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In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Amei sat cross-legged on the floor in what had once been the study, its emptiness amplified by the packed boxes stacked along the walls. The bookshelves were mostly bare now, save for a few piles of books she was donating to goodwill.
The window was open, and a soft breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the faint chime of church bells in the distance. Ten o’clock. Tomorrow was moving day.
Her notebooks were heaped beside her on the floor—a chaotic mix of battered leather covers, spiral-bound pads, and sleek journals bought in fleeting fits of optimism. She ran a hand over the stack, wondering if it was time to let them go. A fresh start meant travelling lighter, didn’t it?
She hesitated, then picked up the top notebook. Flipping it open, she skimmed the pages—lists, sketches, fragments of thoughts and poems. As she turned another page, a postcard slipped out and fluttered to the floor.
She picked it up. The faded image showed a winding mountain road, curling into mist. On the back, Darius had written:
“Found this place by accident. You’d love it. Or maybe hate it. Either way, it made me think of you. D.”
Amei stared at the card. She’d forgotten about these postcards, scattered through her notebooks like breadcrumbs to another time. Sliding it back into place, she set the notebook aside and reached for another, older one. Its edges were frayed, its cover softened by time.
She flicked through the pages until an entry caught her eye, scrawled as though written in haste:
Lucien found the map at a flea market. He thought it was just a novelty, but the seller was asking too much. L was ready to leave it when Elara saw the embossed bell in the corner. LIKE THE OTHER BELL. Darius was sure it wasn’t a coincidence, but of course wouldn’t say why. Typical. He insisted we buy it, and somehow the map ended up with me. “You’ll keep it safe,” he said. Safe from what? He wouldn’t say.
The map! Where was the map now? How had she forgotten it entirely? It had just been another one of their games back then, following whatever random clues they stumbled across. Fun at the time, but nothing she’d taken seriously. Maybe Darius had, though—especially in light of what happened later. She flipped the page, but the next entry was mundane—a note about Elara’s birthday. She read through to the end of the notebook, but there was no follow-up.
She glanced at the boxes. Could the map still be here, buried among her things? Stuffed into one of her notebooks? Or, most likely, had it been lost long ago?
She closed the notebook and sighed. Throwing them out would have been easier if they hadn’t started whispering to her again, pulling at fragments of a past she thought she had left behind.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
From Decay to Birth: a Map of Paths and Connections
7. Darius’s Encounter (November 2024)
Moments before the reunion with Lucien and his friends, Darius was wandering the bouquinistes along the Seine when he spotted this particular map among a stack of old prints. The design struck him immediately—the spirals, the loops, the faint shimmer of indigo against yellowed paper.
He purchased it without hesitation. As he would examine it more closely, he would notice faint marks along the edges—creases that had come from a vineyard pin, and a smudge of red dust, from Catalonia.
When the bouquiniste had mentioned that the map had come from a traveler passing through, Darius had felt a strange familiarity. It wasn’t the map itself but the echoes of its journey— quiet connections he couldn’t yet place.
6. Matteo’s Discovery (near Avignon, Spring 2024)
The office at the edge of the vineyard was a ruin, its beams sagging and its walls cracked. Matteo had wandered in during a quiet afternoon, drawn by the promise of shade and a moment of solitude.
His eyes scanned the room—a rusted typewriter, ledgers crumbling into dust, and a paper pinned to the wall, its edges curling with age. Matteo stepped closer, pulling the pin free and unfolding what turned out to be a map.
Its lines twisted and looped in ways that seemed deliberate yet impossible to follow. Matteo traced one path with his finger, feeling the faint grooves where the ink had sunk into the paper. Something about it unsettled him, though he couldn’t say why.
Days later, while sharing a drink with a traveler at the local inn, Matteo showed him the map.
“It’s beautiful,” the traveler said, running his hand over the faded indigo lines. “But it doesn’t belong here.”
Matteo nodded. “Take it, then. Maybe you’ll figure it out.”
The traveler left with the map that night, and Matteo returned to the vineyard, feeling lighter somehow.
5. From Hand to Hand (1995–2024)
By the time Matteo found it in the spring of 2024, the map had long been forgotten, its intricate lines dulled by dust and time.
2012: A vineyard owner near Avignon purchased it at an estate sale, pinning it to the wall of his office without much thought.
2001: A collector in Marseille framed it in her study, claiming it was a lost artifact of a secret cartographer society, though she later sold it when funds ran low.
1997: A scholar in Barcelona traded an old atlas for it, drawn to its artistry but unable to decipher its purpose.
The map had passed through many hands over the previous three decades and each owner puzzling over, and finally adding their own meaning to its lines.
4. The Artist (1995)
The mapmaker was a recluse, known only as Almadora to the handful of people who bought her work. Living in a sunlit attic in Girona, she spent her days tracing intricate patterns onto paper, claiming to chart not geography but connections.
“I don’t map what is,” she once told a curious buyer. “I map what could be.”
In 1995, Almadora began work on the labyrinthine map. She used a pale paper from Girona and indigo ink from India, layering lines that seemed to twist and spiral outward endlessly. The map wasn’t signed, nor did it bear any explanations. When it was finished, Almadora sold it to a passing merchant for a handful of coins, its journey into the world beginning quietly, without ceremony.
3. The Ink (1990s)
The ink came from a different path altogether. Indigo plants, or aviri, grown on Kongarapattu, were harvested, fermented, and dried into cakes of pigment. The process was ancient, perfected over centuries, and the resulting hue was so rich it seemed to vibrate with unexplored depth.
From the harbour of Pondicherry, this particular batch of indigo made its way to an artisan in Girona, who mixed it with oils and resins to create a striking ink. Its journey intersected with Amei’s much later, when remnants of the same batch were used to dye textiles she would work with as a designer. But in the mid-1990s, it served a singular purpose: to bring a recluse artist’s vision to life.
2. The Paper (1980)
The tree bore laughter and countless other sounds of nature and passer-by’s arguments for years, a sturdy presence, unwavering in a sea of shifting lives. Even after the farmhouse was sold, long after the sisters had grown apart, the tree remained. But time is merciless, even to the strongest roots.
