hiding in the walls

Jude has a dangerously rational mind, cold logic and pessimism freezing his brain and hardening his heart. He was born raging at the world having seen too many innocents die at Fate’s blindly cruel hands, so when he encounters something pure and soft, he bristles up and braces himself for the worst. The Robin, a beautiful balance between a benevolent perception of the world and an unfailing kindness towards even its worst dimensions, is someone that messes with all the components of his mind. Jude knows he’s unpleasant company, even overcompensating on that bitterness to deter those who would be compromised by his association, but when she looks up at him with those scrunched brows and teary eyes, it lights a fire inside that wintery interior of his. Against his better judgment, should he torment her further, he’s rewarded with an unconscious lip bite and a pitifully sweet expression urging him to stop. The feeling she ignites in him is filthy, down to the level of the immoral and indulgent Alfons, but even Jude is infallible to the syrupy fruits of lust, especially when she offers them so sweetly to him. 

Visits to his company to do work for him is worse for his predicament. Being in such close proximity to her, when Jude could clearly see her successes and how she can do such difficult work against his expectations brings a warm pride to his heart. But when she fails… Jude was characteristically harsh and though unintentionally patronizing, he belittles her out of habit. Expecting her to run away in tears, she instead holds her ground, calling him out on his unceasing cruelty with teary eyes. Her body language was hostile, her face presenting such clear distaste for him, he should be enraged, and he is, but it was not isolated. Instead he felt such strong hunger towards that indignant face of hers. He wanted to grab her chin, squeeze her cheeks until her lips pursed into a stupidly cute pout and lick that mouth open. Her crossed arms pushed her breasts together and it took remembering his trauma to prevent him from ripping her blouse open to bite her soft nipples. So instead, Jude had to look away from those irresistible eyes of hers.

Jude was particularly restless on missions with the Robin. He detested Victor and his insistence on constantly allowing her to put herself in danger. A princess like her shouldn’t have to witness such cruelty. Still, her headstrong nature was what attracted him to her against his better judgment. Her kindness always meant she would try and assuage the situation, help the victims in the case even knowing her own safety was compromised. Jude would do his best to protect her, but when she defied his orders to save someone else, he hated how his heart palpitated in both worry and admiration. Scolding her on the carriage ride home, she would always fight against his lectures so that instead of indignance, it was a deep passion that attractively hardened her features. That strong defense of her morals and affirmation of her values—it was too beautiful to look away from.

Jude forced her to reveal her injuries this time. She unbuttoned her blouse to show the scrapes on her arms but Jude sickly delighted at the reveal of her soft skin from her shoulders, her delicate collarbones, and her arms. He treated the scrapes, but touching his rough fingers to her soft skin, even he couldn’t escape the sexually charged air, especially after such a passionate fight between them. Jude tried to be gentle but knew that he was anything but, so she would flinch in pain at his ministrations. Her silence was loud. She defended her actions and while Jude hated them, it was right in her mind. In punishment, he allowed himself a small indulgence—he trailed his nails from her hands up to her bare shoulders whispering a threat to her ear that if she were to be so reckless again that he would no longer be such a civilized man, especially not when she undressed herself so easily for him. 

It was a miraculously slow day at Crown’s palace where Jude is granted precious time to study the stars. The livelier members were off on missions and indulgences alike, and as far as Jude knew, sweet solitude was his. Nothing was to disturb his peace… that is, until her scent of London rainfall and vanilla buns wafted into the library. The foolish girl couldn’t even hide the sound of her footsteps, so even with her hushed whispers anyone in that castle library could hear her presence. Jude could see in between bookshelves how she was an adorable little thing, peeking around corners so as not to impose on anyone else. A strange glint of mischief hit Jude’s heart, wanting to claim this rare opportunity of just the two of them. So what if he was marked with bitterness in her heart, at least he was in her memories anyway. 

Like the perverts he detests, Jude followed her around the library. She perused around the books about economics and business, warming Jude’s heart when he realized she was studying for him. Still, he noticed how her eyes seemed to linger on the romance books over the next bookshelf. Her girlish innocence fighting with her determined mind—that dynamic melted some of Jude’s cold brain. With a conscious glance around her, she eventually relented and stepped towards those romantic novels. 

She opened a book Jude knew was particularly erotic, so he seized the moment, “this is what the pristine Robin does when no one’s around? What a pervert.” She jumped, whipping around to face Jude and his arrogant grin. Immediately, her face contorted into his favourite expression: indignant and frustrated, brows scrunched and shining eyes looking up at his own. Denying his accusation, she squeezed herself against the shelf, a cute but useless act to protect herself from Jude’s oncoming torment. He devised a scheme, deciding to challenge her, “read that book aloud to me. If it isn’t as perverted as you say, then we’ll have no problem.” Jude adored how her face was like an open book, especially in moments such as this when he can clearly witness the fight between wanting to prove him wrong winning over the need to prove her innocence, all seen through her wavering expressions. 

The image in this quiet afternoon shows the indignant Robin with her straight posture in contrast with Jude’s cocky figure leaned against the couch with his heavy boots nudging her pretty skirt. She huffed at his pestering her, each little tease of his warranting a bothered response from her, altogether eliciting a sick satisfaction in Jude. Jude read that book before, so he knew the plot very quickly dissolved into indulgent smut within the first two chapters. She stopped after the first chapter, her eyes regaining confidence at the harmless text she’d read so far. Her self-important little smirk brightened her entire expression, her eyes scrunched in delight and victory. She crossed her arms, leaning forward ever so subtly towards Jude, those expectant eyes of hers—Jude wanted nothing more than to push her down to the plush and tease her until those eyes melted into tears. As she went on and on about how Jude always belittles her, watched those smiling lips form word after word, noting how her lips pursed into a pout when she said his name. Oh… when she said his name... Jude could imagine how he would hold her hands above her head while his other hand trailed up her skirt… She was a masochistic little pervert, he could already picture how her juices would obscenely soak her knickers.

His throat ran dry at that image. 

“Didn’t tell you to stop reading,” Jude commanded. She jumped again at the dangerously low pitch his voice had taken. Her brief little lapse into obedience after such indignance burned straight to his crotch. As each line in the book increased in sensuality so did the warmth of her face, and before long, her voice cracked and dissolved into shameful murmurs. 

“Can’t hear that sweet voice princess,” Jude snapped. Her breath always stopped whenever he called her that. It was always in a mocking context but at this point fondness had begun to battle that teasing side. She disobeyed his command, too ashamed to read such filth aloud. Even worse, she began to hide her body away from his, perhaps the worst thing she could do to Jude’s increasing hunger. Jude tsked, grabbing her thigh and pulling her entire body forward, right up and lush against his. She gasped at the heat of his body, completely unaware of how she so easily undid him just by being her. 

“Disobeying and now hiding from me? You’re such a little brat.” Jude relented to his temptations, trailing his hands from her thighs down to her ankles, stroking them as her chest dipped up and down.

“You’re enjoying this? You really are a perverted princess.” Jude trailed his fingers from her ankles and allowed his hands to lift her skirt up over her knees. This time stroking her knees, he nodded towards the forgotten book in her hand. She resumed reading the chapter.

Jude stroked her knees again, whispering a “good girl” as he pushed his other hand down to her stomach. He softly pushed her down to the couch so she would lay down. Using his other hand to push her knees aside to spread her legs, she stuttered on a line. He made sure to stop his action as a warning should she stop reading.

“That’s a good girl, spread yer legs f’me.” Jude relished in the indignant huff from her, her face expressing distaste but her body clearly asking for more. He pushed her skirt over her hips this time. Those sweet thighs and the stockings that squeezed them called to him. At his intense gaze, she squeezed her thighs in shame. That bratty little action sent waves of heat down to his dick. In retaliation, Jude slapped her thigh, alighting a gasp from her. That brief moment of vulnerability allowed Jude to push her thighs apart. 

“If you stop reading I’ll leave you alone like this,” Jude warned, “hot and bothered but no one to help you. Just a poor helpless princess.” Obeying him, she continued his reading. He allowed himself to bite them, and when she flinched, he pressed an apologetic wet kiss on the marks he left. She stuttered with her reading, but like a good girl, she continued her lines.

As he had expected, her knickers were almost entirely drenched. That growing hunger blazed even stronger—his mouth watered at the sight. She flinched and quickly covered that delicious sight from him. Her defiance, even at this moment still excited him, so as much as he hated her hiding, it still tickled that same fondness in him. 

“You’re just begging for punishment, aren’t you?” She adamantly shook her head but Jude was too far gone at this point. Grabbing her hips, he flipped her onto her stomach, blocking her sight from his ministrations.

“Keep reading if you know what’s good for you,” Jude warned, “and I know this is good for you. Your knickers are fucking soaked.” Breathing hard, she resumed reading once again as Jude finally buried his face in her pussy. Even covered by her panties, her sweet juices dripped down to his waiting mouth. A moan interrupted the line she just read, but Jude could care less now that he could finally taste her. Sucking the now-translucent fabric in his mouth, those broken moans fully rendered her wordless. 

He growled, spanking her ass when he noticed her distracted state, “Keep. Fucking. Reading.” As soon as her words continued, he yanked her panties down, licking a long stripe up from her clit to her hole. She gasped once again, pushing backwards towards him, but Jude pressed a hand betwen her shoulders to keep her down. He dipped his tongue into her sweet cunt, letting the juices gush around his waiting mouth.

Rewarded with a startled whimper, Jude played with her cunt like she played with his heart. He spat on her quivering hole, letting his drool dribble down to her clit before licking back up. She shivered, the book fully forgotten. He devoured her cunt whole, flattening his tongue and massaging it over her clit. Those sweet little whimpers became whines and her legs quivered, weak and unable to support her weight. Jude mercifully wrapped his arms under her thighs to hold her up, selfishly, really, just so he could keep devouring her.

He switched from playing with her clit to fucking her hole with his tongue, the change eliciting another helpless gasp from her. She seemed to melt right into his hands, submitting herself to his rough hands. But that sadistic streak in Jude persisted, so he spread her ass apart and spat on her other hole. To Jude’s frustration, she wriggled away, rambling about how he was being improper or how that place was dirty, whatever it was between the two, Jude no longer cared. Fed up with her bratty behaviour, he landed another hard slap on her ass. She jolted, her cunt clenching around his tongue making him moan. 

The book clatters to the ground, pages spread open like a fan and exposing the sinful pages that started this whole predicament. Jude held her thighs up, selfishly feasting on her sweet juices while her nails dug into the couch’s cushions. She buried her face into a pillow, her moans far too loud for the quiet library, but this only earned another hard slap against her ass. 

“Fucking brat. Need to hear those slutty moans princess.” As if punctuating his command, he took her clit into his mouth, delivering a harsh suck that left her breathless. He continues this torment, switching between sucking, licking, spitting, and spanking, especially when she tries to hide her voice. That cold, logical brain that Jude was so proud of was scrambled, thoughts scattered because of how drunk he was becoming off her pussy. It was only fair he should devour her with how much she occupies his thoughts these days.

Her moans increasingly staccatoed, voice pitching higher and cunt clenching tighter. Jude ate her out as if she owed him her orgasm, drinking her juices as if he was trying to rip it out. She cums hard, reaching that pinnacle violently because Jude was not a gentle man.

Despite the violent quivers of her entire bottom half, Jude did not relent, punishing her in his own way for how much she torments him inside. She reaches a shaky hand around, pulling at his hair, uncertain whether she wants to pull him away or pull him closer. 

The both of them lost count of how many orgasms she gave Jude. Eventually he does relent and give her mercy, the sweet Robin twitching on the soaked couch. All of Jude’s icy rationality, detestable fondness, and even desperate hunger melted into a quiet fondness at the sight of her ruined body.

While in the aftermath of their rendezvous, she turned around in the midst of Jude cleaning her up. Knelt on the floor and wiping her thighs with his handkerchief, she huffed in fond frustration at Jude. Met with the sight of her angry eyes Jude felt that fire rekindle inside. 

tl;dr: God, does Jude love his little brat. 

After negotiating for your life in exchange for a brief tenure as “Fairytale Keeper” for Crown, your even more reserved nature diminished into itself even further. Before you learned everyone’s abilities, you were sent on a mission with Elbie, Alfons, and Roger (the Snow White gang) to investigate a human trafficking ring under the guise of a shipping company. The three of you needed to act as Elbie’s entourage to inquire on the business. The man you met made some unsavoury comments on the higher “value” that certain women had and you couldn’t help the curses under your breath, “Death is too merciful for men like you, you deserve only to rot in hell.” Roger couldn’t help the startled chuckle at this comment. You’ve been shy, muted, and unreadable so Roger was charmed he could finally hear your thoughts. Of course, you were even more startled that he could hear what you said so your face was hot with shame. Roger wouldn’t hear any of your embarrassed apologies and instead leaned in to whisper (much to the jealousy of Elbie and Alfons) that no matter how hard you try to suppress your voice, he will always hear what you have to say. 

Roger could confess that he selfishly liked being the only one to hear your voice sometimes. Although he knew it was better in the long-run for you to gain more confidence and finally speak your mind, it thrilled him that his Curse gave him way more of your personality than the other guys could even hope for. And he was certainly no Elbie but his own greed won him over whenever someone like Liam would have to beg and beg just to hear a word from you yet he had unlimited access to your voice all the time. Of course, he did help you slowly gain more confidence and grow more comfortable with the guys by either interpreting and repeating your words or shutting the guys up whenever you had something to say so they could all hear. A particular act you noticed was that he could tell during missions that you often shrunk into yourself so as not to hinder the operation; whenever they were stuck and you had an idea, Roger would tune into any word that left your lips (more so than usual at least) and repeat it out loud while crediting you. 

