What is a homunculus? My father defined it as “a life form birthed through alchemical means.” During a homunculian transformation, the old body (often deceased) becomes a vessel—or cocoon, you might say—through which the new life is hatched.

  By the time Antoinette arrived at the cabaret, Maria had already left. The cabaret’s owner, Bella, swept ‘round the place, seeming rather busy and uninterested in anything she had to say. According to her, Maria and Josephine were here in the morning, and she had barely missed them.

  “No way!” Antoinette sulked, kicking the heavy bag on the floor at her feet. “After I came all this way? Why is it so freaking hard to find this woman!”

  Bella clicked her tongue. “You are welcome to stay. Maybe she will come back.”

  “She wouldn’t like that,” Antoinette groaned. Maria always warned her against such things. “I’d better go, then.” She gathered her bags and hauled them back out into the afternoon light, Bella bidding her a warm yet disinterested farewell on her way out.

  Once outside, she had not the faintest idea of where to go next.

  She decided to ask the nearest carriage driver if he had noticed the women around the town, but he seemed unsure and, ultimately, proved to be no help.

  Why is everybody so unhelpful? Antoinette thought.

  This all just left her feeling tired and deflated. Had she really come all this way to not find them at all? And to miss them by this much! It irked her terribly. With her bags feeling very heavy at this point, she put them down and thought about her options.

  She supposed, there wasn’t really much of an option.

  She drew into her bags and took out a water bladder, opening it up and taking a large gulp. She hadn’t realised how thirsty she was until this very moment, with water dribbling all down her chin and clothes, her throat becoming quickly sated.

  Eventually, stoppering it back up and returning it to her bag, she drew a deep breath and looked up through the streets. I suppose I could visit Alfred, she thought. At least she knew where her uncle Alfred was. Of course, he would know where Maria was. Though, she wondered if Alfred would even recognise her; it had been so long since they last saw each other.

  Okay, Antoinette, stop wasting time.

  She grabbed her bags again, arms painful, and continued her mission.

  #

  That evening, Maria and Josephine stayed up late in Maria’s room. Night fell quick in Carcassonne; by the time they had dined and washed up, despite their efforts, the day had escaped them. Sitting at the reading desk in the corner of the room, Maria carefully went through her brother’s ledger by the light of her candles.

  It was a cursed document. The paper was old and the ink was faded and poor, despite her brother’s wealth. She supposed, in time, even expensive things lost their shine. But she still could not believe this book had lasted so long beyond his death.

  Collector’s items. It was a comedic thing, that items of as little significance as these would become preserved and sold for high amounts—and why! Not that she cared much, but she did suppose such things were better off with the cabaret than on the market for just anybody to get their hands on. But then, she thought, evidently, these items were not even safe in the cabaret.

  Edgar, you awful man, she thought, as a creaking floorboard caused her to look over to where Josephine was picking a book off the shelf across the room.

  Its spine cracked as Josephine peeled open the red covers. “I don’t mean to distract you, Maria,” she said, nonplussed. “Do carry on with what you were doing.” She then walked carefully to the other side of the room and sat in the reading chair.

  Maria pursed her lips and shrugged. With her free hand, she lifted the brew of tea that Josephine had prepared for her earlier, sipping it.

  The ledger contained many pages filled with writing, such as debts repaid, and unordinary amounts owed between parties. Others contained notes in the margins, with additional amounts and certain...favours. Maria did look twice at some of these, but she had known that money wasn’t the only way her younger brother had repaid his debts.

  Upon reaching a transaction between Edgar and a man known here only as G. A. Le Bon, she noted the remark of, “A forehead like a mutated potato, and a voice like one who has taken sawblade to the throat. He is like a fly to me. Approach Doctor Laennec regarding this loan so I do not have to deal with him in-person anymore.”

  Maria did not know for how long she had been smiling, but upon recognising this fact, she quickly discarded it from her face and hoped the darkness concealed it from Josephine.

  “I saw that,” said Josephine.

  Maria startled, shutting the book and looking up to see Josephine standing right beside her. She frowned deeply. “I thought you were reading that dull red book!”

  “It was boring,” Josephine yawned. “Besides, this all seems much more interesting. I guess you can’t say Edgar didn’t have an opinion.”

