Classes sometimes did not let out until late in the night. Such as it was, I found myself held back with Ms Galeazzi at close to midnight, with the sounds of rain running its thousand-fingernails against the classroom windows. I would ask her questions about the work. Alchemy was the one thing that fascinated me most of all. We had been at the blackboard, her demonstrating the procedure for a certain alchemical reaction, when all of a sudden, it was that her lips had found mine. And, thus began an affair of many months, taking up the most significant time of my presence at the Institute.

  By early morning, Maria and Josephine had left Carcassonne in the back of a carriage. Maria watched through the curtained window as the terraced fields and farmlands gave way to occasional sights of windmills and landforms, and then nothing but grassy plains. When there was little else to see, she closed the curtain and drew a breath, entertained by the rattling of the carriage’s large wheels over the bumpy roads.

  They were several miles out of Carcassonne by now, and thus far the ride had been uneventful. The driver’s name was Marco, an Italian peddler originally out of one of Carcassonne’s border towns who had eventually worked his way into the city. He spoke loudly with a thick accent and not the best French, so conversation between them was difficult, and sparse. Maria did not mind this. She preferred the Italian to not speak at all, rather than the struggle to converse over the roar of crunching rocks—not to mention, his spluttery dialect.

  Their first stop was along a riverbed. While Marco settled the carriage and fed his horses, Maria trod carefully down to the river and sat on the rocks, nibbling on some crackers they had brought with them. The river flowed serenely, the breeze from the surrounding trees so little as not to disturb the surface much. Clear water, occasionally disturbed by energetic little fish, travelled in a hush pattern, eastward: the direction of their travel. As it swerved along, it dipped slightly down a small incline, before breaking off into a pool.

  Grass peeking through the rocks at her feet tickled her ankles underneath her long skirts. Being so far detached from anything but trees and fields, the smell of flowers, the varied wildlife and birdsong...This was quite unlike Carcassonne, and certainly the dirty Bellvoir. The season bloomed, and Maria found she enjoyed it.

  Her pensive thoughts were broken by the sound of Josephine approaching, her skirts flinging about the grass as she walked. “Marco says we may reach Bonpoi before the end of the day if we go quick,” she said, squatting next to Maria.

  “I’m not so much interested in arriving there quickly,” Maria responded, “but arriving there at all. You must know, I am not fond of all this travel.”

  “There are worse modes of transport.”

  Maria threw a glance at Marco, busy feeding his horses and holding mirthful conversations with them. The man was comical, in his overlarge clothing, large boots, and cheek-to-cheek smile. “He does remind me of a character from some ridiculous show.”

  “I agree,” Josephine said.

  Marco reciprocated a glance in their direction, and waved. He yelled something that sounded Italian, but Maria couldn’t quite tell anymore, so she simply nodded and kept eating.

  Maria returned to her own thoughts. She found that it was not any drama in Carcassonne occupying them, nor anything regarding the cabaret, nor Josephine. Rather, she had become entangled with the idea of Vincenzo Molteni and the knowledge he possessed—of what he knew and was willing to do with that information.

  This made it quite difficult to think about anything else. The only thing that gave her some reprieve was knowing Alfred had been dealing with them. The ledger had outlined as much. But Alfred couldn’t keep paying them forever. Hell, he wouldn’t. Truthfully, Maria was a little surprised that he was doing so at all. Nobody knew about Alfred’s connection to the Lucien family; he had devoted far too much time in keeping it a secret. So, if something like Edgar’s private journals were discovered—even if they did mention Alfred—nobody could really connect them to him, at least not with any confidence. He could, quite simply, deny everything.

  Maria finished her crackers and got up with some trouble, walking over to the riverbed, where she stood, inhaling the breeze off the waves. Josephine followed her. Maria couldn’t quite put an answer as to why, but she was finding it more and more difficult to hold a conversation with Josephine. The air between them was heavy and sizzling, the silence unpleasant.

  Maria stole a glance at Josephine and saw that she was staring at her with the most odd expression. It almost reminded her of the way she looked when she forgot a line or choreography. “Does something bother you, Josephine?”