Roger’s consideration, while coming from a place of fondness, doesn’t go without payment. He tends to take credit as the first man among Crown to truly get close to you, which he uses as his justification for whenever he wants to be affectionate, teasing, or protective. After particularly difficult missions, he and Alfons (sometimes Jude as well) will take you out to drink where they hope you’ll indulge them more of yourself without so much of your anxiety holding you back. Whenever your lips began to loosen, Alfons would use the excuse of “not hearing you well enough Miss MC” to slither next to you and intimately wrap his arm around your shoulder. Roger would always block him and claim the seat next to yours as it’s “his right” as your first man (Rio?). Another you-privilege Roger indulges in is holding an entirely private conversation with you in front of the others. Guys like Liam and Elbie will whine (one more elegantly than the other) over sitting close with you so they can get just a tiny glimpse of the you that you hide, but Roger can sit on the opposite end of the room and just converse normally. Additionally, with how quieter you tend to be compared to the others, Roger is always a little worried over how you’re doing throughout the day; he strives his listening abilities to hear your small footsteps throughout the castle, the rustle of your skirt when you move around your room, and his favourite: when you sing a little song under your breath when you think no one’s listening. He’s a little protective of you, so he gladly listens in on you whenever he can (and he’s glad he’s the one who can do that). So yes, unfortunately his ears are always “on” for you. With Roger you never have to worry about repeating what you say over and over, or speaking up because the other person can’t hear you, or even just holding back. He greedily consumes every sound coming from your lips, so it’s immensely comforting you finally have a faithful listener to the repressed yapper in you. 

In short, Roger would be a dream to have around girls who tend to be shyer and have quiet voices. He’s always there to listen, tease, protect, and be with you. And don’t worry, he adores you and your quiet presence because the possessive and greedy man in him gets to be the only one for you in this way. 

“Isaac, is something the matter?” The timid scientist’s eyes snapped up to yours, its sinful trip down your soaked body interrupted. The both of you had fallen into the fountain earlier, and to your delight, you believed that Isaac had finally stepped out of his shell and grew comfortable with you. With some laughter at your rotten luck and an irritated carriage driver later, the two of you sat inside the bumbling vehicle back to the mansion. Isaac gave you his coat to cover up, but you caught his lingering gaze on your body. Your own face wasn’t spared from warmth with the knowledge that your loose clothes now stuck tight, your every roll accentuated and presented to the world. Or at the moment, to your dear Isaac. He’s probably shocked at how big I am. He’s used to petite French girls with tiny waists, or delicate English ladies. He probably thinks I look so dis—

“Forgive me, MC! I was just—oh dear—this is most improper of me—” Isaac stumbled over his words, his face hot with shame and his eyes dark with an emotion you can’t quite place. He would avert his eyes around the carriage but an unexplainable urge kept pulling his eyes back to your body. It was such enigmatic behaviour, but if you could describe it he looked almost… hungry. 

“It’s alright. I apologize for looking so… uncouth. It’s not a pretty sight.” You hugged Isaac’s coat tighter, praying you could take up less space. Not only did you embarrass yourself in front of your favourite resident, his poor eyes had to witness such a horrid sight. Isaac’s face melted from its shameful expression into one of confusion. The problem he was facing certainly had to do with your appearance; not with its unattractiveness—the very opposite, in fact. Isaac, as a true gentleman, couldn’t very well tell you of the depraved thoughts circling his mind…burning through his veins…and alighting his manhood. You were too precious for him to outright confess his yearning for your body; you were too important and he cared for you beyond the sinful attraction he harboured at the moment. He vowed he would never act like Arthur, rakish, immoral, and unable to resist pleasure. With how desperately Isaac wished to worship every curve under that soaked shirt, he’s reminded again of how badly he desired you. Those damn buttons. He could almost picture how he would claw at each one… or would he gently undo them to tease you? No, he knew that if you allowed him, all sense of composure would leave his mind. He was far more likely to just rip that godforsaken shirt apart to expose your beautiful breasts. The thought was far too enticing: your pretty little face tinged with shyness but your eyes with a touch of eagerness. His greedy hands wouldn’t hesitate, relishing in the softness of your breasts while he trailed his sharp teeth down to your nipples—

You cleared your throat. Isaac had been staring at you again, his eyes even darker with that same hunger as before. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. In a battle for self-restraint, he tilted his head, licking his dry lips. It wouldn’t be safe for him to lose control. His aberration would fuel that desperate urge for you even more than it had before. The sight of Isaac’s irritation was far too attractive. His sharp jawline was clenched, his Adam’s apple bobbed as his fingers loosened his tie with surprising strength. His now-behaved gaze lay on your feet. He looks so uncomfortable… While wishing for the carriage driver to make haste, Isaac finally cast his eyes to yours, tinged with barely contained self-restraint. 

“It’s nothing that you’re doing, MC… I’m afraid I just—“ his breath shifted as he allowed his gaze to fall to your chest again, “can’t hold myself back anymore.” 

A bump on the road violently rocked the carriage but Isaac’s strong hands steadied your hips down on your seat. His warm body, now far closer than before, inched even more. Isaac dared to inch his face closer to where the sweet scent of your body was the strongest. In a way, burying his face in your neck would prevent you from witnessing his unravelling restraint, but selfishly, Isaac was just tempted to sink his teeth into your soft skin. His voice was right next to your ear. “You look far too delectable right now.” Isaac’s words only made your blood course faster through your body. It was too hot with Isaac right there. What’s gotten into him? He must be feeling sick because why else would he be saying all this? 

“Où est-ce que je tourne?” The carriage driver yelled out. 

Isaac’s breath warmed your ear. “Tournez à droite au coin, s'il vous plaît,” he replied, not taking his eyes away from yours. Knowing you were almost at the mansion brought both relief and disappointment. Seeing Isaac’s normally stiff composure fall apart because he saw a glimpse of your body was… riveting, to say the least. When else would you get to see his handsome face all warm and needy? For someone like you, who normally never caught the attention of others being worshipped with a single gaze… could you really blame yourself for wanting to revel in the pleasure a bit longer? 

Chapter III: The Hourglass

Outside the lavish mansion where a puzzling banquet was being hosted was a lush coach stopped just past the grand gates. The coachman turned towards his passenger, a rose-haired man who donned a thousand masks. The man, who sometimes played the part of a king, a prince, a lover, but always in all, a liar. He spoke with the ambiguous tone of someone who could laugh or cry at the next word, “... I apologize my good sir, but I have decided not to stay after all.” He faced away from the cruelly smiling crescent moon to re-enter the coach. 

The baffled coachman asked, “But Monsieur, what about the banquet?” 

The mysterious passenger ominously chuckled in return, “Capricious Fate has invited a guest of fairer mien than mine to take my chair. Hers is centre stage tonight, though I shan’t stay to see how she performs.” His eyes were of opposite colour—the right eye a misty green, the left a bloody red. The coachman shivered at his gaze; this was the first time in their evening he had donned an expression that felt… genuine. And it was genuinely dark. “Let us depart anon.” 

The coachman quickly hurried the vehicle off through the night, while its passenger relaxed into the velvet cushions. With only the laughing moon as his companion, he spoke to her—a bard playing to a lone audience, “O, what upturned expectations have come at the arrival of this new player?” The bard had seen MC but for a spare moment, and yet, he found himself haunted by her vision. “No devil can beguile men to persuasions more than she with an angel’s form. Or be she one of heaven’s messengers behind the horns and wings of temptation?” The coach jolted as it hit a divot in the path, sending the bard’s scripts scrawling to the coach's floor. Visible on the cover was the distinct signature of William Shakespeare. 

“Sebastian, if you would make us a cup of herbal tea? I think anise would be—”

“None for me, it’s okay.” As expected, dinner had ended with none of my questions answered. Le Comte remained true to his promise, however, and invited me to his office for an explanation. Still, my anxieties were left rampant in my head, and I could find no energy inside of me to remain courteous after such an absurd banquet. As Sebastian quietly closed the door to retrieve the tea, Le Comte looked at me with a sympathetic mien. “I just want to know how to get back. My aunt, she must be so worried,” I weakly muttered. 

“I presume you wish to exit through the door back to the Louvre? I’m afraid doing so will be difficult. You see, it only opens under very specific conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“The specifics are difficult to explain.” Le Comte rose from his large mahogany chair and stopped in front of a grand hourglass. It was unusually large and had gold furnishings, the top half full of sand. “The door will open once all the sand in this hourglass has fallen. It’s quite precise and I match that timing with the door’s opening myself.” I don’t like how much sand is in there. And how slowly it’s falling if it even is. 

“... How long does that hourglass run for?” I croaked out in a panic. 

“It takes a month, on average.” A MONTH? 

“Pardon me? I must have misheard,” I laughed in incredulity. I could feel my sanity crumbling between my fingers like the sand in that hourglass. 

“It typically takes a month for all the sand to fall. Doesn’t it, Sebastian?” I didn’t even notice the butler come in with the tray of tea. 

“Yes, M. le Comte. Meaning she will not be able to return for another month.” I squeezed my eyes, hoping this was all some sort of nightmare. 

“We’re in Paris, yes?” I asked in trepidation. There has to be another way to leave. As le Comte sipped his tea, he nodded. 

“I’ll just leave through the front door. How far are we from the Louvre?” No one said I had to leave through that strange door. Why would I need to use that to return? I can just get back to the hotel and apologize to my aunt for being gone for this long. Le Comte picked up a newspaper from his desk and gently placed it on my lap. 

“I’d like you to look at the date.” 

I looked at the date and grew cold. This didn’t feel fake—the news articles, the feel. It was genuine. 

“This is from this morning’s edition. As you’ve no doubt gathered from the date, we’re in the nineteenth century.” 

“There’s no way,” I whispered under my breath. 

Le Comte spoke in the same soothing tone, “We’re in France, but not the one you know. You arrived at this mansion by travelling through time.”

I don’t understand. No words came to my mind. There was not a single statement he said that could be serious. And yet, everything I’ve witnessed so far could attest to what he’s been saying. 

“You look like you’re struggling to believe it.” 

“I’m really quite sorry, you’ve been very kind to me. But there is absolutely no way I’d believe time travel before any number of explanations.” 

“It’s true that a newspaper can be easily faked. Perhaps this will convince you?” Le Comte moved towards a window where an old-fashioned brass telescope was pointed outwards. He gently beckoned me over. 

“What an excellent idea, M. le Comte. Seeing is believing, they say.” Sebastian said. 

“It is our good fortune that, owing to the genius of one of our guests, this telescope provides an excellent view of the city.” I let them guide me to it and peered within. Sure enough, when my vision cleared, the entire view of Paris turned back in time and greeted me. No neon signs. No skyscrapers. No cars. I turned the telescope around, hoping to see any glimpse of a modern city, but only Paris of a hundred years ago was present. Gentlemen in morning coats escorting ladies with bustles. There was no prank elaborate enough to dress an entire city. 

“So I’ve really travelled through time?” I gasped in disbelief. 

“There’s a phrase you use in Japanese. Do you recall it, Sebastian?” 

“Yes, we call it a ‘time slip.’” The name hardly matters, we’re facing the impossible! 

“That door connects to both the past and the present. Like me, you used it to travel here, to the past. You may have read or seen stories about time travel, but in my experience, it is neither a simple nor an everyday occurrence. Time travel has very particular rules. And in this case, you cannot return for the next month.” 

“When the sand in the hourglass falls, can the door take me back?” 

“Yes, when that time comes, either you or I could open the door. Like so, I must also follow the rules. It remains sealed to me for a month as well. If the door hadn’t shut, you could have passed through it exactly the way you came. However, once it’s closed, that passage ceases to exist. And the door requires time before it can open that passageway again.” I could have walked back if the door hadn’t closed. I degraded myself in my head. It was my own stupidity that really got me in this situation. 

“Likewise, all the men you’ve met tonight were gathered here by way of that time slip. That is why people from such diverse times and countries are all here, living in my mansion.” So the men I met at dinner are actually legit? Names from history, famous throughout all the world, transcending time in their glory—and they all live together in this mansion. “I can see you still have some doubts. But I assure you, you’ve just met the real van Gogh, the real Mozart, and the real Napoleon.” If time travel really isn’t out of the question, then I suppose it’s not unreasonable to assume that all these men are the real deal. Still, it’s truly unbelievable. 

“And who are you, Comte, that you were able to collect some of history’s greatest figures to live here in your mansion?” I looked at him, fully admiring his figure. This ineffable gentleman who said that people CALL him Comte de Saint-Germain. 

“I promise I’m not trying to evade your question, but in truth, it’s getting quite late. Please, stay the night. Sebastian will prepare a room. In fact, you’re welcome to stay here for the entire month at no cost. It’s the least I could do to land you in this predicament.” 

“For the night perhaps, but I can’t possibly ask you to welcome me for a whole month,” I fumbled over my words at the Comte’s generous offer. 

“You do realize you can’t return to your time for another month, don’t you?” 

“There’s no need to worry, I can make my own way. I’ve done it all my life.” 

Sebastian regarded me with a severe look, “I believe you’ll find that difficult. This is France at the turn of the century. How do you intend to ‘make your way?’” 

“I-I’m not quite sure yet, but—” He has a point. I knew nothing about this place. I didn’t even know what currency they currently used. But I can’t possibly stay here. There’s something they’re not telling me, but I can’t reveal my suspicions, it’d be rude. “I really don’t want to impose after you’ve been so generous,” I finished. 

“You’re not imposing at all, chèrie.” 

“It’s just that you’re offering me so much and asking for nothing in return.” That’s what scares me the most. 