  “Yes,” Maria sighed as she opened the ledger again. “He was loud and he had a lot to say. More often than not, however, I wished he would say nothing at all.” She shook her head at another insulting comment squashed into the margins. “It is strange,” she said softly, “to think it has been so many years since I have heard my brother’s voice. Yet, I can hear it so strongly when I read through these. He dictated to his scribes as he conversed in reality. Though, he did not dictate this. It is his own scrawl. You can tell by how untidy it is.”

  “So, he authored quite a number of journals, then?”

  “Indeed, Principles wasn’t the only thing Edgar wrote that some people might care to look into. That’s my biggest concern, that there are things he meant for his eyes only, now available to anybody. If he only had kinder things to say, maybe he wouldn’t be dead. And, who knows, maybe we wouldn’t be in such a predicament.”

  “He was popular, though, wasn’t he?”

  “An unfortunate side effect of having strong opinions, being unafraid to voice them, and being entertaining while doing it.” She spread the pages of the ledger and indicated the vast amount of paperwork on display. “Just look at all of this, Josephine. It was happening while we were around, behind our backs, putting our family into debt, making enemies of people we should be allies with. The effects of his bad judgment haunt this family. See how I still have to deal with this, after so many years?”

  “He is your brother. I’m not surprised he is infuriating.”

  Maria shared in on Josephine’s wide smile, but did not comment on it. She simply bit her tongue and continued browsing through the ledger.

  Her brother was long dead and yet he persisted to drive her mad. Awry deals he’d never spoken to them about. Vast amounts paid back weasel-like. Excuses, and then that was not even the worst of it, for every now and then she came across one resolution or another that could only be described, at best, as shady, and at worst...criminal.

  Josephine had walked off and was on Maria’s bed, humming quietly to herself.

  Maria laced her fingers and stared at the ledger. All of it started to blur together. What was she even supposed to be looking for here? Much of the ledger was poorly-organised, with missing details and no receipts of anything concrete. The only thing she knew, for sure, was the streak of payments to Vincenzo Molteni beyond Edgar’s death.

  This isn’t some debt, Maria. Bella’s voice. Your brother continues to send money to the Molteni family. That book simply does not supply enough pages to cover it all.

  But I invite you to consider, were my girls the first to make off with all your dead brother’s possessions? Or has somebody from the Molteni family found something incriminating amongst it?

  She was breathing louder, slouching over the book. The question was, what did they know? What secrets ran so deep? So deep, in fact, and so compromising, that Alfred was making regular payments to stop them from coming out?

  There were things, of course. Things that Maria still remembered, things that had haunted her despite the intervening years. There were things that could hurt them. But Maria did not wish to think of such things. She flipped back to the last deals made prior to Edgar’s death. He had been bargaining up until this point. Only when she sat, staring at the final entry for a long period of time, did something materialise that she had not noticed before.

  “Josephine,” Maria said. “Take a look at this.” She moved the candle and then leant in to make sure her eyes were not deceiving her. Josephine approached from the bed, peering over Maria’s shoulder at the black-inked entries, slightly smudged.

  “What is it?” Her breaths smelled like stew.

  “Observe this period following Edgar’s death. How many entries are there?” She began turning through pages, two or three times before reaching the end. “How many months is that? Five, six months of time after Edgar is dead. See the way this person signs his name, J. A., it’s the same initial used during Edgar’s final days? See that, Josephine?”

  “Right?”

  “Hm.” Maria licked her lips, her eyes losing focus as she stared intently at the pages. With a finger, she traced along each transaction. They’re all for small amounts of money, but to the same person. She said this aloud: “Remy. This is money that’s being paid from whoever Remy is.”

  “I see,” said Josephine. “Edgar’s little friend is selling things, probably his possessions.”

  “Not necessarily his possessions, but yes, something. And to the same person. For months, this lasts. The name Remy doesn’t sound familiar to me.”

  “Could be a distributor,” Josephine said. “Like, could Remy be buying Edgar’s copies and then distributing them himself? Well, look at the prices. They’re not very high, are they. You would see small items of little worth to be sold for that much.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is the seller?” Josephine asked. “A scribe?”