  “Why do you ask? Do I seem bothered?”

  “You are acting strange. Do you wish to return? Is that it?”

  “Not at all,” replied Josephine.

  “Well, speak your thoughts.”

  Josephine huffed and threw her hands. “Wasn’t it unkind to leave Antoinette behind? I doubt she would have caused any trouble. There’s already plenty of that here anyway.”

  “Unkind?” Maria snapped. “Surely I do not have to tell you that kindness does not even come into the conversation. I could not bring Antoinette here with us.”

  “She could have stayed with your brother, could she not?”

  “No.” Maria cackled. “It is not that simple.”

  “Why?”

  “Should she be seen with me, what then? If these fanatics of my brother were to discover that she is his blood?” She felt her face burning up, and upon realising her hand was in a fist, she settled her fingers. “Josephine, you are merely a child yourself. I would not expect you to know why I do things.”

  “Well why did you promise her?”

  “Tell me, whoever said you could speak to me in this way?”

  Josephine stood with her arms folded and remained poised despite Maria’s outburst. Maria remembered, in the most vivid of details, the night Rosalie Beaumont—the Count’s last concubine—fled Bellvoir. They had faced each other just like this, only it had been in the thick of night, in the cold. It was only a few days prior that Rosalie had given birth to the infant. She had demanded Maria take the child as her own, and without so much as looking back, had boarded the next train, never to be seen again.

  “Then tell me this,” said Josephine. “Did you ever plan to take Antoinette with you to Carcassonne, or did you simply change your mind at the last minute?”

  “Why are you testing me?” Maria snarled.

  “Why don’t you know how to answer simple questions!” Josephine raised her whole arms right in the air like a madwoman, a crazed look in her eyes.

  Maria resisted the urge to raise her voice; she let the moment pass. “Sometimes, Josephine, the greatest act of kindness wears a selfish disguise.”

  “Stop talking in riddles, woman!”

  Maria waited until Josephine seemed to have had enough. The younger witch eventually screwed up her face, shaking her head as she walked back towards the wagon. Before getting there, Josephine stopped and looked back. “Man, all you Luciens really are mad!”

  She went inside.

  Curse her, Maria thought, feeling a twinge of hatred, but not for Josephine. Watching the girl depart, she saw only the back of Rosalie, her auburn hair dusted with snow, grabbing her furs as she left for the train, gone from Bellvoir, gone from Antoinette, her daughter.

  She truly despised the woman and what she had done. And maybe that was the crux of it, for each time she looked at Antoinette, she saw only the girl’s parents. They had not even loved each other. Edgar was a tyrant, Rosalie Beaumont his wench. When she looked at Antoinette, perhaps this was all because she saw only the two people she despised above all.

  #

  One night, a few weeks after Maria’s seventeenth birthday, a soft whimpering through the farmhouse awoke her from restful sleep. Bleary-eyed and half-dreaming, she lit the lantern on her bedside table and sat up. She no longer slept in the same bedroom as her two brothers, but the room was no more spacious; no larger than a dozen paces across.

  The whimpering continued.

  Long into the summer, her skin was covered in sweat and the window was open, though only a meagre, dry breeze came in. Her bedroom door was ajar, creaking quietly, yet it did not drown those sombre whimpers, now filling every inch of the quiet space. This was what drew her attention to them. The way they dominated everything.

  Getting up from her bed, Maria clutched her bedclothes tightly about herself as she ventured bare-foot through the eerie household. Various paintings with blank-staring eyes hung from walls, and small artefacts her father had collected were presented neatly yet precariously on shelves. Maria knew that if she ever managed to knock something onto the ground, she would be scolded horribly, for things such as these were worth a lot of money. At least, that was what her father said. Continuing through the house, and avoiding the eyes watching her from the paintings, she crept down a corridor to her parents’ door. It was the last one down the hall, closed all the way.

  Leaning into the wood, she could hear the whimpering coming from the other side. This was her mother; her father was not capable of such sounds. They were passionate, lungful gasps of air. Maria at first frowned, unsure of what this could be. The family was not as well-off as it used to be, but they suffered no day-to-day problems. Food was aplenty, the house was in good stead, money was not something they thought about very often.

