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Liz threw another pen into the tin wastepaper basket with a clatter and called loudly for Finnley while giving her writing hand a shake to relieve the cramp.

Finnley appeared sporting her habitual scowl clearly visible above her paper mask. “I hope this is important because this red dust is going to take days to clean up as it is without you keep interrupting me.”

“Oh is that what you’ve been doing, I wondered where you were.  Well, let’s thank our lucky stars THAT’S all over!”

“Might be over for you,” muttered Finnley, “But that hare brained scheme of Godfrey’s has caused a very great deal of work for me. He’s made more of a mess this time than even you could have, red dust everywhere and all these obsolete parts all over the place.  Roberto’s on his sixth trip to the recycling depot, and he’s barely scratched the surface.”

“Good old Roberto, at least he doesn’t keep complaining.  You should take a leaf out of his book, Finnley, you’d get more work done. And speaking of books, I need another packet of pens. I’m writing my books with a pen in future. On paper. Oh and get me another pack of paper.”

Mildly curious, despite her irritation, Finnely asked her why she was writing with a pen on paper.  “Is it some sort of historical re enactment?  Would you prefer parchment and a quill? Or perhaps a slab of clay and some etching tools? Shall we find you a nice cave,” Finnley was warming to the theme, “And some red ochre and charcoal?”

“It may come to that,” Liz replied grimly. “But some pens and paper will do for now. Godfrey can’t interfere in my stories if I write them on paper. Robots writing my stories, honestly, who would ever have believed such a thing was possible back when I started writing all my best sellers! How times have changed!”

“Yet some things never change, ” Finnley said darkly, running her duster across the parts of Liz’s desk that weren’t covered with stacks of blue scrawled papers.

“Thank you for asking,” Liz said sarcastically, as Finnley hadn’t asked, “It’s a story about six spinsters in the early 19th century.”

“Sounds gripping,” muttered Finnley.

“And a blind uncle who never married and lived to 102.  He was so good at being blind that he knew all his sheep individually.”

“Perhaps that’s why he never needed to marry,” Finnley said with a lewd titter.

“The steamy scenes I had in mind won’t be in the sheep dip,” Liz replied, “Honestly, what a low degraded mind you must have.”

“Yeah, from proof reading your trashy novels,” Finnley replied as she flounced out in search of pens and paper.

It was still raining the morning after the impromptu postcard party at the Golden Trowel in the Hungarian village, and for most of the morning nobody was awake to notice.  Molly had spent a sleepless night and was the only one awake listening to the pounding rain. Untroubled by the idea of lack of sleep, her confidence bolstered by the new company and not being solely responsible for the child,  Molly luxuriated in the leisure to indulge a mental re run of the previous evening.

Finjas bombshell revelation after the postcard game suddenly changed everything.  It was not what Molly had expected to hear. In their advanced state of inebriation by that time it was impossible for anyone to consider the ramifications in any sensible manner.   A wild and raucous exuberance ensued of the kind that was all but forgotten to all of them, and unknown to Tundra.   It was a joy that brought tears to Mollys eyes to see the wonderful time the child was having.

Molly didn’t want to think about it yet. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to have anything to do with it, the ship coming back.  Communication with it, yes. The ship coming back? There was so much to consider, so many ways of looking at it. And there was Tundra to think about, she was so innocent of so many things. Was it better that way?  Molly wasn’t going to think about that yet.  She wanted to make sure she remembered all the postcard stories.

There is no rush.

The postcard Finja had chosen hadn’t struck Molly as the most interesting, not at the time, but later she wondered if there was any connection with her later role as centre stage overly dramatic prophet. What an extraordinary scene that was! The unexpected party was quite enough excitement without all that as well.

Finja’s card was addressed to Miss FP Finly, c/o The Flying Fish Inn somewhere in the outback of Australia, Molly couldn’t recall the name of the town.  The handwriting had been hard to decipher, but it appeared to be a message from “forever your obedient servant xxx” informing her of a Dustsceawung convention in Tasmania.  As nobody had any idea what a Dustsceawung conference was,  and Finja declined to elaborate with a story or anecdote, the attention moved on to the next card.   Molly remembered the time many years ago when everyone would have picked up their gadgets to  find out what it meant. As it was now, it remained an unimportant and trifling mystery, perhaps something to wonder about later.

Why did Finja choose that card, and then decline to explain why she chose it? Who was Finly? Why did The Flying Fish Inn seem vaguely familiar to Molly?

I’m sure I’ve seen a postcard from there before.  Maybe Ellis had one in his collection.

Yes, that must be it.

Mikhail’s story had been interesting. Molly was struggling to remember all the names. He’d mentioned his Uncle Grishenka, and a cousin Zhana, and a couple called Boris and Elvira with a mushroom farm. The best part was about the snow that the reindeer peed on. Molly had read about that many years ago, but was never entirely sure if it was true or not.  Mickhail assured them all that it was indeed true, and many a wild party they’d had in the cold dark winters, and proceeded to share numerous funny anecdotes.

“We all had such strange ideas about Russia back then,” Molly had said. Many of the others murmured agreement, but Jian, a man of few words, merely looked up, raised an eyebrow, and looked down at his postcard again.  “Russia was the big bad bogeyman for most of our lives. And in the end, we were our own worst enemies.”

