#lemur writes

OIL POISONING PANDEMIC

Attention, citizens.

As the news has reported, over the last few weeks there have been reports of trees withering and dying. At the same time, seafood that has been consumed by any human or animal has poisoned the consumer.

IF YOU ARE SHOWING THESE SYMPTOMS:

- Coughing and shortness of breath

- Black spit or tongue

- Black / grey gums

- Darker or discoloured blood

- Lack of blood clotting

- Shinier than average skin

PLEASE COVER YOUR FACE AND HEAD TO YOUR NEAREST QUARANTINE AND TESTING FACILITY.

Thank you for your cooperation.

Scott’s stomach dropped, and his cat meowed quietly, as if she understood.

“It’s okay, Elle,” He remembered saying, remembered running his fingers through her fur. “It’ll be okay.”

-

It was not okay.

Three years after the oil poisoning pandemic, the illness known to most as Grease, Scott wanders the barren wasteland that used to be civilisation, alone, spare for a chicken he picked up along the way.

They say, she is writing a memoir. Everyone knows who she is. The widow Le Bas; going back to her maiden name might’ve been easier, though not by much; they were imprisoned too, the Duplays. At least she doesn’t need to carry the attachment to a man she has never married; there is enough with the widow Marat, the widow Robespierre.

Such luxury, to have been important enough to become the widow; to have been important enough that someone would’ve wanted you by their side on the streets, even on the frontlines, not only in a church, and who knows about the bed?

Such luxury; not open to the daughters of the landladies, bound by the iron respect that comes from living just this side of hunger, from the mind-numbing lessons in manners, music, painting – painting?

Sketching, drawing, painting, as if the city would fade into oblivion if it wasn’t turned into a canvas.

Soon there is no more money for pastels. At some point, a brooch needs to be pawned, in secret, on the way from the market. The brooch from the first communion, a mother’s gift, a grandmother’s inheritance, a treasure that was supposed to last through a wedding.

Painting remains an acceptable pastime for daughters; even if the model happens to be that lodger, that overworked young deputy, who is sometimes visited by Robespierre himself. It takes all the courage to sneak out on the stairs and listen to their impassioned debates; occasionally, and once, when they were saying goodbye -

He is not exactly interested in marrying anyone, and least of all a daughter of a landlady with hopes of a marriage above their stature. Equality is the word these days, but in this house the idea still evokes a raised eyebrow, if very discreetly – after all, the rent from the young deputy is making a difference between mutton on the table and cabbage alone.

But mothers and their plans matter little as long as there’s enough time to work on the pastels. The summer nights are long, though it sometimes gets hard to breathe; and it’s important to keep practicing; everyone can agree with that.

It doesn’t take any courage, to keep quietly making one's art. True courage would be shown in escapes to the street, in Convention, in friendships to be judged and shunned by the polite society, perhaps even that Mademoiselle Evrard – only now it is the widow Marat, of course.

True courage, and the pastels break between the fingers at the thought.

Is it possible to ever, ever forgive oneself for having listened, for having obeyed, for having believed what one was told to believe?

Not that the deputy had ever asked; but he was so busy, so exhausted, so desperate; and any way there were no words to be found to express the yearning for the kind of life to be found at the Convention, not in a drawing room.

The sketches are the landscapes of the city.

The lights in the windows at the Convention, imagined as they would be seen from the outside.

The bricks in the pavement, the ruins of the Bastille crammed in the background, as if they were an unimportant, an afterthought; and a single flower, a contrast in red and grey.

The guards at the bakery door.

The guillotine; but the angle is crooked, again, it is only a shadow falling on the stones, only a drop of blood.

The sketches are strange, and the finished drawings downright uncanny; none of the classic arrangements of flowers and fruits, nor the quiet forests and the orchards of the countryside. Here, life is made of stairwells and alleys instead.

There is only one portrait. It’s only taken two sittings; the young deputy has a Republic to save, he cannot spare more time.

It is a good likeness; he approves of it. Perhaps, one day he will want it for his own house, when he finally moves out of the lodgings, when the war is over and their Republic is a matter of slow plodding through laws and resolutions instead of spies and traitors.

Respectable young ladies aren’t allowed to watch the death sentences. If needed, they can be told, but only in a delicate fashion, and perhaps, with a delay of a day or two.

It is a shame, of course, about the lodger, about his young friend, who was liked by everyone on all accounts – but well, they say that the order will return soon and the wars will end.