  Her stomach dropped. Oh.

  She startled so quickly she almost went forward instead of throwing herself backwards. She crashed against the wall in the middle of the hot and humid hallway, staring at the door. From inside the bedroom, her mother gave off a long moan.

  Maria cringed, nausea hitting her squarely.

  Something crashed to the floor in the bedroom. Maria saw light appear from underneath the door. Her mother gave off what was more a croak than the sound she had previously made before, a sound Maria was already trying to erase from her memory. Then, soft sobbing, with her father’s low voice unintelligible through the walls. The sounds from that room were horrible, yet Maria could do no action but remain there, frozen despite the heat.

  She ought to be able to stop this…Not this…again.

  This time round, the pregnancy was worse. In the months that followed, her mother was severely ill almost every day. Bedridden and weak, her food was delivered constantly, three meals a day, yet always light, and hardly ever kept down.

  The house began to develop a terrible smell, and each time Maria ventured near her mother’s bedroom (she slept alone now, for not even their father was able to withstand the putrid stench), Maria could hardly speak due to the overwhelming urge to gag at the smells. And so, because of this, she hardly did communicate with her mother during this time.

  In her dream, Maria was inside her mother’s room on an ordinary Sunday morning, with the winds about and the birds chirping, plucking scraps from the hanging plates the family left out for them. Only, where her mother should have been lying in bed, there was nothing. The sheets lay flat, yet crumpled, as though something had been there only moments before.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Mama?” Maria said.

  Blood dripped from above, hitting Maria on the cheek.

  She looked up, and screamed. Her mother was pinned against the ceiling naked and prostrate, face contorted puppet-like in a great torment. Her skin was white and ghastly, pulled so tight against bone that Maria could clearly see the shape of her ribs.

  Another drop of blood smacked her in the eye and she blinked. She saw how the bright red droplets bulged from her mother’s dangling nipples, red and swollen. Her mother wriggled, grabbing at them to stop the flow.

  “Where are they?” her mother gasped.

  “Mama...” Maria squeaked, holding her mouth.

  “WHERE ARE YOU HIDING THEM!”

  Maria screamed her throat raw.

  She awoke with a start. Across the carriage, she saw Josephine staring at her.

  “Maria, are you okay?”

  “Stop it. Stop the carriage!” Maria shrieked.

  After speaking some Italian, Marco did stop the carriage and Maria buried her face in her hands, heaving. Her whole body shook like somebody standing outside in the middle of winter. Tears welled in her eyes. She fumbled for something to grab onto—her skirts.

  “My goodness, what is wrong with you?” Josephine asked.

  Maria didn’t so much as throw open the door as she fell through it, out into the frigid night. On her knees, she coughed and sent a splatter of vomit onto the leafy ground, where it bubbled for a moment before forming in a gross puddle.

  Where are you hiding them?

  It wasn’t real. She was certain nothing like that had ever happened before, her mother on the ceiling, saying such words. But it felt so real. The stench, the mould, the festering sickness of that final pregnancy. What things in her life were creating such terrible memories?

  “Maria,” Josephine said.

  Maria flinched as Josephine’s hand found her shoulder. “Antoinette!” Maria snapped. She stared at the witch, dark as she was without much to light the two of them.

  “You’re not okay, Maria.”

  “I’m fine.” Averting her eyes, Maria gathered herself and went back inside.

  Marco began to say something in Italian—

  “If you speak one more word of Italian, I swear it, I will throw you out!” Maria screamed. Marco cleared his throat, whispering in a calming voice to his horse and patting its mane.

  #

  The remainder of their journey to Bonpoi was uneventful. When they arrived, Maria paid the remaining fare to Marco, who went about tying his horses at the stables. This left Maria and Josephine to go alone into the town’s inn to spend the night.

  At first light, they were out of bed, and after a quick and mostly unsatisfying breakfast, they went out to town. She had not noticed it earlier, but there was the acrid smell of smoke in the air. Walking along the docks, she saw ripped-up boards, deep puddles and water-stained roads. They passed smashed barrels and fish guts all in the unfortunate paths of travelling feet, which caused Maria to have to lift her skirts to avoid dirtying them.