By 1979, battered by storms and neglect, the great tree cracked and fell, its once-proud form reduced to timber for a nearby mill.
The tree’s journey didn’t end in the mill; it transformed. Its wood was stripped, pulped, and pressed into paper. Some sheets were coarse and rough, destined for everyday use. But a few, including one particularly smooth and pale sheet, were set aside as high-quality stock for specialized buyers.
This sheet traveled south to Catalonia, where it sat in a shop in Girona for years, its surface untouched but full of potential. By the time the artist found it in the mid-1990s, it had already begun to yellow at the edges, carrying the faint scent of age.
1. The Seed (1950s)
It began in a forgotten corner of Kent, where a seed took root beneath a patch of open sky. The tree grew tall and sprawling over decades, its branches a canopy for birds and children alike. By 1961, it had become the centerpiece of the small farmhouse where two young sisters, Vanessa and Elara, played beneath its shade.
“Elara, you’re too slow!” Vanessa called, her voice sharp with mock impatience. Elara, only six years old, trailed behind, clutching a wooden stick she used to scratch shapes into the dirt. “I’m making a map!” she announced, her curls bouncing as she ran to catch up.
Vanessa rolled her eyes, already halfway up the tree’s lowest branch. “You and your maps. You think you’re going somewhere?”
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
It was the chalkapocalypse, which in actual fact occurred so close to Elara’s coming retirement that it hardly need have bothered her in the slightest, that had sparked her interest. She, like many of her colleagues, had quickly stockpiled the Japanese chalk, and she had more than enough to see out the remaining term of her employment at the university. Not that she wanted to stay at Warwick, she’d had enough of university politics and funding cuts, not to mention the dreary midlands weather.
When at last the day had come, she’d sold her mediocre semi detached suburban house with its, more often than not, dripping shrubbery and rarely if ever used white metal patio table and chairs, and made the move, with the intention of pursuing her research at her leisure. In the warmth of a Tuscan sun.
Often the words of her friend and colleague Tom came to her, as she settled into the farmhouse and familiarised herself with the land and the locals.
Physics is a process of getting stuck. Blackboards are the best tool for getting unstuck. You do most of your calculations on paper. Then, when you reach a dead end, you go to the blackboard and share the problem with a colleague. But here’s the funny thing. You often solve the problem yourself in the process of writing it out. You don’t imagine something first and then write it down. It’s through the act of writing that ideas make themselves known. Scientists at blackboards have thoughts that wouldn’t come if they just stood there, with their arms folded.
It was entirely down to Tom’s words that Elara had painted the walls of the barn with blackboard paint, and stocked it with the remains of her Hagoromo chalk hoard, as well as samples of every other available chalk. She had also purchased a number of books on the history of chalk. She’d had no intention of rushing, and retirement provided a relaxed environment for going at her own pace, unfettered by the relentless demands of students and classes. It was a project to savour, luxuriate in, amuse herself with.
When Florian had arrived, she was occupied with showing him around, and before long setting him to tasks that needed doing, and her chalk project had remained on a back burner. He’d asked her about the blackboards in the barn, and wondered if she was planning on giving lectures.
Laughing, Elara said no, that was the last thing she ever wanted to do again. She shared with him what Tom had said, about the ideas flowing during the process of writing.
“And while that makes perfect sense in any medium, not just chalk, it’s the chalk itself ….” Elara smiled. “Well, you don’t want to hear all the technical details. And I wouldn’t want to spill the beans before I’m sure.”
“It does make sense,” Florian replied, “To just write and then the ideas will flow. I’ve been wanting to write a book, but I never know how to start, and I’m not even sure what I want to write about. But perhaps I should just start writing.” Grinning, he added, “Probably not with chalk, though.”
“That’s the spirit, just make a start. You never know what may come of it. And it can be fun, you know, and illuminating in ways you didn’t expect. I used to write stories with a few friends….” Elara’s voice trailed off uncomfortably, as if a cloud had obscured the sun.
Florian noticed her unexpected discomfiture, and tactfully changed the subject. We all have pasts we don’t want to talk about. “Is the sun sufficiently past the yard arm for a glass of wine?” he asked. “What is a yard arm, anyway?”
“A yard is a spar on a mast from which sails are set. It may be constructed of timber or steel or from more modern materials such as aluminium or carbon fibre. Although some types of fore and aft rigs have yards, the term is usually used to describe the horizontal spars used on square rigged sails…”
“Once a lecturer, always a lecturer, eh?” Florian teased.
“Sorry!” Elara said with a rueful look. ” I’d love a glass of wine.”
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Sat. Nov. 30, 2024 – before the meeting
The afternoon light slanted through the tall studio windows, thin and watery, barely illuminating the scattered tools of Lucien’s trade. Brushes lay in disarray on the workbench, their bristles stiff with dried paint. The smell of turpentine hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint dampness creeping in from the rain. He stood before the easel, staring at the unfinished painting, brush poised but unmoving.
The scene on the canvas was a lavish banquet, the kind of composition designed to impress: a gleaming silver tray, folds of deep red velvet, fruit piled high and glistening. Each detail was rendered with care, but the painting felt hollow, as if the soul of it had been left somewhere else. He hadn’t painted what he felt—only what was expected of him.
Lucien set the brush down and stepped back, wiping his hands on his scarf without thinking. It was streaked with paint from hours of work, colors smeared in careless frustration. He glanced toward the corner of the studio, where a suitcase leaned against the wall. It was packed with sketchbooks, a bundle wrapped in linen, and clothes hastily thrown in—things that spoke of neither arrival nor departure, but of uncertainty. He wasn’t sure if he was leaving something behind or preparing for an escape.
How had it come to this? The thought surfaced before he could stop it, heavy and unrelenting. He had asked himself the same question many times, but the answer always seemed too elusive—or too daunting—to pursue. To find it, he would have to follow the trails of bad choices and chance encounters, decisions made in desperation or carelessness. He wasn’t sure he had the courage to look that closely, to untangle the web that had slowly wrapped itself around his life.
