I did not intend to betray my brother. In fact, the night he was elected mayor, I dined with my good friend Louis at a dive bar on Rue du Blanqui, and it was him who broached the idea that I run against Alfred in the next election. We both knew that Alfred was a pretend, that I wrote his speeches, that I had pioneered the plan that would eventually get him a seat at the table. I rejected the idea, at first. Alfred and I were close—in fact, we had celebrated that evening. But Louis was a convincing man.

  Alfred studied the darkening skies from his office suite, his jaw clenched tightly. He sniffed, sensing the harbinger of rain in the air. It was a slow storm, apparently, though large. Safe to say, all indicators did not please him. A slow, large storm meant longer spent without the ability for safe travels—and now of all times.

  He checked his pocket watch, which he never kept too far out of sight. His wife, Caroline, was scheduled to arrive in Carcassonne tomorrow morning from Ainan, where she had been on a geological expedition for two months. But all this, paired with the fact it was never good news to travel through such weather, meant she would be delayed, possibly in one of many border towns.

  Alfred’s day was front-heavy, with his only two meetings occurring before ten o’clock. While walking back through the corridors of the town hall alongside his assistant Clara, he thought about ways in which he could spend the rest of his day.

  As it were, days such as these were a rare appearance in Alfred Lucien’s life, so much so that he found he was not sure how to fill the time. Furthermore, as a result of the terrible weather that was fast approaching them, many tasks had been postponed, and Alfred found that he did not have much at all to catch up on. He had always thought that was something that drew other council members and partners to him: he was often quite on top of things.

  His options for recreation were limited, however. Alfred did not have many hobbies. He was an avid reader, but he did not often read things that were not related to his work. He also did not particularly enjoy any people outside of those he worked with, so having a meal with somebody wasn’t that feasible.

  Continuing through the monotonous town hall corridors, he turned to his assistant and asked, “Clara, what do you normally do when you’re not working? You have any hobbies?”

  “Oh. Um...” She rubbed her pointy chin in deep thought. “Well, I do enjoy my cats. And, oh, my sister and I have a book of recipes we are working through.” The two of them were forced to stop in the hall due to a commotion regarding notices pinned to the walls.

  “Neither of those things intrigues me much,” Alfred said bluntly. “I am not much of a cook myself. I...Well, you know, to put it straight I have a cook to deal with that for me.”

  “Oh, of course,” Clara said with a little laugh.

  Alfred frowned. “What is with this standing in the middle of the hall? Out of my way.” He pushed forward, squeezing through to the other side and carving a path for Clara while doing so. Both of them turned their heads to check the boards as they passed them; and Alfred—he was a lot taller than Clara and slightly-above average when it came to the crowd—saw mentions of allocations of some sort. Nothing I was consulted on, he thought, but didn’t really care anyway.

  “Why did you ask about my hobbies?” Clara asked.

  “I was thinking we could take the rest of the day off,” Alfred said. “Only, it’s been quite some time since I’ve found myself with not a lot to do, and hours to fill.”

  “Have you tried the markets? They are full of oddities.”

  “I was thinking more that I might spend the day with you.”

  “Oh.” She looked awkwardly. “With...me?”

  “Clara, have you ever seen me interacting with anybody outside of this building?”

  She thought about this for a moment. “There is that woman...”

  “Yes, she is—” He stopped himself from saying she was his sister. “Good point. Well, have you seen me with anybody besides her?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “That’s because I don’t have many friends in this city. Not to say that I’m only asking you because I have no other options, of course...”

  “Even though that is the case.”

  “Well, yes. I suppose I am feeling somewhat dour due to the fact my wife, Caroline, was meant to arrive tomorrow but will be delayed by the rains. It has been two months since I’ve seen her, and it was not a pleasant note that we departed on.”

  “I see,” Clara responded.

  They finally reached Alfred’s office, and stopped outside it. “You know, if I’m left to my own devices I will end up back here at my office, or making another awful investment that I’m later embarrassed by. What will you do with the rest of your day?”

  “Occasionally there are friendly games of boules behind the church, particularly at this time. Many retired men and women play, and if the children are on school break, sometimes they hang out there too. I could show you? Have you played much before?”

  “Not since I was in university. We did play frequently there, but to say I was any good...well, that would certainly not be the case.”

  “May we try it out then?”

