting with all the eagerness of a bloodhound about to be let off the leash. He took a few steps forward, as though he meant to head directly towards the door without awaiting further instruction. But at the vampire's words he hesitated and lowered his eyes, plucking at the hem of his shirt with agitated, impatient hands.

“They are not so dirty yet, are they?”  He enquired softly, his tone perplexed.  It was was only when he once more noticed the wine-dark strain of blood upon his collar that he nodded soberly, his eyes moving towards the girl and lingering on her with quiet intensity. “Ah, oui, as you wish Monsieur. I will find something else.”

The youth lingered at his host's side, awaiting to be dismissed with limbs tense and his feet stirring like a spring colt adjusting to its first bridle. When the vampire had at last bid him leave, the boy breathed a rapturous 'merci, Monsieur,' and leapt up the stairs to fulfil the vampire's orders.

Before he was even half-way up the stairs the boy had already pulled his shirt over his head, his spine bare as he sprinted towards his room.

“I will not be long, Colombe!” He called over one slim shoulder.

When he arrived in his room, the blood stained garment was left in a bundle upon his bed as he tore into the cupboard in search of something fresh.

Fabien had barely bothered to unearth the full array of clothes left at his disposable, still too unnerved at wearing the attire of a dead boy. But he gathered a shirt that was newer, and of better cut than the ones he had clung to before. And, now that starvation had been chased from his limbs, it did not hang quite so unbecomingly on his bones.

He dressed in haste, leaving the shirt half-open at the throat, and half-tucked into his waistband. And, after discovering some boots which were something of a tight fit, the sound of his feet loudly descending the stairs could be heard echoing throughout the house.

After disappearing into the kitchen, he finally reappeared to join the girl; his tangled, wheat coloured hair obscuring one eye, a cigarette tucked behind one ear, and a look of impish flee illuminating his sharp features.

“Shall we?”

There was pleasure writ in the turn of the vampire’s mouth at his guest’s exultation.

“That is all,” he said softly, releasing him to his preparations without further harrying. His unsighted gaze trailed thoughtfully after the boy long after he had passed from view.

By the time Fabien returned down the stairs, Tariq was gone, disappeared into some other chamber of the house. Colombe, for her part, had not waited as stoically by the door as the vampire had suggested she would, although she reappeared in time for the boy’s entrance as though drawn by the excited stamping of his boots.

She eyed him with something inscrutable in her gaze. Apparently he passed muster, for after a moment she turned and led him to the front door.

The shivering aspen trees greeted them with a dry susurrus of whispers as they stepped into the sun. Should the boy have the notion to turn and examine the shadowed copse of trees before they set off in the other direction, he might glimpse the dark marrow of recently upturned earth at their base.

It was a beautiful day, although past its prime. Late afternoon light doused the street in hues of gold and amber. It was cool, seasonably so, and the few pedestrians they met wore long sleeves and layers of flapping fabric. No one spared them even a passing glance - there was nothing exceptional about a moneyed man’s son walking with his servant in this quiet part of town, no matter how hastily he appeared to have dressed.

Colombe walked briskly and kept to the edge of the road. She had few smiles for her companion. She did not meet his eye. They had not gone far, the pointed roof of the house they had left behind still in view, when she stopped short.

Her breathing was fast as she turned to the boy. She took an abrupt step toward him and paused, swaying gently on her feet. She looked up at him with eyes that were dark as dusk. Then, as if she’d come to some decision, she reached for him, her warm fingers splayed around either side of the fresh wounds at his throat from the night prior. He was certain to feel her shudder.

This close there was no doubt he could smell her, the fragrant oil on the inside of her wrists. It was not sympathy in her eyes as she examined the marks from the vampire’s teeth, and when she turned that dark gaze on Fabien there was a hard and desperate question in it that did not quite form on her parted lips.

Fabien greeted the afternoon light as though it were some secret indulgence. He drank upon the air with, filling his smoke bitten lungs, and stretched his arms towards the lazy swirl of clouds above their heads.  

The youth had  practically leapt across the threshold like a spring hare, moving upon feet that were uncertain in stiff leather and firm soles. And when he had ceased stumbling his way across the path with a joyous abandoned, he stopped and turned back toward the house, his eyes raised to examine the dark windows of his luxurious prison.

He fell into step alongside Colombe, his shoulders brushing playfully against his hers, as though he hoped to at least tease a half-smile from her.  So it was with some surprise that he found her facing him, the suddenness of her movements causing him to stumbled to a halt. He arched a dark eyebrow expectantly, and when she hesitated,  his eyes became gentle with concern.