Though wasn’t that something, how the widow Le Bas kept holding her head high all the way to the prison. Disgusting, of course, but, well, the courage. She must’ve truly loved her husband.

There is no courage in the hearts of the landladies’ daughters. If there were – but there are no dreams either.

There is only fire.

The smoke is rising despite the heat, and the mother is angry, and the neighbors are gossiping, they are saying, had she been in love with him, with the young one, the one who had mounted the scaffold as if he was going to receive a crown, and instead lost his own head? Now that’s quite a joke.

There had been love, perhaps, but not of the kind that would add the widow to one’s name. Love for a city, for a republic, for the future that might, one day, allow some measure of courage.

There is little time to contemplate it.

The fingers keep bleeding from when the drawings had to be cut up with a knife. They didn’t fit into the fireplace otherwise.

There is only fire, the black smoke over Paris, in the heat, in the sky that refuses to break and to swallow them all.

The portrait is the only one left.

When she comes asking for its price, offering her jewels, her cloak, her dresses – even her wedding dress, the deal is done before she finishes speaking. She doesn’t know it, the proud, brave widow Le Bas, who is writing her memoirs and would like to purchase the portrait and hang it above her fireplace.

The dress alone is insufficient as a trade. It takes a mention that another portrait will be hanging right across from it, one that will earn the widow Le Bas more than a few patronizing looks, because who in these days would have a portrait of Maximilien Robespierre on their wall?

The wedding dress is well made. It is perfect for a landlady’s daughter, for a church wedding, for a new house nearby and a household to run, and no time for pastels anymore.

Was there any talent, after all? It’s hard to tell; none of the paintings could be found in the old house, which is surprising, but, well, drawing is an unmarried woman’s fancy.

There is only that moment; at the threshold, in a dress that had been made for another woman and another wedding; with the portrait safely gone before it could’ve been lost or thrown away to make space for more appropriate decorations in a room of a new lodger.

There is only that moment of something moving right at the corner of the eye –

There is no pity in those grey eyes, in that smile, just barely there.

Only the calm resolve of one being sent to war; to marriage; to a life that had been so cruelly cut short, to a life that is so cruelly determined to continue.

There is only that moment; and the dress is shoved in the back of the closet, and the portrait is hanging in a household that is closed off to respectable wives; and the memoirs are published and bought and discussed and read and shared, and perhaps, cried over, between the children and the chores.

And many, many years later, a girl receives a gift from an elderly widow, now nobody remembers her husband’s name, she is known as the widow of the Rue Saint-Honoré ; it is a package with a box of pastels inside.

It comes with a blessing, or an admonishment.

1.

“Who the hell?.. Desmoulins! Get out of here! You’re dead.”

“And I should be aware of it, don’t you think? I hardly need your reminder. Also you cannot dispel me. You’ve tried hard enough to have me killed, and now see where we have ended up.”

“Such accusations, from a traitor.”

“They have more ground than yours did.”

“I see that death hasn’t managed to shut you up.”

“I’m glad to hear that my words still have power. But, I’m holding you up, go on, enter, don’t hesitate...We’ll talk again.”

2.

“Do you have no heart? Have you come to torment him even here?”

“Ah, hello, citoyen Saint-Just, how nice to see you visiting again.”

“Answer me.”

“You really cannot command ghosts, you know. And – no. In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t crossed the threshold yet. Because, as much as you refuse to believe in it, I do have a heart. Metaphorically speaking. Go, go, you know he gets anxious if you are late.”

3.

“Seriously, Desmoulins, can’t you go haunt somewhere else? Does it have to be Maxime’s staircase? There’s not even enough space.”

“I always step aside for you, considering that I have some manners, so you can hardly complain.”

“Stop evading my questions.”

“Really, why do you still assume you can command me?.. No. The answer is no, I can’t...there’s not much left for me, anywhere else. Everyone else I’ve ever loved is dead. And I am not haunting my son. It’ll be hard enough as is, for him.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, it is your fault. See you next time.”

4.

“The last time, you turned into mist before we could finish the conversation.”

“Missed me, Saint-Just?”

“I – do you have to be this insufferable, even when dead?”

“Well, are you going to say you are sorry?”

“Would you want me to? Truly, and stop with the fidgeting – what ever happened to resting in peace?”

“Truly? No, I suppose not.”

“It’s breaking his heart, though. I thought you should know. Now, you may disappear. If you wish.”