“And by the time we realised, it was too late,” added Petro.

In an effort to revive the party spirit from the descent into depressing memories,  Tala suggested they move on to the next postcard, which was Vera’s.

“I know the Tower of London better than any of you would believe,” Vera announced with a smug grin. Mikhail rolled his eyes and downed a large swig of vodka. “My 12th great grandfather was  employed in the household of Thomas Cromwell himself.  He was the man in charge of postcards to the future.” She paused for greater effect.  In the absence of the excited interest she had expected, she continued.  “So you can see how exciting it is for me to have a postcard as a prompt.”  This further explanation was met with blank stares.  Recklessly, Vera added, “I bet you didn’t know that Thomas Cromwell was a time traveller, did you? Oh yes!” she continued, although nobody had responded, “He became involved with a coven of witches in Ireland. Would you believe it!”

“No,” said Mikhail. “I probably wouldn’t.”

“I believe you, Vera,” piped up Tundra, entranced, “Will you tell me all about that later?”

Tundra’s interjection gave Tala the excuse she needed to move on to the next postcard.  Mikhail and Vera has always been at loggerheads, and fueled with the unaccustomed alcohol, it was in danger of escalating quickly.  “Next postcard!” she announced.

Everyone started banging on the tables shouting, “Next postcard! Next postcard!”  Luka and Lev topped up everyone’s glasses.

Molly’s postcard was next.

Expanded Helix 25 Narrative Structure

This table organizes the key narrative arcs, characters, stakes, and thematic questions within Helix 25.
It hopes to clarify the character development paths, unresolved mysteries, and broader philosophical questions
that shape the world and conflicts aboard the ship and on Earth.

Helix 25 – Murder Board – Evie’s apartment

The ship had gone mad.

Riven Holt stood in what should have been a secured crime scene, staring at the makeshift banner that had replaced his official security tape. “ENTER FREELY AND OF YOUR OWN WILL,” it read, in bold, uneven letters. The edges were charred. Someone had burned it, for reasons he would never understand.

Behind him, the faint sounds of mass lunacy echoed through the corridors. People chanting, people sobbing, someone loudly trying to bargain with gravity.

“Sir, the floors are not real! We’ve all been walking on a lie!” someone had screamed earlier, right before diving headfirst into a pile of chairs left there by someone trying to create a portal.

Riven did his best to ignore the chaos, gripping his tablet like it was the last anchor to reality. He had two dead bodies. He had one ship full of increasingly unhinged people. And he had forty hours without sleep. His brain felt like a dried-out husk, working purely on stubbornness and caffeine fumes.

Evie was crouched over Mandrake’s remains, muttering to herself as she sorted through digital records. TP stood nearby, his holographic form flickering as if he, too, were being affected by the ship’s collective insanity.

“Well,” TP mused, rubbing his nonexistent chin. “This is quite the predicament.”

Riven pinched the bridge of his nose. “TP, if you say anything remotely poetic about the human condition, I will unplug your entire database.”

TP looked delighted. “Ah, my dear lieutenant, a threat worthy of true desperation!”

Evie ignored them both, then suddenly stiffened. “Riven, I… you need to see this.”

He braced himself. “What now?”

She turned the screen toward him. Two names appeared side by side:

ETHAN MARLOWE

MANDRAKE

Both M.

The sound that came out of Riven was not quite a word. More like a dying engine trying to restart.

TP gasped dramatically. “My stars. The letter M! The implications are—”

“No.” Riven put up a hand, one tremor away from screaming. “We are NOT doing this. I am not letting my brain spiral into a letter-based conspiracy theory while people outside are rolling in protein paste and reciting odes to Jupiter’s moons.”

Evie, far too calm for his liking, just tapped the screen again. “It’s a pattern. We have to consider it.”

TP nodded sagely. “Indeed. The letter M—known throughout history as a mark of mystery, malice, and… wait, let me check… ah, macaroni.”

Riven was going to have an aneurysm.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, like a man trying to keep the last shreds of his soul from unraveling.

“That means the Lexicans are involved.”

Evie paled. “Oh no.”

TP beamed. “Oh yes!”

The Lexicans had been especially unpredictable lately. One had been caught trying to record the “song of the walls” because “they hum with forgotten words.” Another had attempted to marry the ship’s AI. A third had been detained for throwing their own clothing into the air vents because “the whispers demanded tribute.”

Riven leaned against the console, feeling his mind slipping. He needed a reality check. A hard, cold, undeniable fact.

Only one person could give him that.

“You know what? Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s just ask the one person who might actually be able to tell me if this is a coincidence or some ancient space cult.”

Evie frowned. “Who?”

Riven was already walking. “My grandfather.”

Evie practically choked. “Wait, WHAT?!”

TP clapped his hands. “Ah, the classic ‘Wake the Old Man to Solve the Crimes’ maneuver. Love it.”

The corridors were worse than before. As they made their way toward cryo-storage, the lunacy had escalated:

A crowd was parading down the halls with helium balloons, chanting, “Gravity is a Lie!”
A group of engineers had dismantled a security door, claiming “it whispered to them about betrayal.”
And a bunch of Lexicans, led by Kio’ath, had smeared stinking protein paste onto the Atrium walls, drawing spirals and claiming the prophecy was upon them all.
Riven’s grip on reality was thin.