“Colom-?” The boy began, before his words were cut short. His smile wilted to nothingness upon his lips, and when the girl laid her hand to him, she was sure to feel his throat muscles flex nervously.

He was not immediately forthcoming, and  flinched when her touch irritated torn nerves that he not yet fully healed.  One hand rose, began to sift nervously through his hair as he averted his eyes. “I … ah- listen, cherié-” He murmured, before swallowing stiffly and forcing himself to meet her eyes.

His features had become tense, and there was something in his eyes, and the nervous sway of his limbs that was almost remorseful. But, before he attempted an answer, his hands quickly sought her wrist, his touch gentle but firm as he tried to draw her hand away.

“Let's not talk on it now, Colombe. Not while we're here, together. Let's enjoy our liberté.”

“The marché de nuit will open soon... and perhaps we can find a fish and a little cream for your friend on the rooftops, non?”

His other hand moved towards his collar, adjusting the fabric there so it better concealed the rosy puncture wounds from view. He drew in closer, his voice wavering somewhat, and so low it was little above a whisper.

“S'il vous plait. I will explain it to you later, I promise.”

The urchin began to move, and unless the girl had slipped free of his grasp, she was sure to be swept along with him. He began to indicate excitedly to a street sign that was familiar to him.

“Ah, I know a place not far from here where they sell good tobacco, very cheap.  And what about flowers for your room? Do you have a list, cherié? I am sure Monsieur will not mind if we get some extra. As long as we are not too late back...”

The gentle touch of Colombe’s fingers along the edges of her friend’s wound was painstakingly cautious. She mirrored his flinch at the contact of skin-on-skin, her movement as delicate and swift as the flit of a dusty moth’s wing. Curiosity shaped the lines of her mouth as she examined the ghost left behind by the vampire’s teeth.

Her fingertips lingered but she stilled when he bade her to listen. The pitch of her body toward him was intent, mindful. It was clear she was eager to hear what he had to say. Her eyes when Fabien forced himself to meet them were clear and expectant.

She allowed him to take her hand and move it from the marks on his throat, puzzlement growing in her expression. When he began to speak, she did not immediately recognize the deflection for what it was.

When it dawned that he would not tell her, disappointment darkened her eyes.

She shook her hand free of his grasp. When he drew in close to whisper his promise, she shook her head. Her mouth was set in a tight line.

The stiffness in her demeanour did not seem to be anger so much as some breed of chagrin. Her cheeks had reddened and she did not meet his eye.

When Fabien began to move, she did not match his speed. With her head bowed, her face was hidden beneath her bonnet as she trailed after him. Her hands were tight on the handle of the basket she carried.

Her dissatisfaction at his refusal to answer her was clear, but she did not sulk. At the boy’s animated suggestions she nodded inattentively. Her gaze remained on the street. Her steps were purposeful, but not quite so crisp as they had been.

The sights and sounds of the golden afternoon did not draw the girl’s eye – it was likely she knew this street as intimately as he did, although the dimensions of their familiarity were very different. However, at Fabien’s mention of a list she glanced up and idly reached into a pocket to withdraw it.

Fabien was lost to this new found freedom. His eyes did not turn towards the girl, the boy was beyond distracted, his young limbs twitching with a nervous energy. He did not notice the change in his friend's demeanour, nor how she had she slipped through his fingers like sand and remained withdrawn in his shadow.

Instead, his eyes were focused on endless stretch of the streets, on the women who tipped dirty washing water over their balconies. On the streets, which were so achingly familiar, and the people who he weaved through around like a sea bird cresting on the waves. The urchin sped past courting couples, and turned sharply to avoid the swerve of a tradesman with a cart full of wares. In a single breath, he threatened to lose the girl entirely, to storm ahead, to run until he was back in his familiar haunts, back to his family.

Suddenly he stopped, began to slow, until he was at the girl's side. He lowered his sharp eyes towards her, glimpsing the paper held in her grasp. His voice was low, and softly apologetic.

“Thank you, Colombe, for letting me walk with you.” The youth murmured, as he slowed to match to match her stride.

The cobbled street did not feel as certain under the boy's feet, and his ankles pitched ever so often like a drunkard.

“I cannot read what it says on the paper, but we should head this way still, oui?” He ventured, as they neared a turned into a narrow street, following the natural path of the road.