  “Yes. Perhaps we ought to give it a go. Let me tidy up and we’ll meet behind the church in half an hour. Yes, that should be enough time for me to ready myself.”

  “Do you need my help?”

  “No need, Clara, thank you.” He was already halfway into his office, leaning into the door. “Thank you. I’m sure I will enjoy the company.” And without waiting to hear her response, Alfred slipped inside his office and closed the door.

  #

  Alfred changed into a comfortable set of clothes with a heavy overcoat as he made the short journey to the church. He had not spent much time in these parts, and certainly not around the church. In fact, Alfred could not recall the last time he had sat down inside one. It was probably not since they were children, before such times that had been.

  There were spotfires of people around the building, and the sounds of school children playing over the bordering fence. It took him a moment to find the little path leading behind the church, but once there, he ended up in a small courtyard with groups of people engaged in separate games of boules. The ground surfaces—swept over dirt—had been marked with chalk, with circles and lines dominating the geometry. Heavy balls went flying, thumping against each other and flicking up pounds of dirt.

  Clara was right, many of the folk playing were his age or older, quite simple and plain in presentation. He observed shallow benches around the playing area, and little signs that displayed the scorecards of each game. Spectators sat on these benches with umbrellas up, engaging in chatter. Every once in a while, the nondescript people standing at the scorecards stepped forward, flourished an arm, and added to the scores.

  “Hello, Clara!” Alfred said as he found her spectating a match occurring between two men. In what was an utterly strange sight, they both dressed almost identically, were bald in the same spots, and in fact, seemed almost duplicates of the same person. Certainly, they shared the same sense of anger. Metal balls crashed, and whenever one flew off in the wrong direction, one of the two men erupted into howls of curses and blaming, shoving the other around.

  It reminded him, just for a second, of Edgar.

  Clara smiled at Alfred. “Hello, Alfred.”

  “Good day,” Alfred said, making eye contact with the two men. They smiled and went about their game. Alfred moved closer to Clara, peering around like somebody seeing the other side of the world for the first time. “Odd folk around these parts, eh?”

  “Oh, those are just the Loret brothers.”

  “You are familiar with these...people?”

  “Well, they’re from church.”

  “Wait, you go to church?”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Occasionally,” Clara said, as they began collecting their boules and taking them over to a court. Many of these playing surfaces were makeshift, little more than rough-arranged sticks and stones in the dirt, lines scratched in the playing fields to represent throwing positions. “It’s how I became involved in the leagues. These people are very enthusiastic about it.”

  “That much is obvious from their angry shouting,” Alfred said. He grabbed an armful of heavy balls and saw Clara grab another set, along with a smaller jack. This ball was significantly smaller than the others, and was painted a gross yellow. “To be honest, I have never paid much attention to the day-to-day of Carcassonne. I am rarely inclined to explore the city unless it is for work.” He thought about Edgar again. How his younger brother had held more people-minded philosophies when it came to governing. Unfortunately, it was not always about the people, as far as Alfred was concerned. The people did not know what they wanted. And as far as Alfred was concerned, again, there was no vision to be found in groups of them.

  Am I here thinking about work again?

  Clara held out the small yellow jack to him. “You know the rules?”

  “The normal rules, right? Is there any other way to play boules?”

  “I suppose not. Would you like to throw the jack to start the game?”

  “Why, I’d be delighted to, Clara.” He took it from her hand and strolled over to the circle she had drawn on one side of the court. Winding up for a throw, he eyed no particular point in the distance, simply let loose the jack and watched it spiral through the air before landing with a small burst of dirt, roughly six metres away.

  “Ooft!” Alfred cried, clapping his large hands together. “Good one!”

  Clara picked up the first metal ball and stood beside him. Alfred stepped out of the circle to let her in, and watched with his arms folded as she made the first throw.

  “Do you like being my assistant?” Alfred asked.

  Clara’s ball smashed into the ground, performing a slight backspin, before rolling the rest of the way and landing nearby the jack. She brushed her hands, giving the impression she was analysing her performance. “Of course, why do you ask?”

  “It’s not flashy, or anything. Quite boring, you would say.”

  “Well, not to me. I find it to be interesting and meaningful work.” She walked out of the circle and Alfred grabbed his first ball, stepping inside. “Anyway, I thought you came here because you didn’t want to think about work for the day.”