  “I would imagine,” Maria said. “Nobody else had access. Furthermore, the same signature was used on transactions that occurred immediately prior to his death, too.”

  “So, one of his last scribes?” Josephine was peering closer and humming between her lips. “Can you check for the name Remy somewhere?”

  Maria flipped through the book to the back, where she found a glossary of every customer, along with their details and the corresponding signatures. She filed through with her finger until she found the one matching Remy, with the surname Gardel.

  “Bonpoi,” Maria read. She knew this place. It was a fishing town not far from Carcassonne at all. She felt excitement like she had not felt in many years, a burning-up in her chest, the sudden strength in her legs, like she could run to Bonpoi right now.

  Focus, Maria, she urged. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

  “How certain are you that Remy is the one dealing out these copies?” Josephine asked.

  “It’s good enough for me,” Maria told her.

  In truth, she was desperate. Desperate for anything. And the story made sense. Edgar dies. His last scribe—the only person there except for Rosalie on the night it happened—takes what he can and flees. He finds a willing buyer in Remy, and sells it over months. Years later, these documents are all over the market. Documents that not only include witchcraft that even Edgar refused to publish, but possibly other things. Personal writings. Journals. Details of the family’s past. If they found Remy, he would have records of what had gone out, and where.

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  She nodded to herself. Remy had to at least know something.

  “I will admit, I’m intrigued,” Josephine mused. “I say we visit this mysterious man, then. Do you think we could find the scribe, too?”

  Maria thought about it. “I’d bet Otto could find something about him.”

  “Well, if you’re right, and this is all connected, we’re going to look like geniuses. I don’t think it’s crazy to think we could find everything. I mean, we’d be following paper trails for months—maybe even years, to get it all—but it’s a start.”

  Some information is more dangerous than others, Maria thought, as she made a note of the location, Bonpoi, and closed the ledger. It was thirteen years past, so there was every chance Remy had moved on, but at the very least, somebody might know something.

  “We’ll go first in the morning by carriage,” Maria said decisively. “We should make good time, considering the dry weather.”

  “In the meantime, would you like me to take care of your brother’s items? Perhaps I could arrange to return them to Bellvoir?”

  Maria briefly contemplated this. She glanced back down at the black ledger, feeling a sense of heat in her chest, and the urge to place her hand on it.

  “Not this,” she said, grabbing it. “Let us keep this with us for now, as it’s the only thing we have that contains actual information. But the rest may go. Thank you.”

  Josephine gathered Edgar’s things sans the ledger, and prepared to depart, with Maria deciding to catch some sleep ahead of a long few days. She was so, deeply, tired.

  Before retiring to bed, she told Josephine, “If you wouldn’t mind, perhaps have the items sent via Audrie at the post centre. She gets things done a little quicker, and more reliable.”

  Josephine paused for a beat, then nodded.

  “Of course, Maria,” said Josephine, and that was that.

  #

  The breeze against Josephine’s face helped ease the anxiety that she felt as she hurried through the darkened roads of Carcassonne, clutching the bag of items. She had in her mind that as long as she did not look up and make eye contact with anybody outside, nor peer into any dimly-lit window, then nobody would notice that she was there.

  She arrived at the postal office in short time, and prepared the satchels to be sent back to Bellvoir via private courier. Of course, this did come with an additional fee, but it seemed that Maria responded positively to privacy, and with how things had unfolded, Josephine felt that her desire for such things was not so unfounded.

  The postal office was closed, but Josephine was able to have the parcels out for delivery. She did not wait around after this, nor did she return to their housing.

  She shivered as she walked further down the complicated streets of Carcassonne. The city was far more barren than Bellvoir, for there was no such thing as a night life—at least, not the kind that generally attracted crowds, like the cabaret and drinking holes present that side of France. The night life of Carcassonne was less grimy and slum-like, more...she would say, secretive. She noticed flickers of motion and murmurs of sound, but to find these things in this town, one was required to really look for them.

  She continued to ponder the situation of the Lucien family, thoughts and theories of which had not left her mind in the time she had accompanied Maria to Carcassonne. She had never thought of their family this much in her entire life, not even Edgar, who was celebrity among many a witch of the Black Dime Cabaret. They were, however, a storied bunch—particularly Edgar Lucien. She wondered where this new figure, Remy, came into play, his connection to the scribe, and what other secrets the ledger contained; for example, Vincenzo Molteni.