Evie grabbed his arm. “Think about this. What if your grandfather wakes up and he’s just as insane as everyone else?”

Riven didn’t even break stride. “Then at least we’ll be insane with more context.”

TP sighed happily. “Ah, reckless decision-making. The very heart of detective work.”

Helix 25 — Victor Holt’s Awakening

They reached the cryo-chamber. The pod loomed before them, controls locked down under layers of security.

Riven cracked his knuckles, eyes burning with the desperation of a man who had officially run out of better options.

Evie stared. “You’re actually doing this.”

He was already punching in override codes. “Damn right I am.”

The door opened. A low hum filled the room. The first thing Riven noticed was the frost still clinging to the edges of an already open cryopod. Cold vapor curled around its base, its occupant nowhere to be seen.

His stomach clenched. Someone had beaten them here. Another pod’s systems activated. The glass began to fog as temperature levels shifted.

TP leaned in. “Oh, this is going to be deliciously catastrophic.”

Before the pod could fully engage, a flicker of movement in the dim light caught Riven’s eye. Near the terminal, hunched over the access panel like a gang of thieves cracking a vault, stood Zoya Kade and Anuí Naskó—and, a baby wrapped in what could only be described as an aggressively overdesigned Lexican tapestry, layers of embroidered symbols and unreadable glyphs woven in mismatched patterns. It was sucking desperately the lexican’s sleeve.

Riven’s exhaustion turned into a slow, rising fury. For a brief moment, his mind was distracted by something he had never actually considered before—he had always assumed Anuí was a woman. The flowing robes, the mannerisms, the way they carried themselves. But now, cradling the notorious Lexican baby in ceremonial cloth, could they possibly be…

Anuí caught his look and smiled faintly, unreadable as ever. “This has nothing to do with gender,” they said smoothly, shifting the baby with practiced ease. “I merely am the second father of the child.”

“Oh, for f***—What in the hell are you two doing here?”

Anuí barely glanced up, shifting the baby to their other arm as though hacking into a classified cryo-storage facility while holding an infant was a perfectly normal occurrence. “Unlocking the axis of the spiral,” they said smoothly. “It was prophesied. The Speaker’s name has been revealed.”

Zoya, still pressing at the panel, didn’t even look at him. “We need to wake Victor Holt.”

Riven threw his hands in the air. “Great! Fantastic! So do we! The difference is that I actually have a reason.”

Anuí, eyes glinting with something between mischief and intellect, gave an elegant nod. “So do we, Lieutenant. Yours is a crime scene. Ours is history itself.”

Riven felt his headache spike. “Oh good. You’ve been licking the walls again.”

TP, absolutely delighted, interjected, “Oh, I like them. Their madness is methodical!”

Riven narrowed his eyes, pointing at the empty pod. “Who the hell did you wake up?”

Zoya didn’t flinch. “We don’t know.”

He barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, you don’t know? You cracked into a classified cryo-storage facility, activated a pod, and just—what? Didn’t bother to check who was inside?”

Anuí adjusted the baby, watching him with that same unsettling, too-knowing expression. “It was not part of the prophecy. We were guided here for Victor Holt.”

“And yet someone else woke up first!” Riven gestured wildly to the empty pod. “So, unless the prophecy also mentioned mystery corpses walking out of deep freeze, I suggest you start making sense.”

Before Riven could launch into a proper interrogation, the cryo-system let out a deep hiss.

Steam coiled up from Victor Holt’s pod as the seals finally unlocked, fog spilling over the edges like something out of an ancient myth. A figure was stirring within, movements sluggish, muscles regaining function after years in suspension.

And then, from the doorway, another voice rang out, sharp, almost panicked.

Ellis Marlowe stood at the threshold, looking at the two open pods, his eyes wide with something between shock and horror.

“What have you done?”

Riven braced himself.

Evie muttered, “Oh, this is gonna be bad.”

Helix 25 – The Lexican Quarters – Anuí’s Chambers

Anuí Naskó had been many things in their life—historian, philosopher, linguist, nuisance. But a father? No. No, that was entirely new.

And yet, here they were, rocking a very tiny, very loud creature wrapped in Lexican ceremonial cloth, embroidered with the full unpronounceable name bestowed upon it just moments ago: Hšyra-Mak-Talún i Ešvar—”He Who Cries the Arrival of the Infinite Spiral.”

The baby did, indeed, cry.

“Why do you scream at me?” Anuí muttered, swaying slightly, more in a daze than any real instinct to soothe. “I did not birth you. I did not know you existed until three hours ago. And yet, you are here, squalling, because your other father and your mother have decided to fulfill the Prophecy of the Spiral Throne.”

The Prophecy. The one that spoke of the moment the world would collapse and the Lexicans would ascend. The one nobody took seriously. Until now.

Zoya Kade, sitting across from them, watched with narrowed, calculating eyes. “And what exactly does that entail? This Lexican Dynasty?”