He turned his attention back to the painting, its gaudy elegance mocking him. He wondered if the patron who had commissioned it would even notice the subtle imperfections he had left, the faint warping of reflections, the fruit teetering on the edge of overripeness. A quiet rebellion, almost invisible. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
His friends had once known him as someone who didn’t compromise. Elara would have scoffed at the idea of him bending to anyone’s expectations. Why paint at all if it isn’t your vision? she’d asked once, her voice sharp, her black coffee untouched beside her. Amei, on the other hand, might have smiled and said something cryptic about how all choices, even the wrong ones, led somewhere meaningful. And Darius—Lucien couldn’t imagine telling Darius. The thought of his disappointment was like a weight in his chest. It had been easier not to tell them at all, easier to let the years widen the distance between them. And yet, here he was, preparing to meet them again.
The clock on the far wall chimed softly, pulling him back to the present. It was getting late. Lucien walked to the suitcase and picked it up, its weight pulling slightly on his arm. Outside, the rain had started, tapping gently against the windowpanes. He slung the paint-streaked scarf around his neck and hesitated, glancing once more at the easel. The painting loomed there, unfinished, like so many things in his life. He thought about staying, about burying himself in the work until the world outside receded again. But he knew it wouldn’t help.
With a deep breath, Lucien stepped out into the rain, the suitcase rattling softly behind him. The café wasn’t far, but it felt like a journey he might not be ready to take.
In reply to: Quintessence: A Portrait in Reverse
Work in Progress: Character Timelines and Events
Matteo
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Newly employed at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, started after its reopening.
- Writes the names of Lucien, Elara, Darius, and Amei in his notebook without understanding why.
- Acquires the bell from Les Reliques, drawn to it as if guided by an unseen force.
- Serves the group during the reunion, surprised to see all four together, though he knows them individually.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Working in a vineyard in southern France, nearing the end of the harvest season.
- Receives a call for a renovation job in Paris, which pulls him toward the city.
- Feels an intuitive connection to Paris, as if something is waiting for him there.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Matteo has a mysterious ability to sense patterns and connections in people’s lives.
- Has likely crossed paths with the group in unremarkable but meaningful ways before.
Darius
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Arrives at the café, a wanderer who rarely stays in one place.
- Reflects on his time in India during the autumn and the philosophical journey it sparked.
- Brings with him an artifact that ties into his travels and personal story.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Living in Barcelona, sketching temples and engaging with a bohemian crowd.
- Prompted by a stranger to consider a trip to India, sparking curiosity and the seeds of his autumn journey.
- Begins to plan his travels, sensing that India is calling him for a reason he doesn’t yet understand.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Has a history of introducing enigmatic figures to the group, often leading to tension.
- His intense, nomadic lifestyle creates both fascination and distance between him and the others.
Elara
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Travels from England to Paris to attend the reunion, balancing work and emotional hesitation.
- Still processing her mother’s passing and reflecting on their strained relationship.
- Finds comfort in the shared dynamics of the group but remains analytical about the events around the bell.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- (was revealed to be a dream event) Attends a CERN conference in Geneva, immersed in intellectual debates and cutting-edge research. Receives news of her mother’s death in Montrouge, prompting a reflective journey to make funeral arrangements. Struggles with unresolved feelings about her mother but finds herself strangely at peace with the finality.
- Dreams of her mother’s death during a nap in Tuscany, a surreal merging of past and present that leaves her unsettled.
- Hears a bell’s clang, only to find Florian fixing a bell to the farmhouse gate. The sound pulls her further into introspection about her mother and her life choices.
- Mentors Florian, encouraging him to explore his creativity, paralleling her own evolving relationship with her chalk research.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Moved to Tuscany after retiring from academia, pursuing independent research on chalk.
- Fondly remembers the creative writing she once shared with the group, though it now feels like a distant chapter of her life.
- Had a close but occasionally challenging relationship with Lucien and Amei during their younger years.
- Values intellectual connections over emotional ones but is gradually learning to reconcile the two.
Lucien
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Sends the letter that brings the group together at the café, though his intentions are unclear even to himself.
- In his Paris studio, struggles with an unfinished commissioned painting. Feels disconnected from his art and his sense of purpose.
- Packs a suitcase with sketchbooks and a bundle wrapped in linen, symbolizing his uncertainty—neither a complete departure nor a definitive arrival.
- Heads to the café in the rain, reluctant but compelled to reconnect with the group. Confronts his feelings of guilt and estrangement from the group.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Escapes Paris, overwhelmed by the crowds and noise of the Games, and travels to Lausanne.
- Reflects on his artistic block and the emotional weight of his distance from the group.
- Notices a sketch in his book of a doorway with a bell he doesn’t recall drawing, sparking vague recognition.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Once the emotional “anchor” of the group, he drifted apart after a falling-out or personal crisis.
- Feels a lingering sense of responsibility to reunite the group but struggles with his own vulnerabilities.
Amei
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Joins the reunion at Lucien’s insistence, hesitant but curious about reconnecting with the group.
- Brings with her notebooks filled with fragments of stories and a quiet hope for resolution.
- Feels the weight of the group’s shared history but refrains from dwelling on it outwardly.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Recently moved into a smaller flat in London, downsizing after her daughter Tabitha left for university.
- Has a conversation with Tabitha about life and change, hinting at unresolved emotions about motherhood and independence.
- Tabitha jokes about Amei joining her in Goa, a suggestion Amei dismisses but secretly considers.
- Past Events (Implied):
Tabitha (Amei’s Daughter)
- November 2024:
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Planning her autumn trip to Goa with friends, viewing it as a rite of passage.
- Discusses her mother’s habits with her peers, acknowledging Amei’s complexities while expressing affection.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Represents a bridge between Amei’s past and present, highlighting generational contrasts and continuities.
Key Threads and Patterns
- The Bell: Acts as a silent witness and instigator, threading its presence through pivotal moments in each character’s journey, whether directly or indirectly.
- Shared Histories: While each character grapples with personal struggles, their paths hint at intersections in the past, tied to unresolved tensions and shared experiences.
