Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tuesday, October 12th, Noon
He had much to prepare. The gift was secured, and the decorations were carefully arranged. In just one day, his beloved would receive the gift she had dreamed of. It had been a near disaster—an agonizing failure narrowly averted when that insufferable fool failed to recognize true talent. He was too enthralled by loose cunt. He had almost lost it when he heard the news. But she would be upset if he blundered now. He was nothing if not resourceful.

She deserved this. She should be the one beneath the stars. She should have everything she wanted handed on a platter in exchange for the magnitude of suffering she had endured. Only she was worthy. So he had devised a gift.

Sure, the gift had changed from what he'd originally planned, but he knew she would appreciate it all the same. How could she not? She was the kindest woman he knew, the sweetest dove, with a voice that could stir the soul—if only she had the chance to perform. And he could give her that. He would make sure of it.

He could already picture her reaction—the way her eyes would widen in that initial moment of shock, lips parting in disbelief. But then, slowly, the truth of it would sink in. Her surprise would melt into a tentative smile, and soon, her face would light up with that radiant joy he adored. She would realize what he had done for her, the lengths he had gone to, and she would understand. 

Of course, the shock would come first. It always did. But once she saw the beauty of it, the sheer brilliance of his gift, she would forgive the unconventionality. She had to. The delight in her eyes, the softness of her smile, the way she would reach for him, thanking him with that sweet voice—he could practically hear it already.

It had all been worth it for that moment.

He could make her so happy. He tightened his grip on the gift, his resolve hardening. No matter the obstacles, no matter the setbacks, he would see this through. The sight of her radiant smile, the sound of her heartfelt thanks—it was all he wanted, all he needed. At that moment, he knew that he would do anything to make her happy, to bring that joy into her life. He shook his head, his thoughts scattering like fall leaves on a windy day. 

Soon, she would know everything he had sacrificed, everything he had worked for. Soon they would be more than strangers, and at that moment, when she looked at him with that look of pure happiness, she would realize, that he would be her everything. There was just one more obstacle to face. But he held hope. 

For what was true love without a trial? What was passion if not dedication? His thoughts turned to the upcoming encounter. He had made sure to leave a subtle sign, a little detail in the gift that would hint at his true feelings. That she would know, without a doubt, that her gift had come from him.

Wednesday, October 13th, 1813 hours after midnight.
She tore across the uneven ground, her breath heaving with each in and out, as her lungs burned. Mist drifted up from the ground, swirling lazily as it reformed despite the body that broke through it. She sucked in a deep breath, the musty and sickenly cloy scent of must and refuse clung to the inside of her nostrils. A crate creaked as it was leaned on. The girl waited, her mouth dry despite the humidity in the air. It was as if every drop had been stripped from her tongue. Boxed by mildew-kissed walls of stone and moss, the world around her seemed to curl, inky shadows reaching for her. 

She heard a dog barking in the distance and a closer even louder thump. Her palms bled red from where her nails left crescents in their wake. She was uncomfortably aware of the dampness of the air and the way a bead of sweat trickled down the side of her throat and soaked the front of her dress.

Her skin prickled, and rose with hundreds of bumps, as she felt the weight of eyes upon her. Her scream was muffled by the metallic tang of blood on her lips.

A rat scurried across a puddle that bore no reflection of the boot that stepped into it.

She cared not for the noise created as she rushed from her makeshift alcove. From the corner of her eye, she spied the uneven rooftop and the peek of a cross framed by moonlight. Sanctuary was only two turns away. The church would take her. The church would keep her safe from the wretched creature hounding her steps. If she survived, she would turn a new leaf. She would never step once more, onto the stage, she would instead convert to the holy order. 

Her ragged, thin figure lurched out of the narrow opening of the alleyway. Not a single soul greeted her upon the empty streets of Fontaine. A nearby oil lamp dragged her shadow. The girl refused to turn and acknowledge the clatter behind her.

Two hundred and twenty-three paces across a bridge laid between her and salvation. She hiked up the hem of her navy dress and pushed forward. Two-hundred and twenty-one more steps and she would—

‘Camille’

She stumbled and slipped on a puddle. An errant glass bottle of rum skidded across the stone, between the gaps of the fence, and dropped silently down into the seine below. On her hands and knees, she could smell and hear the snores of liquor wafting up from what she had thought was a lump of trash. 

“Wake up! Help me!” The single eye that opened to look at her carried not a thought or flicker of understanding. She cared not for how unladylike the curses that came from her lips were as she crawled over the drunken man in her path.

Two-hundred and eighteen steps then—

The woman was sobbing now, her nose running, as she hobbled onto her heels. Her chest ached as she fought to draw in air to her lungs. Only after she passed the final lamppost on the bridge did she dare cast a frantic glance over her shoulder— it was then she realized, with a rush of disbelief, that her pursuer had vanished from sight.

The man— the drunkard on the bridge, rolled in his sleep. His second bottle of liquor was tucked beneath his chin. The breath she exhaled painted the space before her with clouds of white and grey. She turned—

This monster was no monster at all.

“You.”

She felt warmth on her abdomen, then she was falling, rolling, tumbling down the embankment. She could not hear the crack of her skull past the rush of blood in her ears. She gurgled and spat as the world spun above her. Every inhale dropped blood from her crooked nose, down the back of her throat. The twinkling stars felt almost mocking as they danced further from her sight. Her vision blurred and she wondered if this hideous pale apparition would be the last thing she saw.

Wednesday, October 13th, Early Morning  
The morning sun did nothing to warm Furina de Fontaine as she stood beneath the light from her window. Her fingers laced around her mug as she braced herself against the sill. On the ground below, life stirred. Women wrapped in thick shawls were making their way to the market, men upon horses meandered towards their daily dealings, and carriages marked with different houses tied up a distance from the bustling pub. In the faint light of dawn, children sped down the street, papers in hand as they peddled them to any folk that would give them the time of day, for a few coins. It was a sight that never failed to amuse Furina and endear her, to the chaos of the city.