Anuí sighed, looking down at the writhing child who was trying to suck on their sleeves, still stained with the remnants of the protein paste they had spent the better part of the morning brewing. The Atrium’s walls needed to be prepared, after all—Kio’ath could not write the sigils without the proper medium. And as the cycles dictated, the medium must be crafted, fermented, and blessed by the hand of one who walks between identities. It had been a tedious, smelly process, but Anuí had endured worse in the name of preservation.

“Patterns repeat, cycles fold inward.” “Patterns repeat, cycles fold inward. The old texts speak of it, the words carved into the silent bones of forgotten tongues. This, Zoya, is no mere madness. This is the resurgence of what was foretold. A dynasty cannot exist without succession, and history does not move without inheritors. They believe they are ensuring the inevitability of their rise. And they might not be wrong.”

They adjusted their grip on the child, murmuring a phrase in a language so old it barely survived in the archives. “Tz’uran velth ka’an, the root that binds to the branch, the branch that binds to the sky. Our truths do not stand alone.”

The baby flailed, screaming louder. “Yes, yes, you are the heir,” Anuí murmured, bouncing it with more confidence. “Your lineage has been declared, your burden assigned. Accept it and be silent.” “Well, apparently it requires me to be a single parent while they go forth and multiply, securing ‘heirs to the truth.’ A dynasty is no good without an heir and a spare, you see.”

The baby flailed, screaming even louder. “Yes, yes, you are the heir,” Anuí murmured with a hint of irritation, bouncing the baby awkwardly. “You have been declared. Please, cease wailing now.”

Zoya exhaled through her nose, somewhere between disbelief and mild amusement. “And in the middle of all this divine nonsense, the Lexicans have chosen to back me?”

Anuí arched a delicate brow, shifting the baby to one arm with newfound ease. “Of course. The truth-seeker is foretold. The woman who speaks with voices of the past. We have our empire; you are our harbinger.”

Zoya’s lips twitched. “Your empire consists of thirty-eight highly unstable academics and a baby.”

“Thirty-nine. Kio’ath returned from exile yesterday,” Anuí corrected. “They claim the moons have been whispering.”

“Ah. Of course they have.”

Zoya fell silent, fingers tracing the worn etchings of her chair’s armrest. The ship’s hum pressed into her bones, the weight of something stirring in her mind, something old, something waiting.

Anuí’s gaze sharpened, the edges of their thoughts aligning like an ancient lexicon unfurling in front of them. “And now you are hearing it, aren’t you? The echoes of something that was always there. The syllables of the past, reshaped by new tongues, waiting for recognition. The Lexican texts spoke of a fracture in the line, a leader divided, a bridge yet to be found.”

They took a slow breath, fingers tightening over the child’s swaddled form. “The prophecy is not a single moment, Zoya. It is layers upon layers, intersecting at the point where chaos demands order. Where the unseen hand corrects its own forgetting. This is why they back you. Not because you seek the truth, but because you are the conduit through which it must pass.”

Zoya’s breath shallowed. A warmth curled in her chest, not of her own making. Her fingers twitched as if something unseen traced over them, urging her forward. The air around her thickened, charged.

She knew this feeling.

Her head tipped back, and when she spoke, it was not entirely her own voice.

“The past rises in bloodlines and memory,” she intoned, eyes unfocused, gaze burning through Anuí. “The lost sibling walks beneath the ice. The leader sleeps, but he must awaken, for the Spiral Throne cannot stand alone.”

Anuí’s pulse skipped. “Zoya—”

The baby let out a startled hiccup.

But Zoya did not stop.

“The essence calls, older than names, older than the cycle. I am Achaia-Vor, the Echo of Sundered Lineage. The Lost, The Twin, The Nameless Seed. The Spiral cannot turn without its axis. Awaken Victor Holt. He is the lock. You are the key. The path is drawn.

“The cycle bends but does not break. Across the void, the lost ones linger, their voices unheard, their blood unclaimed. The Link must be found. The Speaker walks unknowingly, divided across two worlds. The bridge between past and present, between silence and song. The Marlowe thread is cut, yet the weave remains. To see, you must seek the mirrored souls. To open the path, the twins must speak.”

Achaia-Vor. The name vibrated through the air, curling through the folds of Anuí’s mind like a forgotten melody.

Zoya’s eyes rolled back, body jerking as if caught between two timelines, two truths. She let out a breathless whisper, almost longing.

“Victor, my love. He is waiting for me. I must bring him back.”

Anuí cradled the baby closer, and for the first time, they saw the prophecy not as doctrine but as inevitability. The patterns were aligning—the cut thread of the Marlowes, the mirrored souls, the bridge that must be found.

“It is always the same,” they murmured, almost to themselves. “An axis must be turned, a voice must rise. We have seen this before, written in languages long burned to dust. The same myth, the same cycle, only the names change.”

They met Zoya’s gaze, the air between them thick with the weight of knowing. “And now, we must find the Speaker. Before another voice is silenced.”

“Well,” they muttered, exhaling slowly. “This just got significantly more complicated.”

The baby cooed.

Zoya Kade smiled.

“We were heading that way anyway,” Molly informed the others.  She was  pleased with the decision to head towards Hungary, or what used to be known as Hungary.