5.

“Oh, here you are at last.”

“I suppose it’s my turn to ask if you missed -”

“Doctor Souberbielle has been there all morning. Just go, please.”

6.

“How is he?”

“Not good. But… better. It will take a while. It’s… he doesn’t make it easy, on himself.”

“He never has.”

“You know, I would’ve expected you to be angrier. Why do you care, Desmoulins? Why aren’t you blaming him? You would’ve poured hellfire on his head, in your pamphlets.”

“He’s the only one who can still save us... Save our revolution. And – and, and I don’t owe you anything else.”

7.

“You need to get some rest.”

“Says a dead man.”

“Says a perfectly healthy ghost of one. You should at least eat more. Get him to eat healthier, too. I’ve heard him refuse even the oranges recently.”

“I’m trying, I’ve been trying, it’s just – oh, he’s wasting away, Camille, and it doesn’t even seem to be anything so clearly wrong that the doctor could at least diagnose him, much less cure; and then when he’s finally asleep it feels so fragile.”

“So fragile that you don’t dare sleep yourself.”

“Well -”

“Listen to me. You cannot be falling apart, not now. He takes it all on himself, he needs someone who’d take care of him, and for that, you need someone to take care of you too. Yourself, for lack of anyone else.”

“I need to go.”

8.

“You need to see this.”

“I see, someone has a spring in his step. I’ve seen Maxime has been back, isn’t he. Did you finally get enough sleep too?”

“Ah, well…”

“Being dead means I get to be as annoying as I want. You stubborn… fine, what is it?”

“David’s sketches for the festival. See – you were always fond of a spectacle. I don’t know if you can, you know, haunt it for a while, so I figured I’d show you.”

“Weren’t you taking them to Maxime?”

“He’s had his own copy for a few days now, has been making some corrections.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Thank you, Louis-Antoine. For bringing them to show to me.”

“I -”

“Also, the color scheme is atrocious. Does David eat rainbows for breakfast?”

9.

“How can anyone even do it?! Does it not matter? Does all our work matter less than whatever personal safety or gain or pride or – we are not in business for it, don’t you know? Well, wouldn’t you know?”

“Danton might know, I suppose, but I don’t think he’s come back from the dead yet. Who is it, this time? Carnot again?”

“Collot, Billaud, Barrère, they are… they’d burn Maxime at the stake if they could.”

“And say that they’ve brought light to Paris.”

“… Why couldn’t you keep writing in support of us? You could’ve helped us, you know; if only you were on our side.”

“I thought I was. As for the rest, my conscience didn’t –”

“What you call your conscience may have damned everything you stood for.”

“I am not saying I was right? I am just saying – I chose to follow my conviction, my conscience.”

“I still blame you, you know.”

“But you’re here a quarter of an hour early every day now, to talk to me.”

“It seems lonely, haunting a staircase.”

“I am sorry, you know. I still wouldn’t change any of my choices, but I am sorry. For how it all is turning out.”

10.

“Where have you been.”

“Ah. Right, sorry, there’s no time, we need to talk about –“

11.

“Move. I need to -”

“You can go through me if you need to. But – they’re all so concerned, the Duplays, Philippe, will you please – “

“Please what?”

“Oh. You can go, then.”

“Desmou – Camille, we don’t have time. We’re barely holding everything together. The food, the North, the Vendée, and then there’s all – these – the treachery, everything, and the assassination attempts – I don’t care about that, but I’m a soldier, I’m used to living until the next stray bullet, Maxime isn’t. It just feels – it just – no matter what we do, it’s slipping through our fingers. Is it all in vain?”

“Sit down.”

“What?”

“Sit down. Yes, on the stair. And close your eyes, for a moment.”

“What was that?..”

“Did you feel anything?”

“Like a breeze, on my neck.”

“Well, I suppose I tried. And, I do know how it feels. The last few months, for me… but it doesn’t matter.”

“What if we’re going to lose it all?”

“Louis-Antoine.”

“Yes?”

“Tell that to Maxime. What you’ve just told me. All of it.”

“He has enough of his own troubles!”

“I know you didn’t trust me when I was alive, but if you ever wanted to make an exception, let it be this one. Tell him. And listen to what he says...and give some comfort to each other.”

“I…”

“While you can.”

“What was that?”

“Never mind.”

12.

“You seem determined, tonight.”

“I need to write a speech. For tomorrow.”