It opened into a courtyard where lamps were being lit, the soft whisper of voices, of laughter gentle on the air. There stalls were being erected down a narrow stretch of street, not far from the banked wall of the river. Already vendors were attending to their stalls, art merchants preparing their paintings and prints for viewing. The market stretched across an elegant stone bridge which curved over the smooth flow of the river. It was picturesque and inviting, flanked by graceful stone sculptures clutching ornate lamps in their stone grasp. The evening light shone upon the stonework, causing the masonry to glint and sparkle like gold.

The boy's eyes were trained on the dark horizon beyond the other side of the river, no longer blessed by the warm light of the sun. The buildings there were shabby with disrepair, and birds flitted across the decrepit roofs like a swirl of soot.

“Shall we head for the bridge, cherié? It might be nice, to look at the water.” The urchin suggested.

There was something still and focused in his voice. But he did not race ahead this time, only waited for the girl's acceptance before he pulled ahead.

Colombe’s cheeks were still pink with embarrassment when the pair came to the curve in the road, but the sting of it seemed to have lessened and some of the primness had bled from her posture. There was a tension in her expression when she looked up to find Fabien so far ahead of her. She did not call out to him, did not run to catch up, but there was an unmistakable softening in her shoulders when his pace slowed and he returned to her side.

She did not quite meet his eyes but his gratitude did elicit the shadow of a smile. She rolled her shoulders in a demure shrug, a silent Yes, well. Her dark eyes followed the direction he indicated and she nodded an idle agreement, looking down at the neatly folded paper in her hand at his mention of it. Her brow creased as though with confusion at seeing it and she returned it, unopened, to her pocket.

The air was not so cool as to have discouraged anyone from leaving their homes and the market was lively with voices and movement. The street was well-lit and welcoming. Even the stray dogs that tussled with one another on the outskirts of the moving feet were not so mangy and ill-fed as their counterparts underfoot in other areas of the city. Colombe was clearly familiar with the terrain and moved with purpose, although there was a lingering aura about her step that might have been more for the boy’s sake than her own.

A man in a wide-brimmed hat caught sight of the pair from across the courtyard and lifted his hand to them, his shouted greeting melting into indistinguishable affability. Colombe jerked her head at the sound. She returned his wave with a tight-lipped smile. She dropped her gaze and clutched Fabien’s elbow, nodding quickly, yes, yes, yes, and it was her that ushered them in the direction the boy had suggested, toward the bridge.

The boy's scrawny arm relaxed to accommodate Colombe's grip, before he moved forward with excitable force her hold was bound to loosen from him if she did not tighten it.

From afar, the great stone bridge cut a striking pathway over the steady sweep of dark watered river blow.  A fine evening mist had risen from the waters beneath, casting the bridge with a golden haze that turned everything to the fluttering shadows of a magic lantern show.

The dark canopies of stalls began to melt into view, traders and their wares tucked against stone wall,  allowing just enough space for prospective buyers to wander freely. Despite the wide stretch of the bridge, already the evening crowds had began to amass, gathering in a quivering, excitable hum.

Fabien's pace finally began to slow as lead them into the heart of the flock, weaving his way through the press of bodies like alley cat. His hand sought Colombe's, ensuring she remained pressed close against his side.

The onslaught of sounds and smells were painfully distracting to the house-bound youth, and his every action had become marked by a quiet restraint. This was broken quite suddenly when something new caught his eye, and he suddenly gestured towards a stall surrounded by entranced children in fine clothes and their amused guardians.

“Ah look! Already we find the perfect gift for your friend!” He said, laughing softly as he moved to merge with the group in order to get a closer look.

The attentive audience stood in a half circle before a fine arrangement of ornate cages, each housing a different variety of jewel-like bird. Fabien reached out and ran his fingers along the bars of one glittering prison, where a butter yellow bird flitted between two thin posts, its darting eyes blinking.

“Now that'd be special meal, eh cherie? Very hard to refuse.” He teased, his lips curling into an impossibly impish grin.

The boy lingered in the midst of the group of potential customers a moment or so more, before he turned and began to usher Colombe away with him. He seemed suddenly flighty and eager for them to move back amongst the crowd. As he turned away, his hand appeared to stash something into his shirt with an almost imperceptible flick of the wrist.

“They always make it so easy here, les imbeciles.” He muttered to himself.

“D'accord, Colombe, let's look over there. I have never before come here as a … ah, what do you call it? You know, a buyer of things?”