“Slowly heading that way,” interjected Tundra.  “We spent years roaming around Ukraine and never saw a sign of survivors anywhere.”

“And I wanted to go home,” continued Molly. “Or try to, anyway. I’m very old, you know,” she added, as if they might not have noticed.

“I’ve never even been outside Ukraine,” said Yulia. “How exciting!”

Anya gave her a withering look. “You can send some postcards,” she said which caused a general tittering about the absurdity of the idea.

Yulia returned the look and said sharply, ” I plan to draw in my sketchbook all the new sights.”

“While we’re foraging for food and building campfires and washing our knickers in streams?” snorted Finja.

“Does anyone actually know where this city is that we’re heading for? And the way there?” asked Gregor, “Because if it’s any help,” he added, rummaging in his backpack, “I saved this.” Triumphantly we waved a battered old folded map.

It was the first time in years that anyone had paid the old man any attention. Mikhail, Anya and Jian rushed over to him, eager to have a look. As their hands reached for the fragile map, Gregor clapsed it close to his chest, savouring his moment of glory.

“Ha!” he said, “Ha! Nobody wanted paper maps, but I knew it would come in handy one day!”

“Well done, Gregor” Molly said loudly. “A man after my own heart! I also have a paper map!”  Tundra beamed happily at her great grandmother.

An excited buzz of murmuring swept through the gathered group.

“Ok, calm down everyone.” Anya stepped in to organise the situation. “Someone spread out a blanket. Let’s have a look at these maps ~ carefully! Stand back, everyone.”

Reluctantly, Molly and Gregor handed the maps to Anya, allowing her to slowly open them and spread them out. The folds had worn away completely in parts. Pebbles were collected to hold down the corners and protect the delicate paper from the breeze.

“Here, look” Mikhail pointed. “Here’s where we were at the asylum. Middle of nowhere. And here,” he pointed to a position slightly westwards, “Is where we are now.  As you can see, the Hungarian border is close.”

“Where was that truck heading?” asked Vera.

Mikhail frowned and pored over the map. “Eastwards is all we can say for sure. Probably in the direction of Mukachevo, but Molly and Tundra said there were no survivors there. We just don’t know.”

“Yet,” added Jian, a man of few words.

“And where are we aiming for?”  asked Finja.

“Nyíregyháza,” replied Mikhail, pointing at the map. “Should take us three or four days. Maybe a bit longer,” he added, glancing at Molly and Gregor.

“You’ll not outwalk Berlingo,” Molly snorted, “And I for one will be jolly glad to get back to some places that I can pronounce. And spell. Never did get a grip on that Cyrillic, I’d have been lost without Tundra.”  Tundra beamed again at her grandmother.  “And Hungarian names are only a tad better.”

“I can help you there,” Petro spoke up for the first time.

“You, help?” Anya said in astonishment, ” All you’ve ever done is complain!”

“Nobody has ever needed me, that’s why. I’m Hungarian. Surprised, are you? Nobody ever wanted to know where I was from. Nobody ever wanted my help with anything.”

“We’re all very glad you can help us now, Petro,” Molly said kindly, throwing a severe glance around the group.  Tundra beamed proudly at Molly again.

“It’s an easy enough journey,” Petro addressed Molly directly, “Mostly agricultural plains. Well, they were agricultural anyway. Might be a good chance of feral chickens and self propagated crops, and the like.  Finding water shouldn’t be a problem either.  Used to be a lovely area,” Petro grew wistful. “I might go back to my village,” his voice trailed off as his mind returned to his childhood. “Never thought I’d ever see it again.”

“Well never mind that now,” Anya butted in rudely, “We need to make a start.” She began to carefully fold up the maps.

HELIX 25: THE JARDENERY

Finkley pressed herself against the smooth metal doorway of the Jardenery, her small wiry frame unnoticeable in the dim light filtering through the tangle of vines. The sterile scent of Helix 25’s corridors had faded behind her, replaced by the aroma of damp earth. A place of dirt and disorder. She shuddered.

A familiar voice burst through her thoughts.

What’s going on?

Finja’s tone was strident and clear. The ancient telepathic link that connected the cleaner family through many generations was strong, even in space. All the FinFamily (FF) had the gift to some extent, occasionally even with strangers. It just wasn’t nearly as accurate.

Shush. They’re talking about blood. And Herbert.

She felt Finja’s presence surge in response, her horrified thoughts crackling through their link. Blood!

Riven’s skeptical voice: “You’re saying someone on Helix 25 might have… transformed into a medieval Crusader?”

Finkley sniggered. Was that even possible?

It’s not particularly funny, responded Finja. It means someone on the ship is carrying distorted DNA. Her presence pulsed with irritation; it all sounded so complicated and grubby. And god knows what else. Bacteria? Ancestral grime? Generational filth? Honestly Finkley, as if I haven’t got enough to worry about with this group of wandering savages …

Finkley inhaled sharply as Romualdo stepped into view. She held her breath, pressing even closer to the doorway. He was so cute. Unclean, of course, but so adorable.

She pondered whether she could overlook the hygiene. Maybe … if he bathed first?

Get a grip. Finja’s snarl crashed through her musings, complete with eye-roll.

Finkley reddened. She had momentarily forgotten that Finja was there.