“Please, take this as my apology. If you’re truly that concerned about it, Sebastian could use a hand around the house. The other residents try to do as much, as well.” 

Now I was faced with two choices. Risk spending a month in a house full of famous, time-travelling figures, who most definitely are hiding a secret. Or make a run for it and face the risks of the nineteenth-century Parisian streets at night. I squeezed my eyes as images of my worried family and friends flashed by. Staying with Le Comte really does seem the safest option right now. I turned towards him with a newfound strength. 

“I accept your gracious offer. Thank you, Comte.” I’ll trust them. For now. 

“I’m pleased we’ve come to an agreement. I wasn’t able to answer all your questions tonight, but we can continue tomorrow if you’d like. I also have something important to tell you, but that too, can wait for the morning.” I looked into those golden eyes that first sold me at the musée, and for the first time this evening, found contentment.

“I look forward to it, Comte.” 

“I will inform the others that you will be staying with us and are to be treated with courtesy. Two of them did not join us tonight, but I expect you’ll have the opportunity to meet them soon.” Even more famous names? Having adapted to my expressions, Le Comte assumed my curiosity. “One is Jean d’Arc.” Joan of Arc? The Maid of Orléans who led the French in the Hundred Years’ War? 

“Finally, another woman,” I sighed in relief, “that’s reassuring.” 

“I’m afraid our Jean is a man, though I can see how you’d make that mistake.” At my baffled expression, he added, “As to that, truth and history have a curious way of becoming distorted in the telling.”

Whispers of the past unheard by anyone but him, haunted the air like the specks of dust that floated in the light. The whispers, often cruelly mocking his soul, rightfully punished his monstrous existence; but tonight, a new voice urged him toward the window. An eyepatch covered the left half of his face, concealed by his long, dark hair. Jean d’Arc was the subject of the crescent moon’s mockery tonight. He watched the moon’s smile morph into a bow, bent to release its message of death, then to a sharp blade mid-slice. 

“La lune se moque de moi ce soir.” His voice became lost within the ghosts’ many whispers, but the moon’s mocking laughter remained. “There’s a curse on this night.” 

“Besides Jean, there is one other who did not join us tonight—” Le Comte was cut off by a dull thump, like something heavy falling against the door. “And that’s probably him. I’m sorry to trouble you, MC, but could you get the door?” He smiled almost knowingly while he gracefully held his cup between his lithe fingers. 

“Alright.” 

I opened the door of Le Comte’s office, expecting a man but encountering none. Warily, I stepped out of the hallway, only to stumble on something heavy. Before I met the floor, I landed on the lap of a large and hunched-over man. While I toiled in humiliation, strong arms tightened around my waist. The sweet scent of cigarillos and amber engulfed me. 

The velvety rumbling voice of the man hummed in confusion, “... never seen you here before.” Looking at him now, there was no way he could be comfortable like that. Is he sleeping? Finally, he cracked an eye open. His wolfish eyes were the colour of burnt gold. His lips formed a smirk as he observed my features with the same attention a sculptor might have given his subject. “Thought I’d wait patiently until you were done. Took so long I fell asleep.” A huge, brown, leather jacket lined with fur served to make his figure even larger, but the rest of his clothing was unmatched and messy, albeit in a charming way. The delicious drawl of his voice made me shiver, but his lupine gaze had me guarded. “So, you’re the one he was talking to?” He asked me a question but no words came to mind. He wasn’t letting go. I wasn’t sure if I even wanted him to. Then, as if waking up from a drowsy stupor, he realized the provocative position we were in. With one hand pushing him up to the ground, and the other supporting my back, we were finally upright. At my wide-eyed expression, he chuckled warmly and murmured an apologetic “scusa” in a deep Italian accent, “Did I surprise you?” 

I nodded wordlessly. 

He hummed again, “heh. Your words. They match the look on your face. How adorable.” His arm lingered around my waist, and at our close proximity, I caught the pleasant aroma of tobacco lingering on his clothes. 

“And here he is. The last of our residents.” Le Comte emerged from his office with a fond sigh. 

“Hmm? Are we introducing ourselves now? I’m Leonardo da Vinci.” 

“Along with Sebastian and myself, nine of these great historical figures reside in this mansion.” Le Comte finally concluded with the introductions. 

Leonardo ran a gloved hand through his brown hair, his voice tinged with that rough, sleepy quality, “I don’t know what happened, but your luck ran out for you to have wound up in a place like this.” 

“W-why would you say that?” 

“Simply put, Cara Mia, I don’t think you’re going to enjoy it here.” 

Chapter IV: Somnum Exterreri

It was not only the residents of the Count’s mansion that relayed the passage of time with the shadow-cleft moon. Ropes of moonlight from the High Gothic windows of the church illuminated the hallways, leaving behind the shadow of a darkly cloaked figure. The innocent humming of an old Romanian lullaby betrayed the blood-eyed creature with the heavy boots traversing the light. The snow-skinned creature gazed at the laughing crescent moon, the light reflected off his softly lucent smile. 

His childlike voice contrasted the vile thoughts that swirled behind his blood eyes, “Though it is doomed to the ugliness of utter obliteration, it remains such a beautiful world.” The man, if he could even be called that, crossed under the nave, where two shadows at the end stood obediently waiting. His eyes remained on the cruel moon, but his words were directed to his companions; they were used to his dream-like antics. “Have you seen it? The crescent moon is so beautiful tonight. Let us look at it together. Faust. Charles.” 

The imposing and brutal figure of a priest cast his cold gaze on the man. A frosty German voice muttered in distaste, “...Hmph. All the time at your disposal and you waste it in folly, Lord Vlad? We should make the church an almshouse if it’s to host the senile.” 

A great contrast to the priest Faust, the syrupy voice of Charles-Henri rose up in defence of their master, “Docteur, le Voïvode wasn’t idle, you know that. He was simply doing his job as a florist.” Charles was luscious candy personified; fluffy locks and innocently dressed with a cherub face and a sinful smile. “I’d love a job like that! So many pretty living flowers that all smell so nice and everyone loves you for what you do.” He turned to his friend, Faust, with a gleaming naïvete, “I want to be loved like that! I want everyone to love me more and more…” 

“You do the word ‘love’ no favours, muttering it constantly like a curse. Hungering for it like a depraved beggar. Then again, you do the very concept no favours, you mercurial nagetier.” 

Charles playfully interjects in a sing-song tone, “We humans need love. We crave it. It’s one of our most moral desires.” 

“Did I hear you say ‘we’ — and ‘human?’” 

The creature the two called ‘Lord Vlad’ hunched over in laughter. 

“Euer Hochgeboren?” Faust asked. 

“...Did something I just said make you laugh?” Charles questioned. 

“I simply remember how easy it is to forget my troubles around you two,” Vlad fondly answered, “then I remember how even the good times are destined to come to an end and I become sad.” 

“You feel sadness?” 

“I do. I feel sadness for the moon in the sky, the flowers in the soil, and the humans who walk between them in ignorance. I want to protect them all so they don’t have to ever feel that way.” 

“You love humans more than anything, don’t you, Voïvode?” Charles giggled. 

“Of course. I love them more than anything.” 

He who felt nothing but love, only love, looked out the window and up to the beloved moon. However, it was not just the moon his depthless blood eyes saw, but something beyond sight. More than human eyes can capture. 

“I’m in love with the world. That’s why as the unwilting flower called a vampire, I must bear this garden into eternity.” The vampire’s confession of love was released into the darkness, a promise that his beloved subjects were unaware of, with only the cruel moon to bear witness. 

Finally, I’m alone. The fluffy white sheets of the bed that Le Comte provided for me enveloped me in their plush embrace. I sank onto the bed in bliss, gaslighting myself into believing this was simply a hotel in present-day Paris, and not a mansion full of history’s greatest figures. I closed my eyes and the image of my worried aunt flashed in my head. I can picture her panicking at the Parisian police and contacting my mother and father. I can see my younger sibling, eyes brimming with tears at the thought that their sister was in danger. My family… My best friend’s face appeared next, her livid voice demanding where I was and why I’d left her. If only this was all a dream. I was willing to accept that I’d travelled back in time with everything I was shown. But the fact that I’d just had dinner with a bunch of time-travelling artists and scientists and musicians? It was harder to believe. I tried to recount everyone I’d met—if they were all truly who they said they were, I’d be damned not to remember. 

Vincent van Gogh, the gentle angel who paints masterpieces.

His brother Theodorus, the enterprising devil that sells them. The brothers were complete opposites, but they seemed incredibly close nonetheless.  

The frivolous playboy, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who created the beloved character, Sherlock Holmes. 

The indulgent charlatan, Osamu Dazai, who penned “No Longer Human.” They were both attention-grabbing, seemingly overcompensating for a secret they were hiding.

Sir Isaac Newton, who was so shy he couldn’t look me in the eye. He was legendary in name, but his presence seemed so small.

Jean d’Arc, who I haven’t met. I couldn’t even picture what she’d—he’d be like.

“Heh. Your words, they match the look on your face. That’s rare.” The dulcet voice of Leonardo da Vinci made me lose myself so easily, but what did his last words mean?

“...As if the banquet wasn’t bad enough.” Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who made the most beautiful music but had the most rotten attitude. 

And of course, my saviour, Napoleon Bonaparte. The one who tried so hard to rescue me, and protected me until the very end. But what was he protecting me from? 

I couldn’t picture any of them trying to fool me, and honestly, they all seemed so earnest. Besides, what would any of them gain from lying to me? I wasn’t anyone influential or wealthy; there would be no benefit to keeping me here. Having realized all of that, the reality of my situation finally came into perspective. All of this is real. 

“I need to stop thinking,” I muttered to myself. Even though it was midday for me, the crescent moon outside my window brought a wave of drowsiness over my body. I slipped off my jacket and kicked off my shoes across the room. My foolish outfit, what was all of this for? I think back to this morning when I was getting ready in front of my vanity in the hotel with my aunt—joking between ourselves. It wasn’t so long ago and yet everything was so different now. My room had an ornate little vanity by the window, with a mirror that had engravings around it and empty drawers underneath. I sat before it and saw my reflection—my makeup was the same as before, but my face looked as if I’d aged ten years from exhaustion. The glint of my amethyst earrings caught my attention; these stupid earrings that got me in this predicament. Le Comte’s golden eyes flashed in my head—those depthless glinting eyes that I could get lost so easily in. Removing them from my ears, I threw them down on the vanity and stalked towards the bed, my bed now, I suppose. Not even a minute in, the heavy embrace of sleep wrapped around me and pressed me down on the bed. 

The soft crumple of the thick duvet woke me up. Blinking open my eyes, the bleariness showed me the crescent moon beaming down on my room, stretching the shadows. I thought nothing of it until I heard the creak of the bed frame. What the hell? Every drop of blood in my body turned ice cold. Someone else was in the room with me. And they were on the bed. 

“W-who’s there?” 

“...”

My eyes cleared and showed the shadowed figure crawling from the foot of my bed. It isn’t safe here at all. I lurched upright, but the figure shoved me back down on the sheets. They crawled on top of me, the heavy figure pushing down my arms away from my body. I was fully trapped. 

“Stop!”

“Don’t move.” Their whisper felt like a serpent slithering up my body. Their breath was in my ear. They stopped, and for a few seconds, I wondered if I could force it off of me. Suddenly, sharp teeth sank into my neck. 

A pain unlike any other surged from my neck throughout my entire body. And then, the pain quickly subsided and turned into something indescribable. It’s so… hot. My limbs felt like lead; as if they weren’t my own anymore. Heat flickered across my vision like the fading of a desert mirage. Each warm breath that billowed over my neck made the heat even stronger. A strange longing manifested inside of me, the same emotion I felt when I looked into Le Comte and Leonardo’s eyes. It felt intoxicating. I tried to scream, but instead, a groan laden with ecstasy sounded out. I felt the heat in my core, a slow throbbing pulse that edged me further into blind pleasure. I need to snap out of it! I struggled to open my eyes, which had been rolling back in bliss. Dark red rose petals strung around my bed, snapping me out of my stupor. These weren’t rose petals… They came from me. Blood… That’s my blood! The sight sent my head spinning, but before I lost myself in the void, I heard the figure’s voice. 

“I want it all. Your body, your heart… and your destiny.” NO!

I scrambled out of bed, furiously grasping at my neck. No blood on my fingers, no puncture wound on my neck. My gaze wildly darted around the room. Empty. No shadowed figure. No one who bit me. 

“There’s no one here,” I cried out in relief. That felt too real. My fingers shook as they clutched the sheets. I was shivering. My throat was dry from sleep. My mouth felt balmy, and when I tried to move, everything felt heavy. I need water. 

Though it was difficult to navigate, I retraced the steps I took from the room to Le Comte’s office, and eventually to the kitchen. There were electric lamps that illuminated the room. Sebastian was still up, washing the dishes. After that nightmare, the sight of him almost brought me relief. My footsteps caught his attention, and he turned around.

“Is something the matter?” He asked in concern. Perhaps my appearance exemplified how I felt. 

“Could I bother you for some water?” Sebastian quickly poured me a glass. He guided me to a small table and sat me down, taking the chair beside me. His inquisitive glance obliged me to share my problem. He listened patiently as I recounted my nightmare, leaving out the more inappropriate aspects. “There was someone in my dream,” I began. I told him how this figure was and how he held me down to bite my neck. “...sort of like a vampire would,” I finished. Having confided in someone else alleviated the heaviness in my head. In fact, the more I told him about the dream, the sillier I felt. “Dreams can feel so real at the moment, but talking about them afterwards shows you how absurd they can be,” I chuckled humourlessly. Sebastian didn’t indulge in my laughter. Instead, he seemed quiet in thought. I grew worried he thought I was prattling on. “Anyway, thank you for listening to my silly dream. I hope you don’t find me childish for dreaming about vampires.”