  “I think we got here just in time,” Maria said.

  Josephine sniffed forcefully. She was hugging her cloak around herself, her breath visible as wet mist in the air. Wiping her nose with her sleeve, she said, “There was no sign of such weather during our travels. What could be the cause of it?”

  “I don’t think it was the weather that did this.”

  Even as the early dew covered every leaf and branch, it appeared well into the day for the fishermen of Bonpoi. In one direction from Maria and Josephine was a line of shops, and in the other, a bridge leading to a residential area. This road eventually took them to a large boardwalk with little huts speckled along the piers. Each of these huts was nearly identical, with fishing nets and boats on display, buckets of bait and fish everywhere you looked. All of this contributed to a strong fishy scent in the air, one that made Maria queasy.

  Before they had departed in the morning, Maria had spoken to one of the men at the inn regarding the Remy who was referenced in her brother’s ledger. Any information they had provided was sparse, and unhelpful. According to the resident at the inn, he was familiar with the name “Remy” and said that he lived at the end of one of the piers. He gave some directions, which Josephine wrote down on a piece of paper. Maria asked whether this man knew of any large shipments of books being traded in Bonpoi, but any further questions proved to lead nowhere. All anybody in Bonpoi seemed to care about was fish, and if it had nothing to do with fish, then all conversation led quickly to a dead end, or somehow to fish.

  Maria thanked him, and before they left, he admitted that they were not the first people to come looking for Remy this month.

  “Was she a shorter, dark woman?” Maria asked.

  The man, with hesitation, nodded. So Selika had come here.

  They left the inn and arrived at Remy’s boathouse shortly after. It stood precisely where the man had told them. Next to it was a large bucket of bait that reeked. His boathouse was small and ramshackle, with a low slanted roof and corrugated tin walls. There was a boat on the water, tied to a post by the side of the house, next to barrels, cages of equipment, and ropes.

  Maria knocked on the door and after a short time, the owner revealed himself. He was not anything like Maria had expected. The man was surely only in his thirties, but it seemed a half-life boating in such conditions did terrible things to a person. He was grey almost everywhere, his skin wrinkled and dark from the constant sun, and his eyes were greatly cupped to a degree it seemed more like cauldrons. He at first only opened the door a little, and upon seeing the women, he did not give any impression of opening it further.

  “Who is it?” he said in a small, croaky voice.

  “Are you Remy?” asked Maria.

  The man first looked at Maria, then at Josephine, and back to her. Making out what she could through the narrow opening in the doorway, Maria searched the insides of his house. It was dim, the scattershot furnishings lit only by the wan morning light.

  The man moved to close the gap. He made a sceptical expression and rubbed his eyes. “What about him?” he questioned gruffly.

  “Pardon me?” Maria said.

  “Why do you want to see someone called Remy?”

  “We heard he’s very, very strong,” Josephine said, smiling, and gave Maria a wink. “And perhaps if he could help us out, we could do him a special favour? Think he’d like that?”

  The fisherman paused for a moment. “Did Max send you? Bussine?”

  “Their names all blend together,” Josephine sighed.

  “Is that so.” The man opened the door a little bit further. He gave a proper look up and down at the two of them, then, perhaps against his better judgement, let them in.

  Maria and Josephine stepped inside the unimpressive boathouse, and the man closed the door behind them (but not before double checking outside). Maria immediately began to look around. A small entryway opened immediately into a kitchen with all the windows open—yet even this did not do much to rid the air of its wet hotness, nor the pungent smell of fish. No doors, only doorways separated various parts of the house. Through one, a bedroom; another contained washing boards and rags; and there was a single partition leading to a rear walkway.

  The man, with his hands on his hips, studied them. “So...if I were to be this ‘Remy’ that you speak of, what is it that you are here about, huh?”

  “Are you seriously going to keep this up?” Maria asked. “Would be a bit of a headache to all of us here if we were to continue pretending that you were not Remy.”