Furina's gaze drifted over the busy street below, noting the contrast to her former life. The city's relentless pulse was a stark juxtaposition to the slow rhythm of the countryside. The bustling energy of Fontaine had become her new normal. It was very much different than her last residence. Compared to the sedated yet quaint town in the countryside, the city of Fontaine was much louder, covered sky to the ground in white stone, and perhaps not quite as scenic. Yet she could not find it in herself to mind much. Not when her dreams were slowly but surely, bearing fruit. If she simply put her head down and worked even harder, Furina was sure she would be able to play the leading role at Opera Epicelse in a year. Perhaps it was too ambitious a goal, but nothing had stopped Furina before. Her hard work had paid off. She had been accepted into her current troupe and the toil in the months after only solidified her position there. Furina knew, without a doubt that all this was meant to be.

Eerie dreams be damned.

For the third time this week, Furina had awakened with a start and only a vague sense of Deja Vu. Try as she might she could never recall the full contents of her dreams, only the lingering ache deep in her bosom, ill-ease, and the sweat on her back. Furina’s dreams were no longer soft recollections of the day but disjointed flashes of things she hadn’t seen—or had she? The face of a creature, obscured by shadow, loomed in her mind's eye. His whispers, unintelligible, yet familiar, sent shivers down her spine. It was always like this, this time of year.

Tugging her shawl closer to her body, a shudder wracked through her body. Perhaps it is different this time, Furina mused, maybe what ails her heart was merely the stress of her upcoming position.

The corner of her lips turned upward.

It wasn’t a glamorous role, nor a starring feature, but she had been given several lines in the upcoming opera. Her fingers traced the tidy script on top of the stack of scores she kept by the window. The play itself was nothing new, a classic, and one she was proud to participate in as an understudy . As part of the ensemble cast, she was even allowed a few lines as an extra! It was more than she had ever dreamt, it was much more than the life she had living in that countryside chateau. A countess in name only. After all, what was left of her family?

A sharp knock at the door caused Furina to jolt, the half-cooled tea in her cup sloshing at the sudden movement.

“Lady Furina! It’s time for breakfast.”

“Oh! I’m coming ‘Letta.” Warmth returned to her fingers as she turned. The creak of the door and the groans of the floorboards accompanied her descent into the dining room, like an eerie soundtrack to her every step. If there were anything left from Furina’s old life that she cherished, it would be them. The three servants – no, friends – that followed her to the city, despite the pay cut they would suffer. There had to be changed! But this one was her favorite.

Sliding into her seat, Furina beamed at the maid less than a handful of years older than herself slid into the free chair on her left. A peppered hair gentleman, joined them soon after he shucked off his garden apron. The last to arrive, was a neatly dressed woman, platter in hand. Servants, at the table. In any other household, it would have been preposterous. But never here. As long as she was alive, there would be no more lonely meals.

“I hope you slept well, Lady Furina?” It could have been better. But that was not something Furina could just say, to the warm faces that looked at her, so she settled on another course as she tucked herself into an extra fluffy stack of griddle cakes. “It was fine, thank you for asking Marin~ How was yours?” 

“Well, this morning–” Her voice was swallowed by the cacophony that roared down the street.

"Mon Dieu! Lady Camille was found dead by the river this morning!"  The cry came sharp on a foggy spring evening. The cry was accompanied by the loud clang of wood against metal as the newsboy ran down the street with his can and stick. “Big news! Big news! Lady Camille is suspected of taking her life! A sinner! A sinner!”

“Breaking news! The up-and-coming starlet has been found dead!” The clatter of cutlery against fine china ceased instantly, leaving a thick silence in its wake. Furina's heart plummeted to her stomach, dread pooling in the pit of her being.

Furina’s fork clattered noisily onto her plate. The sweet waft of breakfast no longer existed as she hacked a cough.

“Furina?!” The chorus of her name was lost to the rapid thumps of her heart. Camille , no, it could not be. “Oh dear, it might not be her at all, maybe it’s a mistake—”

A chair screeched as frantic knocking echoed through the house.

“Hells, who in Teyvat is bothering us this early in the morning.” ‘Letta’s curse was left unreprimanded as Marin patted Furina’s back.

“Merde, putain,” three heads turned towards outburst. Standing at the door between the foyer and the dining hall, was a sight that made Furina’s already pale skin pallid. Breakfast threatened to come up the way it went in.

The red roses were the most repugnant sight, a mix of buds and half-blooms. The cream-colored missive that fell from the bunch was even more revolting. Furina froze. No return address. No insignia. The paper felt fragile in her hands. She unfolded it, eyes scanning the brief, chilling message:

‘Patience bears the sweetest fruit, for those willing to wait. Happy birthday, my dear.’

The air felt suffocating, her chest tight as she struggled to breathe. No… no… She staggered back, mind reeling, her pulse quickening. Furina had half the mind to run back to her room, grab her breeches, and stuff her bag before escaping. The worried cries of her chosen family echoed faintly in her thoughts. But there was no time for hesitation. They need not worry—she was no longer a child.

That thought steeled her, setting her resolve. Furina shuddered as she wrapped her stole tighter around her shoulders, her decision made. She was glad she’d slipped on britches beneath her dress—the morning chill bit at her skin, and she would need freedom to move. A thick brown canvas bonnet concealed her hair as she trudged down a nearby alley. Her toe ached from when it connected with a glass bottle, sending it rattling down the road. The air around the white-haired woman felt stifling, despite the cold, as she crept closer to the seine. A shadow flickered in the periphery of her vision, darting across the cobblestone. Furina whipped her head, but nothing met her gaze—just the empty alley and a stray cat, its shadow stretching across the stone. Still, the unsettling sensation of being watched crawled up her spine.

The world brightened when she broke from the narrow road and into an equally empty courtyard. She bypassed the broken gate, only to stop short at the one right by the Fontaine’s river.

Cold sweat left goosebumps in its wake as she stared over at the cordoned scene. Her movements felt as if they were not even her own. She pushed herself through the crowd and weaved between the tittering masses. Paces away, there was no way she could mistake the body for any other.

Taking a step back, much to the indignation of the woman whose feet she stepped on. Furina pressed her fingertips against her lips as she forced her gaze to take it all in. The alabaster skin, and the water stains upon her skirt. A face she had grown to know, a visage and poise she had long since admired. Camille Laurent, her mentor, and the leading lady, lay eerily serene—despite the unnatural bend of her nose and the jagged gash on her temple. A rose, as red as blood, rested in her stiffened hand, its petals scattered across the damp ground like a macabre offering.