“I don’t find you crazy, nor do I believe it was just a silly dream,” Sebastian unexpectedly replied. My brows furrowed. “Indeed, it’s a good sign.”

“How is my bad dream a good sign?” 

“I believe you saw that dream because you’re here in this mansion.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand.”

“The dream serves as a warning… That you are to give them neither your body nor your heart.” A pang of unease hit me. This must be the foreboding feeling I had earlier. This must be the reason why even the kindest residents seemed to be hiding a terrible secret. 

“The residents of this mansion, everyone you’ve met tonight…” 

“No,” I whispered under my breath.

Leonardo da Vinci

While Leonardo isn’t necessarily your responsibility to awaken (he could really be anywhere in or out of the mansion, it’s far too much effort for anyone to find him and urge him to eat. Let’s not forget he’s an immortal vampire, he doesn’t even need to.), a small and guilty part of you tends to seek him out anyway. He’d done a lot for you when you first stumbled into the mansion and has acted as one of the main components of your support system since then. 

It was nearing noon and after you’ve awoken Napoleon, Leonardo was surprisingly awake and in the library. Perched upon one of the oak armchairs by the window, the sunlight streaming through the glass painted him in a glorious light – reminding you of the timeless beauty the purebloods possess. He looked like he was in one of his own paintings, and you would be a villain to disturb that. 

Still, his vampiric senses had a lower threshold than the others and he could sense your presence (or really, smell your blood) before you even opened the library doors. 

“Surprised I’m up so early, cara mia?” The husky rumble of his baritone voice always sent pleasant shivers down anyone’s spine. His golden eyes, brightened by the sunlight, peered above the book he held in one hand straight at yours. 

“I suppose.”

“Hmm… come closer will you?” His wolfish eyes narrowed in disdain at your lethargic response. Reluctantly, you follow his command and sit across from him at the window. He discards his book, leaning on his knees to get a better look at your morose disposition. A displeased hum, then he places a finger under your chin to move your face even closer to his. 

“That won’t do. Such an emotion dims your eyes.” His artist-eye grazes over your face, observing your downturned lips and your swollen, teary eyes. A knowing smirk, and he settles back on the armchair. He leans on the armrest, the slouching figure alluring in his own charm. 

“You’re a smart girl. You can guess what’ll happen next, can’t you?” His handsome smirk grows at your knowing sigh. 

“Just don’t throw me over your shoulder this time.” 

“No promises, cara mia.” He huffs as he rises and moves to your side. With a motion for you to raise your arms, he at least carries you princess-style as he speeds to the mansion’s exit. 

It’s not entirely unpleasant being in Leonardo’s strong arms, and you find the warmth almost soothing to your turbulent thoughts. He takes you to your signature spot: a small dock on one of the more solitary ends of the Seine river. He wants to give you the princess treatment, so he’ll slowly row the two of you down the water. 

On the romantic boat-ride through the Seine, with Leonardo’s golden eyes trained on your face and giving you his full attention, it would be quite difficult to resist confiding in him. In your lowest moments so far, he’d been nothing short of comforting — holding you in his arms when you were afraid during your first night, sleeping outside your door for the following week, and whisking you away from your chores to dispel the unhealthy façade you kept up. 

In fact, a small part of Leonardo is ecstatic that you felt safe and comfortable enough with him and the other residents that you could freely express your more negative emotions with them (but hopefully mostly with him. Forgive him, he can be a bit possessive). 

However long it takes you to quell the darkness in your mind, Leonardo is there to receive anything you throw at him. He can wrap you in a warm embrace and caress your back, offer you wise advice to your problems, or just listen to your thoughts. Whatever you need most, Leonardo will give it to you. 

Leonardo hopes you’ll always run into his arms any time you have problems and allow him to fix it, like he does with machines. That being said, he doesn’t mind seeking you out and literally carrying you away from your responsibilities to ease your torment. Wrapped in his big, strong arms and shielded from your worries, it’d be difficult not to feel at ease with this loveable dork. Anything and everything you ask for he’ll deliver, and if you don’t know what that is, he’ll give you a familiar experience that comforted you in the past. There isn’t much that fazes him with his long years on Earth, but just the teary sheen over your eyes is enough to twist his heart in painful knots. 

Isaac Newton

Lost in his bustling mind and distracted by an equation he couldn’t quite solve last night, he unfortunately only caught Theo’s grumbles of “pouring his own damn coffee,” and your departing figure to the kitchen. He thought nothing of it, believing Theo was just being his usual insufferable self and holed up in his study for the day.

If you weren’t responsible for delivering lunch to him, he’d have never caught wind of your off-character today. So when your voice behind his door lacked its usual lively pitch, he wanted to bash his head open for not noticing it during breakfast. 

When you entered his study you quietly placed the tray on one of his tables, wishing for an easy escape from his calculating rosy eyes. At your quickly retreating figure, the swirling worries in Isaac’s head scolded him for his indifference and how that coldness definitely would break your heart. He grasped at your sleeve and pulled you with more force than he intended, landing your entire upper body on his lap. (You’ll have to forgive his awkward execution, he really means well.)

“I’m terribly sorry mc! I didn’t mean to do that.” He bristles and helps you regain your composure. “Actually, I did intend to pull you closer. I want to apologise as well for not noticing you sooner. I should have been the first to seek you out.” While he does mean what he says, he finds that maintaining eye contact is a bit difficult and from his blushing ears, you can tell he’s just nervous. 

“The first? Isaac, you don’t have to do anything.” Similar to him, you felt ashamed that he felt obligated to comfort you. Isaac, upon noticing that, wildly shook his hands in firm rejection of that implication.

“Not at all! You’ve always been there for me mc; defending, accompanying, encouraging me. Perhaps it’s even a bit selfish, but seeing your smile is the highlight of my day. Without it, I find I’m in a bit of a bind, as you can see.” He gestures for the messy scrawls of that damn equation he can’t seem to solve. 

“I hope you won’t let Theo’s boorish manners bother you. And I hope you won’t mistake my foolishness for indifference either. I want to be here for you, mc. I’m not like Napoleon, so I admit this doesn’t come easy to me, but I want to be close to you.” Isaac rises from his chair to move closer to you. 

Despite his rapid pulse, his trembling hands find yours and squeeze them gently. “Please tell me all that ails you, all your frustrations, and stresses, and allow me to do for you what you’ve always done for me.” 

His sincerity is touching. Isaac sits you down on one of the seats by his table and offers you half the sandwich you made for him. Whatever you indulge Isaac with, he eagerly accepts. He can’t help the fascinated gleam in his eyes at the unfiltered emotions in your expression — in fact, his heart actually warms at being able to do this for you. 

It was inevitable that a few tears escaped your eyes; while it did sink his heart, Isaac seized the opportunity to be closer to you. In a surprising show of boldness, he tucks a strand that obscured your face, behind your ear. “Thank you, darling, for showing me this side of you.” He murmured intimately. 

“Isaac, you’re—”

The confidence that deluded him in that moment quickly dissipated at your surprised face. “I apologise! I’m not sure what came over me then.” Perhaps it was because it was just you and him, and he found your presence far easier to relax in than anyone else, but he found it in him to laugh. 

“You’re really a wolf in sheep’s clothing sometimes.”

“You can blame my teasing on yourself. After all, you’re the reason my new life is more hectic—” Isaac chuckles “but I can’t say that hasn’t made it so much happier.” 

After supper, Isaac timidly approaches you in the kitchen. “I’ve set up my telescope out in the yard tonight… Would you care to join me?” 

Laying on the soft grass with Isaac was incredibly soothing, the picturesque night sky splattered with the many shining stars, unpolluted by the 19th century Paris city. Isaac would focus the lens on specific constellations and allow you to view them through the telescope. While you admired its brightness, he’d excitedly tell you about each one. Eventually, the day’s fatigue would catch up to you, and Isaac, noticing it, would seat himself a little bit closer to you, in hopes you’d lay your head on his ready shoulder. 

Finally, soft peace had settled on your hardened features. It was during moments like these with you that Isaac envied the artists’ talents — they could capture this moment for eternity and he only had his memory to keep the sight in his mind. In spite of that regret though, a part of him was proud that it was him who could witness this adorable sight. 

While extremely awkward in execution, Isaac’s heart breaks in two at the mere thought of you feeling upset. This is worsened when it takes him longer than the others to notice it — couple that with his less-than-stellar social skills, and he’s bound to mess up in the process. But his sweet intentions shine through his small, affectionate gestures and his eagerness to listen to you. It’s quite adorable how happy he feels that he can finally return some semblance of what you’ve done for him. He’d provide his room as a safe space, but he’ll also gladly bring his telescope and stargaze with you in the courtyard. If you doze off, he’ll offer his shoulder and feel blessed that you shared your day with him, the feeling even sweeter knowing that it was him you chose to spend the evening with. 

Jean d’Arc

Part of your evening routine was to meet with Jean in the library after supper and practice writing. Tonight, despite your mood, you felt it would be far too cruel to abandon poor Jean, who found it hard to spend time with others; it was only through these sessions that you could foster a connection with the elusive man. 

Jean was extremely blessed that your radiant presence was in the library for him tonight. Napoleon had informed him earlier of your despondent spirits. Initially, it spurred an almost murderous glint in Jean’s eye at whoever had caused you suffering, but with Napoleon’s clarification, his rage on your behalf settled into a thorny discontent.

Of all people to suffer torment, why did it have to be mc; his radiant angel? The kind soul who ensured that night-after-night, she found time to teach and accompany him? It was because of your beautiful self that his chest was not as heavy with the weight of his sins everyday. And yet, you also had to endure these torturous emotions, despite all that you’d done for him. It truly did not make sense in Jean’s mind. It should be monsters like him that suffer, not angels like you. 

So Jean resolved it within himself that he would do all that he could to alleviate the weight in your heart and fight the shadows that dared to dim the brightness in you. 

Unbeknownst to you, after his work he wrote a letter that communicated his sincere appreciation and sheer affection for you, far better than he could verbally. He wrote of his sadness that a person like you, who cared so much for others and always put themselves last, suffered behind a smile. He longed to one day be as expressive as the writers (he never thought the day would come that he’d envy the likes of Arthur or Dazai) so that he could comfort you directly with words instead of having to convey all his sentiments through a letter. 

Safe to say that when Jean handed you his clumsily penned letter, tears immediately rushed down  your face at his touching sincerity. Jean grew alarmed, blaming himself for causing you further distress. You stopped him from kneeling on the ground for repentance and instead, wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders. 

“Thank you Jean. You’re much kinder than you think.” Jean would be a touch flustered, but would wrap an arm around your shoulders to offer you the comforting embrace he only dreamed he could give you. And yet, here he was, finally able to offer you at least a semblance of peace in small payment for all you’ve unknowingly done for him. 

It was absolutely unfathomable to Jean that such a radiant and kind person like you had to suffer some of the torturous thoughts like he had. It felt wrong that God would allow those thoughts to plague your brilliant mind; so Jean, aware of his shortcomings in this department, would absolutely try his best to fight your demons for you. Words were extremely difficult for Jean to convey, but he’d try to make you proud by doing so in a letter. Your brightness prevented him from succumbing to the haunting shadows of his past. His sheer devotion and protectiveness for you would be revealed in that letter, but if you needed him to support you in-person: whether by embracing you in his strong arms, punching out your frustrations on his sturdy chest, or burying your face in his neck to block out the world, Jean would do all of it for you. 

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

The day had stretched on, and while most of your heartache was eased from the residents’ efforts, insomnia purged your rest nonetheless. You knew that remaining under your warm blankets would change nothing of your predicament, so perhaps a short walk (by the mansion’s standards) to the kitchen for a glass of water would arouse drowsiness back in your hazy mind. 

On your way, you passed by Mozart’s studio. Tonight he played a more serene song, the soft notes floating through the air and quelling some of the remaining despair in your head. You didn’t mean to, as you knew that Mozart hated to be disturbed while practising (really only for the men — it was difficult to be upset at you), but you lingered by his ivory doors. 

Suddenly, his song ceased. “Come in, mc.” Startled at the fact that he heard you, and even more at recognising you from what little sound you made, you were compelled to follow his command. 

Mozart was always a vision to look at: the moonlight streaming through the gap in his window was reflected in his alabaster locks. Awaiting for you, his deep purple eyes were unreadable as it scanned your figure. If you looked even closer, there was a discernible trace of worry that twisted his brows. 

“What was with you today?” Not one to mince words, Mozart hit right where it was sensitive. 

“It’s nothing of concern.” Mozart huffed indignantly. To you this resembled his usual shortness with you, but inside, he was deeply envious at the fact that you opened up to everyone except him today. Wanting to remedy that inconsistency, he rose from his seat and advanced towards you. 

“Liebchen.” He insisted as he reached for your hand. 

“You have enough to worry about, Wolf.”

“And I want you to be one of them.” As opposed to his usual rough manners with you, he softly stroked your knuckles. Since he knew that it would be difficult for you to dredge up and unearth your worries once again, he settled for providing you a small piece of comfort for the night. 

Mozart gently guided you by the wrist to sit beside him before his grand piano. 

“Would you like to try a duet I drafted recently? I haven’t been able to complete it because I had no partner—” he trailed his fingers from your wrist to your hands to unclench them “until now.” He delicately intertwined his long fingers around yours and gave your hand a loving squeeze. Then, he carefully guided your hands down to the piano keys. 

