Chapter Text
Cléa rubbed her bare forearm against her forehead to wipe away the sweat. She stepped back a few paces and, by the light of the room’s single candle, admired the work she had spent so much time creating.
A skeletal arm, with protruding bones that seemed ready to pierce through the flesh beneath the strain. Long, slender fingers, almost inhuman in their length. Some twisted, others incomplete. Cléa walked around her creation, admiring the interplay of light and shadow.
It was simply perfect, except that she still had three more to make.
She took the pitcher of water sitting on her desk and poured herself a glass, which she downed in one go.
Since her entire family had left the painting, life had resumed its course, and Cléa had even returned to pursuing one of her childhood dreams: making the Lampmaster even more frightening. Of course, without Verso to frighten, it no longer held quite the same meaning, but this was her way of paying tribute to him and mourning his loss.
She took an old cloth and wiped her hands, then headed towards the large bathroom to freshen up before going to bed. The manor was silent at this late hour, and only the sounds of the household staff brought a semblance of life to the place. After washing and changing, she passed by her little sister’s bedroom and noticed the light beneath the door. Frowning, she moved closer and pressed her ear against it. There was no sound of a typewriter or the rustling of pages from a book being read. Those sounds that had once filled the place had disappeared when the manor burned down. Only a wheezing breath could be heard inside.
Since her return from the painting, the doctors—unaware of the reason behind the youngest Dessendre’s illness—had ordered Alicia to get plenty of rest and sleep, given her physical condition. Unfortunately, sleep seemed to have abandoned her as well, and it was not unusual for her little sister’s bedroom to remain lit late into the night. She knocked softly on the door. Alicia let out a small, high-pitched sound, closer to a whistle than a word, and Cléa understood that she could come in.
The youngest Dessendre’s bedroom, once filled with countless books and notebooks, was empty except for a bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe, a desk, and a chair. Only a notebook and a quill with its inkwell adorned the desk that had once been so cluttered and a constant source of arguments between Alicia and Aline.
The few personal belongings that had escaped the flames were kept in the small library adjoining the bedroom. No more piles of books decorated the room, and this was for the sake of its occupant’s safety: to prevent her from bumping into an obstacle and falling. Her perception of distance had been drastically impaired, and further injuries had to be avoided.
Cléa entered and saw her sister, not at her desk, but leaning against one of the large windows, looking in the direction of the Eiffel Tower, invisible at such a late hour.
“I think it’s a little late to admire the Iron Lady, little sister. You’ll certainly have a better view tomorrow morning,” Cléa said softly as she moved to stand beside her sister.
She narrowed her eyes and looked outside as well: nothing but darkness and a few lanterns adorning the surroundings like lost fireflies.
Alicia had not moved, a neutral expression on her face, her single piercing blue eye staring unblinkingly into the darkness.
Suddenly, a fit of coughing seized her, and she had to grip the windowsill to keep from falling. That was when Cléa noticed the draft that had cooled the room.
She muttered under her breath and helped her little sister, choking and struggling for breath, towards her bed, where she made her sit down.
The young girl closed her eyes, a grimace of pain crossing her face, and spat out large, blood-stained clumps of phlegm that landed directly at Cléa’s feet. She clutched her throat, her eye reddened from the effort, and pointed towards the small dresser with a trembling hand.
Cléa sighed and opened the drawer, taking out a small vial and a needle. Despite her little sister’s panicked and inadequate breathing, she kept her composure and carefully drew the proper amount of epinephrine. She rolled up the sleeve of Alicia’s blouse with an expert gesture. Alicia’s arms were crisscrossed with burn scars, making it difficult to find a vein. But Cléa, who had cared for her little sister throughout her recovery, knew every inch of her body like the back of her hand and, without hesitation, inserted the needle just below her elbow. Alicia let out a startled gasp and watched the liquid slowly enter her veins. This helped calm her panic attack, well before the medication itself had time to take effect.
Cléa whistled softly as she carefully put the equipment away, then turned towards a member of the household staff who had hurried in.
“Has my sister had her ephedrine and stramonium inhalation?”
The woman, who appeared to be in her thirties, shook her head. Cléa made an irritated sound and began issuing orders.
“Have them prepared immediately. And make sure the room doesn’t get this cold again. Damp air is bad for her lungs.”
As she gave her orders, she kept an eye on her sister, her hands firmly gripping her forearms to keep her seated. She could feel her pulse slowing and her body relaxing. The servant quickly hurried away.
Cléa gave her sister’s arms a slight shake, startling Alicia, who glared at her with fury.
“You know perfectly well that you have to remain seated until the treatment takes effect. And don’t look at me like that. You’re the only one responsible here. You need to be more vigilant.”
Alicia pressed her lips together and shrugged, her gaze avoiding Cléa’s. Her reaction to the seriousness of the situation instinctively made Cléa react.
“Stop that. You’re not in the painting anymore. Here, you have neither a second chance nor Chroma to help you. So listen to the doctors and do as you’re told.”
Furious, Cléa shook her sister once more, causing the youngest Dessendre to jerk upright. She pushed her sister’s arms away and raised her hands, looking furious. Unfortunately, the coughing fit returned, partially relieved by the injection, and all she could do was exhale a wheezing breath, her face red with anger.
Cléa straightened and faced her, her eyes locked with her sister’s. With her build, she towered over her little sister, easily dominating her.
“Stop reacting like a child. It’s over. They’re all gone, and you need to stop shutting yourself away in these fantasies. You’re old enough to know that fairy tales don’t exist,” Cléa snapped.
Alicia did not look away, and that was something entirely new to Cléa. She could see again those fierce sides of Maëlle and the stubbornness of Alicia. It was satisfying to finally see her sister stand up to authority, but tonight, it only irritated her.
The servant returned with the entire treatment, and Cléa walked past her sister, who had lowered her gaze, her fists trembling as she sobbed with rage.
“Take care of her and keep watch tonight. Make sure she isn’t left alone. She needs to rest.”
Then she left, leaving the staff to take over.
That night, she slept for only a few hours, worried. It had been a month since her brother’s painting had been destroyed, and life was slowly returning to normal. Aline had finally rejoined the council alongside Renoir, and Cléa had finally been freed from the pressure of her parents.
She had tried to resume her hunt for the writers, but it had taken a considerable amount of time to put the collapsing family back on its feet, and the last traces of her brother’s assassins had disappeared.