So Herbert was looking for something. But what?

I bet they didn’t disinfect properly. Finja’s response was immediate. See what you can find out later. 

Inside, Romualdo picked up a book from his workbench and waved it. Finkley barely needed to read the title before Finja’s shocked cry of recognition filled her mind.

Liz Tattler!

A feeling of nostalgia swept over Finkley.

Yes Liz Tattler. Finley’s Liz. 

Finley—another member of the family. She cleaned for Liz Tattler, the mad but famous author. It was well known—at least within the family— that Liz’s fame was largely due to Finley’s talents as a writer. Which meant, whatever this was, it had somehow tangled itself up in the FF network.

Liz’s Finley hasn’t responded for years —I assumed… Finja’s voice trailed off.

There’s still hope! You never know with that one. She was always stand-offish and mysterious. And that Liz really abused her good nature. 

Finkley swallowed hard. They were close to something big—something hidden beneath layers of time and mystery. And whatever it was, it had just become personal.

Finja, there’s no time to lose! We need to find out more. 

Leaving the Asylum

They argued about whether to close the heavy gates behind them. In the end, they left them open. The metal groaned as it sat ajar, rust flaking from its hinges.

“Are we all here?” Anya asked. Now that they were leaving, she felt in charge again—or at least, she needed to be. If morale slipped, things would unravel fast. She scanned the group, counting them off.

“Mikhail,” she started, pointing. “Tala. Vera, our esteemed historian.”

Vera sniffed. “I prefer genealogist, thank you very much.”

“Petro,” Anya continued, “probably about to grumble.”

Petro scowled. “I was thinking.”

“Jian, our mystery man.”

Jian raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment.

Anya turned to the next two. “Ah, the twins. Even though you two have never spoken, I’ve always assumed you understood me. Don’t prove me wrong now.”

The twins—Luka and Lev—nodded and grinned at exactly the same time.

“Then we have Yulia… no, we don’t have Yulia. Where in God’s name is Yulia?”

“Here I am!” Yulia’s voice rang out as she jogged back toward them, breathless. “I just went to say goodbye to the cat.” She sighed dramatically. “I wish we could take him. Please, can we take him?”

Yulia was short and quick-moving, her restless hands always in motion, her thoughts spilling out just as fast.

“We can’t,” Mikhail said firmly. “And he can look after himself.”

She huffed. “Well, I expect we could if we tried.”

“And finally, old Gregor, who I gather would rather be taking a nap.”

Gregor, who was well past eighty, rubbed his face and yawned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Anya frowned, scanning the group again. “Wait. We’re missing Finja.”

A small scraping sound came from behind them.

Finja stood near the gate, furiously scrubbing the rusted metal with a rag she had pulled from her sleeve. “This place is disgusting,” she muttered. “Filth everywhere. The world may have ended, but that’s no excuse for grime.”

Anya sighed. “Finja, leave the gate alone.”

Finja gave it one last wipe before tucking the rag away with a huff. “Fine.”

Anya shook her head. “That’s eleven. No one’s run off or died yet. A promising start.”

They formed a motley crew, each carrying as much as they could manage. Mikhail pushed a battered cart, loaded with scavenged supplies—blankets, tools, whatever food they had left.

The road beneath their feet was cracked and uneven, roots breaking through in places. They followed it in silence for the most part. Even Yulia remained quiet. Some glanced back, but no one turned around.

The nearest village was more than fifty kilometers away. In all directions, there was only wilderness—fields long overtaken by weeds, trees pushing through cracks in forgotten roads. A skeletal signpost leaned at an odd angle, its lettering long since faded.

“It’s going to be dark soon,” Mikhail said. “And the old ones are tired. Aren’t you, Vera?”

“That’s enough of the old business,” puffed Vera, pulling her shoulders back.

Tala laughed. “Well, I must be an old one. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. And there’s a clearing over there.” She pointed.

The evening was cool, but they managed to build a small fire and scrape together a meal of vegetables they’d brought from their garden.

After their meal, they sat around the fire while Finja busied herself tidying up. “Dirty savages,” she muttered under her breath. Then, more loudly, “We should keep watch tonight.”

Vera, perched on a log, pulled her shawl tightly around her. The glow from the fire cast long shadows across her face.

“Vera, you look like a witch,” Yulia declared. “We should have brought the cat for you to ride on a broomstick together.”

“I’ll have you know I’m descended from witches,” Vera replied. “I know none of you think you’re related to me, but just imagine what your great-grandparents would say if they saw us now. Running into the wilderness like a band of exiled aristocrats.”

Jian, seated nearby, smirked slightly. “My great-grandparents were rice farmers.”

Vera brightened—Jian never talked about his past. She leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you know your full lineage? Because I do. I know mine back fourteen generations. You’d be amazed how many bloodlines cross without people realizing.”

Tala shook her head but smiled. Like Petro and Gregor, Vera had been at the asylum for many decades, a relic of another time. She claimed to have been a private investigator and genealogist in her former life.

Petro, hunched over and rubbing his hands by the fire, muttered, “We’re all ghosts now. Doesn’t matter where we came from.”

“Oh, stop that, Petro,” Anya admonished. “Remember our plan?”