He slowly taught you a small part of the song, and within a few tries, you were quick enough to match the tempo he had in mind. Your attempt at the duet together went as well as expected, the discordant notes completely altering the softly romantic song to a playful one instead. 

To your surprise, a loud chuckle burst out of Mozart. “How clumsy,” he said, his eyes squinting in unadulterated affection. 

If you confide in Mozart of your lingering disturbance and your insomnia, Mozart will guide you toward the bedroom connected to his studio. Mozart had to fluff up the unused pillows but urged you under the covers anyway. He’d leave the door open and play the most soothing lullaby on his piano to quell your sleeplessness. 

Mozart is rather brusque and difficult to approach — painfully aware of that, he knew he wasn’t the first you’d approach, as much as it hurts him to admit that fact. Still, when the opportunity arose later that night with just the two of you, Mozart jumped at the chance to ease your pain. He’d try to cheer you up in his own way, but ultimately does what he knows best. He doesn’t play for anyone at all, and while many of his songs are dedicated to important historical figures, he documents a few pieces solely to you and caters to whatever you need most at that moment. Tonight, he plays an improvised song of yearning: he imagines a quiet man, unable to properly express the depth of his love for his dearest one, humming this soothing lullaby to send his suffering love to slumber. 

Bonus: William Shakespeare

Unfortunately, Will is physically and figuratively out of the loop with the happenings in the mansion. Your off day being one of the most regrettable events that he missed out on. 

He longed to have witnessed the harsh colours of despair taint your lovely visage and have been the man to lift that darkness. 

He yearns to have been the loving angel to embrace you while your tears wet the earth. He imagines that black roses and blue violets would grow from your tears that watered the ground. 

He longs to have been the dashing knight that whisked you away from your responsibilities and brought you to a secret place that only the two of you knew about. The intimacy of being the only one to witness your vulnerable side was tragically enticing for him. 

How fortunate the mansion residents were to bear witness to all the mesmerising dimensions you had. Capricious Fate has tricked him yet again in this instance as he can only hear about this event from Vincent. How tragic was he that he had only his imagination to provide him inaccurate images of your tainted beauty that day. 

While he knew this day had long passed, he couldn’t stop his longing fingers from scribing a letter to you, urging a visit as soon as possible so that he may offer a belated gift of comfort and perhaps, selfishly, indulge in your presence. 

He’d deliver a bouquet of those blue violets, carnations, and chrysanthemums to you (thanks in part to his vampiric benefactor), coupled with an expensive gift of several rings (so that you may imagine it was his fingers intertwined with yours) and a floral perfume that matches the flowers. 

Bonus: Vlad

After your boat-ride with Leonardo, the two of you idly strolled about town. Leonardo quickly left to purchase a box of cigarillos from a foreign vendor, the limited stock too alluring for him to pass up on. You insisted on waiting on a nearby bench, a little ways away from the busy stand. 

“A storm is brewing behind those lovely eyes. I wonder what caused it and what incompetent ward has allowed it to continue.” Vlad’s sweet voice sounded right beside your ear. You jumped, much to his amusement, but the underlying protectiveness under that pleasant expression was marked by you nonetheless. 

“Has he been overworking you?” 

You hastily quell the accusation Vlad threw in the air. 

“I wonder what could be the cause of those dark clouds in my darling’s eyes.” Vlad sighs in stark concern, lifting a hand to your temple gently massaging it. 

“I wonder what worries your pretty head.” He moves that same hand to your forehead and smooths the wrinkles there. 

“And I wonder what caused these soft lips to frown.” He trails his fingers from your head down to your cheek, and finally on your lower lip. The delicate way he handled your face felt as if you were a newly bloomed flower that was too sensitive to nature’s forces and required Vlad’s devoted care. 

There was both gentleness and a stark possessiveness with how familiarly and easily he glided his fingers across your face. It seemed he longed to touch even more of you, but found restraint and settled in tucking your hair away from your face instead. 

“If you stayed in my castle instead of his mansion, you won’t know any misery or work.” He longingly stroked the ends of your hair and eventually trailed his fingers to meet with your hands. Upon closer inspection, Vlad laments the dryness from cleaning products on your hands. He lovingly strokes your knuckles before lifting them to his lips kissing each one. 

“Cara mia, I don’t have to beat this guy to get him to back off, do I?” 

A painful expression overtook Vlad’s sweet face, and with great reluctance, he backs off as per Leonardo’s request. 

“Such brutes he houses. No wonder my flower has withered in their company.” 

Before Leonardo could provoke him further, you led him away from Vlad, whose eyes longingly followed you until you were out of his sight. 

Bonus: Charles-Henri Sanson

While waiting for Arthur to pay for his gifts for you, you sat on a bench outside the busy store. A pair of familiar lilac eyes brightened at the sight of your figure. He bounded over to you like a loving puppy reuniting with its owner. This unfortunately startled you as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders from behind. 

“Mc! It’s been way too long since I’ve seen you. I really really really missed you.” He murmured while nuzzling his face into your neck. To your relief, he reluctantly released you from his hold, only to sit right next to you. 

Only when he could take a closer look at your expression does his cheerful face crumble. He tenderly cups your face and mourns the wistful spirit of it. “My poor mc, what happened?” 

You shook your head, unable to meet his worried eyes. This breaks Charles-Henri’s heart even further as he wishes he could take whatever was bothering you and replace it with his love instead. In that thought process an idea springs into his head. 

He takes your hand, and after squeezing it, places it near his heart. “I want you to channel all your sadness into this hand and give it all to me instead.” His silly charade breaks you out of your stupor, and since you don’t have the heart to reject his sweet lilac eyes, you relent and play along. 

“Good girl. Now, I’m going to channel all my love for you in my hand and place it in your heart. Ready?” He places his hand on your chest and playfully scrunches his face as if he was straining. “Mmmm… there! Did you feel my love enter you?” 

Ignoring the suggestive statement and the even more suggestive position you two were in, his hopeful face was too innocent to reject. 

“Yes, I think I felt a little bit of warmth enter me just now.” 

Charles-Henri’s face lit up in adorable joy. 

“Whatever you’re going through, I know you can overcome it. You’ve healed the darkness in me, and many others’ and we owe you for that.”

“Thank you Charles.”

A satisfied hum left his lips as he leaned even closer to you.

“I love you so much mc—”

“You can scamper off now, Sanson.” Arthur’s annoyed voice sounded from behind you. Charles willfully ignored him as he continued to squeeze your hand. 

“I hope you can feel my love whenever you’re sad like this—”

“Leave, old boy! Can’t you see she’s had enough of you?” 

“Come visit me and the others at the church soon!” Almost comically, Arthur drags Charles away by his collar. He turns around and waves at you. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit, but a small smile reached its way to your lips at Charles' cute antics. 

thank you once again for taking the time to read my writing. there were a few I wasn't too satisfied with, but I hope you liked it nonetheless.

leave a like and/or a reblog if this was a fun read for you. despite its self-indulgence, I hope this comforted you a lil bit.

Dazai Osamu

I'm of the belief that Dazai has a sadness antenna that catches on to everyone’s emotions as soon as they feel them. So best believe that as soon as you woke up, he could already sense a disturbance in the force. 

So when you very quietly poured tea for him, he placed a gentle hand on your arm and gave you a silent “are you ok?” look. He could tell that you didn’t want to bring attention to yourself, but also didn’t want to leave you like this. 

The deal he made with you when you first arrived came to mind. He proposed that whenever you felt even the slightest inclination of sadness, that you came to him to confide in (because you know he gets it fs). 

You acknowledged it with a solemn nod, wanting to communicate that you remembered the promise but couldn’t do it just yet. Dazai pursed his lips in quiet uncertainty, but allowed you to continue your chores. 

Later in the afternoon, while tending to the gardens outside, Dazai nonchalantly sat by your working figure. He settled for watching you work before piping up, “how fortunate the flowers are to be cared for by you.” You may have jumped a little bit, having been lost in your thoughts. 

Dazai’s gentle smile seemed more genuine this time; not quite the clownish mask he usually wore. “Unfortunately for you, I may be the only one who understands your predicament the most.” He walked next to you, a serene silence in the air.  

You confess as much of your melancholy as you could put into words while Dazai remained contemplative and respectfully quiet. Whether it was your mental wellness being disturbed, thoughts of home, or even just a broad exhaustion, Dazai will listen and understand. Sometime during your tirade, tears seeped out from your eyes unnoticed, except by his golden eyes. He softly cupped your cheek and wiped your tears away; his touch never more than gentle. 

At that moment, Dazai touched your face as if it was a delicate flower petal about to fall to its demise. His heart clenched in both tender affection at your vulnerability around him, and deep anguish that it was you who suffered and he couldn’t take that burden instead. How was it that a beautiful angel like you was tormented at this moment and not him, the sinful monster who was deserving of your burden and more. Still, he kept those demeaning thoughts quiet and yearned that his love could be felt in his gentle touches to your cheek. 

Dazai is the most sensitive to others’ emotions and will be the first to catch on to any of your mood changes. He'd rather die than leave you toiling in your own sadness, so he’ll follow you around until you confide in him. As tragic as it is, it’s his responsibility to make sure no one else, and especially not someone he cares about so deeply like you, feels the same torture he does. 

Arthur Conan Doyle

The writers are perceptive and sensitive to people’s emotions and characters, and usually you love them for that. Today, it made you the slightest bit frustrated. With only a meek “thank you” to Arthur’s compliment of, “your beautiful face is the perfect start to this day, love” he knew something was wrong. 

You poured his coffee quietly, hoping no one would pay attention to you. Arthur placed a soft hand against your back and asked lowly, “are you alright? Did something happen?” you shook your head and gave him an appreciative smile. 

You moved to pour Theo’s drink next, but Arthur’s arm wrapped around your waist. He motioned for you to come closer and so you leaned down.

“I've got to run errands in town today, but I'll find you once I get back. Do you think you can talk to me then?” he whispered. 

“I'm not sure.”

“I hate to leave you like this, love, really. At least promise me you can hold out until later and you can take all your frustration out on me, yes?” you find yourself laughing a little at his suggestion. He smiled in victory and gave your waist a small squeeze before letting you go.

Once Arthur returns from his errands, it’s just nearing lunch. True to his word, he finds you in the mansion (good luck evading his genius mind) and vows to take you out for a meal. You can refuse all you want, but it truly does wound him seeing you the slightest bit upset. Maybe his past influences that, but nonetheless, he wants to make you happy. 

He’ll do everything in his power to make you laugh, and if that doesn’t work, he’ll try and pester you so that you take your anger out on him. 

He treats you like a princess during the date, hooking his arm under yours, pushing your chair in, paying for everything, and if you were up to it, taking you shopping afterwards. 

He’ll try and seek out a case nearby as those tend to cheer you up and serve as a welcome distraction. 

Whether you choose to confide in him or not, he might have already caught on to what made you upset and will subtly offer a word of advice or comfort, depending on whichever you needed. And he’s perceptive enough to catch on to what you need. 

Nevertheless, the author’s darling attempts of alleviating your mood will likely be a success. Arthur is one of the tragic ones who would rather suffer than even endure the thought of his cared ones being upset. And you’re the one who brought new light into his revived life, so admittedly, he enjoys being there for you. If you allow him past your walls, Arthur would do just about everything to prove it was worth doing so. His care may be hidden under layers of deceptive and cliché flirtation, but a little unravelling shows just how tenderly he cares for you. So while his attempts do reflect that playboy life, the warm hand on your back proves there is no one in this new life he treasures more than yourself. 

Theodorus van Gogh

Still feeling Arthur’s and Dazai’s worried looks on your back, you moved on to Theo, who was unfortunately, less perceptive than the two. 

“Took you long enough, hondje. Dogs aren’t known to be so slow.” he huffed, having already placed a generous amount of sugar in his cup. You could barely register the small, “sche uit, Theo,” from Vincent. Still, his comment served to sour your mood even further, a sinking feeling in your heart suddenly blurring your eyes. 

Your spatial awareness being off, you almost overfilled Theo’s cup. This time, he took notice of your shaky and meek manner. He was about to complain, but when you turned to him to apologise, he saw your teary eyes.

“You hurt? What happened? Who hurt you?” Theo immediately asked in concern. You shook your head in alarm. His handsome face scrunched in concern, and he reached out to seize your arm to steady its shaking. He set down the coffee pot and checked if your arm got burnt. 

he gruffly passed the coffee pot to his brother, and when he was faced with questioning looks from the rest of the table he simply said, “you pour your own damn coffee.” He motioned for you to leave, wanting to relieve you of your duties for this morning as a small mercy. 

Theo is unfortunately one of the busier men of the mansion, so he can’t do much until the evening when he returns. So despite the tense morning, there’s no resolution until after supper. what his words can’t deliver though, his actions do. 

Regardless of how many residents have comforted you, you remained silent and thoughtful. Their efforts were greatly appreciated, but your energy was still depleted. 

Theo catches you right after cleaning up with Sebastian. He hid a large box behind his broad back, strangely timid from his usual bold character. He cleared his throat, “hondje, I brought you something home from work. you told me you liked this last time I took you out for a walk.” 

He stepped aside to show you the large and very sweetly decorated cake in the box. you knew how expensive it was, and for a man like Theo, who was quite savvy with money, you felt a tinge of guilt for making him waste money on you. 

“Theo, thank you. I don't know what to say, you really didn’t have to.”

“Hush hondje. A master’s supposed to take care of his puppy. And you’ve been working hard lately—you deserve a little treat.” 