  Maria was awfully concerned about the Molteni family.

  Are they threatening to release those...dangerous chapters? Josephine thought. Like what they found on Selika? Or is it something about Edgar? Something embarrassing he wrote? It did not seem enough. After all, she had seen the amounts Alfred was paying Vincenzo Molteni. Thousands upon thousands.

  But what could be so terrible? she thought. Something about Alfred? Maria?

  She stopped, realising she’d been so lost in thought she’d forgotten her way. Damn it. Where am I? A lantern knocked against the side of a shop in the winds that swirled through the narrow streets. Rocks skittered on cobblestones. Clouds drifted over dark blue sky, mountains covering the highlands.

  With her own lantern, she went up to a nearby signpost and lifted it high to read the black paint on slightly-decaying wood. Molvue District, it read.

  She bit her lip as a chill ran through her body. She knew she still needed to be careful, that the threat presenting by the depraved cult of Lucien was as real to her as it was to Maria, whatever allegiances the two of them had. If she had been spotted with Maria, which it was likely that she had, then the fanatics knew her face.

  I’d better hurry, she thought.

  Now checking the shadows everywhere she went, she hurried her pace through the streets, holding her lantern at high to illuminate a wash of cobblestones, avoiding getting her long thread-like legs in a tangle. Eventually she began to recognise where she was, and the path became more natural.

  At last, she found it.

  Precarious steps led to a front door she had only ever viewed from afar before, and placing her lantern on the hook outside, she raised her fist, knocking several times. As she waited, she looked around to check that nobody had followed her; but despite her unease, the streets remained empty. Empty, yet stiflingly heavy and expansive.

  It was after a few more moments that the door opened, and standing in the half-opened space was Alfred Lucien, his eyes tired yet serious.

  “What on...” He looked around. “Oh, you’re the one who was here with my sister. Erm, hold on. What are you doing here? And at such a time?”

  “May I please come inside? It’s cold.”

  Alfred grumbled to himself, stepping back and opening the door as little as possible for her to squeeze through. He kept his gaze not on Josephine but on the road outside, continuing to watch with animal intensity. Only once Josephine was well into the house, and he had thoroughly checked in every direction, did he close and lock the door.

  Josephine peered around the small parlour of Alfred’s estate. There were very minimal furnishings and decorations, most unlike the town hall, which he had apparently ordered to be decorated so ostentatiously. Rather, Alfred’s personal estate was dreary and sort of unwelcoming. He owned numerous bookshelves, though sparsely populated; and had many expensive yet undecoratively-labelled drinks on display: wines and other alcoholic bottles, many of which with peeling and degraded labels. He liked his wine, this much Josephine could tell, but aside from that, it was difficult to discern much else about the man.

  On the floor in the corner, she spotted a large travelling bag. Frowning, she thought about where she had seen such a bag before.

  “Who else is here?” she asked.

  Alfred cleared his throat and walked out in front of her. Josephine realised he was now dressed in a woollen nightgown and, assumedly, not much else. It might have been the way the light travelled, but she had never before seen his wrinkles so pronounced, the bags under his eyes so deep, almost like you could fit potions in them.

  Alfred’s eyes fell to the bag. “How am I not surprised to find that my younger sister is oblivious to her little follower, and in her blindness, would jeopardise her safety?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Lower your voice. She’s sleeping. And it took some effort to make it so.”

  “Antoinette is here?” Josephine exclaimed, more in realisation than inquiry. “How...” Yet she didn’t expect Alfred to answer this. She couldn’t even imagine how Antoinette had managed to make it here all by herself, from Bellvoir. That seemed...admirable.

  She chuckled. “How odd.”

  Alfred raised a brow, heading past her into the kitchen. “I hope you’re here because you have uncontainable good news regarding the investigation.”

  “Not necessarily,” Josephine said. “But we’re making progress.” She followed him, taking a seat at the table as Alfred fetched two glasses and filled them with wine, his to the brim, Josephine’s less-generous. Alfred, unlike Maria, was a sizeable individual. He took up an unusually-large amount of space in the small room. Another contrast she noticed was that, where Maria seemed to maintain the most rigid and uptight of movements, Alfred crashed and swerved as though driven on an unruly river. Then again, this may have been partly due to the fact it was long into the night.