“We go to the city,” Jian said. He rarely spoke unless he had something worth saying. “There will be things left behind. Maybe tech, maybe supplies. If I can get into an old server, I might even find something useful.”

“And if there’s nothing?” Petro moaned. “We should never have left.” He clasped his hands over his head.

Jian shrugged. “The world doesn’t erase itself overnight.”

Mikhail nodded. “We rest tonight. Tomorrow, we head for the city. And Finja’s right—tonight we take turns keeping watch.”

They sat in silence, watching the fire burn low. The evening stretched long and uneasy.

The colours were bright, garish really, an impossibly blue sea and sky and splashes of pillar box red on the square shaped cars and dated clothes, but it was his favourite postcard of them all.  It wasn’t the most scenic, it wasn’t the most spectacular location, but it was an echo from those long ago days of summer, of seaside holidays, souvenirs and a dozen postcards to write at a beachside cafe. The days when the post was delivered by conscientious postmen such as he himself had been, and the postcards arrived at their destinations before the holidaymakers had returned to their suburban homes and city jobs. The scene in the postcard was bathed in glorious sunshine, but the message on the back told the usual tale of the weather and the rain and that it might brighten up tomorrow but they were having a lovely time and they’d be back on Sunday and would the recipients get them a loaf and a pint of milk.

Ellis Marlowe put the Margate postcard to the back of the pile in his hand and pondered the image on the next one.  He sighed at the image of the Statue of Liberty, sickly green, sadly proclaiming the height of a lost empire, and quickly put it at the back of the pile. Nobody needed to dwell on that story.

His perusal of the next image, an alpine meadow with an attractively skirted peasant scampering in a field, was interrupted with a bang on his door as Finkley barged in without waiting for a response.  “There’s been a murder on the ship! Murder!  Poor sod’s been dessicated like a dried tomato…”

Ellis looked at her in astonishment. His hand shook slightly as he put his postcard collection back in the box, replaced the lid and returned it to his locker.  “Murder?” he repeated. “Murder? On here? But we’re supposed to be safe here, we left all that behind.”  Visibly shaken, Ellis repeated, almost shouting, “But we left all that behind!”

There was a sharp knock on the front door. Amei opened it to find Finnley from Meticulous Maids standing there, bucket in one hand, a bag of cleaning supplies in the other.

“Back to tackle that oven,” she announced, brushing past Amei and striding towards the kitchen.

“Good to see you too, Finnley.”

A moment later, an anguished cry echoed from the kitchen. Amei rushed in to find Finnley clutching her brow and pointing accusingly at the oven. “This oven has not been treated with respect,” she declared dramatically.

“Well, I told you on the phone it was quite bad.”

“Quite bad!” Finnley rolled her eyes and dumped her supplies on the counter with a thud. “Moving out, are we?”

“In a few weeks,” Amei said, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve still got books and stuff to pack, but I’m trying to leave the place in decent shape.”

“Decent?” Finnley snorted, already pulling on a pair of gloves. “This oven’s beyond decent. But I’ll see if I can drag it back from the brink.”

Finnley proceeded to inspect the oven with the air of a general preparing for war. She muttered something under her breath that Amei couldn’t quite catch, then added louder, “Books and boxes. Someone’s got the easy bit.”

Finnley had cleaned for Amei before. She was rude and pricey, but she always got the job done.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Amei, retreating back to her packing.

“Sure,” Finnley muttered. “But if I find anything moving in here, I’m charging extra.”

The house fell silent, save for the occasional scrape of metal and Finnley’s muffled grumblings. An hour later, Amei realized she hadn’t heard anything for a while. Curious, she walked back to the kitchen and peeked her head around the door.

Finnley was slumped in a chair by the kitchen bench, arms crossed, her head tilted at an awkward angle. Her bucket and gloves sat abandoned on the floor. She was fast asleep.

Amei stood there for a moment, not sure what to do. Finally, she cleared her throat. “I take it the oven won?”

Finnley’s eyes snapped open, and she straightened with a snort. “I just needed a regroup,” she muttered, rubbing her face. She looked at the oven and shuddered. “I dreamed that bloody monster of a thing was chasing me.”

“Chasing you?” Amei said, trying hard not to laugh.

Finnley stood, tugging her gloves back on with determination. “It’s not going to win. Not today.” She glared at Amei. “And I’ll be charging you for my break.”

March 2024

The phone buzzed on the table as Lucien pulled on his scarf, preparing to leave for the private class he had scheduled at his atelier. He glanced at the screen and froze. His father’s name glared back at him.

He hesitated. He knew why the man called; he knew how it would go, but he couldn’t resolve to cut that link. With a sharp breath he swiped to answer.

“Lucien”, his father began, his tone already full of annoyance. “Why didn’t you take the job with Bernard’s firm? He told me everything went well in the interview. They were ready to hire you back.”

As always, no hello, no question about his health or anything personal.

“I didn’t want it”, Lucien said, his voice calm only on the surface.

“It’s a solid career, Lucien. Architecture isn’t some fleeting whim. When your mother died, you quit your position at the firm, and got involved with those friends of yours. I said nothing for a while. I thought it was a phase, that it wouldn’t last. And I was right, it didn’t. I don’t understand why you refuse to go back to a proper life.”