  The man reddened, scratching his forehead. “I—” He sighed. “Fine. But was it Maxime who put you up to this? You both are beautiful, I will admit that, but I have to be honest, I’m not necessarily into women like that. Max knows that...”

  “We just made that up. There’s no special reward for you and we didn’t speak to anybody,” Maria scoffed, slightly annoyed by Josephine’s little story, yet a little bit proud.

  “Oh, I’m such an easy target!” Remy complained.

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Josephine said.

  Remy narrowed his eyes, before walking bare-foot through the kitchen to the table. Oval-like, and just large enough to seat two people if they didn’t mind getting cozy, the table had a fishing rod on it, separated into different parts. Scattered on the table were various tools coated in rust. “There’s a lot been happening these past few days. I’m not my usual self.”

  “Was it ill weather or something else?” Maria asked, referencing the terrible state they had found the village in upon their arrival.

  Remy sat down at the table and threw his arms back, blowing out a deep breath. His shirt was completely stained with what Maria could only assume was fish juices. “Not the weather. Yesterday’s incident,” he said in a somewhat resigned tone of voice. “Didn’t you see the devastation when you arrived here? Entire boardwalk and two houses destroyed! Just down there.” He signalled sloppily with his arm without looking in the direction.

  “We did,” Maria said.

  She walked through the kitchen until she was sitting at the table opposite him. Meanwhile, Josephine stood near a bucket against the wall, peering over it to check what was inside.

  “What kind of incident?” Josephine asked.

  “There’s a monster stalking Bonpoi. The largest fish I have ever seen. It must have washed here down the river, as there is no other way I could imagine such a thing being here.” He gestured to his broken fishing rod. “Surprised my fishing rod is only in this state. I nearly reeled the monster in just the other day.”

  Maria would be lying if she said she was not intrigued by this particular storyline of Remy’s, but it was probably not relevant to the case.

  “Have you heard of such a thing?” Josephine asked to Maria, losing interest in the sad and drab nature of the house and coming closer.

  “Well, could be anything. Giant fish.”

  “No, not any fish. This was…monstrous!” Remy said.

  “If you say so. Where is it now?” Even as she involuntarily started down this train, she wished to jump off it as soon as possible and get back to the point.

  Remy shrugged with wide eyes. “It’s gone! True, it feasted on several men, and so if I were to guess, I’d say it had its meal and went on with its day. I could not for the life of me imagine that there was somehow not enough fish out there for it to eat, though.” When Maria nor Josephine responded immediately, he cleared his throat and dropped his shoulders, which had gotten as high as his earlobes. “You’re not here to talk about fish, though.”

  “No, we’re not,” Maria said.

  “What, then? Why are you here?”

  “Have you ever bought something off the black market, Remy?”

  Remy frowned deeply, letting go of the tool he had been holding. His eyes searched Maria, like a ravenous rat looking for food. “Why? No, of course not.”

  “Then you’re not in possession of any valuable documents you should not be?” Maria said. “These are the sort of documents that some...other people might have been very interested in. I’m not talking purely financial. These things might have had other uses. Power, knowledge, and in the wrong hands, they could be quite dangerous.”

  “Um...Documents?” He swallowed. If you could smell one’s nerves, the stench of it was everywhere. His face burned. He was fidgeting. “Hold on a second, if it wasn’t Maxime or anybody in the town who sent you here, who did?”

  “I’ll let you think first.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Remy exclaimed. “I...Yes, I have documents of some nature. However, I don’t think it’s what you’re looking for. I have documents. Everybody in this town has documents. Can you just tell me the specifics? Huh?”

  “Have you met with witches before?” Josephine asked.

  Remy looked in her direction with the widest of eyes. “Witches?” he half-muttered, half-choked. “Those children’s stories? Witches, broomsticks, curses and that sort of thing?” He laughed nervously. “What are you accusing me of here? I’m not a witch— Hold on...Are you two witches? Have you come here to do weird things to me!”

  “Oh, stop this circus!” Maria said. “J. A. Do you recognise those initials? Maybe somebody you purchased things from long ago? What about Edgar Lucien?”