- Forward and Backward Motion: The narrative moves between the characters’ immediate challenges and the ripples of their past decisions, with the bell serving as a focal point for both.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Nov.30, 2024 2:33pm – Darius: The Map and the Moment
Darius strolled along the Seine, the late morning sky a patchwork of rainclouds and stubborn sunlight. The bouquinistes’ stalls were already open, their worn green boxes overflowing with vintage books, faded postcards, and yellowed maps with a faint smell of damp paper overpowered by the aroma of crêpes and nearby french fries stalls. He moved along the stalls with a casual air, his leather duffel slung over one shoulder, boots clicking against the cobblestones.
The duffel had seen more continents than most people, its scuffed surface hinting at his nomadic life. India, Brazil, Morocco, Nepal—it carried traces of them all. Inside were a few changes of clothes, a knife he’d once bought off a blacksmith in Rajasthan, and a rolled-up leather journal that served more as a collection of ideas than a record of events.
Darius wasn’t in Paris for nostalgia, though it tugged at him in moments like this. The city had always been Lucien’s thing —artistic, brooding, and layered with history. For Darius, Paris was just another waypoint. Another stop on a map that never quite seemed to end.
It was the map that stopped him, actually. A tattered, hand-drawn thing propped against a pile of secondhand books, its edges curling like a forgotten leaf. Darius leaned in, frowning at its odd geometry. It wasn’t a city plan or a geographical rendering; it was… something else.
“Ah, you’ve found my prize,” said the bouquiniste, a short older man with a grizzled beard and a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“This?” Darius held up the map, his dark fingers tracing the looping, interconnected lines. They reminded him of something—a mandala, maybe, or one of those intricate yantras he’d seen in a temple in Varanasi.
“It’s not a real place,” the bouquiniste continued, leaning closer as though revealing a secret. “More of a… philosophical map.”
Darius raised an eyebrow. “A philosophical map?”
The man gestured toward the lines. “Each path represents a choice, a possibility. You could spend your life trying to follow it, or you could accept that you already have.”
Darius tilted his head, the edges of a smile forming. “That’s deep for ten euros.”
“It’s twenty,” the bouquiniste corrected, his grin flashing gold teeth.
Darius handed over the money without a second thought. The map was too strange to leave behind, and besides, it felt like something he was meant to find.
He rolled it up and tucked it into his duffel, turning back toward the city’s winding streets. The café wasn’t far now, but he still had time.
He stopped by a street vendor selling espresso shots and ordered one, the strong, bitter taste jolting his senses awake. As he leaned against a lamppost, he noticed his reflection in a shop window: a tall, broad-shouldered man, his dark skin glistening faintly in the misty air. His leather jacket was worn at the elbows, his boots dusted with dirt from some far-flung place.
He looked like a man who belonged everywhere and nowhere—a nomad who’d long since stopped wondering what home was supposed to feel like.
India had been the last big stop. It was messy, beautiful chaos. The temples had been impressive, sure, but it was the street food vendors, the crowded markets, the strolls on the beach with the peaceful cows sunbathing, and the quiet, forgotten alleys that stuck with him. He’d made some connections, met some people who’d lingered in his thoughts longer than they should have.
One of them had been a woman named Anila, who had handed him a fragment of something—an idea, a story, a warning. He couldn’t quite remember now. It felt like she’d been trying to tell him something important, but whatever it was had slipped through his fingers like water.
Darius shook his head, pushing the thought aside. The past was the past, and Paris was the present. He looked at the rolled-up map peeking out of his duffel and smirked. Maybe Lucien would know what to make of it. Or Elara, with her scientific mind and love of puzzles.
The group had always been a strange mix, like a band that shouldn’t work but somehow did. And now, after five years of silence, they were coming back together.
The idea made his stomach churn—not with nerves, exactly, but with a sense of inevitability. Things had been left unsaid back then, unfinished. And while Darius wasn’t usually one to linger on the past, something about this meeting felt… different.
The café was just around the corner now, its brass fixtures glinting through the drizzle. Darius slung his duffel higher on his shoulder and took one last sip of espresso before tossing the cup into a bin.
Whatever this reunion was about, he’d be ready for it.
But the map—it stayed on his mind, its looping lines and impossible paths pressing into his thoughts like a puzzle waiting to be solved.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Amei found the letter waiting on the narrow hallway table; her flatmate, Felix, must have left it there. They rarely crossed paths these days as he was working long shifts at the hospital. His absence suited her—mostly.
It was a novelty to get a letter! She turned it over in her hands, noting the faint coffee stain on one corner and the Paris postmark. The handwriting was sharp and angular, unmistakably Lucien’s. It felt like a relic from another life, a self she’d long ago left behind in favour of the safe existence she had built in London.
She slipped a finger under the flap and opened the envelope. It contained a single piece of paper—she read the words and Lucien’s familiar insistence leapt off the page.
Amei set the letter on the kitchen counter and stood for a moment, staring out the window. The view was of the neighbouring building—a dreary brick wall streaked with stains, its monotony interrupted only by a single trailing vine struggling to cling to life.
The flat was small but tidy, shaped by two lives that rarely intersected. Felix’s presence was minimal: a mug left on the counter, a jacket draped over a chair. The rest was hers—books stacked on shelves, notebooks brimming with half-formed ideas, and an easel by the window holding an unfinished canvas. She freelanced as a textile designer. On the desk lay fabric swatches and sketches for her latest project—a clean, modern design for a boutique client. The work was steady and paid the bills but left little room for the creative freedom she once craved.
It certainly wasn’t the life she’d envisioned for herself at twenty, or even thirty, but it was functional. Yet there was an emptiness to it all; she was good at what she did, but the passion she’d once felt for her work had dulled.
There were no children at home to fill the silence, no pets to demand her attention. Relationships had come and gone, but none had felt like forever. Felix offered a semblance of company, though their conversations had dwindled to polite exchanges or the odd humorous anecdote. Her days had settled into a rhythm of predictability, punctuated only by deadlines and occasional dinners with colleagues she liked but never truly connected with.
Amei sank into the armchair by the window. Should she go? She had to admit she was curious. It must be nearly five years since they had last been together and the events of that last occasion still haunted her.