Of course, Theo indulges in the dessert with you, he may have bought it partly for himself too. But when he saw you enjoying something he gave you, it warmed his heart. Perhaps your smile is sweeter than any dessert he’s had before—and he’s got quite a sweet tooth. 

Theo can be brash, and not nearly as emotionally perceptive as the others. So initially, he’ll be his usual gruff and teasing self. But he’s a good man (savannah), and will always serve you, regardless of the master-puppy dynamic he’s got going on. He’s weak to you, and would hand you the world just to get a glimpse of your sweet smile again. He can’t have his pretty girl sad, that makes him a terrible master. 

Vincent van Gogh

You shook your head, insisting that you stay to help Sebastian. Theo disapprovingly shook his head and tried to stop you from doing more work, but you’d already moved to Vincent’s side. 

Vincent already caught on as soon as Theo asked if you were okay. He poured his coffee himself, so you passed him the small bowl of butter and served a plate of sliced fruit to help. Vincent gently stroked your back, “Schatje, we’re just fine here, you can sit down. Have you had breakfast yourself yet?” knowing you never liked to put yourself first. 

“I'm just fine, Vincent. thank you.” you stuttered out. He hummed in concern, “Sebas told me you were doing laundry outside today. I'll come help you, if that’s alright?” you shook your head, touched at his kind offer, but dreadful over having a companion. As sweet as Vincent was, you were afraid of being too brash with him, with how short your patience was today. 

“We don't have to talk or anything, I'm offering because I want to, mc. please?” Vincent’s pleading eyes were too precious, so you gave him a hesitant nod. 

Vincent brightened up, his angelic smile lifting your spirits up slightly. with a warm day like today, he usually painted outside anyway. at least you wouldn’t have to be with him the whole time. 

He gave your arm an appreciative squeeze before you left. you weren’t sure how to thank him exactly. 

True to his word, the moment you stepped foot outside, you were greeted with his “could heal any and every problem in the world” smile. He was extra handsome wearing his simple, white, button-up shirt with his sleeves rolled up. 

You gave him an appreciative nod, a bit flustered with having someone help you with such a simple task. Still, Vincent pleasantly hummed with no complaints, hanging the clothes you washed. 

It’s true that his hands were blessed by god, but his somewhat clumsy work with clipping the clothes on the line was a contrast to his paintings. Still, his determined expression dispelled any frustration you had, with how hardworking and adorable he was. 

With Vincent’s help (and the soft melody of Mozart's distant piano playing), the laundry was hung in sufficient time. other than having tea with Comte, you really didn’t have much left to do this early afternoon. Vincent cutely tilted his head in curiosity at your zoned out face. 

When he giggled, you snapped out of your stupor and glanced questioningly at him. “sorry! you’re just so cute staring into space like that.” Flustered, you faced away from him. 

“Don’t just say things like that Vincent. you’ll give me the wrong idea.”

“I mean it though. you’re adorable even just breathing.” He was doing that thing where he innocently compliments you, but just like his brother, actually wants to see you flustered. 

“Vincent!”

“and now you’re even lovelier when you’re all embarrassed!” Vincent chuckled, finally relenting when your hands fully covered your burning face. 

“Sorry for teasing you. I was just hoping I could make you smile. I know I'm not nearly as funny as Napoleon, or as dependable as Leonardo, but it hurts me to see you in pain, mc.” Vincent gently pried your hands away, holding them in his bigger and warmer ones. He stroked your palms in gentle circles. 

Really, he wanted to just wrap you in an embrace and hoped that you would let out your emotions to him. But he knew you needed time and patience before confiding in him. If you allowed it, he would stay all-day with you, just comforting and listening to any of your vulnerable confessions you chose to indulge him to. 

Eventually, you did relent to receiving a warm hug from him. you couldn’t see his face, but he was overjoyed you felt safe enough with him to do so. 

Angelic Vincent wishes he could take any and every pain you feel and take it all himself. It truly breaks his heart seeing your usually bright spirit so down, so he’ll do everything he can to comfort you. He’s patient and gentle; never crossing any of your boundaries and allowing you to take whatever you need and however long it takes you to find that out. He’ll help you with your work, sing you to sleep, feed you treats (that you hope he didn’t make), and give you as much or as little as you need. He cares about you deeply and only hopes he can be enough to cure at least a little bit of the pain you feel. 

Comte de Saint-Germain

Comte's face was already scrunched in worry from the moment you entered the dining hall. his calm and elegant demeanour belied it, but he was eager to finally talk to you. Once you reached his side, you swore you could almost hear the sigh of relief. 

“I speak for everyone when I say that no one can start their day right without seeing your face, chérie.” Ever the romantic, Comte wants to reassure you that you’re wanted (needed actually), and that he appreciates your being there. 

You’d be hard-pressed not to feel flustered by his words. “You’re exaggerating, Comte, but thank you.” Your usual routine consisted of having tea with Comte in the early afternoon, but you weren’t sure you’d make good company. “about later today comte—“

“I'll have the tea and desserts set up. i’ve found this new patisserie in the city—“

“comte, i’m really sorry—“

“You don’t have to do any work, mc. I want you to take a break.” He was clearly well-intentioned and the break did sound tempting. so with much hesitation, you relented to comte’s demands. 

Perhaps a little part of you dreaded it, knowing how protective Comte was over you. He’ll pry, and if he found out that it was another person’s doing that caused your mood, he’ll cause a riot (gracefully and elegantly, mind you). He was already waiting at the garden’s gazebo, a spread of various sweet pastries and steaming tea set up for you. 

He perked up upon seeing you, pushing your chair in as you sat down. He poured you tea and placed one of each pastry on your plate while you hopelessly tried to stop him. 

“I'm simply ecstatic you could join me today, ma chérie.” he hummed, sipping his tea. 

“It's not anyone’s fault, it’s just me.” You wanted to clear up what you knew he was itching to find out. his shoulders sagged down in relief for a brief moment before settling back into his perfect posture. 

“That's a relief, but I still want to make sure you’re okay, mc. Come, have some tea.” 

You could feel Comte’s golden eyes watching your every move, but otherwise, the tea was excellent and he was certainly generous with all the pastries. 

The real surprise was later in the night, after dinner, when comte asked you to meet him in his office. He was on the balcony, gazing out to the Parisian landscape (he would have been smoking then, but he tries not to). 

“You called for me, comte?” 

“Ah yes. mc.” The way he said your name was admittedly a bit seductive when accompanied by his golden eyes. he had this excited air about him, unknown if it was for innocent or more sinful reasons. He motioned towards a concerningly large box on his table. you opened it, and to your surprise (not really let’s bfr), there was a beautiful silk dress in your favourite colour. 

Comte moved close from behind you, and with a quiet “may i?” he delicately  put a necklace on your neck, the light brush of his fingers dizzying. 

He trailed his hands down to your shoulders and squeezed them, before descending to your arms. “ma chérie, i want to make you feel better. how can i do that for you?” he rubbed your arms up and down before wrapping around your body altogether. 

In this position, you could cry in peace, ramble in frustration, or be silent and enjoy his embrace without fear of judgement. He couldn’t see your expression, to save any embarrassment on your end, but he’s still there. 

Comte will definitely be protective and try and figure out if it was anyone made you upset. He would commit a murder to whoever did, but if there wasn’t anyone, he’d focus on making you feel better. His love language is gifts, quite obviously, but I also like to believe that he’s an acts of service guy who’d want to make things at least a little easier for you, like giving you a break. He'd want to reward you with gifts, expensive, but the kind that he knows you like. and if that doesn’t show you he cares about you, he’ll stay long enough to help you recover; in a way, he feels proudly possessive, knowing you could show your vulnerability to only him. 

Napoleon Bonaparte

As one of the late risers, you were tasked with waking him up in the morning. you did your usual routine of ripping the blankets off him and blocking his kiss with your hand. this time though, you left the former emperor be, once you caught sight of his half-opened eyes. 

He took a minute to catch on to your disappearance (forgive him, he’s half-awake) but as soon as it registered in his sleepy brain, he zoomed out of his room to catch your retreating figure. 

You knew he was one of the persistent men of the mansion, unable to leave you alone even when you weren’t upset. so this time around, he was hellbent on following you until you’d answer his inquiries. 

“Nunuche? what’s gotten into you?” he would quickly catch up to you and grip your arm until you show him your teary face. And only then would he relent and hold your hand instead.

You could confide in him and tell him about all your problems, because after all, he was the man who saved you and vowed to protect you all this time. However, even if you didn’t at that moment, nothing would stop Napoleon from making you feel better. 

He would briefly venture into town to absolve him of any of his guard duties so he could remain at your side the entire day. Perhaps a bit of an overreaction on his part, but owing his new life to you, he wanted to prioritise you above all else. 

Unlike a certain lazy Italian, this Italian will politely request that you be relieved of your tasks, and though you insisted on at least completing the laundry with Vincent and having tea with Comte, you relented to his demands. 

His usual routine was to take you to the stables and run as far as you can on his horse. It was often what helped him dispel the ghosts from his past; the coolness of the afternoon wind was a soothing balm to your face that was drenched with hot tears. He would childishly ignite a race between the two of you through the vast woods surrounding Comte’s mansion, if only to ease your heavy mind with a far less laborious task. 

He’d lead you to a small meadow on the outskirts of the fields, far from prying eyes and ears. There you can let any emotion out: whether that was a yell of frustration, a scream of rage, or harsh sobs, Napoleon will do it first, if it removes any embarrassment on your end. 

Whether you choose to confide in him or not, (which you likely would, considering how unyieldingly supportive and protective Napoleon had been for you thus far) Napoleon will willingly listen to anything you say. You could wax cheesy poetry, ponder about the origins of the universe, or just recall mundane moments in the mansion, but Napoleon will respond in kind to any silly statement you make. 

Napoleon of all people wouldn’t be opposed to having a nap on the soft, dewy grass, under the blanket of the warm setting sun. Once it gets cold though, he’d take you back to the mansion. 

If you still felt overwhelmed, he would bring you up to the attic that overlooked the Paris skyline. 

Napoleon, as he hopes that you consider him one of your closest companions, would do everything in his power to ease your pain. He’d begin by alleviating your work for the day, and whether that entailed him undertaking those chores or simply helping you with them, he’d do anything. Then, he might try what works best for him when he has his off days, usually in regard to the past, but allow you to dictate what he can or can’t do. Really, he hopes that whatever he does dispels those clouds of anguish and replaces it with some good old Napoleon humour. As the evening closes in, he’d take you to the attic. With only the stars and the moon as your witness, Napoleon would do everything in his power to bring you comfort. 

sorry that i wasn't able to write for everyone in this post, but I'll feature the rest (Leonardo, Isaac, Mozart, Jean, and a few bonus characters) on the next post. i just wanted to get some content out now.

Chapter II: The Banquet

At the foot of the staircase was the mysterious gentleman I encountered at the Louvre. He gave a pointed glance to the men. At the sight of him, a wave of relief surged through me and I ran down the staircase towards him. 

“It’s you!” I hurried down and stopped short in front of him. Suddenly remembering my composure, I clarified the situation, “Pardon, but do you remember me? We met in front of the ‘Coronation of Napoleon’ and you helped me.” 

 I was met with a warm smile, “Of course I remember you.” Alright, I can ask him about an exit—any exit—and I can get a ride back to my aunt. 

Before I could ask him for directions, my saviour “Leon,” stepped in between us. “She says she came here through your door. Did you bring her?” His tone, and the way he hid me from the prying eyes of everyone, all of it feels as if he was… protecting me. 

“I did not. I can give you my oath if you wish,” the gentleman mused, “her arrival is just as surprising to me.” 

“Then how did she get here?” Although the men didn’t seem hostile, what they were talking about still made me uneasy. What did they mean by “his” door? And why did they talk about “my arrival” as if it was an impossible feat? Where even am I? I don’t understand at all. Something is very wrong here. I just need to get out. At the new wave of apprehension, I remember my aunt. She must be so worried. How long has it even been? I rummaged around my pocket for my phone. 2:50 pm. No signal. What is going on? 

I found the last ounce of courage I had and interjected, “You’ve been very kind, but I really can’t stay. I was supposed to meet up with someone. We’re still in the 1st arrondissement, yes? Where the Louvre is? That door there, does it lead outside?” I asked my questions rapidly before anyone could interrupt me. 

His expression turned difficult, “Hmm… I’m afraid the answers you seek will only confuse you more.” My pleading gaze met the gentleman’s golden eyes. “This isn’t the place for a long discussion, however. Would you join me for dinner, chère?” I asked a yes or no question. Any rationality left in my mind crumbled, and it seemed to show on my face, as the gentleman hurriedly added, “Tonight’s banquet is a rare occasion for us. But afterward, I will answer all your questions. S’il vous plait.” With a sigh, I resigned myself to his wishes. After all, if there was any person who knew my predicament, it was him. 

Having owned a travel blog, I’d been to many hotels, from the hidden gems to the 5-star establishments, I’d seen it all. The gentleman’s dining room was unlike anything I’d ever seen. A stretching room with a long, clothed table with fourteen high-backed wooden chairs framing it. The mahogany walls had intricate wooden carvings around the high ceiling, and a warm atmosphere coated the room with the chandeliers and the candelabras. Four men were already seated. 

The beautiful pianist with the sharp tongue sat at the far end, secluded from the others. He was true to his statement from before—he truly looked displeased in being here. 

Around the centre of the table sat two men beside each other. 

“Must’ve been something pretty important to keep us waiting here. One second longer and I would’ve left.” The first man’s voice was familiar, being the Englishman’s companion in the hallway I entered. His husky voice, with the Dutch accent, matched his appearance—domineering and brusque. He had slicked-back, brown hair and steely blue eyes with a cold expression. He donned a long grey coat, fastened with gold accessories on top of a dark blue sweater, layered over a neat white button-up; basically, what a sensible businessman would wear if he was born a century ago. His tall stature and strong build were noticeable, with him being the largest of the men so far. 