  Remy’s face went white. “What...How...?” He blushed furiously, and then stood up abruptly and snapped, “Okay, I’ve had enough. Get out! Go!”

  “J. A? A scribe?” Maria said.

  “I don’t know him!” He went to snatch something from the table but had hardly disturbed it when there was a shudder of movement behind Maria, the air became suddenly, frighteningly electric, and the fisherman named Remy flew.

  His body turned limp and he hit the floor lifeless and heavy. Maria turned her head to see Josephine standing there, her cloak still swaying with the bounce of the spell, arm outstretched with a long wand poking out from between her fingers. The air had immediately become smelly with the stench of burning skin and hair.

  “You are far too hasty, Miss Josephine!” Maria reprimanded, making her way quickly over to Remy, who was twitching on the floor with smoke coming off him. The dilated pupils in his eyes were staring crookedly at his attackers.

  When Maria knelt next to him, Remy gasped something barely intelligible, something about “witches” or a God Almighty. Maria glanced back over to Josephine, who spent the following moments putting away her wand and running her fingers along a particular spherical vial that hung from her inner clothing fabrics. Maria moaned. Idiot girl!

  “I’ll tell you...everything,” Remy said, drawing large breaths. “Just give me a moment. Oh, curses. Why did she do that?” He groaned in displeasure.

  “Did a witch come here recently?” Maria asked.

  “I think I know what you’re talking about,” Remy groaned. “But please don’t harm me anymore. I’m just a good-for-nothing fisherman who lives as far away from his problems as he can.” He attempted to twitch his scorched nerve endings. His hair stood on-end. He took a moment to catch his breath. “Damn. I am not sure how the witch found me, but believe me, I am no friend of hers!”

  Remy swallowed, eyes flicking towards Josephine as she re-entered the room, his body flinching away from her, shoulders coming up to protect himself in a hopeless shell of human meat and tattered clothes.

  “Be still, Josephine,” Maria said.

  The floorboards stopped creaking. However, right at that moment, the sound of thunder rang out violently through the foundations of the house. Remy startled, looking to the sky. New fear stretched over his pathetic, electrified face.

  “Maria, we ought to be going,” Josephine said. “Soon, they will not allow travel. If we do not go now, we may be stuck in Bonpoi for some time.”

  “No, you can’t,” Remy said. “It will be days before you are allowed to leave through this storm. And you cannot keep me like this forever. Please, I beg of you. You cannot do this. I have done nothing wrong. I will tell you what you wish to know!”

  Maria grumbled in the same manner as the storm that was fast gathering over Bonpoi. She dug into her cloak and retrieved a thick thread of rope, using it to bind Remy’s wrists, leaving him as limp as he’d ever been on the floor of his little house.

  “Why are you treating me like a prisoner?” Remy complained.

  “So you don’t run,” Maria said. She would not let Remy go until she had rinsed him of everything. She had to know about Edgar’s scribes, of how they had stolen his work, how he had distributed it all, and how bad it was. If there was more—things that were worse than just unpublished chapters. While she could metamorphosise in order to return to Carcassonne, Remy could not, and she could not readily return until she knew all of these things.

  So, once she had finished binding Remy, she turned to Josephine and said, “You must return to Carcassonne at once and inform my brother of the situation here. If you leave now, you may beat the storm before it reaches the city.”

  “And you?” Josephine asked.

  “I will stay here until it is safe to travel. It is impossible to transport Remy in these conditions. And Josephine,” she added, “please be sure to fill in a report regarding your use of that spell, as usual. And next time, don’t be so hasty.” Josephine did not look very pleased by this. She stared blankly for a little time, before only fiving the most reluctant nod.

  “Your brother. What will I say?” Josephine asked.

  “Tell him we have things under control.”

  Josephine glanced at Remy, and then nodded. “Very well. I will await your return in Carcassonne, then. As for our friend...I do apologise for that.”

  Remy grunted.

  Thus, Maria bid farewell to Josephine, and only when the younger witch was gone did she turn back to face Remy, helplessly lying there on the ground. An impressive smash of lightning punctuated the morning’s events, completely opening up the grey sky.