  “So what is it then?” Alfred asked.

  He passed her the wine and Josephine touched the drinking glass with her long fingers. Her painted nails tapped against the cold side. “Clearly,” Alfred said, meeting her with his steely blue eyes, “it is to do in some regard with my sister. Otherwise you would not have come all this way and risked being found by the witches that loiter our streets.”

  “You could say that,” said Josephine.

  “Go on, then, you have my attention.” Alfred sipped his wine. Josephine peered at her own glass now. She had not admitted entirely to herself the problem which plagued her mind, not until now, in Alfred’s house. She didn’t even know Alfred—certainly, she knew him far less than Maria. There was just that single prior interaction between them.

  But, yes, maybe that was why she was here.

  “I...” She felt her stomach through her clothing, underneath it the most subtle yet convex of bumps. Where her fingers met this peculiar shape, they were greeted with the strangest tingling sensation, and she felt her heartrate increase rapidly.

  “Oh,” Alfred said.

  Josephine looked up at him, her fingers shaking.

  “I’m sorry. I should say congratulations. But, knowing my sister, it probably doesn’t feel like it.” Alfred walked over to the table, pulled out a seat and sat down.

  “It feels like a curse,” Josephine said.

  “So, you suppose Maria will not be delighted in the news.”

  “Absolutely not. She does not allow us to bear children.”

  “Nothing has changed, then.” He sighed.

  “I have made attempts to rid myself of the child, but unsuccessfully. I thought...you might be able to help me. I know, it is a foolish thought, and I am an idiot to get myself into this situation!”

  “You wish to be rid of it?”

  “It’s my only choice. Maria would have me leave the cabaret. I love it here, I do. I love the witches and performing. I don’t have anything outside of this.”

  “Well, it is not Maria’s child. Unless this is some witchcraft of hers...”

  “No.” Josephine shook her head. She took another drink of wine, wiped her wet lips with the back of her sleeve. “I mean...I do not particularly wish to become a mother.”

  Alfred hummed softly in thought. “There are...doctors who could perform such an operation. Though it is not without its complications, and risks. How can I put this?” He thought to himself for a moment, dry lips searching for the right words. “Our mother suffered greatly in the long years preceding her demise. She had been cursed by our father, forced to bear unholy foetuses in the name of a truly terrible evil. The effects of this were ghastly. My sister and I witnessed horrible things in these years, and it traumatised Maria.”

  “Really?” Josephine said.

  “Pregnancies, and childbearing, these are difficult things for my sister,” said Alfred. “But her traumas should not affect your decision on the matter. It is your child, after all.” He was looking at her minor baby bump. Josephine shifted her hand, allowing him to see it.

  “Is it obvious?” she asked.

  Alfred angled his head. “Not really.”

  Josephine breathed a sigh of relief.

  “But if you do wish to be rid of it,” Alfred said, “there is a doctor with a small practice in Rue Dénesse, by the name of Doctor Georges de La Quin. If you would like, I will kindly inform him that you may be attending, and I am certain he will see to you.”

  Josephine gave a small smile. “Thank you very much, Alfred.”

  Alfred simply raised his glass of wine, then downed the last of it. He placed it back down with a heavy exhale, bits of wine speckled in his long, dishevelled beard. “I appreciate the company, unexpected as it was. Often I’d be inimitable due to such a thing.”

  “May I see Antoinette?” Josephine asked.

  “She should be asleep,” replied Alfred. Just as he said this, Josephine caught the slightest dash of movement out of the corner of her eye, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps, quick and bare-footed on the wooden floorboards. Alfred sighed and said in the most exhausted of voices, “No doubt she was listening in on our entire conversation.”

  “Antoinette?” Josephine said, rising from her seat. She exited the kitchen and went into a narrow sitting room that featured a set of stairs going up to the second floor. She saw Antoinette sitting halfway up the stairs, hugging her knees. Her pink sleeping robes were long and glittery, ostensibly belonging to Alfred’s wife. Only the faintest light from the kitchen touched Antoinette’s small, frowning face.