The youth once again urged them both forward, his attention captured by a fruit seller who stood before her goods which were arranged in wall of immense colour. She looked up from polishing a gleaming apple with her apron, and sighting potential customers, immediately began to offer samples of dried fruit and nuts. Fabien was utterly in her thrall, and only turned towards his companion to announce loudly: “Lets get some of those!” and “What about these, Colombe?”


In his joy, the boy did not notice that they had suddenly attracted attention. With his back turned towards the street and his head bent down, he did not see that had come up close behind them. He did not hear the harsh whisper close to the girl's ear, nor see the cleverly concealed glint of a knife which was suddenly pressed against her ribs, scoring the fabric of her dress to make plain its brutal sharpness.

“I saw what he did just now, and what I want you both to come with me. Do not cry out, do not attract attention. Just walk.” The voice commanded, its tone low and controlled, threatening without malice.

Colombe’s grip loosened as the boy surged ahead and she was left behind. Her back stiffened. She straightened as the crowd pressed around her, her eyes striving to catch sight of him amid the bodies that indifferently went about their own business around her.

There was relief in the gentle squeeze she gave his hand when he returned to her. The relief was not for her sake - it was clear, from her purposeful stride that she was familiar with these crowds, carried some knowledge of this street - but that her only friend hadn’t melted into the twisted alleys of the city and vanished.

She moved with him toward the stall trilling with the chirps of birds and the laughter of children. The boy’s sly suggestion elicited a smile and she leaned forward to examine the soft creature he had indicated. The bird’s dark eyes blinked at her as it danced nervously on thin legs, and her interest was too captivated to mind where her companion’s hands might have slunk off to.

She huffed reproachfully when she was ushered so quickly away from the spectacle. As she twisted around to catch one more glimpse of the ornate cages before the crowd closed around and swallowed them from sight, she did not notice Fabien’s impromptu sleight of hand, nor have the chance to speculate on what it was that he had palmed.

The girl was more reserved when her companion urged them toward his next quarry, and she only allowed herself to be guided to the outskirts of the group of people inspecting the fruit seller’s wares on offer before shaking herself free and lingering at some distance. She turned her head toward another stall, gaze distant and fingers idly reaching for the creased paper smuggled inside the folds of her clothing.

It was then she felt the sting at her side, hot breath filling her ear with warmth like the sudden drawing of blood.

Colombe let out a sound of surprise, soft and swift, and instinctively jerked. The blade poked against skin and she stilled, settling into a tableau of compliance, one palm half-raised as though to suggest she was unarmed, defenseless, and of course she’d do as bid. A single finger held the unopened list against her raised palm.

Her eyes did not turn to try and find their assailant. Instead, they were fixed steadily on Fabien, and when he met them he would glimpse no shadow of terror in her gaze - he would find it calm as the surface of a dark pool, bleached almost uncannily of flickering anxiety.

If not interrupted, she would move as instructed, head bowed in a picture of girlish acquiescence. Her eyes were alert and dark with a careful clarity the boy would no doubt find familiar, having had that same gaze scrutinizing him attentively from the corners of shadowy rooms.

Fabien was perfectly oblivious to the immediacy of his friend's situation. He did not turn towards her, but continued to pursue his cheerful conversation with the fruit seller. The whispered threat did not reach his ears, and it was only the soft sound of distress the gained the boy's attention.

He turned then, with nonchalantly ease, his eyes bright and lips still curled with pleasure.

When his eyes met Colombe's dark gaze, his expression was merely puzzled at first. And then he looked beyond her, looked to the dark figure in her shadow. The colour quickly drained from the boy's skin, and the muscles of his arms slackened like that of a string puppet.

The urchin did not speak, but merely lowered his head in expression of strained acceptance.

Once the girl's attacker seemed satisfied, they slipped a strong fingered hand around her arm, and kept the knife fiercely pressed in the small of her back.

“If either of you make trouble, I will puncture her where she will bleed too quick for the surgeon to fix.”

Fabien's grey eyes found Colombe's, and lingered there with fierce intensity. His gaze was broken only when the girl was jostled forward, and they began to weave their way through the crowd. The stranger kept their pace steady and swift, but never fast enough to draw attention.

It soon became clear they were being steered away from the  bridge, and over to where the buildings darkened, the streets became narrower. Soon the paved roads had began to deteriorate into sludge, the polished, prim doorsteps replaced by broken in windows and doors that had been boarded up and ripped into over and over again. The air was putrid, as if the very streets were rot and buildings were riddled with rotten wounds, bleeding bile into the streets.