“And will they listen? I snuck through the wall of the Convention earlier today, and…”

“They’ll have to. Or else…”

“Don’t. Don’t say it.”

“Do you think I’d make such a bad ghost? Camille. Camille. Stop crying for a moment, will you? I have something to tell you.”

“S-sorry.”

“Thank you. For all these months.”

“If… If it comes to that, I will be there. At the guillotine. You won’t be alone, and Maxime won’t either, not even when one of you is… gone first, you hear me? I couldn’t do it for Lucile, I didn’t know how yet, and I’ve regretted it ever since. So... I will be there.”

13.

“We may begin.”

“No, we absolutely may not.”

“And why might it be so?” Barère looked even more put-upon than usual, though he must’ve gotten at least six hours of sleep the previous night. It was a calm week by their standards.

Only one major mishap with the cannonballs that were the wrong size for the cannons at the Rhine.

It had sent Carnot into an absolute frenzy, which was more entertaining than anything, considering that Carnot was ready to swallow his own tongue before indicting the young Prieur, whose fault this very clearly was.

In the end, all that Carnot had managed to get out was: “and this is why we use the metric system!”

This was about as mild a reproach as anyone could expect, and still, Prieur went beet-red and looked so pitiful that Saint-Just decided not to pile another accusation on top of it and explain that the metric system had nothing to do with the cannonballs whatsoever; he had simply looked at a wrong table when giving orders. The issue wasn’t too hard to resolve, in the end; and when Carnot took Prieur by the elbow on the way out, Saint-Just hoped that it wouldn’t result in another dressing-down, this time in private.

Except for this mishap, they actually had sufficient provisions to keep the city just on this side of starvation, the armies were plodding along slowly and painfully, but without major setbacks (as long as you didn’t ask Carnot, who after the cannonball incident seemed to have fallen into a perpetual state of grumbling), and even that blighted Desmoulins had for once spent an entire week without another incendiary pamphlet. Apparently, he had been ensconced in the countryside; Saint-Just shuddered at what he was bound to bring back to the city the following week.

All would’ve been fine, except that Maxime had gotten sick again.

He’d been complaining about stomach ache for a few days, looking paler and greener by the day to match the wallpaper on their room (as Collot had noticed, and Saint-Just had seriously considered what it would take to denounce him as a traitor; if they were lucky, he wasn’t going to come back from his next mission, but their luck hadn't been the greatest recently).

And tonight he didn’t show up at all. Which is why Saint-Just objected to them holding a meeting without citoyen Robespierre’s presence.

When Barère insisted anyway, after an – entirely uncalled for! – pitying glance in Saint-Just’s general direction, all that Saint-Just could do was claim exhaustion and suggest that everyone went home and got some rest, in preparation for whatever unexpected complications the next week was bound to bring. Desmoulins back in Paris, to start with.

Saint-Just himself had no plans to sleep; his bed had been less and less comfortable lately, and his rooms rather lonely, compared to, for example, the same green room in the Tuileries.

With the exception of today.

He wasn’t going to contemplate the reasons for it. He had something more important to do. Namely, acquire something that would make Maxime feel better, and soon.

Now, what was it that Maxime liked? Oranges – but they were hopelessly out of season, and Saint-Just didn’t exactly have much to trade for them. Pigeons – unfortunately, one could hardly entice a flock of pigeons to perch precisely where they would be the most appreciated; and anyway there wasn’t much they could do against an ailment of the stomach.

The next thought was more fruitful. Which mean that Saint-Just had about an hour left to acquire the best jam tart he could find in the city before all the bakeries closed.

What he absolutely did not expect was how the baker cowered in his presence.

“What – no, I am not interested in your accounts. Not in the slightest. Tell me, do you have any of, any, uh, tarts? Jam tarts?” he asked in the first bakery after softening his voice as best he could, since the baker seemed ready to keel over, his hands shaking so much that he could’ve been sifting flour.

All that the baker managed in response was a feeble shake of the head.

Saint-Just huffed in annoyance and marched to the next bakery.

That one was managed by a red-haired, stout woman who smiled at Saint-Just in a grandmotherly way – at him, the representative on mission who had made generals quiver in fear!

Unfortunately, he only had to ask the same question for that baker to become positively uncivil.

“We only get flour enough for bread, as you should know! And barely enough for it either. Or do you only eat tarts, there at your Convention, while we break our backs for the coarsest of loaves!”