The stark reality of Camille's death hit Furina with a force that left her breathless. She had hoped, so foolishly hoped, that the newsboy had been wrong.

For a moment instead of blonde hair, it was white. Instead of roses, it was lilacs. For a single moment instead of Camille Laurent, it was— Furina screwed her eyes shut and pushed the thought out of her mind. The white-haired woman turned on her heel, striding away with purpose. She was finished with these interruptions, these cruel manipulations that sought to upend her life. Enough was enough.

𓇢𓆸

The look of surprise that crossed her face was exactly as he had imagined—wide eyes, a slight parting of her lips, the same expression she had worn when she was younger when he would surprise her with her other gifts. That familiar, innocent wonder had not changed, and for a moment, it was as though no time had passed at all.

His breath caught as she tucked his flower into the crook of her arm and his letter close to her chest. It was perfect—everything he had hoped for. She had received it just as he knew she would. The initial shock, the hesitance, and then that acceptance. A small satisfied smile crept onto his lips. In time, she would understand the depths of his devotion. For now, she could walk away.

𓇢𓆸

Monsieur Neuvillette was a man admired by many. A few months shy of thirty-seven, he was known not only for his rather unique stature but for his title. He was a tall man, built lean, perfect if not for the slight limp in his leg. His hair was likened to the color of marble and was tied neatly at the base. But what stood out even more, was the bright amethyst hue of his sharp unnaturally reptilian eyes. He could cut quite an intimidating figure decked in dark navy and grey. The cane in Neuvillette’s hand creaked beneath his glove. But all that mattered less than the connection of his blood –cousin of the Regent of Sumeru.

Standing beside the body, his grip tightened upon his cane as the coroner prodded at the corpse. The dead was not a sight he was unused to. War had led to ongoing dissent and scuffle and he had his fair share of suppressed rebellion had rewarded him with his title as duke. Behind him, a crowd gawked, taking this as nothing more than a titular show despite the sickeningly sweet smell of death beginning to fill the air. There was nothing novel about this. Here laid a woman, whose life had most likely just begun. She should have had decades of peaceful days to come yet instead was now nothing more than a fleeting headline in tomorrow’s paper. It was infuriating, the injustice of it all.

His face remained stony as the body was placed inside a bag. He stared down at the waterlogged corpse for a second longer as her face disappeared beneath the darkened canvas. A tag was summarily slapped onto it. Perhaps a few years back, he would have been irritated by the bureaucracy and procedures of it all, but time had done well to temper his impulsiveness. Instead, he regarded the nurse-turned-coroner as she rounded on him. 

“How long do you need, Sigewinne?” The shorter woman hummed, the corner of her mouth downturned. “Perhaps half a day give or take. The water has done more harm than good and it will take me a bit of time to pinpoint the cause of her death.” His contemplative hum was all she needed as she waved him off. “I’ll send Sedene with a missive when I have any news.” And all he could do for now, was leave it to her capable hands. Curious ruby-hued eyes turned towards him one last time.

“What will you do in the meantime?”

His gaze fell onto the petals of roses left by the body. He scrubbed a hand down his face before fiddling with this cravat. The morning crowd of curious bystanders had begun to melt away with the removal of the corpse.

“I can start at the Opera Epicelse–” at least this woman had been easy to identify. He had attended the Opera enough time to recognize the star. It was at the very least, a place to start. 

He had barely slipped past the doors of the opera house when the sound of his name brought him to an abrupt halt. The impatient sigh caught in his throat. There was something familiar in those eyes, something that stirred an old memory, just as the soft lilt of that voice echoed with a distant recognition. The click of heels echoed in the rather empty hall. Understandable given the news that must have just reached the troupe.

“You are…Lady Furina?” His sentence stopped short as he spied the offending object tucked into the crook of her elbow— a familiar rose. If he had not known better, he might have mistaken it for just another accessory on the actress’s arm. But Neuvillette was no believer of mere coincidences much less one that approached him first. His misgivings were well placed as the petite woman before him offered him a note, the manilla paper crinkling as he took it.

"M Neuvillette, if I might be so bold as to ask for a moment of your time?" The boldness in her gaze caught him off guard, her posture stiff with resolve. She was nothing if not brash—approaching a man like this in broad daylight, no less. It was enough to command his attention.

Monsieur Neuvillette studied Furina, his curiosity piqued. There was a tension in the air as if she had something of substance to reveal. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. He had planned on interviewing the cast the victim worked with so he might as well… "I must admit, Mademoiselle, I am intrigued. What exactly do you wish to discuss?"

Furina straightened her posture, a subtle hint of nerves dancing at the edge of her expression, though she remained composed. "I couldn't help but notice, Monsieur, that you’ve taken a particular interest in the recent events."

"And how, may I ask, would you know of my involvement?" His voice remained calm, though there was an undeniable edge of curiosity beneath it.

She met his gaze despite the way her fingers fussed the linen of her dress. "Your reputation precedes you and,” he wondered if the pause was intentional. “I happened to see you at the scene before I left. It’s no secret that when something of this nature occurs, someone of your competence would be called upon."

Neuvillette raised an eyebrow, "You are very astute. But what exactly do you believe I can offer you in return for this conversation? Are you perhaps seeking an exception from this case? You are Lady Camille’s understudy, no?" It would not be the first time someone tried to pay their way to keep their secrets buried. It would have been an innocuous question, if not for the fact that her mentor, had been murdered. The accusation hung between them, swinging on an invisible thread.

"It’s not what I want, Monsieur," she replied, her tone soft but firm. "It’s about what I can give you." Her fingers sifted through her bag, movements deliberate. "I didn’t kill my mentor," she muttered, a sharp edge creeping into her tone. "But the one who did… might know me."

Neuvillette’s amethyst eyes lingered on her a moment too long as if weighing her words with careful precision. Though his words were polite, she could not shake the feeling that Neuvillette already knew the answers to the questions he was about to ask. “And why, would you say that?”

“There was a case…about ten years ago,” the words shook alongside the papers she handed him. There was no need though. Everyone knew that case. After all, nothing shook the upper rings of nobility more than the death of their own. 