  “Ah, damn it.” He remembered they were outside a church. “Sorry.” He raised an apologetic hand towards the holy building. As he winded up for his turn, he thought, I cannot seem to not let thoughts of work creep into my head. It is as they always said. Addicted to it!

  He threw the ball forward. It didn’t quite fly in the direction he had hoped for, and with a touch too much power. By the time it was finished rolling, the ball had gone way off, nearly out of the court completely. “Curse it! No good with that one. I must say, it is harder than it looks. After all these years, I’ve forgotten my technique.”

  Clara handed him a new ball, his second of three. “You’ll want to keep your arm straighter than that, especially when you let go. You see, the ball will end up precisely where your arm does. You want to give it more backspin so that it also does not continue rolling away when it lands. Of course, you need some friction to stop its momentum. Like so.” She mimed without holding the ball, moving her wrist in a backwards flicking motion.

  Alfred grumbled as he tried this while holding the heavy ball. It put some amount of strain on his wrist. “Couldn’t they make these lighter?”

  “Oh, Alfred,” Clara sighed. “Try to land it near mine, but not too far ahead.”

  Alfred aimed straight, trying to lock his arm to prevent it from swaying to the side. He narrowed his eyes, staring mightily-hard on Clara’s first attempt and the position of the jack. He made his best effort to ignore his first attempt. This is embarrassing, he thought.

  Holding his breath, he gave the ball a mighty shove and sent it hurtling through the air. When it struck dirt, the ball did not produce any backspin and rolled onwards, slightly grazing the edge of the jack but doing little to bother it. He did, however, land close enough that it beat Clara’s throw.

  “That’s better,” Clara said as they switched places in the circle.

  “There is hope for me after all,” Alfred said. “You think anybody saw me do that?”

  Clara smirked.

  They continued their game in much the same way, with Alfred being cleanly beaten all three times. By the end of it, he was utterly exhausted. Yet this was the sort of physical exhaustion he had forgotten about, not having done much exercise all his time as baron of Carcassonne.

  Catching his breath and wringing out his sore arms, he helped Clara pack up the balls and then the two of them stood to the side, watching the other games underway. Just as this was happening, thunder rumbled and a few raindrops caught the back of Alfred’s arm.

  He turned it over, wiping off the water, then looked up into the dark skies. “She’s late,” he said in the grimmest of tones. Not a moment later, there was the snap of an umbrella and Clara had popped one open above their heads.

  “Thank you, Clara,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Maybe we should do this again when the weather isn’t so dreary.”

  “Yes. When social options are so limited.”

  “As I said, although it is true I am a reclusive man, I still enjoy your company.” He smiled down at her. Her skin had whitened in the cold air, her cheeks turning scarlet. Alfred’s next words came out without him thinking. “That woman I keep seeing, who you mentioned earlier. She is actually my sister. I have not told many people that before.”

  He watched Clara’s expression for her reaction, but it remained quite stolid. One might even say she was unfazed by the revelation, like she already knew.

  “You know who she is, right?” Alfred asked.

  “Is she famous or something?”

  “My sister is Maria Lucien. My younger brother was Edgar Lucien, the Count of Bellvoir. I’ll be honest with you, Clara, living with the secret of this eats away at me like a cancer. I wish it were not so, but I suppose you cannot just pretend such things are not true. This is why I distance myself from the world. I live in great shame with that fact.”

  Clara was not responding. Darts of rain flew down around them, splattering against the umbrella that she continued to hold. People were seeking cover.

  “Are you going to say anything?” Alfred asked.

  “I’m going to be honest, those names don’t really mean much to me.”

  “Oh.” It had been a while since he had stopped to think how most people didn’t have Edgar Lucien and his crimes at the forefront of their mind. He supposed it did occur over a decade ago, and Clara wouldn’t have even entered politics at the time. When it came to politics, thirteen years ago was history. This sudden realisation relaxed him a bit, and he smiled at his own increased anxiety over the situation.

  “You want to head back now?” Clara asked.

  “I guess I should go back home before the rain gets worse.

  Alfred bid her farewell and took the sidewalk to his residence. The rain was becoming more intense. It was enough that the roads were beginning to spread thin, umbrellas coming up. As soon as he reached the main road, two horses drawing a medium-sized wagon sprinted past him, neighing loudly. Alfred barely avoided them, and watched as the horses tangled, slipping on the wet roads, and crashing into a store. The wagon abruptly stopped.