If the girl was not sure footed, she would be hoisted forward, the hand firm on her arm. But as soon as the path had cleared, Fabien at her side, seeking her fingers in a silent gesture of reassurance.

They were lead far away from the cheerful light of the night market, down some pitiful alley and towards a doorway that was little more than sheets of grey, stained cloth.

It was only when they paused here, that Colombe would have a chance to see who the stranger was.

They were dressed in a young man's clothes and stood just a little taller than Fabien. Despite the strength in the arms, the figure was wretchedly thin, as gaunt as the boy had been when they'd first met. Their features were mostly concealed beneath short, tangled hair, but the pointed chin and strip of sallow skin at the throat was marked by faint scars.

On top of what was mostly rags, a black and white jacket clung to their narrow limbs. It had something of a theatrical air about it. A shabby, dried rose had been pinned to the pocket, its heavy head slouched forward in a melancholy bow.

“Inside.” They instructed, and waited for them both to enter first.  

The curtained doorway led into room sectioned up into several smaller cubicles with bits of rough board and old sheets. Darkness bled out from beyond the threshold, illuminated by a few candles which fought valiantly against the gloom. Shapes moved within those shadows, prowling in the shadows with an animal hunger.


“The girl looks monied, you can search her.” Their assailant offered, and sought to push Colombe with enough force to unsteady her.

The instruction was greeted by an appreciative low hush, muttered whispering and occasional grim laughter.

Fabien moved so quickly then, that was beside the girl without a thought. His hands sought her out in the darkness,moving with a kind of fierce desperation.  If he found her, she was sure to feel the distinct tremble in his fingers.

“You don't have to touch her, we will give you the money. Qu'est-ce qui se passe?” Fabien rasped, his voice almost perfectly calm, despite the his palpable terror.

His question was greeted with a soft, tired laugh from behind them. The stranger moved in a slow circle, blade striking the weak  light and sparking like a lit match.

When the voice spoke again, it was heavy with grief.

“... I knew it was you. They said you had been killed, murdered in some whore house, but I wouldn't believe it. I never stopped looking.”

The figure pulled the cap from her head, and pushed back the dark curls which had been shorn close to her jawline. She might have been beautiful, were her skin not so sickly, not so ruined by scars and hunger. The hand that gripped the knife had tightened, blade trembling against her thigh.

“And then I see you there, with her, looking so content, laughing. Laughing. Do you know how we suffered trying to find you?”

“Daima, it wasn't- ” Fabien began softly, his muscles twitching as if he meant to rise up and move toward the unhappy girl, crush her against his chest. Instead, he lingered by his friend, his protective affection. It was Colombe he continued to seek her out in the dark, to curl his arm around her shoulder if she would let him.

“And now I see you hurt us double.” Daima stated. Her voice had changed, now chilling in its toneless quality. She watched them both, swaying a little on the spot, before her eyes hardened viciously, her lip curled in offence.

Without thought, she moved forward, her hand connecting with Fabien's stomach. It was hard to discern whether the knife had been used, but the action was forceful enough to send the boy reeling to his knees. When he was sufficiently widened, she issued a sharp kick to the side of his head, hard enough to make his ears ring.

Daima turned  towards the girl, the blade still trembling in her hand and the terrible light of madness and hunger in her eyes. “Where is Jehan?” She breathed, tears coursing over her scarred cheeks.  “You tell me where he is, or I will gut you both.”

“He would not have left me. Not like you Fabien, not him.”

Colombe meekly allowed herself to be hoisted along the dark alley, her loose limbs offering little resistance. Her gaze remained alert as a crow’s keen eyes, taking careful note of their path, scrutinizing the delipidated skeletons of burnt and ruined buildings with flashing glances.

She did not meet her captor’s eyes. Nor did she raise her gaze to meet Fabien’s, although when she was shoved forward and stumbled, nearly losing her balance, she squeezed the boy’s hand in hers with something like gratitude for the scant reassurance it provided.

She hesitated when prompted to enter the dark mouth of the hovel. It was only when Fabien obliged that she would follow suit, wiping her hands nervously on the skirt of her dress. The gloom flickering with sparse candlelight and the whispering shapes of hungry bodies that awaited her slowed her feet. She did not move until she was pushed.

The girl did not have to be persuaded to relinquish her valuables; at her friend’s cue she reached into a pocket and proffered the money she had been given to an eager palm that swiftly snatched it away. It quickly disappeared into other hands, its passage heralded by hoots and hollers of delight at the prize.