“I think Hébert would be thrilled to have you among his followers, madame,” Saint-Just muttered under his breath as he slunk through the door.

What was he going to do, arrest her? For what? If there was not enough flour, so be it – Maxime would have to get better on his own.

Only somehow that thought did not seem acceptable at all.

By that point Saint-Just had reached his own building, and figured that there could hardly be any harm in asking his own landlady about whether she could, perhaps, whip up a jam tart or two.

“With pleasure!” his landlady beamed at him.

“I told and told and told you that you need to eat more – you’re going to run yourself to death, at your Convention, in your Committee, in your club – and never enough sleep, never enough food, not even a nice girl on your hand, and not that you wouldn’t have a choice of half of Paris, -”

“Actually, it’s not for me,” after that previous baker, Saint-Just refused to be known as someone who eats cakes when the city is queuing for bread.

“Really?” the landlady seemed entirely too pleased by that correction.

“It’s for Ma – citoyen Robespierre. He’s been feeling poorly, lately.”

“And you think that jam tarts would help? Well. I see.”

As far as Saint-Just could tell, there was absolutely nothing to see, but he let the remark slide, because within an hour he found himself in possession of three perfectly round tarts filled with cherry jam.

He could’ve kissed the landlady in gratitude. No, on second thought, absolutely not, this was in fact very far from the kind of fraternité that they had been encouraging.

He did offer her some money, at which point she flicked her apron at him and told him to get himself to citoyen Robespierre quick as he could, before the tarts got cold.

Well, that was reasonable advice, and Saint-Just had always prided himself of being a practically-minded man.

So when he practically jogged the whole way to Maxime’s rooms, raising more than a few whispers that the enemies of the Revolution must be near and similar sort, he chose to ignore them, having better things to do than calming down some panicky citizens, who had no business ambling so slowly while taking over the entire pavement.

“H-here,” Saint-Just couldn’t catch his breath, and hoped that the tarts would explain everything well enough.

Maxime looked pale, though not dying right at the moment.

In fact, he was sitting at his desk reading through a long document.

“Antoine?” he said with evident puzzlement. “Not that I am not glad to see you, but you surely could’ve sent a courier from the Committee.”

“A courier for what?”

For the love of his life Saint-Just could not imagine giving instructions at the Committee to bring Maxime a few jam tarts. He would've never been able to live down the scaly trio, as he had secretly baptized them. Collot, Barère and Billaud really belonged in some eccentric scientist’s reptile pavilion.

“For your corrections of my speech.”

Oh. His speech. Saint-Just had forgotten all about it, what with the rush around the bakers, but he had promised Maxime to look it over the previous night.

“I am truly sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I can – read it now?”

“But then why are you here?” Maxime sounded completely bewildered.

Saint-Just pointed at the jam tarts again, in case Maxime had missed them the first time, which he apparently had.

“For me? Thank you,” Maxime smiled. “Only I’m afraid I am on chamomile and porridge these days. Doctor’s orders.”

Saint-Just suddenly felt his knees give in, and all he managed to do before falling on the floor is to reach Maxime’s bed and sit down on it, hard, hiding his face in his hands.

He had, predictably, made a fool of himself, and he’d been rushing around all day, with no time to eat or drink, and he hadn’t slept much the night before either, and now he had to go back to their blasted Committee, with all the decisions that still had to be made, and nobody had any idea whether any of them were even remotely right – it’s not that they had anything to base them on, short of the Roman Republic eighteen hundred years earlier!

With Maxime, it had all been manageable, and even, somehow, meaningful, they really felt that they were building another world, but without him… and Maxime couldn’t even eat the damned jam tarts.

“Antoine.”

Saint-Just felt his hands being gently moved from his face.

Maxime was sitting so close to him that he could see the dark brown flecks in his green eyes, squinting at him behind the glasses.

“I think you need to rest. And, perhaps, eat some of those cakes yourself.”

“They’re jam tarts.” Somehow it seemed important. “Cherry.”

Even though Saint-Just was no longer hiding his face, Maxime’s hand lingered on his cheek, now slowly slipping to cup his head.

“I am sure they are very sweet,” Maxime said, smiling, truly smiling, and – well, and Saint-Just stopped thinking altogether for a moment.

This one hall must be worth more than his mother’s entire house. The marble alone – Saint-Just catches this passing thought and holds it close, presses it to himself.