  “Get lost,” Antoinette sulked.

  “Oh, you sting me,” Josephine said, placing a hand to her heart.

  “You left me in Bellvoir! You know how long it took me to get here?”

  “I’m sorry.” Josephine joined Antoinette near the stairs, though she didn’t sit down. Antoinette was staring up at her, her bright eyes turning large. She eyed Josephine’s stomach.

  “Is it true? You have a baby?”

  Josephine touched the fabrics covering her belly, and nodded.

  “Josie?”

  “Yes, Antoinette?”

  “Are...Are you mad that I came?”

  “No, I’m impressed! I’m not sure I’m even surprised by it, considering the mad company you’ve spent your life surrounded with. Of course, myself included. However, I would say it is probably unwise for Maria to know this right now. She may not be so kind.”

  Antoinette sighed, looking down at her feet.

  “Josie?” she asked quietly.

  “Mhm?”

  “Why does Maria hate me?”

  At this moment, Alfred walked in, his large sleeping gown sweeping the floorboards around his long legs. Josephine sighed, Antoinette continuing to stare at her expectantly with those large blue eyes. “Most of the time, I don’t even understand Maria,” Josephine said. “But I know she doesn’t hate you, she just...” What could Josephine say, when she herself could not understand precisely Maria’s motivations for anything? Of course, it was obvious that Maria loved Antoinette, and yet, no, maybe it wasn’t so obvious, after all. Did Josephine even know what that looked like? Love?

  “She may not hate you, Antoinette, but don’t put it so far past her,” Alfred said matter-of-factly. “It’s nothing to do with you. My sister is heartless.”

  Josephine was reminded of seeing Maria with Edgar’s ledger, a brief moment of vulnerability, of seeing something human out of her. “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Well, she is not so good with people.”

  “That is not the same as being heartless.”

  “Well, intentions aside, what difference is it to a child?”

  Maybe he has a point, Josephine thought. She had to admit, she could not recall many occasions in which Maria seemed to show concern for anybody else. Suddenly remembering the night before Alfred’s letter had arrived in Bellvoir, Josephine felt her cheek, and recalled the hot flash of pain from Maria’s palm cutting clean across it.

  She thought of the first time she had met Maria, in the home for abandoned girls. Maria had seen something in Josephine then, had invited her into the warm folds of the cabaret. Yet, how often had any of that warmth come from Maria herself? Seemed only her creations.

  “Can I see her, Josie?” Antoinette asked.

  It was cruel, what she had done to Antoinette. Josephine suddenly felt a surge of protectiveness for the little girl, like she wanted to hold her and keep her safe from the world. Keep her safe from...Maria, even. From all things Lucien. For all things Lucien, as far as Josephine was concerned, were cursed. Wasn’t that what Maria had said?

  “Josie?” Antoinette touched her hand.

  Josephine blinked, looking at the way their hands overlapped. “I’m sorry, Nettie. It is probably not for the best.”

  Antoinette made a loud hmph and stood up, stamping her foot down on the stairs. She turned around and stormed up, disappearing in the heavy darkness of the upper floors.

  Poor girl, Josephine thought.

  “The further she is from this wretched place, the better,” Alfred said. “Now, I love this city, don’t get me wrong. But Antoinette must go as far from here as possible. To Paris, maybe. I will see to it personally that she is not indoctrinated into my sister’s cult. No offense.”

  “No, I understand,” Josephine said.

  “Listen. Do not be hasty in your decisions while in Carcassonne,” Alfred told her, changing the subject. “You will have to face Maria eventually. Perhaps that will be the ultimate judge of her character. It will say a lot in how she responds.”

  “Has she ever surprised you?” Josephine asked.

  Alfred smiled for the first time that night. “I guess not.”

  “Right.”

  “Anyway, you had best be on your way.”

  “Of course.” Josephine slowly stood back up, and walked past Alfred through the kitchen and towards the front door from whence she had entered. At the threshold, she paused. She should ask him about the payments in the ledger, about Vincenzo Molteni. He could know something about the scribe. But...something stopped her.

  Out she went back into the night, the thought remaining yet unspoken, perhaps regrettably: what secret did Alfred keep behind those calculating eyes?