If they had intended to see what else could be scavenged from her pockets, it was interrupted by Daima’s sudden assault. Colombe flinched when the blow landed on her friend, flinched a second time when it was followed by the vicious kick that snapped his head on his neck, but her eyes did not look away.

In the gloom, the white of her dress nearly glowed like the cream of a shell peeking through river muck. She looked into her attacker’s face, saw the grief and anger writ there and took a deep breath. The knife between them dripped menace like a scorpion’s barb, but it was not where her attention fixed.  

Colombe did something astonishing then; she opened her mouth, and she spoke.

“I know the man who might have hurt him.” Her voice was strong but marred by a lisp that ruined the effect of the formal education delicately lifting the syllables. It was not right, the muffled way she formed the words as though her mouth had been stuffed by a rag.

She didn’t seem entirely comfortable with this action on her part, her brow creased with the effort, but she continued after a moment.

“A bad man. Mais… mais c'est dur pour moi,” she said, the words dampened in her mouth and indeed, even this much seemed to have exhausted her. Her breath was quick and she paused as though to gather herself.

The scrap of paper she had been entrusted  was still clasped in her hand. She brought it down, carefully, and then with an exaggerated motion she mimed scrawling on it with an imagined pen.

“S'il vous plaît, can one of you read?” The words fell to rot in her mouth, but they were intelligible.

She did not look at Fabien, did not confer with him about her intentions. Indeed, it was difficult to decipher from the defiant slant of her body if she intended to reveal anything she knew, or if this was something else entirely. But for now, all eyes were on her.

As soon as the word 'hurt' had left Colombe's lips, Daima had lurched closer, knife poised as though to slice open her throat.

“What - Bad - Man?” She hissed, each word spat like a fragment of bloodied glass.

Daima pressed the point of the blade to Colombe's throat watching the girl struggle to talk. The knife's sharp edge scored hin, angry lines across her flesh. Despite the immense control in her arm, her eyes were black with rage, and her breath left her  throat in a faint shudder.  She examined the girl like a feral dog debating the best place to sink its steaming jaws.

When Colombe produced the paper, Daima's eyes lowered to her hand, to the mimed action. The leader of the urchin group was not quick to accept. She lingered, blade trembling against tender flesh, before she finally relented. Then the scarred girl motioned into the shadows behind her with a flick of a finger.

“Victoire, viens ici mon ange ” she instructed softly, her voice suddenly low and gentle. "Read the writing here for us, Victoire."


At her order, another girl immediately emerged from the darkness, her ragged skirts swaying as she walked. She moved with a nervous energy, wide eyed and twitching of limb like a  fledgling bird. Her hands in particular were in constant motion, plucking at the filthy lace about her wrists. The flesh of her cheekbone was faintly bruised, purple mottled marks fading to gold.  

Daima pulled the girl towards her and offered her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “Notre petit érudit.” She crooned, and her words were met with a rumble of low laughter from the pack.

“He's only been teachin' me a little Daima, so's I can read his letters while he is at war.” The girl murmured in embarrassment.

Her explanation was greeted with further sneered amusement, to which she flinched and lowered her chin. Her skin was covered in a thin layer of gaudy stage paint, and the smell of dried lavender wafted from her filthy clothing as she moved. Something in the immodest cut of her dress suggested her trade was not been entirely wholesome.

She turned towards Colombe, indicating toward the paper held in her hand.

“I dehn't know much, miss, not really. No big words or anything, but... I'll try.” Her voice was softly apologetic.

~

Fabien groaned pitifully from where he lay on the wretched, mud encrusted floor. He was dazed from the impact, his ear bloodied, the skin split by the brutal impact of his friend's boot and the cruel point a buckle. The voices around him floated on the air, distorted as though from the bottom of a deep pool.

While Daima was presently occupied, a small boy had skittered out from near the fireplace, creeping across the floor like a greasy alley rat. He knelt at Fabien's side, his tiny arms flung around the boy's neck as he pressed excited whispers into his ear.

“She'll forgive you, I know she will, ah but she's been awful angry. Wasn't the same after Eva died, not  when she was calling for you both, and was in all that pain. But now you're back with us Fabien, it'll be alright.”

Fabien's eyes, glassy with pain,  stared through the young urchin's head without comprehension. He slowly attempted to find his feet, using the urchin's small shoulder for leverage. He swayed unsteadily, the small boy wrapped protectively around one of his legs.

