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I stand up, the velvet of the armchair scraping across the floor as I push it back; I seize the tickets in my hands, feeling them for an instant between my fingers before lifting them decisively.

“Brittany let it be, then. We leave immediately.”

“Did you not have work to attend to?”

“It can wait.”

From the corridor, I glimpse Laurence’s blonde hair passing by.

My voice explodes. “Laurence!”

Lucien winces. “Damnation... what the dev—”

“Has any correspondence arrived for me?” I turn toward Laurence, who has entered the study.

He halts, hesitant, his gaze sliding elsewhere.

“No, sir.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am sorry, sir.”

The tickets give way under my grip, bending and crinkling.

Lucien opens his mouth, concerned.

“Is everything all right, Dor—”

“Let us just go, Lucien.”

The hard voice leaves little room for reply.

Step after step, I approach the door. My knuckles barely graze the wood as I run my other hand through my hair, Lucien passes beside me silently.

The colder air of the corridor licks at my neck.

Better to move away without delay, before the momentum drags me to a reckless act the likes of which I might regret the impulse.

22

You Haven’t Finished

Evander

The silver tray on the commode catches my gaze immediately.

A single envelope, solitary and motionless.

I approach the furniture barefooted, extending my fingers. No name is written on the back of the envelope. I graze the burgundy wax, but there is no seal, no heraldry. Rather, a mark I do not understand, I bring the envelope closer to my face to see better.

It looks like... a print.

Yes, clearly a finger has been pressed into the hot wax.

Qui est ce fou?

I open the envelope, the night wind beats against the glass, and the humidity in the air carries the acrid scent of rain. The paper is thin, stained with charcoal smudges.