“I already told you, it’s not what I want. I’ve made my decision.”

Lucien’s father sighed. “Not what you want? What exactly do you want, son? To keep scraping by with these so-called art projects? Giving private classes to kids who’ll never make a career out of it? That’s not a proper life?”

Lucien clenched his jaw, gripping his scarf. “Well, it’s my life. And my decisions.”

“Your decisions? To waste the potential you’ve been given? You have talent for real work—work that could leave a mark. Architecture is lasting. What you are doing now? It’s nothing. It’s just… air.”

Lucien swallowed hard. “It’s mine, Dad. Even if you don’t understand it.”

A pause followed. Lucien heard his father speak to someone else, then back to him. “I have to go”, he said, his tone back to professional. “A meeting. But we’re not finished.”

“We’re never finished”, Lucien muttered as the line went dead.

Lucien adjusted the light over his student’s drawing table, tilting the lamp slightly to cast a softer glow on his drawing. The young man—in his twenties—was focused, his pencil moving steadily as he worked on the folds of a draped fabric pinned to the wall. The lines were strong, the composition thoughtful, but there was still something missing—a certain fluidity, a touch of life.

“You’re close,” Lucien said, leaning slightly over the boy’s shoulder. He gestured toward the edge of the fabric where the shadows deepened. “But look here. The transition between the shadow and the light—it’s too harsh. You want it to feel like a whisper, not a line.”

The student glanced at him, nodding. Lucien took a pencil and demonstrated on a blank corner of the canvas, his movements deliberate but featherlight. “Blend it like this,” he said, softening the edge into a gradient. “See? The shadow becomes part of the light, like it’s breathing.”

The student’s brow furrowed in concentration as he mimicked the movement, his hand steady but unsure. Lucien smiled faintly, watching as the harsh line dissolved into something more organic. “There. Much better.”

The boy glanced up, his face brightening. “Thanks. It’s hard to see those details when you’re in it.”

Lucien nodded, stepping back. “That’s the trick. You have to step away sometimes. Look at it like you’re seeing it for the first time.”

He watched as the student adjusted his work, a flicker of satisfaction softening the lingering weight of his father’s morning call. Guiding someone else, helping them see their own potential—it was the kind of genuine care and encouragement he had always craved but never received.

When Éloïse and Monsieur Renard appeared in his life years ago, their honeyed words and effusive praise seduced him. They had marveled at his talent, his ideas. They offered to help with the shared project in the Drôme. He and his friends hadn’t realized the couple’s flattery came with strings, that their praise was a net meant to entangle them, not make them succeed.

The studio door creaked open, snapping him back to reality. Lucien tensed as Monsieur Renard entered, his polished shoes clicking against the wooden floor. His sharp eyes scanned the room before landing on the student’s work.

“What have we here?” He asked, his voice bordering on disdain.

Lucien moved in between Renard and the boy, as if to protect him. His posture stiff. “A study”, he said curtly.

Renard examined the boy’s sketch for a moment. He pulled out a sleek card from his pocket and tossed it onto the drawing table without looking at the student. “Call me when you’ve improved”, he said flatly. “We might have work for you.”

The student hesitated only briefly. Glancing at Lucien, he gathered his things in silence. A moment later, the door closed behind the young man. The card remained on the table, untouched.

Renard let out a faint snort, brushing a speck of dust from his jacket. He moved to Lucien’s drawing table where a series of sketches were scattered. “What are these?” he asked. “Another one of your indulgences?”

“It’s personal”, he said, his voice low.

Renard snorted softly, shaking his head. “You’re wasting your time, Lucien. Do as you’re asked. That’s what you’re good at, copying others’ work.”

Lucien gritted his teeth but said nothing. Renard reached into his jacket and handed Lucien a folded sheet of paper. “Eloïse’s new request. We expect fast quality. What about the previous one?”

Lucien nodded towards the covered stack of canvases near the wall. “Done.”

“Good. They’ll come tomorrow and take the lot.”

Renard started to leave but paused, his hand on the doorframe. He said without looking back: “And don’t start dreaming about becoming your own person, Lucien. You remember what happened to the last one who wanted out, don’t you?” The man stepped out, the sound of his steps echoing through the studio.

Lucien stared at the door long after it had closed. The sketches on his table caught his eyes—a labyrinth of twisted roads, fragmented landscapes, and faint, familiar faces. They were his prayers, his invocation to the gods, drawn over and over again as though the repetition might force a way out of the dark hold Renard and Éloïse had over his life.

He had told his father this morning that he had chosen his life, but standing here, he couldn’t lie to himself. His decisions hadn’t been fully his own these last few years. At the time, he even believed he could protect his friends by agreeing to the couple’s terms, taking the burden onto himself. But instead of shielding them, he had only fractured their friendship and trapped himself.

Lucien followed the lines of one of the sketches absently, his fingers smudging the charcoal. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was missing. Or someone. Yes, an unfathomable sense that someone else had to be part of this, though he couldn’t yet place who. Whoever it was, they felt like a thread waiting to tie them all together again.
He knew what he needed to do to bring them back together. To draw it where it all began, where they had dreamed together. Avignon.