The pale haired youth kept his gaze on Colombe, and desperately sought her eyes, or a mere flicker on her attention. He looked to the paper then, to the approaching girl with the nervous, fluttering hands.  If he had gained any grasp on the situation, on what his dear friend meant to do, the realisation came much too late.


“Wait ...Colombe?” The boy rasped, his vision blurring. “Que faites-vous.?”

Colombe did not flinch away from the cold press of the knife against the delicate skin of her throat. She continued to lock eyes with the scarred girl as she spoke, each word careful and deliberate even with its rounded edges and the strain each syllable seemed to cost her.

However, the instant Daima turned away to gesture to the shadowed crowd, Colombe put a hand to her throat and inspected the imagined damage with nervous fingers before returning her hand to her side.

It was with no small measure of relief that she regarded the girl that had been plucked from among the faceless figures in the gloom. She offered the girl a tight-lipped smile that did not show her teeth and gestured for her to come close. She knelt, paying no heed to the grime that darkened her shins in wet stains, and put her hand to Fabien’s cheek. The gesture was companionable, comforting - and performed with the hope that only he would understand the slight brush of her finger against his lips as though to silence him. His thin-boned companion was offered only a slight smile before her gaze had moved on to the dirty floor.

Colombe quickly found what she was looking for and plucked a discarded piece of burnt wood from the filth. She made a mark on the paper and, satisfied with the result, utilized the uneven floor as her makeshift table as she carefully traced out letters in neat blocks of soft, charcoal black. Victoire hovered nervously at her shoulder. Fabien was close enough to oversee her work, although whether the marks she made yielded any meaning to him was doubtful.

After a minute of purposeful scrawling, Colombe sat up to offer her translator the paper. Victoire’s limbs grew immediately restless, burdened with the knowledge of the importance of the task she had been assigned, and it was only after she had cleared her throat several times and mouthed the words that she began her halting, hesitant recital.

“He is a sick man and -” The following word had been crossed out and she peered closely at the paper before resuming slowly. “He made it so I can’t talk and - quelle est cette lettre? - h...hurt Fabien. It was not his fault. The bad man hurts lots of people.” A murmur slithered through the flickering silhouettes around them. Colombe gestured for her to return the paper and the girl obliged, watching and squeezing her fingers as the writer worked on the second part of her message, brow creased with the strain of conveying her meaning in short, simple sentences.

It was not long before she offered the now much-dirtied page back. Victoire leaned in close, evidently enthralled with the story she was helping relay. Her voice was louder now, although no more sure of itself as she continued:

“You can hurt us too, if you want, but it will do no good. We are prisons… non, désolé, prisoners - but I watch. I listen. Maybe I can find out something about your friend. I will do it just to…” Victoire tried, shaping it differently in her mouth with every attempt, but whatever word was written there was beyond her capacity and she returned the paper to the girl who hurriedly scrawled a replacement and encouraged her to continue.

“I will do it just to hurt him back,” she read. She paused before reading the last line, sucking nervously on her tongue. “I’m sorry,” she said at last, although it was not entirely clear what it was she was apologizing for.

Colombe’s pale fingers were black with soot. She did not rise to her feet, but offered Victoire’s dangling hand a squeeze and a smile as though to say, thank you, you did good. Victoire did not pull away from this stranger who had brought such dark tidings into their midst. Her flighty gaze was on Daima.

Colombe’s dark eyes had not quite made it there - they lingered for a moment on her friend beside her, gaze hooded even as she had to look up to see his face, looking for some confirmation that he had understood what had passed between them. And then she too, looked to the scarred urchin leader as she waited in silence for her to pass judgement.

Daima watched Colombe and Victoire's movements with a wolf-like intensity. As the girl prepared to relinquish her story, she flicked a finger towards the door, where shadowy figures immediately gathered to bar any poorly planned escape attempts. Her arm muscles remained tense until she was confident the stranger had no intentions to flee or hurt her companion. Only then did darkly attired young woman grant Colombe her full attention, folding her arms across her chest, the glint of a knife ever present against her waist.


It was difficult to tell what thoughts past through her mind as she listened. Her eyes moved between Colombe and Fabien slowly, as if she were trying to solve as especially troublesome puzzle. She did not interrupt Victorie's oration, but began to shift her weight uneasily from one foot to the other.