“Now, now. Getting angry about dinner is not going to make the food come out any faster.” The second man seemed the exact opposite, being much easier on the eyes. He had fluffy blonde hair, and even though the two had the same blue eyes, this man was so warm, you almost couldn’t tell. His dimpled smile was almost angelic. He wore a shorter dark brown coat with a yellow sweater on top of a white shirt, but the most attention-grabbing piece was his long yellow scarf loosely wrapped around him. He was somewhat smaller than his presumed brother. 

“I have to be angry for two, mijn broer,” the gruff one said. The two Dutch brothers seemed close despite being polar opposites. 

The kind brother’s eyes landed on me, and he gave a welcoming smile, “Who’s that? Do we have a guest? It’s nice to meet you!” 

My uneasiness was somewhat alleviated by his warm character. He looked like the paintings of the angels I’d seen in the musée. A few words from him make me feel like everything’s better. We need more people like him. 

The fourth man was sat a little ways away from everyone, head down and eyes studying the piece of tablecloth he was fiddling with. He looked slightly younger than the others, his innocent cherry eyes matched his auburn hair. He wore a sensible white button-up with a grey vest that had a red lapel. A golden button of an apple was stitched to the collar, giving his otherwise professional outfit an almost adorable finish. 

His gaze darted around the room, briefly meeting mine then quickly returning to the tablecloth, “Whoever you are, have you considered sitting down? There’s a queue behind you waiting to get in, you know.” His voice was light and airy with a crisp English accent. 

The Englishman’s chipper voice greeted the shy boy, “Newt, old boy, you do care!” 

He bristled, “Can you desist calling me that wretched—!” “Newt” placed his hands on the table, as though intending to stand up. 

A disciplinary clap sounded behind me. “That will be enough of that, you two. I require good manners at my table.” The gentleman gave everyone a warning look masked by his cordial smile. “Let’s be seated. There’s a few empty chairs, but we’ll have to start the toast without them.” The butler had already snuck into the kitchen, presumably preparing the dinner. The Englishman sat beside the gruff Dutch brother while “Leon” sat beside the shy boy. He gave me a warm glance as if reassuring me that I was safe here. I couldn’t muster up a smile, so instead I gave him a timid nod. Meanwhile, the gentleman gently placed a hand on my back and guided me to a seat beside his, which was at the head of the table. 

The various personalities together seemed as if they wouldn’t mesh well together, but surprisingly, with everyone seated down, it felt like they were all a family. 

“A vôtre santé!” The gentleman raised a glass filled with golden champagne in a toast. A chorus of toasts responded to him by the men. While most of the men kept drinking, the pianist took one sip before quickly placing down his glass. Not quite trusting the gentleman from his elusiveness, but wanting to be courteous, I pretended to take a sip instead. I was too wary. Too much didn’t make sense. It should be almost 3 in the afternoon, and yet I was having dinner in a strange mansion. I should have been at the Louvre with my aunt, and now I’m dining with seven strange men. Interrupting my thoughts, the butler brought out the first course. To say the food looked like a culinary masterpiece was doing it injustice. It was a classic French spread, the sort that I had at the hotels but somehow even better. Still, I remained wary and didn’t make a move. Instead, I turned my attention to my companions. Who are all these men? They seemed normal, if not odd, but their appearances were so unusual. And they were all from different countries, so was this an international meeting of some kind? They don’t seem to be friends, but it felt like there was an ambiguous intimacy between them all. The gentleman, noticing my uneasiness, inclined his glass my way. 

“Let us toast to tonight’s most glorious and miraculous encounter. Santé.” His alluring gaze was comforting, if not off-putting in its warmth. “...à la vôtre.” With such a direct toast, it was impolite not to respond in turn. I timidly raised my glass to his. He finished the rest of his champagne, locking his gaze with mine. Feeling guilty and slightly charmed, I took a small sip of mine. Unfortunately, it tasted wonderful. 

I turned back towards the food laid out in front of me. My stomach quietly grumbled; embarrassed, I looked around hoping no one noticed. Wishing to justify my hunger, I rationalized that it would be insulting if I didn’t eat. I tried the terrine. Pheasant with fresh basil. And it tasted as exquisite as it looked. The bisque was delicious too. You can taste the crab. It’s thickened just right! I closed my eyes. Whoever made this food should be as famous as Gordon Ramsay. My increasing satisfaction with the food was noticed by the gentleman, and awkwardly, I chirped, “My compliments to the chef.” The butler from earlier, who dutifully stood by the kitchen’s entry seemed to relax from his stiff composure. 

He chuckled, “he’ll be pleased to hear that.” Whether it was the champagne or his ardent smile, my nerves considerably eased. Maybe he’s just a harmless nobleman and I’m overthinking everything. Really, if you looked at this scene objectively, I was having a perfectly pleasant evening. Wasn’t this the sort of romantic adventure I was looking for in coming to Paris? 

At the gentleman’s words, the men’s amicable chatter was silenced. “You’ve outdone yourself again Sebastian.” His disarming charisma powered over the room. He looked over the men and said, “I believe we should take this opportunity to introduce ourselves to our guest. I will start us off. Everyone has taken to calling me Comte de Saint-Germain.” Comte? A whole count? Maybe that explains this old-word aura he has. “And once again, it’s a pleasure to meet you, chèrie.” 

“Oh no, the pleasure’s all mine, Comte,” I mumbled, slightly flustered at his manners and my lack of it. I could feel the manor’s members’ eyes on me, and my face warmed at the attention. God, I’m making such a fool of myself. Le Comte de Saint-Germain next turned to his servant. 

“This hard-working butler and the chef of tonight’s excellent banquet is Sebastian,” he fondly introduced. The stern butler from earlier formally bowed. 

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said. He spoke English with a faint Japanese accent. The butler Sebastian—how conveniently named. 

The Comte turned back towards me, “It occurs to me we haven’t heard your name yet. I’d be pleased to know it.” 

There can’t be any harm in telling them that. “I’m… MC,” I clumsily introduced myself. I avoided the eyes of everyone in the room, incredibly self-conscious and still apprehensive. 

“That’s such a pretty name,” the kind Dutch brother piped up. His angelic face, which was sat across from me, was the first to reply, “I wasn’t expecting someone like you to turn up here. I hope we can be friends.” I finally raised my head and met his eyes to be polite, and his expression looked relieved at that. “I’m Vincent van Gogh, I’m a painter. It’s really nice to meet you.” I almost choked on my spit. A painter… named Vincent van Gogh. Is this some kind of themed event? Hoping not to seem offensive at my clumsy actions, I mustered a smile back. He seemed too kind to deserve my stupidity. “And this is my little brother. Go on, Theo, introduce yourself.” 

“Vincent” gently nudged his brother, the gruff Dutch businessman. 

“Theodorus van Gogh. I’m an art dealer. Don’t confuse me with my brother.” 

“I’ll, uh, try my best.” They couldn’t be more opposite. I’m not confusing you two. “You’re not getting anything else from me. Introduction’s over.” To hammer in his point, he took a pocket watch from his coat and tapped it repeatedly, tap-tap-tap, to show that he had better things to do. How could Vincent be older? Theo had me pegged as the older brother with his seriousness. Realizing I was staring at the two of them in puzzlement, my gaze returned to the table. 

Sitting to the right of Theodorus was the shy boy, “Newt,” who was difficult to make eye contact with, the both of us too nervous. If he could’ve curled up into a ball to be swallowed up by the ground, he would have. That being said, doesn’t he live here? I had more of a reason to be afraid of him than he was of me. “I’m Isaac. Isaac Newton. I study physics.” 

“Nice to meet you… Isaac,” I choked out. A physicist named Isaac. They can’t possibly be serious. Despite the absurdity of this situation, I was still fearful of being deemed impolite. “Wait. Should that be ‘Sir Isaac—?’” 

Suddenly, one of the dining room windows burst open. To my surprise, a man climbed in from the outside. I flinched from my seat and quickly glanced around to gauge everyone’s reactions. To my surprise, not a single person looked even remotely startled. The man, who had dark hair and strikingly yellow eyes chuckled sheepishly as he struggled through the window. He had such an easygoing smile that betrayed his serious eyes. He had an old Taisho-style kimono, with a dark purple haori, black hakama, and an unbuttoned white shirt. “Well, well, would you look at that? I’m a little late, aren’t I?” He’d just about fully entered the room when his sleeve got stuck, “...In we go.” He pulled at it comically, his actions humorously exaggerated and ineffective. 

“God’s Truth, can’t you use a door?” Isaac sighed. 

“And keep everyone waiting? No, no, the window’s a much faster entrance.” He smiled, nonchalant about his sleeve still caught by the window. He caught my bewildered eyes. I sat back down, but couldn’t wrench my eyes away from the bizarre scene. “Oh, hello there, young one. Why, I’m happy to see you here. How’s your dinner been?” 

“It’s…good,” I sputtered out. 

“Isn’t it? Well, it’s a Sebas-kun meal, so you really can’t expect anything less. You wouldn’t believe how fast his cooking gets gobbled up here.” He nonchalantly mused and sat on Isaac’s right, who then slithered away from him. 

“Not to worry, you arrived just in time. We were just introducing ourselves to our new guest here.” 

“In that case, I’m Osamu Dazai, just a poor writer struggling to make his way in the world.” His eyes closed with his carefree smile, which made him all the more handsome. 

“Osamu Dazai. The writer. Okay.” I took a quick swig of my champagne. If I had to listen to the rest of these wild introductions I needed to be less sober. Should I have introduced myself as Marie Antoinette or something? I took a quick glance at the “van Gogh” brothers, who had started this odd chain of improv introductions. His smile seemed too innocent to be trying to fool me like this. Who the hell are these people? Is this some sort of prank? I glanced back at my now-empty glass. Was there something in my drink? 

Skipping several empty chairs was the beautiful and cold pianist I’d met earlier. The Englishman called him “Wolfie,” but I bet that’s probably short for—

“Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Composer.” Called it. His character seemed the least to play along in whatever nonsense chain the others made up. Of course, the pianist would be called Mozart. 

“...Hello, Mozart,” two words I never thought I’d utter in my life. 

The cheeky Englishman from earlier, who was practically buzzing with excitement piped up, “I do believe I’m next! I’m Arthur Conan Doyle. Mystery writer.” I pursed my lips and looked down at the table, uncertain whether I should laugh or sigh. “And don’t call me Sir, just Arthur. As long as I get to call you MC.” I quickly glanced up at him, and his eyes twinkled with delight. He, I could see was capable of making up this joke. But then, did that mean everyone was lying to me? No, not lying. They have to be pseudonyms. I looked around once again at everyone. 

Vincent. 

Theodorus. 

Isaac.

Dazai.

Mozart. 

Arthur. 

They have to be. Maybe they have to use fake names to keep their real identities a secret for some important reason. 

“I believe that leaves you.” Le Comte’s silky voice interrupted my racing thoughts. Only my hero remained. My protector. He was the only one who was genuinely on my side. The one who wanted me to get out of here. He promised to answer my questions. I trusted him, albeit instantly. But he couldn’t possibly lie to me too. 

Chapter I: The Mysterious Gentleman

I thought amethysts would match the luxury of the Louvre, but as every destination I’ve visited in Paris so far has shown me, I am once again below their standards. One thing that can validate my presence in this opulent establishment is my equal fascination with the historical wonders in its deluxe walls. Leonardo Da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa” in one room and Jacques-Louis David’s “Coronation of Napoleon” in another, there was an abundance of legendary pieces and an unfortunate lack of time to fully appreciate each one. The museum itself was a work of art, the Parisian sunlight dappling the rooms in a way that only flattered the inside art. Ever since my aunt had treated me to this trip, the Musée de Louvre was the location I was most eager for, hence the destination being saved for last. In my excitement, I left my aunt back at our hotel to secure myself as much time as possible to explore its vast curation. My travelling blog was one step away from its virtual death without its recent updates, but the Paris trip had revived it like no other, and if I was to be writing its last issue for a while, it had to be on the Louvre. “Two Hours at the Louvre: what you have to see.” The little mascot that my friend had created for it, Mousette, dangled around my purse strap, and with a playful gleam in its beady eyes, it seemed to beckon me to a specific painting. A gangle of curious tourists crowded around almost every painting rendering otherwise pleasant dispositions into polite shoving. Still, the Coronation, an expansive painting that spanned across a whole wall, was particularly compelling. If I stepped closer it’s almost as if I can be in it. However, a particularly stubborn group persisted in staking their territory around it, and I would have faced my second embarrassment for the day if not for a last-minute saviour. Elegant long fingers held my arms upright in a comfortingly secure grip, and just in case gravity would have been more unkind, he stood near enough where I could descend into even stronger arms. 