  “What the—” He just spotted two police chase after the wagon on horses. Upon reaching it, they disembarked and approached, drawing rifles.

  Alfred sprinted over to them. When he arrived, a crowd had gathered. The occupants of the wagon had appeared, three women in total, wearing cloaks. The back doors had opened with the force of the crash, and now swung there in the winds.

  He recognised one of the police as Sam Dewitt, an American-French sergeant. It was Dewitt who first began to shout at the occupants. “Step away from the wagon!”

  “What is happening?” Alfred said, but nobody heard him.

  One of the women drew into her cloak, revealing the end of a wand. Dewitt screamed at her, and fired his gun. A blast of white light split the sheets of rain. One of the other women had managed to draw her wand, but Dewitt’s companion took care of her, shooting her cleanly in the chest so that she flew back, her blood on pavement turning the rainwater red.

  The third woman raised her hands. “Please don’t!”

  “Arrest her!” Dewitt yelled, and his companion did so. By this stage, Alfred had reached them, and kept cursing as he saw the dead bodies.

  Dewitt shouldered his rifle. His breathing was hard and fast, his stubbled face and chiselled jaw making sharp angles in the pouring rain. When he noticed that Alfred was there, he pointed at the scene before them. “We caught them on Rue de Sade-Mari but they made a run for it. I had no choice but to shoot! They’re witches!”

  Damn it all! Alfred thought as he walked over to the wagon entrance and peered inside. The first thing that struck him was the stench. It overwhelmed him so strongly he immediately gagged. “What the hell is that smell!” he cried.

  Dewitt appeared at his side. “Step away, Baron.” Dewitt reached out to put a hand on Alfred’s chest, with a slight nudge to remove himself from the scene.

  But that was when Alfred saw what was inside.

  Amidst crates and boxes was a small animal cage, and within it, a body. At least, this was Alfred’s first thought of it. He had smelled dead bodies before and this stench was very much comparable. Its skin also resembled that of a cadaver, grey and sinewy, like decomposition had set in some time ago. Only, when he stepped a little closer, he realised the thing inside the cage was taking slow yet noticeable breaths, sickly and shaking.

  And its eyes.

  Alfred gasped. He covered his mouth with one hand, threw out his other hand into the space between them, and recoiled away from it.

  “What in God’s name is that thing!”

  “The work of witches,” Dewitt said. “That’s what they’ve been doing. It’s called a homunculus. We found all sorts of notes about it. They created it in some sick, twisted ceremony. We’re going to need somebody to clean this up and take it in.” He moved away from Alfred, calling out to his partner in a voice sharp as the bullets they’d pierced through the witches.

  “Homunculus...” Alfred muttered. He had not heard that word in many years. Wiping rain from his eyes as it dripped from his greasy hair, he thought, Oh god, this isn’t good.

  Slowly, he climbed inside the wagon. “Eugh!” He covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve, and held his breath. The grey monster was still staring at him, gripping the bars as much as one could, the malformed lump of flesh and organs that it was.

  The rain became muffled as he ventured in. There were chests and pillows, hardback tomes and fabrics, all of this illuminated dimly from a single lantern. Alfred crept until he was close to the monster. It looked up at him, but didn’t move. Bulbous and unnatural, there was nothing attractive about the thing. By all accounts, it was the most pitiful thing he had laid eyes on. Bone through vaguely-translucent skin gave it a horrible appearance. He could see where its mutated heart pulsed, near the shoulder. It appeared, almost, as if there were something else inside it, growing like a bug inside a cocoon.

  He knelt down to pick up a small black book on the ground.

  His eyes grew wide again as he turned the first few pages, and looked back up at the monster. It did not appear to know that he was there.

  Feeling the blood drain from his body, Alfred checked in the front page of the book, in the bottom corner. There, he saw his own brother’s autograph inscribed: E. Lucien. Not that he needed to do this. It was already clear what he was looking at.

  Maria was right. It’s one of his journals...

  Alfred grew furious. He should have destroyed every single copy of these books himself. On the night his brother died, his house had burned down. How had these survived?

  How? How? How? How, damn it?

  He checked to see that nobody was looking, and then tucked the book into his coat. When he looked back at the homunculus, it was staring at him—Edgar was staring at him. Alfred began to shake his head. “Ed...Edgar?” he whispered, his voice breaking.

  He could have sworn its lips moved.