He keeps his eyes trained on the half-columns. They are entirely decorative, marble carefully polished to reveal the veins, covered in a gold pattern that is a poor imitation of a Corinthian capital.

Pale grey and cherry red.

Do not look down; don’t let them see anything but the cold disdain that they deserve.

The blood must’ve seeped into the wood deep enough that they’ll have to cut it apart to remove the stains.

Saint-Just stands up straighter. His cravat has been readjusted by the soldiers, his head is held high, his shoulders are thrown backwards in a mockery of a parade stance, but is it truly a mockery? So many times he had felt that he might be going to his death in the morning, had relished the feeling of a tiny flame in his chest, as he spoke to the soldiers; and now he knows that death awaits, and his throat cannot form a single sound.

His hands are tied in front of him. He would’ve asked, too; he would’ve debased himself enough to ask the guards to fix the ropes, but that was not necessary. If he stands at the table, there is just enough distance for his fingers to slip between Maxime’s.

And he does not look down.

Maxime’s breathing is labored, his face has a grey tint, his eyes are closed, the kerchief tied around his jaw is dark red with blood.

Pale grey and cherry red, and the pain does not bear thinking about.

The soldiers had taken one look at Maxime and decided not to bother with the restraints. But they did refuse him pen and paper, and for that they should die twice over.

There’s nothing of the sort to be found in this room. There is only marble and gold, a few dainty pieces of wooden furniture, carved in flowers and flags and Phrygian hats to commemorate their Revolution.

The revolution that had happened in another life, before the mud and the snow and the armies, before the flour shortages and the treacherous dealings and the exhaustion twisting his insides; before the rush through the days that in the end had crashed upon each other and plummeted into the treacle slowness of this night.

The guards are gathered around another table, one pushed close to the door. They are playing dice and drinking wine, and their muttered complaints threaten to pierce the silence that Saint-Just had so diligently woven around himself.

Saint-Just turns his head away from them and finds himself staring straight at an old, gilded mirror, reflecting the faint candlelight in the room.

A soldier curses, evidently having lost his bet, and all the lights go out.

It takes a while to close the door that has been blown open by the wind, even longer to painstakingly relight every candle.

The guards move their table even closer to the door, supposedly to prevent any rescue missions under the cover of night, or so Saint-Just is barely able to hear, and take out their cards, as a change from the dice. The game begins again.

Saint-Just notices a feeble press on his fingers and looks down at Maxime.

His eyes are halfway open, and it looks like he is fighting with everything he has to push himself back to consciousness.

Same old Maxime. So many times Saint-Just has watched Maxime do just that, and brought him herbal concoctions, and coaxed food into him, as he kept pushing himself to work through his headaches, as if he could make the world bend around him by sheer force of will.

And he did. Time after time, until it was not sufficient, until nothing was sufficient anymore.

Saint-Just’s throat tightens. He takes a deep breath, swallows hard, and feels a faint touch at the back of his hand.

He is soothing me, Saint-Just thinks, and it feels so monstrously, painfully unfair, that he cannot keep looking directly at Maxime anymore, so he raises his head again, and, for lack of better options, looks back at the mirror across the room.

The reflection shows his own figure, tall and straight, without a scratch on his coat or a blemish on his face, standing next to that disgustingly ornate table. He can see Maxime lying on top of it, turned slightly on his left side, away from the guards. He can see their fingers, intertwined.

And as Saint-Just watches, another handful of figures slowly coalesce into the foggy silver. They are standing on the other side of the table.

Except that all the guards are away at the door, immersed in their game, and Saint-Just is certain that there is nobody else in the room.

Only he doesn’t turn around to check, because he can recognize the apparitions, and he’d be willing to admit that he has finally succumbed to insanity caused by shock and grief, except that Maxime, apparently, can see them too.

Maxime’s fingers are tightening painfully around Saint-Just's own, when the man on the left of him in the mirror lifts his head and tries to speak through the tears running down his cheeks.

Desmoulins. His dark hair is disheveled and overly long, as if it hadn’t only recently been chopped off to make space for the blade. His lips are moving with hurried emphasis. Saint-Just could almost hear the stuttered words, and has to fight to prevent his own lips from quivering in response.

For all that the sentence of Camille Desmoulins was more than deserved, Saint-Just suddenly feels understood, and he hates himself for how fervently he suddenly misses the life before – just, before. A year ago, no; at least thirteen months ago. Before Desmoulins, before the Brissotins, and before Marat too.