She leaned back, her gaze trailing to the vine outside the window, and let the question linger.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
If everything went according to plan she would arrive in Paris at 10:39 tomorrow morning, and with a bit of luck the ferry crossing this afternoon wouldn’t be too rough. Thank god I don’t have to fly anywhere. Elara had a good feeling about the trip. To be so conveniently situated near Samphire Hoe, close to the Dover ferry ports to France, when the invitation to meet in Paris had been suggested, seemed a good sign. The old dear at the Churchill Guest House had agreed to keep her self catering suite empty for when she came back, so she didn’t need to concern herself with all the stuff she seemed to have accumulated in just a few short months.
Elara zipped up the small travelling case. The taxi wasn’t due for another 17 minutes but she was ready, so she went downstairs to stand outside.
Samphire Hoe. Nobody would have expected to find that. Elara shook her head wonderingly every time she thought about it. It would be good to have a few days away, think about something else.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
The train rattled on, its rhythm almost hypnotic. Amei rested her forehead against the cool glass, watching the countryside blur into a smudge of grey fields and skeletal trees. The rain had not let up the entire trip, each station bringing her closer to Paris—and to the friends she had once thought she would never lose.
She unfolded a letter in her lap, its creased edges softened by too many readings. So old-school to have sent a letter, and yet so typical of Lucien. The message was brief, just a handful of words in his familiar scrawl: Sarah Bernhardt Cafe, November 30th , 4 PM. No excuses this time! Below the terse instruction, there was an ink smudge. Perhaps, she imagined, a moment of second-guessing himself before sealing the envelope? Vulnerability had never been Lucien’s strength.
Catching her reflection in the window, Amei frowned at her hair, unruly from the long journey. She reached for the scarf draped loosely around her neck—a gift from Elara, given years ago. It had been a token from one of their countless shared adventures, and despite everything that had unfolded since, she had never been able to let it go. She twisted the soft fabric around her fingers, its familiar texture reassuring her, before tying it over her hair.
At her feet sat a well-worn tote bag, weighed down with notebooks. It was madness to have brought so many. Maybe it was reflexive, a habit ingrained from years of recording her travels, as though every journey demanded she tell the story of her life. Or perhaps it was a subconscious offering—she couldn’t show up empty-handed, not after five years of silence.
Five years had slipped by quickly! What had started as the odd missed call or unanswered email, and one too many postponed plans had snowballed into a silence none of them seemed to know how to bridge.
Darius had tried. His postcards arrived sporadically, cryptic glimpses of his nomadic life. Amei had never written back, though she had saved the postcards, tucking them between the pages of her notebooks like fragments of a lost map.
Lucien, on the other hand, had faded into obscurity, his absence feeling strangely like betrayal. Amei had always believed he’d remain their anchor, the unspoken glue holding them together. When he didn’t, the silence felt personal, even though she knew it wasn’t. And yet, it was Lucien who had insisted on this reunion.
The train hissed into the station, jolting Amei from her thoughts. The platform was a flurry of umbrellas and hurried footsteps. Hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, she navigated the throng, letting the rhythm of the city wash over her. Paris felt foreign and familiar all at once.
By the time she reached her hotel, the rain had seeped through her boots. She stood for a long moment in the tiny room—the best she could find on her budget—and gazed at her reflection in the cracked mirror. A quiet sense of inevitability settled over her. They would have all changed, of course. How could they not? Yet there was something undeniably comforting about the fact that their paths, no matter how far they had strayed, had led them back here—to Paris, to the Sarah Bernhardt Café.
In reply to: Quintessence: A Portrait in Reverse
Characters list
Character / Personality Traits / Connection clues to Matteo
- Lucien
- Elara
- The Scientist
- Analytical, sharp, skeptical
- A physicist drawn to patterns and precision. Her research often brushes the edges of metaphysical questions.
- Matteo remembers her ordering black coffee, always focused, and making fleeting remarks about the nature of time.
- Darius
- Amei
- The Storyteller
- Observant, wise, enigmatic
- A weaver of tales who often carries journals filled with unfinished stories. She sees connections others miss.
- Matteo knows her through her ritual of mint tea and her belief that the right tea could mend almost anything.
- Matteo
- The Enigmatic Server
- Charismatic, cryptic, all-knowing
- A waiter with an uncanny awareness of the four friends, both individually and collectively.
- Holds a quiet, unspoken role as the bridge between their shared pasts, though his true connection remains unexplained.
Matteo Appears
Matteo approached the table, a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand, his dark eyes flicking over the group as though cataloging details in an invisible ledger. His waistcoat, sharp and clean, gave him a practiced professionalism, but there was something else—a casual, unspoken authority that drew attention.
“Good evening,” he began, his voice smooth and low, almost conspiratorial. Then, he froze for the briefest moment, his gaze shifting from face to face, the easy smile tightening at the corners.
“Well,” Matteo said finally, his smile broadening as if he’d just solved a riddle. “Here you all are. Together, at last.”
The group exchanged glances, each of them caught off-guard by the comment.
“You say that like you’ve been expecting us,” Elara said, her tone measured but sharp, as if probing for variables.
“Not expecting,” Matteo replied, his eyes glinting. “But hoping, perhaps. It’s… good to see you all like this. It fits, somehow.”
“What fits?” Darius asked, leaning forward. His voice was lighter than Elara’s but carried a weight that suggested he wouldn’t let the question drop easily.
Matteo’s smile deepened, though he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he set down his tray and folded his hands in front of him, his posture relaxed but deliberate, as though he were balancing on the edge of some invisible line.
“You’ve never all been here before,” he said, a simple statement that landed like a challenge.
“Wait,” Amei said, narrowing her eyes. “You know us?”
“Oh, I know you,” Matteo replied, his tone as light as if they were discussing the weather. “Individually, yes. But together? This is new. And it’s… remarkable.”
“Remarkable how?” Lucien asked, his pencil stilled over his sketchbook.
Matteo tilted his head, considering the question as though weighing how much to say. “Let’s just call it a rarity. Things don’t often align so neatly. It’s not every day you see… well, this.”
He gestured toward them with a sweeping hand, as if the mere fact of their presence at the table was something extraordinary.