“My mother was murdered similarly.” Realization settled like flotsam on the shore. He swung to fully look at her, the pale shade of hair, the unmistakable eyes. She was the spitting image of the late Countess Egeria. His exhale ruffled the top of his cravat. Neuvillette had yet to be officiated into the force at that time but he was not entirely unaware of the case. It was all anyone could talk about for months. The nod of his head was stiff.

“Shall we head to your office then, your private stage quarters perhaps?” He blinked at the confidence that melted into sheepishness. Her cheeks were dusted with a worryingly brightening pink. Ah…he had forgotten, she was still an understudy.

“Perhaps…we can use my carriage instead.” The corner of his lips twitched as she huffed. “Yes, that would be preferable.” He wondered if she would still feel that way once she saw his humble, yet practical, ride. As he offered her the crook of his arm, he could not help but notice that despite her brave front, Furina’s fingers trembled slightly. Neuvillette led Furina to the waiting carriage, his hand guiding her gently yet firmly as they approached the vehicle. The carriage, though modest in appearance, was well-maintained and functional. A tiny teen, leaned against the driver post, only straightened as they approached. The older man helped his escort inside.

“Two rounds around the grounds for now Aeval.” There would be more…if need be.

Once she was settled on the plush seat, Neuvillette followed her in, closing the door behind him. The carriage lurched forward with a smooth motion, and he took a seat opposite her, the interior's soft glow from the single lantern casting a warm light on their faces.

He studied her with a pensive expression, his eyes searching for any hint of truth in her words. "Miss Furina," he spoke slowly and deliberately, "shall we cut to the point? Why do you believe your mother's murder is connected to the present one?"

Furina's gaze flickered with a mix of hesitation and determination. She took a moment to steady herself, smoothing the delicate fabric of her dress as she prepared to speak. Her mind raced, sorting through memories and evidence, determined to make her case. After all, it was all that was left - a memory of her mother and an unrelenting need for justice.

𓇢𓆸

Hidden in the shadows, his eyes narrowed with a dangerous blend of jealousy and rage. He had not meant to observe her from afar—an unintentional presence, for he knew better than to intrude. He had not expected her to even be here. It would be unbecoming of her to see him in such a state. He wondered what brought the change. It was rare for Furina to emerge so soon after receiving one of his gifts. She typically took time to ponder the weight of his offerings, as he intended, though they could be overwhelming. His gifts were always meant to guide her, gently steering her in the right direction, despite the fervency of his feelings. He meant only to do her good.

Yet, it was disheartening that she seemed to misunderstand his intentions. The path to her dreams was laid out before her, and still, his songbird was turning to another. There was no need to involve the eyes of the ducal house. There was no need to invite a stranger into their intimacy. Had she not learned the last time she tried? Was that why she looked to another? As he observed her meeting with M. Neuvillette, an unsettling unease crept into him, almost without warning. The way that man looked at her, and how she responded, ignited a quiet storm within him.

He wrestled to control his breathing, his voice emerging as a strained murmur. "No, no...Furina would never betray me. It must be like before, yes...everything will be fine." Despite the persistent doubt that gnawed at him, he clung to the belief that she was too pure to falter. She had never wavered in her devotion before, not after all he had given her. It had to be as it always was.

A slender, gentle hand rested on his shoulder, pulling his gaze from the retreating carriage. He turned towards the vibrant doors of the Opera across the street as lips pressed against the corner of his. “There you are, dear. The show is about to start; let us go.” 

Chapter Text

'Bonjour Mademoiselle Furina,
I recently beheld you, a vision of grace, smiling at the barista as they poured your tea—so exquisite that even the roses wilted in your radiant glow. I trust my unsolicited admiration does not burden you; such beauty demands acknowledgment and it would be an injustice to leave it unvoiced.'

It was the first letter, it was simple, and unintrusive, if not for the fact that ten years ago, the woman before Neuvillette had been only twelve. But without a date...how far back did these notes go?

'Evening, Mlle Furina,
Writing to you brings me solace. Even if you don’t reply, I find comfort in the act. My previous note barely scratched the surface of what I long to say when we meet. Tell me, how do you manage your lessons? Is Mdm. Soline as strict as ever? Ignore her, she knows not, how to temper your storm.'

This time, the letter was a little more forward, yet innocent enough. An admirer of sorts, if he had to hazard a guess. But what kind of admirer spoke about the governess? The tip of the grey-haired man’s finger followed each letter. Neuvillette’s sharp eyes memorized the details. Each stroke of the words was neat, slanted slightly left, and smudged. 

'Sweet Furina, 
You search, you choose, and you adore, yet not a single bloom in the wildflower bouquet you carry can compare to you. Radiant, you eclipse even the brightest bud, and when you sing, my heart soars the skies. I await the day, you turn to face me.'

Neuvillette’s brows furrowed as his gaze lifted briefly from the note. Pale hair, round cheeks, dark lashes. Furina was, as the whispers around the theatre suggested, beautiful, though that was where his agreement with the crass ton ceased. What truly held his attention was how she carried herself—a quiet confidence and a defiant spark in her eyes. It suited her, on the stage. His gaze turned to the pages as Furina’s shifted away from the window.

'Mlle Furina,
Tears glistened on your lashes like dew on a cold morning. Was it your sister? Her bitterness casts a shadow over your light. But shadows fade, just as your tears will. You will walk through the park again, smile upon your lips, and I see it—I know it. The world cannot keep you from joy for long.'

There was another detail, another unsettling glimpse into a familiarity that ran too deep. Neuvillette frowned. Had the suspect been a person close to the family? Or was his knowledge the result of something darker? Had his affections made him cross the line into something far more sinister? How long, had he watched her, learned of her, in the span of these undated letters?

'Furina,
I wonder, does your heart ache as mine does, yearning for freedom? Like me, do you dream of the sea and a life far away from this provincial town? Is that also why your sea-blue eyes carry such weight?'

'Dear Furina,
I find myself consumed by thoughts of you. My heart aches with you. I see it, she smothers you—a rose drowning in too much care, wilting from the excess.'

Projection. Idealization. Yearning. The letters grew increasingly brief almost erratic. Neuvillette noted that as they shifted away from Furina, veering toward what others believed they understood. It was a perilous, slippery slope. Had he somehow fractured his grip on reality? But beyond the brevity, the handwriting remained unfailingly neat.