The same Marat, who abruptly pushes himself ahead from somewhere in the back of the small crowd, leans right against the mirror, shakes his head at Desmoulins, points straight at Saint-Just with his right hand and whips out a knife with his left from some obscure pocket of his tattered clothes. He lunges forward, attempting to push the knife through, straight into the room with the guards, and perhaps, if Saint-Just was quick enough?...

For a moment the entire reflection shudders, as if it were painted on water, a wave breaking against the shore, and then Desmoulins is dragging Marat away from the mirror, and the reflection stabilizes again.

Saint-Just nods at Marat and wishes he could give a military salute. Damned if his heart isn’t feeling lighter already. Damned if he isn’t glad to see Marat alive – well, not exactly alive, but fully himself in spite of such minor inconveniences as having been killed; and not in the slightest a martyr that they had made out of him; but then, David had been so desperate...

He doesn’t need to look at the table to understand that his feeling is shared by Maxime.

Desmoulins finally pulls himself together, runs his fingers through his hair, and determinedly strides to where Maxime’s body is reflected in the mirror. He puts his left hand down and frowns, with no sign of tears on his face anymore.

There is a commotion right behind Desmoulins, and Saint-Just can see a familiar figure of Danton in the mirror, pushing through the haze that has steadily been growing thicker.

Desmoulins doesn’t seem to notice. He grits his teeth and puts his hand on Maxime’s cheek – this must hurt, Saint-Just almost lets out an indignant yell, remembering only at the last moment that it isn’t real, that it is only a reflection –

and he can sense Maxime’s whole body relax, his hand press at his fingers with a renewed vigor.

Maxime is looking at the mirror too.

That blighted Desmoulins, his eyes now completely dry, has bitten his bottom lip bloody, and is trying to crack a smile with what looks like an effort that is draining him of all his strength.

He is looking straight down, straight at Maxime, and his body shimmers, becoming more ghostlike than before – though they all must be ghosts anyway, Saint-Just will be one too before the evening. He briefly contemplates the idea and decides that he’d better not end up confined to a single mirror.

Desmoulins raises his head and stares at Saint-Just again, his dark eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

He raises his right hand, his left still held at Maxime’s cheek.

Suddenly Maxime moves, a minuscule twitch that sends sparks down Saint-Just’s body. He squeezes Saint-Just’s fingers as if startled.

Saint-Just is baffled. Just this moment nothing appears to have changed either in the actual room or in its reflection. The guards, as far as he can tell from the part of the corner that is reflected in the mirror, have brought in another bottle of wine, and are well on their way to finishing it.

And then Desmoulins smiles, and Saint-Just’s heart breaks before he understands the reason for it.

Desmoulins begins tracing letters with his fingers, directly onto the mirror.

There is an old, heavy signet ring on his index finger, and Saint-Just wonders where it has come from; he cannot remember seeing it when Desmoulins was alive.

At first the signs are gibberish; then Desmoulins shakes his head and apparently realizes that he has been writing in the mirror, so all the letters have to be reversed. Now he is rushing to finish, the fog in the reflection rising.

At least Maxime is breathing lightly, and is fully alert now, his eyes meeting Saint-Just’s in the mirror before they both look at Desmoulins’ hand again.

You have my heart, they read, and there is no need for explanation, for who the addressee is.

And then, with a direct look at Saint-Just, that black gaze that threatens to scorch Saint-Just’s heart to embers and coal, not all is lost.

Has he been listening? And – it is, they have lost –

...Courage, Desmoulins writes next, or something that ends with it, Saint-Just hasn't been able to see all that well, Desmoulins' hand is fading together with the letters, nothing but a shade of imagination by now, and Saint-Just can see Danton behind Desmoulins, can see him through Desmoulins, can almost hear him shout – you fool! Sound does not carry through the mirror, but Danton’s lips are easy enough to read, he had always been prone to overly enunciating his words.

Camille, Saint-Just wants to say, but he knows that nobody can hear him. Camille.

Saint-Just looks down at Maxime, at the peace in the green eyes, now filled with tears, which comes with such a shock of relief that his knees buckle and he has to focus to remain upright.

For a while, there is no need for words.

When Saint-Just raises his eyes back to the mirror, it only shows the reflection of their room.

He catches Maxime’s eyes once again, and feels his fingers twitching against his palm, and looks down to notice that they have begun tracing letters on the top of the table.