When the mention of a 'bad man' caused a ripple of unrest and dark whisperings to erupt amidst her fold, she glanced behind her with features tense. Something in Colombe's words has disturbed the once care free and languid gathering, like a heavy stone dropped into calm, black waters.

“Hush,” she hissed and shifted about like an agitated cat.

“L'homme fantôme” murmured the young boy at Fabien's side in a solemn whisper. He was immediately chastied by Daima, who took a full sharp steps back and fourth across the room.

“There is no l'homme fantôme,” she murmured. But something in her eyes spoke different, and for a moment some distant look of recognition passed across her features, like an old memory resurfacing from shadowy depths.

Victoire tucked her chin towards her chest, her fingers fussing with the hem of her bodice

Then when the Colombe had completed her explanation, Daima turned fiercely toward Fabien.

“Is what she says true, Fabien?”

The pale haired youth did not turn to look at his old companion. His eyes were still rooted upon Colombe, wide and unblinking as they had been when she first laid her steady hand upon his skin. The youth's lips parted, but whatever he had first meant to say was bitten off by his old friend before he could give voice to it.

“You are prisoners, but he lets you out, your 'bad man'? To walk the streets, to flirt with fruit sellers?” Daima turned back to Colombe, her eyes catching the candle light and sparking like a broken fuse.

“And you come here well dressed, and you do not look hurt. And so you must be happy now, non? To be free, to be with us?” She gestured to the hovel around her, her lips attempting a half-formed smile that lacked humour.

“So you can stay then. Stay where we can protec-.”

“We were allowed out, because-... it was a reward.” Fabien interrupted, his voice harsh and ragged. His eyes continued to search Colombe's face for some sign of guidance as he began to speak with painful hesitation. “And he will make an enemy of you, of all of you, Daima... if we stay here. She is not lying.”

"I would not lie to you, I have never lied to you."

Daima's eyes grew softer then, and some sign of emotion began to creep into her youthful features like dawn light over winter grass. She did not answer, and a terrible kind of silence fell heavy around them, interrupted only by a soft, imploring voice.

“The lady said she will watch for Jehan, that she will help us.” The small boy glanced toward the mute girl. “We should try to find Jehan.” His words were greeted with muffled approval from those still loyal to the long vanished urchin.

Fabien flinched, and laid a trembling hand on the child's filthy crown.


"If I let you go, then I want her to bear a mark. I want it to be clear she has been here, and she has spoken with me and I have let you both leave." Daima uncurled her arms, and tested the sharpness of her blade with a fingertip.

What little sun filtered in through the holes in the slanting roof and barred windows had softened to grey as evening bled onto the streets. The flicker of candles glowed more vivid in the failing light, transforming the shuffling band around them into a pack of silhouetted wolves, with cracked lips and bright eyes intent on the stranger in their midst.

Colombe carefully kept her head bowed under the weight of all the stares. Her gaze remained decorously averted, but her dark eyes flicked across the shadowed figures as the ripple of unease spread through them at her translator’s words. It was difficult, impossible even, to read what it was she had gathered from the whispers, but as her eyes returned to the grimy floor one could assume she was mulling over this homme fantôme.

If she had any insight into the nature of le fantôme, she did not voice it.

When Daima set upon her companion, Colombe turned to him. For a moment, their eyes met, and there was something beseeching in her gaze. When Daima cut off his reply to begin her own interrogation, eyes flashing with displeasure, the girl turned away once more to let him answer.

The suggestion that they remain in this place provoked an instant reaction. She half-rose from her knees in a sudden motion like that of a startled hen, quick enough that Victoire took a step away from her in confusion, but as Fabien responded she rocked back on her knees. Clearly, she did not think it wise that they stay. She nodded in agreement at the boy’s answer, biting at her lip. A fidget had taken her hands and she plucked at the hem of her skirt.

The quiet voice that broke the terrible silence that followed caught her attention and she stilled at the words from the young boy at Fabien’s side. She froze as a doe at a wolf’s presence, her figure a deathly still flower of white in the gloom. And then she nodded once more, firmly, before her eyes slid away.

She appeared almost eager to rise at Daima’s challenge, brushing her skirts on impulse before catching herself and letting the hand fall to her side. She approached the de facto leader without hesitation. It was clear she had little notion of what such a mark would entail, but when she extended both blackened palms to the girl, they did not waver.

Her large eyes were liquid in the Stygian slum. They were fixed without faltering on Daima as she waited with perfect resignation for the price she had to pay to be allowed to leave this place and these people that had been the first and last living souls she had spoken to since she had her voice stolen.