'Dearest Furina,
Fret not, the hand that tends thee shall soon change.'

It was a threat, no, on second glance, Neuvillette thought it a promise. There was no doubt to be found in those words.

'My Furina,
A most cherished offering, for you. Enjoy the birth, of your liberation.'

Murder.

From the of Neuvillette's eyes, he could spy Furina's mop of white hair getting closer as she leaned toward him. Her impatience was palpable in the way her gaze flitted restlessly between his face and the contents of his hands.

A tense silence settled in, making the fine hairs on the back of Furina’s neck stand on end. Her face took on a pale sheen, and she twisted the linen of her dress apron, a gesture born of unease. Before her, Neuvillette leafed through the letters—notes, really, given how brief they were. In the time he had taken to read them, turn them left and right, up and down to find anything, they had already made one round, around the Opera House. The pale-haired man’s brow was set straight, and a hint of a frown tugged on the corner of his lips. The ghost of the affable man from earlier was lost behind what she could only ascribe as the visage of a stern detective. She could spy, the moment question bubbled in the back of his mind, yet as the second ticked by and they were not voiced, she wiggled in her seat just a bit more.

The pounding of her heart drowned out the methodic hoofbeats of the horses pulling the carriage.

“You kept all of these? And are these all of them?” Furina jolted, her hand flying to her chest as she drew in a shaky breath. The faint glint of amusement on the older man’s face made her cheeks flush.

“Yes... well, not exactly,” Furina began, trying to steady her voice. “I didn’t even know they existed until after my mother passed. She was... overprotective, you could say. Excessively so at times, but looking back and seeing the contents of these letters, I understand why.” Her voice faltered as the carriage hit a bump. 

“If there were more, then no one could find them. The detectives found these in a box on her nightstand during the investigation. They believe whoever wrote them... killed her.” Her words trailed off, the weight of her suspicions hanging heavy in the air. 

“And you, believe it was because of you,” Neuvillette said, his voice low. The truth of it made Furina flinch, her shoulders shrinking as her gaze dropped to a speck of dirt on the floor, unable to meet his eyes. “My apologies, I did not mean to accuse you,” Neuvillette’s voice was patient, the stack of faded papers in his hand was rearranged, “It was simply implied in the text.”

Furina shook her head. It was not the first time that someone had come to that conclusion. It was better than the other rumors, where she had orchestrated her mother’s death. That one had stung, an accusation lobbed at her by someone she had once considered her sister. For a brief moment, Furina wondered just where Rhodeia was now. “That is what we –the detectives back then– agreed with.” She forced her hands to be steady as she smoothed them over her skirt one last time.

“And why is it that you think these letters, your mother’s murder, and today’s incident are related?” His voice may be measured, even, but Furina could still pick out the minute flecks of doubt.

“Do you know the result of my mother's...case?” The singer watched as the other bobbed his head.

“If I recall correctly, they found the culprit, and while apprehending him, he suffered a fatal accident. He died shortly before a medic arrived.” Relief made the corner of her lips turn up.

“Yes! So as you would expect, if the culprit died the letters would stop, except…” She leafed through a pocket in her apron, as pulled out the letter she had gotten earlier today. “It…did not.”

Neuvillette’s fingers ran beneath the seal, before doing the same to one of the older ones. Side by side, they looked almost identical. His head was tilted towards Furina as she continued to speak. “A few times a year since then, I would get another.” She turned her head, to look outside the window. The front of the opera house was quickly approaching, children, darted about, waving newspapers and flowers to anyone in sight.

“I suspect, that they are the same person, or, to be precise” and this was where the doubt always began. “I think the deceased suspect, was not the right person.” And that was a terrifying notion tried not to think about too often. Furina bit the inside of her cheek and held the gaze leveled her way. This time she was ready, for the doubt, for the disdain, for her worries to be brushed off. There had been a reason, a nagging, that had kept her from discarding those notes all these years, it was about time that it was laid the rest. 

“While your theory is credible, you can not say for sure…if the person that was arrested was wrong,” Neuvillette uttered. The indignation flared, a spark flying from a flint. Furina did not quite know what he was looking for as he continued to peer at her. “However, it was possible that he had an accomplice that was missed in the initial investigation. Do you have any other reason to think that this was the work of the same person?”

Furina hesitated, her thoughts drifting back to the flowers, to the roses... but when her mother died, were there any? Her lips parted, as if to speak, then pressed shut again. She shook her head slightly, a stubborn strand of hair wiggling free from her bonnet with the movement. Neuvillette hummed softly in contemplation, but his silence was inviting. As if waiting for her to decide, she supposed. Despite his gentle prodding, Furina held mum. If she could not recall with clarity, would it even help the case? Or would it perhaps set them on the wrong route? The singer settled on a half-answer. “Not that I can recall.” Even as she spoke, she could not shake the feeling that he knew of her withholding as his sharp eyes narrowed. Yet he chose to respect her privacy, as he turned that piercing gaze away, offering her a fragile veil of propriety. 

The carriage pulled to a standstill, and muted neigh of horses filled the space. Neuvillette finally spoke. “The handwriting although similar, at first glance, does seem a bit strange. Do you have any other letters on hand that I may borrow for comparison?” 

“I do, but they are not with me at the moment–” 

A knock came from the carriage door. Aeval, if Furina remembered correctly, peeked her head through the window. “We’re here Monsieur Neuvillette, Lady Furina!” Her hand cocked on her hip as she narrowed her eyes and clicked her tongue. “You know, it is improper, for you to keep a lady in your carriage, without a supervisor, for so long! What would Sedene say?” The heat that rushed to Furina’s cheek was instantaneous. “People will talk, so please disembark my vehicle with the most haste.”

“Aeval–” The reprimand left Neuvillette alongside a side. “Please excuse my tiger, she is young and has quite the imagination. Also seemed to have forgotten that this is my cab.”