“Pardonne-moi mademoiselle, vous allez bien?” A rich French accent wrapped in dulcet tones broke me out of my stupor. In hopes that warmth had not shown my embarrassment, I answered assuredly and quickly brushed myself off (I’d worn my most exquisite outfit after the last couple of days of falling short). I chanced a peek at the kind stranger and my previous efforts of saving composure were as ungraceful as my fall was. A vision of a gentleman seemingly carved from gold with eyes that held endless tragedy and romance stared worriedly back. If all the time in history was dedicated to creating perfection he would be immortalized in the man in front of me. Aside from his Adonis-like features, he looked out of place, as if he very clearly did not belong in this time. A vicuna suit in the rich colours of gold and brown framed his figure perfectly, but the very style of it was the sort that a vampire in a gothic romance might have worn. “Ah, mais vos boucles d'oreilles.” he knelt to retrieve my fallen earrings and in the same graceful motion, cradled them in his palm. “Améthyste… charmante,” he mused. A small grateful smile came to me and still entranced by his aura, I allowed him to step closer. Bergamot and cedarwood enveloped me. “Puis-Je?” Once allowed, he swept back the hair from my shoulder with delicate fingers. His breath fanned the juncture between my neck and my shoulder, his Aurelian gaze trained on my face. When our eyes met, a delightfully dizzying sensation brushed over me, as if a finger silenced each of my senses. I know we are in Paris but this is too amorous an act to be coming from a stranger. “That’s a lovely fragrance,” he commented. 

“Thank you, I got that perfume here in Paris,” I gulped, my breath unsteady. 

“Oh… but I wasn’t referring to your perfume.” 

His accent, which I surmised was dominantly French, had more depth to it; like it was a melangé of a hundred different accents. After securing the amethyst earrings, he tucked my hair behind my ears and with an almost reluctant exhale, he stepped back. Whatever spell I was under broke. “Exquisite,” he whispered under his breath. A gasp that sounded more like a croak received his praise, which at least earned me a chuckle from the mysterious gentleman. 

“My rogue earring is certain to behave itself now. Merci.” 

“Not at all. It was thanks to the earring that I was granted the good fortune to meet you.” I escaped his dizzying charm by glancing back at the painting that caused this scene. “Did you know that it’s the second-largest painting in the Louvre?” Perhaps in addition to my article, I can write tips on how to stumble upon handsome gentlemen. Just trip clumsily in front of them and you too can win a conversation!  His old-world sort of manner was enchanting, and it urged me to hear more of his voice. “This painting marked the turn of the modern empire and it was highly regarded as this masterful piece of propaganda,” the way he spoke of the painting was almost intimate as if it was a nostalgic memory he could muse about rather than a fragment of history. 

“You seem to be well acquainted with this painting monsieur,” I replied. His eyes crinkled at the edges, and a deep chuckle rose from him again.

“More than you could ever know,” he cryptically joked. Despite the strangeness of it, I found myself politely laughing along with him. The gentleman gave a parting glance at the image, granted me a longer one, and with a resigned smile, bid me farewell, “Bon voyage, Mademoiselle.” His beige overcoat majestically flowed after him as he headed down a hallway, presumably to view the Mona Lisa next. When he left my sight, all good reason returned and I hastily checked the time. It’s been an hour and a half already?  If I was to meet up with my aunt in another half-hour for brunch at the hotel, I needed to at least see the Mona Lisa as well. Believing that the cryptic gentleman knew the quickest way there, (and perhaps wanting to see him again) I naturally followed where he went. 

A dark oak door with intricate carvings was at the end of the corridor, presumably where the gentleman would have entered. And though it was unlikely that a closed door would mean that another exhibit would be beyond it, or that a visitor should even come upon it, a nagging instinct in me compelled me to step towards it nonetheless. I peeked in between the cracks of the door and it was only broken clocks, dusty vases, and concealed paintings that furnished the hallway beyond it. A whiff of time forgotten. Perhaps this was a hidden treasure that the Louvre set aside for visitors with more arcane tastes. My hand on the door handles, I opened it, and unlike what its wood suggested, it gave way almost too easily. The hallway itself was smaller than I’d observed, barely wide enough to fit two people inside. Unlike the rest of the Musée, none of the artefacts had labels or descriptions, likely being a storage area. And yet, the nagging feeling told me to explore further before I should turn around. I’m already in too deep to back out now. A sense of unease did settle upon me when I realized that the deeper into this hallway I ventured into, the narrower and darker it became. Soon, the comforting drawls of the tourists from behind were much more desirable than the dank atmosphere of this tunnel. The reward for this reckless curiosity was a light at the end of this tunnel, and I ran towards it only to escape the constricting air of this place. I ran, but even without that, a force was already pulling me towards the light. Much too late, I fought against the confines of this invisible force, but it seemed that even gravity was against me in this battle. With every struggle, the light seemed to grow wider until it flared angrily and enveloped me. I shut my eyes as tightly as I could but the brightness overrode all my senses and imprinted itself into my mind. I let out a final desperate gasp before my consciousness gave out. 

A more merciful light invaded my senses next, this time coming from old-fashioned chandeliers hanging from a white ceiling. A hallway with mahogany wood and a red carpet spread out in front of me, dark oak doors with the same intricate carvings as before spanned the right wall, and tall four-rowed windows sported the opposite wall. I brushed aside the mahogany curtain beside me and looked at what I was leaning on. The same dark oak door I had entered was behind me, so naturally, this had to be another hallway in the Louvre, right? The style was completely different as if this exhibit was in an entirely different time than the rest of the Musée, and frankly, looked more like a private mansion than a museum exhibit. I whipped over towards the window as a sudden sense of alarm hit me. It’s night… A splatter of gleaming stars spread across the canvas of the raven sky, the crescent moon seemingly mocking me with its smile. 

“It can’t be,” I muttered in disbelief. I may have been distracted by the gentleman, but there was absolutely no way that a whole day had passed. The last pitiful source of rationality left inside nagged at me to find a way out, but a gnawing fear prevented my body from moving. 

“... What are you doing there?” 

“Who’s there?” I yelled in a panic. I whirled around, only to be met by a tall, imposing man with dark hair and silver tips. He sounded clearly French but carried a deeper accent, almost Italian. His features were remarkably alluring but darkly prominent, the sort where you notice its charms in a more intimate distance. Despite his intimidating aura, there wasn’t anything too frightening about him. But the way he’s dressed is certainly… interesting. Maybe it’s some sort of costume for a play the museum is holding? The man wore a dark soldier’s suit but dressed down with an unbuttoned front, an untucked button-up shirt, and a ruffled collar. Sheepishly, I decided to ask for his help, “Pardon. I’m trying to get back to the musée, can you help me open this door?” 

“What’s that? ‘Get back?’ You’re not telling me you came from that door?” Though baffled, his voice softened its initial cautious edge. 

“I’m sorry, I know I may be trespassing but I got lost and saw light through this door,” I apologized, grasping at the last bouts of my sanity through this conversation. The mystery of the time aside, if I can get back that’s all that matters. Despite the confusion of the situation, a softer expression melted the man’s face. I was grateful he didn’t seem to doubt my story but felt uneasy at how he looked at me curiously—as if he couldn’t believe his eyes that I was there. 

“Just what are you?” he murmured in fascination. From down the hall, I could hear the clicking of Oxford shoes and heavy leather boots. Could that be the gentleman? 

“Excuse m–” The dark-haired man clapped a hand over my mouth and wrapped me in his large arms. He tugged the two of us behind a curtain, with his back shielding me from view. What the hell is he doing? 

“That blasted Count is certainly taking his time this visit.”

“You’re too harsh on him, my friend. Perhaps he was distracted by a little bird.”

“I suppose under that pretentious façade he’s still a man.”

Two deep voices with thick European accents gradually came closer from the end of the hallway. Rational me knew that asking for their assistance would benefit me, but the fear inside yelled that it would be the worst idea possible. Their conversation continued unintelligibly as panic continued to surge through me. 

“... to my Broer,” the huskier voice huffed. This one had a distant Dutch accent, but his English was so localized it was almost difficult to discern. His footsteps quickly faded away and presumably left the other man. This one instead had a silkier character and a silver-tongued English accent.

“You call me a dog, but between the two of us, you’re the dog and your brother’s clearly the master.” The voice was scarily close, and by instinct, I stuck myself closer to him for safety. The thud of Oxford leather footsteps was in front of me now, and I held my breath in a pathetic attempt to hide myself. “I do believe I hear a little bird fluttering her wings where she should not be,” the man whistled wolfishly, “and this bird is quite adorable thinking that she could hide from me.” I trembled in his arms. But he held me gently. His jade eyes met mine. They were powerful. Earnest. The fear in me slowly subsided in his presence. I don’t know what’s going on, but I want to trust him. I nodded to show that I would be quiet, and he uncovered my mouth. When the sound of his footsteps faded away, we stepped out from the curtain. He took my hand in his firm grip and quickly led me away. 

“You need to escape before the others find you. It’s already bad that he knows you’re here, so we need to move quickly.” Escape? What kind of place is this that I need to escape from?  “Don’t let go,” he reassured me as he squeezed my hand. As I watched his wide shoulders in front of me, the fear soon washed away. The rational side of my brain knew that I shouldn’t trust a man I just met, but so far, he’d done nothing but help me. And in this mysterious place, there didn’t seem like many choices anyway. 

“By Jove, this is what you were hiding, Leon?” Azure eyes with a wolfish twinkle were the first things I noticed. This man was devilishly handsome, with a proud grin and a mole above his chin. His well-tailored navy suit had an unbuttoned collar, giving the otherwise sharp getup a more wolfish feel. He raked his eyes down my body and swiped his tongue across his lips. His gaze grew darker as my breath staggered. “You’re a lovely one,” he breathlessly sighed. I shivered in disgust. His eyes crinkled in amusement, not at all intimidated by my display of courage. 

“Did the Count bring you back as a little treat for us?” he mused, slowly inching his face towards my neck. “Truly exquisite…” 

My saviour clicked his tongue. We’re caught. 

“From what I can deduce, you’re trying to help her escape,” he said, “Now why would you go and do that, Leon? I rather fancy her type, you know. She looks absolutely scrumptious.” He leaned forward and tried to get close, but “Leon” blocked me from his fascinated gaze. He blocked off our possible exit in the smoothest of fashions. 

He caught my wary gaze. “Ah, maybe you fancy me too, judging by the way you’re looking me over.” He may look completely like a gentleman, but he’s a rotten flirt! 

“It just had to be you,” “Leon” sighed in stark irritation. 

“Why do you want to help her escape? Let’s invite her to the banquet. She deserves a warm welcome, don’t you think?” he interjected. 

“That’s not up to me or you.”

“Don’t be so stodgy, old boy! I can’t think of anyone who’d complain about having a lovely girl at that drab table. It would really bring some colour to this mansion.” Mansion? There’s no mansion connected to the Louvre. What is he talking about? 

“Messieurs.” A cool-toned voice interrupted. A man with a neutral expression entered the hallway. He was dressed in a grey butler’s garb, his posture immaculate and his steps measured. “It is time for supper. Everyone’s gathering in the dining room now if you please.” I peeked out from above “Leon’s” shoulder, and his steely grey eyes locked onto mine. “You too, Mademoiselle.” 

Finding my voice, I croaked out, “There’s no need. I’m not planning on staying for supper. I was, uh, actually just trying to get back.” 

“But the lord of the manor is eagerly awaiting your presence.” “The lord of the manor?” Is this really someone’s place? 

“How does he know I’m here?”

“He can answer your questions at supper.” I’m really not getting any answers until then. 

“Or will you refuse his gracious invitation after breaking into his house?” 

“I…” I wanted to defend myself, but knew that there was really no excuse. It was my own curiosity that I couldn’t quell, and ultimately, my fault that I ended up here. 

“Allow me to escort you.” 

The butler led me down winding velvet-carpeted hallways. Memorizing the direction proved quite difficult with its identical doors, windows, and mahogany walls. A complicated mess of shame and lingering fear settled in my stomach, but voicing any concern seemed like it would end badly for me. Staying polite and pleasing to the master of the house may prevent an incoming lawsuit for trespassing, and I’d be a fool to go against his wishes. I studied my guide; his crisp suit and spotless white gloves gave him a sophisticated air, one almost too graceful for a mere butler. His earlier statements proved he was a “no-nonsense” and stern man, and I could tell the master sent him to ensure I would comply. As our makeshift party continued down the mansion’s halls, a piano's delicate, tinkling keys softly touched the air. The elegant melody grew louder as we neared a set of double doors. 

“Sounds like Wolfie’s in a sprightly mood,” Arthur hummed. He leaned down towards me and whispered conspiratorially, “Very uncharacteristic of him, I’ll say.” The butler closed his eyes for a split second as if he was bracing for something terrible. 

Then, he cautiously rapped three times on the door, “Pardon me. I know that you are there. Please come join us in the dining room.” The ethereal song cut short, and its pianist revealed himself. 

“Go away.” The pianist carried a faint Austrian accent in a gruff voice, perturbed at the interruption. He was a beautiful man. His hair was the colour of starlight and softly fanned across his deep-sunken, lavender eyes. His delicate, doll-like face and graceful figure were the manifestation of his dreamy music. Unlike the other three, his suit seemed like it was from the Classical period, with a ruched tie and a feather in his breast pocket. Despite the elegant aura he exuded, he conversed with the butler in such a rudely familiar way. 

“It is time for the banquet.”

“Why was everyone so loud?” His eyes narrowed as they zeroed in on me. “It’s her fault, isn’t it?” My fault? I just want to leave! 

“It’s not like I planned to be here,” I muttered. 

“Who cares? Why don’t you just go back then?” He sighed haughtily. “Unless you enjoy the idea of being everyone’s food,” he quietly said, slipping past me. …Food? He bent slightly away as if repulsed by the thought of making contact with me. “... As if the banquet wasn’t bad enough,” he murmured under his breath, loud enough so I could hear. His cold voice, a stark contrast to his music, hung beside the beautiful melodies in the air. 

We descended a grand staircase, a marvel with its winding gold handrails, marble floors, and lush carpet spread on it. At the end of the steps was the gentleman in the museum, almost glowing with how perfectly he fit in this mansion. 

“It’s poor manners to keep those who’ve arrived on time waiting.”