“You’re being cryptic,” Elara said, her voice edged with suspicion.
“It’s a talent,” Matteo replied smoothly.
“Alright, hold on.” Darius leaned back, his chair creaking under him. “How do you know us? I’ve never been here before. Not once.”
“Nor I,” Amei added, her voice soft but steady.
Matteo raised an eyebrow, his smile taking on a knowing tilt. “No, not here. But that’s not the only place to know someone, is it?”
The words hung in the air, unsettling and oddly satisfying at once.
“You’re saying we’ve met you before?” Elara asked.
Matteo inclined his head. “In a manner of speaking.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Lucien said, his voice quiet but firm.
“Doesn’t it?” Matteo countered, his tone almost playful. “After all, do we ever truly remember every thread that weaves us together? Sometimes we only see the pattern when it’s complete.”
A pause settled over the table, heavy with unspoken questions. Matteo shifted his weight, breaking the silence with an easy gesture.
“It doesn’t matter how,” he said finally. “What matters is that you’re here. That’s what counts.”
“For what?” Amei asked, her eyes narrowing.
“For whatever happens next,” Matteo replied, as if the answer were obvious. Then he straightened, his professional mask sliding back into place with effortless grace.
“Now, what can I bring you?” he asked, his tone light again, as though the previous exchange hadn’t happened.
One by one, they placed their orders, though their minds were clearly elsewhere. Matteo scribbled in his notebook, his pen moving with deliberate strokes, and then he looked up once more.
“Thank you for being here,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “It’s been… a long time coming.”
And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd with the same fluidity he’d arrived.
They sat in silence for a moment, his words pressing down on them like a hand on a wound, familiar and foreign all at once.
“What the hell was that?” Darius asked finally, breaking the spell.
“Does he seem… different to you?” Amei asked, her voice distant.
“He seems impossible,” Elara replied, her fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm on the table.
“He remembered me,” Lucien said, almost to himself. “Something about absinthe.”
“I’ve never even met him,” Elara said, her voice rising slightly. “But he knew… too much.”
“And he didn’t explain anything,” Darius added, shaking his head.
“Maybe he didn’t need to,” Amei said softly, her gaze fixed on the space Matteo had just vacated.
They lapsed into silence again, the noise of the café returning in fits and starts, like an orchestra warming up after a pause. Somewhere, a glass clinked against porcelain; outside, the violinist struck a note so low it hummed against the windowpane.
The four of them sat there, strangers and friends all at once, the questions left dangling between them like stars in a cloudy sky. Whatever Matteo had meant, it was clear this moment was no coincidence. It wasn’t an end, nor a beginning—it was the start of something unraveling, something they couldn’t yet see.
And though none of them said it aloud, the thought was the same: What had happened before?
Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“Maybe I’m just old fashioned but those things are just weird,” Truella shook her head as she tried to get her focus and equilibrium back. “Great pics though, Jez. Look how clean my nails are.”
“I thought we were going to Amalfi, I was looking forward to that,” said Frella, not sure whether she liked the VR pod experience.
“So was I until I found out about the Limoncello. Can’t stand that evil brew, instant heartburn.”
“You don’t have to drink it, Tru,” Eris replied with a withering look. “We need to buy a few things before Giovanni’s time travel trip to the abandoned Colosseum. Secateurs and zip lock plastic bags for the seeds and plant cuttings. I wonder where the proper stores are, we seem to be surrounded with souvenir and gift shops and bakeries.”
“I’ll get a trowel. No, I’m not planning to start a dig, but it might come in handy. I’ll go with Eris and you two can mooch about buying over priced tourist tat. Get me a dozen postcards, will you? And some shawls and scarves for the photos at the Colosseum.”
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
After three weeks of fog, a gota fría had settled over Tatler Manor. Torrents of rain poured down on the garden, transforming it into a river. From her drawing room, Liz surveyed the scene, imagining herself drifting across the flood in a boat planned with Walter Melon, once the skies cleared.
Down below, the ever-dedicated Roberto stood ankle deep in the rising waters, glaring at the devastation with a mixture of despair and stubborn determination. He hated rubber boots, because he was allergic to them, but they were the only thing allowing him to trudge through the flooded garden.
The day before, he had risked the elements to save the dahlias, but five minutes in the water had turned his feet a swollen itchy mess. Now, he paced the edge of the garden, muttering curses under his breath, while Liz called him from the window above.
“Roberto! When this all clears, I’m thinking of a little boating expedition with Walter Melon. Perhaps you can fashion me a raft from the greenhouse planks?”
Roberto looked up at her, rain dripping from his cap. “With all due respect Señora, you might need a tetanus shot first.”
Liz laughed, unbothered by his dry tone. “Oh, don’t be such a pessimist. Look at it! It’s practically Venice down there.”
“It’s a disaster,” Roberto grumbled, tugging at the hem of his soggy jacket. “And if you want Venice, Señora, you’ll have to find another gondolier.”
Liz smiled to herself. She enjoyed Roberto’s pragmatism almost as much as she enjoyed teasing him. She knew he cared too much about the garden to abandon it, even in its current state, and she admired his quiet devotion.
As Roberto turned back to inspect the flooded beds, Liz leaned out the window, imagining her boat gliding through the submerged roman pool, the perfect escape from the monotony of the storm.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The inefficiency of the Quadrivium had been obvious from the start, but the solution was becoming clear to Cromwell. First, the witches needed an extended holiday, a sabbatical. They had become jaded, and unfocused. While they were away, he would put some of his own clerks and auditors in to sort everything out. Before the witches returned, he intended to separate the financial side of the enterprise from the creative side, retaining his own staff for the business side. The creative spellworkers need never hear another word about profits or sales.
Malove needed a holiday too, but he would need to keep her physical presence to enable him to use it. Perhaps once he had his own staff in place and had made arrangements for them to communicate directly with him, he could dispense with the body of Malove and send her away too.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Eris had called in sick. Even with the worst case of cold she’s had in years, she was feeling well enough to do jinx-from-home duties, and while her brain was in slow motion, she was relishing the quiet from the daily nagging of processes at the Quadrivium’s office, paperwork, tedious explaining to new hires in the ever growing coven extensions.