“It’s alright, though she is quite a…spoken footswoman.” If she had not been used to ‘Letta’s brand of brashness, Furina was quite sure she would have combusted on the spot at the half-hearted accusation. As is her amusement was barely hidden, a giggle smothered by the back of her hand. The carriage manager only grinned, a gap missing in her front tooth as she peered at the lady in her master’s cart. “Your carriage but I drive it! So its mine too. So as the second owner, I say, you have 2 minutes to get off! I’ll go guard the door for now.” Furina could hear her tap her feet just outside the door. A soft chuckle accompanied the shake of her head. Furina reached for the letters, only to be stopped by a gloved hand.

“May I keep these for now, I would like to have some time to compare them.” Her hand stilled. Nodding her head, Furina began to reach for the door.

“Of course, if there is anything else you need, please let me know.” She found herself leaning back as Neuvillette’s much larger form flooded the doorframe. Blinking she took the offered hand as she stepped out of the carriage. “Before you leave, I do have a question.” At her hum of acknowledgment, Neuvillette pressed on. His grip loosened when both her feet were steady on the floor. “May I see the other letters?” Blue eyes met lilac ones.

“The ones I did not burn, I sent them to Monsieur Boucher.” Furina knew the flicker in his eyes was one of recognition. Neuvillette watched as she straightened her clothes, and offered Aeval a smile and two coins, before making her way into the Opera House. The older man turned his head as a finger prodded his side hard enough to be felt through the layers of his coat. “What did she want, Monsieur?” In Aeval’s hand, the coins were cradled carefully. “I like her–”

Neuvillette’s voice was dry as he mussed her brown mop of hair. “You like her because she gave you Mora-”

“And because she’s pretty!” The taller man opted to ignore that comment as he hopped back into the driver's seat this time. His little coachwoman climbed up after him, indignation already making her cheeks round into a pout. “Hey, this is my spot. This is also my horse, give me back my reins.”

Neuvillette’s answer was a barely there shake of his head. “I need to drive it to reestablish my ownership.” He bit back his grin as tiny hands tried to pinch his arm. “Hey, be gentle with Honey.” Aeval groused. The horse clicked down the road much too used to the shenanigans of his charges. Neuvillette’s grip eventually loosened enough for Aeval to wrestle control with a triumphant huff. The girl’s smile slacked as she peered up at her master whose gaze had dropped to his gloves. The covered hand curled.

“So where would you like to go? To Monsieur Boucher?”

His grip slacked. Neuvillette turned his gaze back onto the bustling streets.

“To headquarters. I need to check on a few things first.” The letters in his pocket felt as if they were burning.

The opera house was quieter now compared to what it had been before she had departed. The crowd had been seated and the few people still waiting at the concession stand were beginning to head to their seats. The white-haired girl exhaled a wavering sigh. Furina kept her steps light as she darted away from the main hall and towards the one that veered backstage. Here, hidden behind curtains and wood, the air was much more somber. The few stagehands she met who were not by the main stage carried the same air of skittishness. Their sunken eyes and pallid skin may as well match hers beneath the layers of makeup. Exhaustion pulled on her shoulder, made them feel heavy with every step she took closer to the source of the loud discussion. Furina did not need to guess what they were arguing about. She could hear bits and pieces of it the moment she had made it halfway there.

She slipped into the room and settled herself next to two familiar mops of dirty blonde hair. The twins turned to regard her.

“You’re…late.” Furina tilted her head in acknowledgment. Lynette, one-half of the magician twins was a friend and a student. A while back the younger woman had asked for acting advice and since then, she had been keen on being friends. Not that Furina minded, she found Lynette’s monotonous sass quite delightfully charming.

“Does it have anything to do with a rather dashing fellow, sweeping you up in his carriage?” A decidedly much less monotone voice echoed from Lynette's right. “How was he, it looked like a rather short ride. ” Scrunching her nose, Furina reached around to prod Lyney on the side just as his sister slapped the back of his head. His sound of pain was lost behind the rising noise.

Furina peered at the center and watched carefully as the two men continued to argue before tilting her head towards the twins.

“That was Monsieur Neuvillette…he came to discuss–-,” her voice hitched. Voicing it was much harder than seeing it, it seemed. Reality was cemented by words.

There was a brief shared look between the twins. Lynette reached over to pat Furina’s clenched hands.

“So…then…the rumors are wrong?”

“Then it was not suicide.” Both statements echoed at the same time. Furina could only nod, her attention pulled back towards the argument that was rapidly declining with increasing volume

“It’s too soon!” Xavier hissed. His fingers combed through his hair as he stared down the man across from him. With his arms across his chest, a man with hair slicked to the side, mussed by the heat, did not budge as he shook his head. Spittle flew.

"The tickets have already been sold. We cannot cancel the show because of this," the portly man, Riven, declared, his tone resolute. "As the owner of the Opera House, I am ordering you to continue the production."

Xavier's jaw clenched as his fingers raked through his hair again, frustration boiling beneath the surface. The maroon fabric of his slightly ill-fitting suit made him seem even scrawnier despite standing at full height. "It’s too soon! Lady Camille’s death is still fresh! Have you no decency?" His voice dropped to a hiss, sharp enough to cut through the murmurs of the surrounding cast members, who had gathered in uneasy clusters. "People are grieving, Riven. She had a hand in mentoring this entire troupe. Forcing this production forward is in poor taste, and you know it."

Riven crossed his arms, the material of his pressed suit pulled tight as he straightened. The ruddy face was devoid of sympathy as sweat poured down his temple. "Mora does not stop for tragedy, Xavier. The public wants a show, and we will give it to them. In fact," he added, with a tone that made Furina’s stomach tighten, "Camille’s untimely demise will only draw more attention. It’s a grim but undeniable truth. The opera will be sold out by the end of the week." Indignation rolled through the troupe like wildfire. Next to her, she could feel the twins tense.

Furina’s grip was tight against her dress. Her knuckles were white as snow as she swallowed the lump in her throat. The sheer disregard for her mentor’s life, her legacy, and her contribution, left her cold. She had expected, some degree of harshness from the man, but to hear him disregard the woman he had once seemed to adore was jarring. Had her mentor been so easily forgotten now that her value was gone? The actress's eyes flickered between the two men, sensing where this conversation was heading but dreading it nonetheless.

