Chapter Text
Artwork by me
ACT I – ALICIA
After they had taken their leave of Verso, the whole world seemed to breathe anew. Beyond the windows stood a damp, obstinate April of 1907. Even within the deafening silence of the Dessendre Manor, one could still feel Paris breathing with its own life: carriages rolled in measured rhythm over the cobblestones, vendors cried out the price of fresh pastries, and somewhere far away a little street orchestra played – off-key, yet persistent, like life itself.
Alicia stood by the window. She knew all too well that a month had passed since the Canvas had been destroyed, yet all this time she had existed only between her room and the garden, as though between two walls. Each time she reached the massive door, she would stop; her fingers would find the cold bronze handle – and let go. To step beyond the gate seemed almost as impossible as letting go of the past.
Her fingers – slender, with faint, already scarcely visible traces of old burns, trembled lightly on the windowsill; it seemed her skin still remembered the heat. Alicia was dressed in a dark ensemble, tinged with mourning, that held both strict composure and fragile vulnerability. A fitted blouse the color of faded silver, with a high jabot and wide sleeves, lent her figure a touch of bygone elegance.
The collar was fastened tight at the throat, shielding her from the world, while the deep folds at the chest and cuffs revealed the careful deliberation behind every movement. A corseted bodice and an asymmetrical peplum emphasized her slender waist, creating an impression of precision, almost martial restraint.
Narrow black pants, tucked into high laced leather boots, lent her attire a note of resolve, a reminder that she was not merely a young woman but a survivor. In her black fingerless gloves, and in her every movement, there was a sense of hidden strength and sorrow. Yet today, over all of this, she had draped a cloak with a deep hood – a thin but necessary wall between herself and the city that did not yet know how to look at her.
Today, at last, Alicia resolved to step outside and walk through Paris. The decision was so delicate it might have shattered from any stray sound, and yet she drew herself away from the window and moved down the corridor. Her steps were almost soundless – soft, cautious, each faint sound a risk of sliding back into the nightmare. Below, in the hall, the old housekeeper Madame Hélène lifted her head from her papers and cast a startled, almost bewildered glance at her, as though she had come upon a ghost.
– Mademoiselle Alicia, you are leaving?.. – she asked carefully.
Alicia only released a hoarse breath and nodded. She could not explain it in words. Even if she could have – she would not have. This step was hers alone, and it was important. The doors of the Manor creaked. Light broke against her eye – living, sunlit, indifferent, knowing nothing of the Canvas or of Verso. The air was different: real, heavy with dust, filled with the scents of wet cobblestones and spring flowers.
Alicia took her first step. Then the second. On the third, her knee faltered almost imperceptibly, but she did not stop. She did not at once understand how she had passed beyond the gates of the Manor – only that, at some moment, she found herself already in the street, amid the city’s unfamiliar breath. A newsboy passed her by – glanced at her without lingering. To him she was simply a strange girl in a cloak, no one at all, and that felt strangely pleasant.
Unhurried, she crossed a bridge, then walked through one block, and then another. She looked at shop windows, at people, at pigeons near cafés lazily pecking crumbs by someone’s boots. Everything was too bright, too loud, the colors hurt her eye after the muted tones of her room… and yet it was not as frightening as in her imagination, where every sound became a scream and every light a flame.
For her first venture into the street, Alicia did not linger long within the human noise and decided that for today it was enough. Returning to the Manor by the same route, step after step, she thought that perhaps life after the destruction of the Canvas was still possible; the world truly had not stopped with their tragedy – carriages still rolled, vendors still cried out, children still laughed.
She thought of Gustave – her dear, gentle brother or father, they never quite managed to decide who he ultimately was to her and the memory answered with a warm, almost physical ache. He would have been glad to know she had at last stirred from that dead standstill, that she was taking at least these few steps. After all «When one falls. We. Continue» and now this phrase sounded not like a sentence, but like a quiet permission to live.
Lost in these thoughts, Alicia did not notice how she had found her way back. Her fingers were cold, her lungs still rang with the noise of street life, and in her heart, there was a tiny, nearly invisible sprout. It was not yet trust, but it was movement.
Entering the Manor and closing the heavy oak door behind her, Alicia cast one last brief glance into the narrow strip of light beyond the threshold. Toward that real life beyond the Canvas and the family home, a faint, cautious smile appeared on her face – like a brushstroke that could still be wiped away, but which she no longer wished to erase.
After walking a little farther into the hall, Alicia realized her breathing was uneven; dust and a light scent of tobacco from passersby clung to her hair. She removed her hood, adjusted her hair, and carefully covered the empty socket.
The house was cool and quiet. Silence here knew how to ring – measured only by the steady ticking of an antique clock, counting the seconds to the next decision. On the upper landing stood Clea. She said nothing, merely looked down. Her arms were crossed, her gaze narrowed. Not condemning, but unyieldingly sharp.
– You went out, – she finally said. Without surprise, without relief – simply a fact that needed to be acknowledged.
Alicia only nodded. Clea remained silent for a few seconds more, as though weighing something unseen between them, then turned and walked away. Offering neither praise nor reproach. She understood too well: any pressure, even born of care, would force Alicia back into her shadow. Better to grant her freedom, even if that freedom was frightening.
In the library to the right of the main staircase, Renoir lifted a cup of tea to his lips. He heard the dull slam of a door, and footsteps echoed through the house. He no longer asked the maid who it had been; he simply knew. He did not believe in easy paths. He did not believe one could simply step into the city and become free. The road ahead was too long. Renoir set the cup down and reached for a folder of Council papers. There was much work left, and he understood clearly: very soon the hunt for the guilty would move into its next phase. Clea would not wait any longer – she needed answers, and retribution.
Aline stood in silence, admiring the flowers in the conservatory on the fourth floor. During this past month she had rarely gone downstairs without cause and had spoken little with the children, yet she knew everything: the house whispered to her through footsteps, soft rustles, brief reports. Madame Hélène, at her request, invariably informed her when and who left the Manor. Today Aline had not expected Hélène to speak that name.
– Mademoiselle Alicia left the Manor today, – the housekeeper said, with a light, poorly concealed joy in her voice, and after a slight bow quietly withdrew.
Aline remained alone amid the greenery and damp air. Closing her eyes, she whispered almost inaudibly into the emptiness:
– Then you do still wish to live.
These words sounded not like a statement, but like a prayer, addressed not to the heavens, but to a single heart she feared to lose entirely.