When Jeezel called her at the end of the day, she was glad to learn that Truella had found courage to stand up for them. Jeezel had such a colorful way of describing events, and in describing that particular scene where Truella had made her stand, it was always difficult to extract the truth from the makeup.
“You’re not really paying attention, are you?” Jeezel, ever astute to where attention was, quizzed her.
“What made you say that?” Eris didn’t try to deny.
“Oh I guess, when I started to speak about the camels in knickers going for a bath in the ball pit from all the dropped balls this year.”
“Ah, right. That would do.”
“Tell me, anything troubling you, luv’? You know you can tell me things.”
After a little moment, Eris said “Well, it’s just a thought,… but what if I’m in need of change of path?”
“What do you mean?” Jeezel tried to not sound too alarmed. “Not being a witch anymore?”
“Oh, no. Well,… why not, there’s no shame in no magic —but no. More like…”
“What? Quitting the coven?”
“… Yeah. It’s gone to madder and madder, it’s so hard to keep track with all the nonsense.” Eris corrected seeing the face of Jeezel. “Not that nonsense. You know what I mean… the daily nonsense. Our nonsense is fine. More than fine actually.”
“Phew, you had me worried though. Although…”
“I know… Quitting the coven.”
“You could be stripped of magic, if Malové learns about this…” then with more concern in her voice “WE could all be stripped of magic.”
“Yeah, I know. But look, is that what makes us happy?”
“It certainly foots the bill —or more like magically takes care of the bills.”
“Like I said, Jeez’, it’s just a thought, nothing to worry about, actually it helped to get it out.”
“I think it’s more than a thought.” Jeezel said with an air of age-old wisdom. “Let’s see where this leads. Imagine that…”
“Yeah, we’ll see. Thanks for checking in, it’s nice for a change. I don’t know what’s got into the other two these days, they’re always talking about clothing.”
“Yeah, I know. And pjs’.”
“Go figure.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“Permission to speak, My Lady Malove?” Truella asked respectfully. She was still wearing Frella’s raincoat of respect as it hadn’t stopped raining the whole time she’d been in Ireland, although the respectfulness was becoming tedious. But she was inside the Quadrivium building now, facing her agitated boss. She shrugged the raincoat off and tossed it aside and squared her shoulders.
“Speak!” Malove replied, rude and abrupt.
“I say, would you like some new pyjamas by any chance? No, never mind that now. Someone needs to say this to your face, as you haven’t figured it out for yourself yet.”
Gasps of astonishment echoed around the great hall and the air quivered with tension.
“You have been so obsessed with the fact sheets of the merge and the number crunching that you’ve been blind to a more significant merge.” Truella boldly held her hand up to silence Malove whose mouth was gaping open like a goldfish, or perhaps more like a carp.
“No, you listen to me for once,” Truella almost quaked at her own impudence then, but caught the merest glimmer of amusement from the depths of Malove’s being, or rather the essence of Cromwell who was lodged there.
Don’t you dare leave me now, Thomas, stay right there until I’ve finished or I’m toast.
“You have been so outwardly focused that you’re not paying attention to your own self, or you’d have noticed. Which just goes to show the immense efficiency and subtley of Cromwell’s merge tactics. It would behoove you to admit that you needed direction, and to appreciate the help that has been provided for you. You are not entirely yourself, or rather, you are entirely yourself, but at times lately you are more than that.”
Taking a deep breath, Truella continued. “At first it may be unsettling, but you must persevere and don’t fight it. Accept that you needed help, give thanks that you received it, and work well with Cromwell’s suggestions.”
“Saints preserve us,” whispered Malove, shocked to the core. “I don’t mean papish saints though,” she added hastily, unsure how to proceed.
Truella laughed nervously, her courage suddenly evaporating. She felt a strong urge to flee.
I asked you not to leave me alone with her!
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
All their owls screeched at the same time across the vast distances separating them.
Malové’s voice on them. “I just got off the phone with the Headwitch of Salem. Witch hunting season is back on, can you believe it? Didn’t we have countermeasures in place? Who was in charge of the Lump thwarting warting spell? Come at once!”
In Limerick, Finnley snickered, only mildly annoyed at the sound of all the parked owls in the mostly empty Quadrivium building. Oh, I see. It’s all gone pear-shaped, has it? Witch hunting season indeed! You’d think by now they’d have sorted their spells and counter-spells like a proper orderly lot. Honestly, if it were up to me, I’d have those countermeasures filed, organized, and triple-checked like my cleaning supplies. As for whoever’s in charge of the “Lump thwarting warting spell”—sounds like someone needs a good talking-to. Probably spent too much time nattering about and not enough focusing on their spellwork. Typical, isn’t it?
Elsewhere in the Northern forest, Eris shrugged at the sound hooting echoing. “When I told them something was wrong with Malové, it was her charge all along. Now, let’s wait and see to find someone brave enough to say it to her face.”
Somewhere and somewhen else, Truella and Frella and Jeezel were probably thinking the same, unless they got lost themselves in the Well of Crom, a surefire way to stay clear of Malové’s screeching owls.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Eris was looking at the moving sausages in the frying pan, like they were possessed with unexplainable energy.
She was not doing the cooking, but Thorsten had thought to send her a video for reasons known to him only. It was making her hungry now. Looking at the moon outside, she was again burning the midnight oil, lost in between bits of plots, vagrant duties and other’s dumped concerns. When did she get caught up in everyone’s mess, she wondered.
She would have tried the doppelganger spell to ease off the pressure by sending a body double to the needful —in most situations, that would do the trick perfectly well. How many times people were sitting in boring meetings nowadays, only present physically while their minds were wandering in other places. That wouldn’t be so different. But the spell came with a bad case of hangover, and last Truella used it was a keen reminder to use with caution.
So she still hadn’t find a way to navigate the demands pressed upon her; to be dependable for her coven, the headwitchstress and basically everyone else with needy emotions.
It was time to get back home. If any of them were left, sausages were waiting.