Xavier’s face twisted. "You mean to use her death as a spectacle? This is not just a tragedy—it was murder. We owe it to Camille’s memory to be respectful, to—"

"To what?" Riven interrupted, his voice laced with impatience. Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he dabbed at the sweat. "Hold a vigil? Cancel the season? How are you even so sure it was murder? Anywho it doesn’t matter, dead is dead. You know as well as I do that the show must go on. And since we can’t wait for the public’s sympathy to dry up, we need a new lead." His eyes slid to Furina, and the room fell deathly silent. "Which is why I’ve made my decision and if you refuse…well you may find another opera house to take in your troupe. Ah, but there’s no other venue in Fontaine now, is there?” The fact that she was sitting kept Furina’s knees from knocking together and sending her tumbling to the floor from the sheer rage that rushed through her.

Furina felt the air leave her lungs as the threat settled in the room, turning the tension into something oppressive. Xavier stiffened, eyes wide in disbelief. "You’re bluffing."

Riven’s lips curled into a grim smile. "Try me. I’ve sunk too much into this production, and I won’t let some melodrama ruin it. You either put on the show, or you’re out—permanently."

Xavier shook his head, his voice hoarse. "You can’t do this. You are just going to destroy the troupe just because they don’t want to exploit their friend’s death? Because they have some decency? "

Riven’s smile did not falter. The air of smugness that flitted off him seemed to leech warmth away from the room despite the sconces lit. "I am not doing any such thing. They can do that themselves by refusing. I’m giving you lot a choice—perform next week, or watch everything you’ve worked for disappear."

Furina stood frozen, her mind racing. It was not a choice at all. She may have the coiffeurs left by her mother, enough to comfortably live, but about the others? For most, the troupe was their livelihood. He was hanging a guillotine, over their necks.

Riven turned to her then, his gaze cold and calculating. Realization settled like a heavy boulder in her gut. Her mouth gaped as she exhaled sharply. 'He wouldn't.' But what wouldn't a greedy bastard do? The tremors in his hand seemed steady for once as he adjusted the lapels of his suit. "And you, Furina, will be the star."

She had once dreamed of the stage, the spotlight, the applause, the thrill that came with performance. But not like this, never like this, never at the expense of someone else.

“I—” Her gaze darted around the room, to the way everyone had turned pale. Xavier’s gaze was downturned, his brow set into a furious line, even the twins looked uneasy at a glance. Was there any other answer? "I’ll do it."

The stocky man’s smile morphed into something twisted as he crossed the room, his hand landing heavily on her shoulder. "Camille trained you herself, didn’t she?" His voice dripped with saccharine mockery and smelled heavily of cheap whiskey. "So, do try not to disappoint her. For her memory, yes?"

Two pairs of hands yanked Furina away as a blur of maroon crossed the room. A slap flew. She let herself get towed away, ferreted to the far side of the hall as a few measly guards moved to separate the two scuffling men half-heartedly. The rest of the troupe gathered around her. Lyney and Lynette’s palms were warm as they found hers.

"He deserved it," a voice hissed from the crowd. Furina’s gaze darted around, startled by the murmur of agreement. The sudden brush of fingers against her cheek made her jolt.

Furina’s arm wrapped around herself, though the knot in her stomach only tightened as she watched the two get tugged apart. Xavier limped over, shrugging off the pat to his back.  The fire in his eyes was gone, replaced by sheer exhaustion that seemed to drag away what was left of his bravado. “Everyone go home…I–” he faltered beneath their riveted gaze. “We’ll start practice in…two days. Rest, for now.” The man’s back looked small as he turned and walked away, fist clenched into balls. Murmurs of encouragement followed him.

“We’ll be alright, Furina,” Aurelie said softly, her voice a calm anchor. “Thank you.” The others murmured in quiet agreement. The relief Furina felt was fleeting.

“Everything will be fine.” A voice echoed from the older woman’s side. The back of her head throbbed with a constant pounding that made the flickering of the light feel too bright. The letters. The Troupe. Camille’s murder. Her world was beginning to spin and there was nothing to tether her to the ground. “I hope you're right, Pauleau. I do.”

No one paid Riven any mind when he scurried from backstage with a string of expletives. 

The headquarters for the Marechaussee Hunters was bustling as always. Patrols were constantly coming and leaving the vast yard. Cabs parked in a neat line beyond the gates, and recruits ran rounds for their daily routine. The tall building, with this green roof, stood tall and intimidating. The steel gates swung open as his carriage approached. A single look was all it took for him to pass without fanfare. The respectful nod was returned. Neuvillette watched, as Aeval pulled up shy of the building’s stoop. His heel clicked against the stone as he disembarked. 

“Take a break for now, I may take a while,” Neuvillette said. Aeval bobbed her head, and her exhale ruffled her hair. Her gaze darted towards the garden and she left him with a gap-toothed grin. “We’ll take a nap then. The sun's finally out.” A rare bit, given the season. With a nod, he took the steps to his office two at a time, only to keep left, dodging around a clerk, as he headed towards the doors of the archives.

His entrance into the room was stopped by a stern voice.

“Monsieur Neuvillette!” A girl that was only a few years older than Aeval and unmistakably related, huffed as she toddled down the hall. Her arms were full of folders that the white-haired man held the moment he could. She spared him a grateful smile as she straightened. 

“Yes, Sedene?”

Neuvillette ushered the brunette to the side as a trolley barreled down the hall towards the archive’s elevator shortly after them. The ruddy-cheeked girl exhaled sharply before she spoke. “I have a message from Sigewinne, I was on my way to send it to you when I saw Aeval out front–” It was apparent she had run back in lest she missed him.

“She would like to see you as soon as possible. She found something...” He let her usher him in the opposite direction. The files in his hand were gone the next second as she shooed him away.

“Oh, and, Sedene.” The girl turned around, head tilted to the side.

“Yes, sir?”

“While I meet her, can you please pull me the files on the murder of Egeria de Fontaine, from 1803?” He hesitated.

“That I can, was there anything else you need?” Ever astute. Neuvillette spared a ghost of a smile.

“And anything you can find regarding one Furina de Fontaine,” asked Neuvillette. A flicker of recognition colored her bright eyes.

“Lady Furina? The one we always see when we go to the opera house,” she gasped. A brow rose. Sedene’s cheeks were reminiscent of apples. “I like her singing!” He ignored the calculating swivel of her head.

Neuvillette chuckled. “Yes, her. Thank you Sedene.” He watched her turn before doing the same. The smile dropped as he passed the anteroom, passed the line waiting for the lift, and took the winding case down to the morgue.

The air was bitter, almost metallic. Sterile, and cold, in ways Neuvillette would never quite get used to. Not when death accompanied the too-clean scent. In the corner, standing by one of the metal tables was a woman with blue hair tied in two neat tails. Her glove was stained red, and the tools lined the table to her side were stained. Siegwinne, was one of the force’s resident surgeons, inheriting a legacy left by her mentor, and a genius in her own right. She turned when Neuvillette cleared his throat. “Should I come back?” Neuvillette half-jested. A sharp twang sounded as he tapped his cane against the doorframe.

The older man was graced with a smile. If Neuvilette had not grown used to the sight of her covered from head to toe in some form of viscera from her dissection, he would have been chilled by the image she painted. If he had not known all of them, he would never known, that Siegwinne, Aeval, and Sedene all shared a single father. It had been a shattering fact that shocked the ton when the late Lord Elynas willed his inheritance to all 47 of his daughters.

“Oh no Monsieur, you’ve come right on time~” He took a step closer as she mentioned towards the body in front of her. The smile on her lips was one of pity now. “I was finishing up with Lady Camille here so you should come see.”

On the table, bare as the day she was born, Lady Camille looked almost at peace, if not for the bruises and scrapes across her body. Blooms of purples, blacks, and blues that would now never fade. The water that had been found on her that morning, had all but dried.

“What did you find,” the captain asked.

“On first pass, we found scratches and scrapes on her knees and palms. The damage was surface level, which seemed concurrent with a fall. She fell hard enough to leave some bruising on her knees and elbow.” Neuvillette’s eyes flitted over the mottled skin with a nod. “We also found bruising on her neck, evenly spaced.”

“A necklace perhaps,” Neuvillette muttered.

Sigewinne turned. “Most likely, it was ripped hard enough to leave marks. I checked the pictures we developed, there was none at the scene.”

“With how wet she came in, we worked with the assumption that she perhaps was also drowned…however,” Sigewinne moved next to gesture towards the clean red line splitting the middle of Camille's chest. “When we checked her lungs, there was no water to be found.” Her ruby gaze locked on the contemplative man.

Neuvillette’s frown deepened. “So she was unconscious before she drowned.”

Sigewinne spared him a nod. “Yes, but!” Her fingers brushed away the locks of pale hair to reveal a dent on the back of her skull. “I believe…she may have been dead long before that.”

“A wound, approximately 3.8cm in diameter. Formed by something swung with enough force to crack her skull.” 

“But that would not be enough to kill, at least not immediately.”

“Yes! The skin has split and puckered so there would have been blood, not a lot, but enough to leave a stain until it clotted. So that got me thinking. Where did all the blood go?”

There was a pause as she stared at him expectantly. Neuvillette exhaled under the weight of her look, “The murderer washed her?” The middle of his brows furrowed, “She was killed, cleaned, and staged.” 

“Exactly! She did not drown, the murderer, hit her just hard enough not to cause visible damage, waited until she died, and then cleaned her. Thoroughly. I ran a photo of the wound up to Clorinde, she's working on identifying what object would leave that kind of damage.”

“How did they know that the wound would be fatal? With head trauma, doesn't it take minutes, to days, for anything to happen?” Under the glow of the lamps, Sigewinne eyes seemed to glow unnaturally crimson. She shifted Camille’s hair and gestured for him to get closer. An ousia-powered lamp was shined at a spot just behind her ear. Neuvillette bit back a curse. There, with the skin slightly puckered, a tiny, pin-sized hole.

“Synth. She was injected with a lethal dose of synth.”

His eyes snapped to Sigewinne. Any remnant misplaced hope that this was merely a farfetched case of robbery gone wrong and guilt dissipated like foam on the shore.

“How sure are you of this?”

“Almost 100%. The dead do not lie. I am waiting for the tox screen to come back to confirm and write the report, but her fingers were tinted blue, alongside her nails, gums, and lips. All indication of poisoning. She was very much alive when it was put in her bloodstream.”

The older man could feel the pressure build starting at the nape of his neck and creeping up the back of his head. If it was synth, and he truly, utterly, wished it was not, just how had the murderer gotten their hands on it? Synth had been banned from Fontaine for close to a decade now following the wave of death it had caused.

He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them. “Is there anything else?”

“We’re unsure if the perpetrator cleaned her nails, but there were no signs of struggle.” Under the flickering of the pneuma-ousia lights, Neuvillette looked tired. The crow's feet at the corner of his eyes deepened with the frown. Gently, Sigewinned tugged her gloves off and pulled the white sheet back over Camille’s head. Only the occasional rattling of a cart leaking through from the floor above could be heard.

“When the report is finalized and her cause of death officially noted, have Sedene inform me, if you would. Thank you, Sigewinne.” He turned toward the stairs, and the heel of his cane slammed hard against the floor.

“Oh, one last thing, Monsieur Neuvillette…” he turned at Sigewinne’s dour tone, her eyes sullen with a shadow. “She may have been unaware of it herself, but…Lady Camille was three months pregnant.”

There were days when the older man wondered what led humans to do what they did, and today was one of them. In his grip, the cane creaked. The door quietly shut with a hiss behind him.

In the solace of his office, Neuvillette's shoulders dropped. Water poured from a carafe filled the goblet his team had gifted him as a gag two years back. He took a sip, his eyes remained firm on his desk. Placed there by Sedene was a single manilla file. It felt light in his hand. Was this all, the late Lady Fontaine's life amounted to? A name, signed on the documents on the first page made him sigh. So he had not misheard the name Furina had uttered. Caesar Boucher. Neuvillette downed the rest of his glass before tucking the file under his arms. He made his way out of headquarters. A hint of grey clouds covered the sky. 

Furina squinted at the last bit of sun hidden behind a cloud. She jolted as a little boy ran up to her. A single rosebud in one hand and a torn scrap of paper in the other. Both items were hastily pressed into her hand before he sped down the street without an adieu.

Blood drained from Furina’s face.

‘Did I err with my gift? Is upset what made you take the hand of another? My flower, do not turn away from me.”

She took down the road, after the child.