In reply to: Two Aunties au Pair and Their Pert Carouses
“Oh sweet revenge…” November was looking gleeful, and truth be told, too smug. With a tinge of orange anticipating a delectable tapestry of chaos.
The results had come as cold as an early winter for a world standing on the precipice of another era under President Lump’s reign.
“The winds of change rustling the curtains of the Beige House once more. And amidst this swirling tempest of political intrigue, our story unfurls with the maids au pair at its heart.”
“Liz, are you sure this is wise to pursue?”
“Oh stop, it Godfrey, the harm is done, November was written already in that story; I knew she would spell trouble from the beginning. And please, don’t interrupt.”
As April and June departed to pursue their ventures—perhaps April embarked on a global crusade for environmental stewardship while June disappeared into the realms of espionage, her whereabouts known only to the shadows—November emerged, a true force of nature. With an iron will and a meticulous attention to detail, she transformed the Beige House into a bastion of order amid political disarray under old Joe Mitten—bless his bumbling heart. Her reign as the clandestine conductor of this domestic symphony was nothing short of legendary.
During those four years, November proved herself indispensable. She orchestrated everything from state dinners to covert intelligence briefings, all while maintaining the perfect façade of domestic tranquility. The press would whisper her name, speculating on her true influence behind the scenes. Little did they know that November had eyes and ears in every corner of the Beige House, including a network of whispering portraits and eavesdropping sconces.
And now, with President Lump’s reelection, November faces her most formidable challenge yet. The political climate is rife with unpredictability—alliances shift like sand, loyalties waver, and secrets simmer beneath the surface. November must navigate this labyrinth with the precision of a masterful chess player, anticipating every move and countermove.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The postcard was marked URGENT and the man in charge of postcards made haste to find Thomas Cromwell but he was nowhere to be found. The postcard was damp and the ink had run, but “send your boatman asap” was decipherable. The man in charge of postcards was not aware of any boatman by the name of Asap, but knowing Thomas it was possible he’d found another bright waif to train, probably one of the urchins hanging about the gates waiting for scraps from the kitchen.
“Asap! Asap!” the postcard man called as he ran down to the river. “Boatman Asap!”
“There be no boatman by that name on the masters barge, lad. Are you speaking my language?” replied boatman Rafe.
“Have you seen the master?” the postcard man asked, “And be quick about you, whatever your name is.”
“Aye, I can tell you that. He’s asleep in the barge.”
“Asleep? Asleep? In the middle of the day? You fool, get out of my way!” the postcard man shoved Rafe out of the way roughly. “My Lord Cromwell! Asleep on the barge in the middle of the day! Call the physician, you dolt!”
“Calm yourself man, I am in no need of assistance,” Cromwell said, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he rose to see what all the shouting was about. Being in two places at once was becoming difficult to conceal. He would have to employ a man of concealment to cover for him while he was in Malove’s body.
I must have a word with Thurston about licorice spiders, Cromwell made a mental note to speak to his cook, while holding out his hand for the postcard. “Thank you, Babbidge”, he said to the man in charge of postcards, giving him a few coins. “You did well to find me. That will be all.”
“Rafe,” Cromwell said to the boatman after a slight pause, “Can you row to the future, do you think?”
“Whatever you say, master, just tell me where it is.”
“Therein lies the problem,” replied Thomas Cromwell, promptly falling asleep again.
While Malove was tucking into some sugared ghosts at the party, she felt an odd plucking sensation, as if one of her spells had been accessed.
A split second later, Cromwell woke up. There was no time to lose gathering ingredients for spells, or laborious complicated rituals. Cromwell made a mental note to streamline the future coven with more efficient simple magic.
“Take all your clothes off, Rafe.” Astonished, the boatman removed his hat and his cloak. Thomas Cromwell did likewise. “Now you put my clothes on, Rafe, and I’ll wear yours. Get out of the boat and go and find somewhere under a bush to hide until I come back. I’m taking your boat. Don’t, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be seen.”
Terrified, the boatman scuttled off to seek cover. He’d heard the rumours about Cromwell’s imminent arrest. He almost laughed maniacally when the thought crossed his mind that he wished he had a mirror to see himself in Lord Cromwell’s hat, but that thought quickly turned to horror when he imagined the hat ~ and the head ~ rolling under the scaffold. God save us all, he whispered, knowing that God wouldn’t.
In a split second, boatman Cromwell found himself rowing the barge through flooded orange groves. I must fill my pockets with oranges for Thurston to make spiced orange tarts, he thought, before I return.
“Ah, there you are, bedraggled wench, you did well to send for assistance. A biblical flood if ever I saw one. There’s just one small problem,” Cromwell said as he pulled Truella into the barge, ” I can save you from drowning, but we must return forthwith to the Thames. I can not put my boatman in danger for long.”
“The Thames in the 1500s?” Truella said stupidly, shivering in her wet clothes.
Cromwell looked at her tight blue breeches and thin unseemly vest. “Your clothes simply won’t do”.
“Some dry ones would be nice,” Truella admitted.
“It’s not that your clothes are too wet,” he replied, frowning. He could send Rafe for a kitchenmaids dress, but then what would the kitchenmaid wear? They had one dress only, not racks of garments like the people in the future. Not unless they were ladies.
Lord Thomas Cromwell cast another eye over Truella. She was a similar build to Anne of Chives.
“If you think I’m dressing up as one of Henry’s wives…”
Laughing, Cromwell admitted she had a point. “No, perhaps not a good idea, especially as he does not well like this one. No need for her to be the death of both of us.”
“Look, just drop me off in Limerick on the way home, it’s barely out of your way. It’s probably raining there too, but at least I won’t have to worry about clothes. I’d look awful in one of those linen caps anyway.”
Cromwell gave her an approving look and agreed to her idea. Within a split second they were in Ireland, but Cromwell was in for a surprise.
“Yoohoo, Frella!” Truella called, delighted to see her friend strolling along the river bank. “It’s me!”
Thomas Cromwell pulled the boat up to the river bank, tossing the rope to Frella’s friend to secure it. Frella’s friend grabbed the rope and froze in astonishment. “You! Fancy seeing YOU here! Uncle Thomas!”
- November 2024 (Reunion):
