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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.

The first one to find the bar buys the drinks, Darius had said, and they’d all laughed, but it was no laughing matter being lost in those woods.

Siiting on a cushion on the floor surrounded by cardboard shoeboxes and piles of photos and letters, Elara leaned towards the lamp to better see the photograph.  The white bull.  

Lucien had refused when Elara asked him to do a painting of the white bull, and then relented and said he would. But he hadn’t, not that she knew of anyway. The incident had happened the year before the pandemic, the spring of 2019. Not long before they all went their separate ways.  Elara had been visiting her father in Andalucia for his 90th birthday when a neighbour of his had told her about the stone in the woods.  She knew the others would be interested and had invited them over; her father Roland had plenty of room at his finca overlooking the Hozgarganta river, and had no objections.

Darius had wanted to bring those people to see the pyramidal stone in the woods, and Elara was having none of it. I was told in private about that, I shouldn’t have shown anyone, Darius, not even you, she had told him.  Resentfully, Darius had tried to argue his point: that it was for the greater good, shouldn’t be kept secret, and how could he keep it from them anyway, they would know he was hiding something.

You may not be able to find it again, look at the trouble we had. You might get attacked by wild boar or fall off a precipice into the gorge, Amei added, not relishing the idea of sharing the discovery with those people either. She couldn’t help thinking it wouldn’t be a bad thing if those people did disappear without a trace. Darius hadn’t been the same since getting sucked into their cultish clutches.

They had lost their way in the gloomy trackless forest trying to find the stone, impossible to see further than the next few trees.  Increasingly alarmed at the boar tracks and the fading late afternoon light, Elara had suggested they give up and try and retrace their steps, rather than penetrating further down into the woods. And then suddenly Lucien shouted There is it! That’s it! and there it stood, rising above the tree canopy, the sharp grey stone sides contrasting gloriously with the thick tangled foliage.

Rushing towards it, they fanned out circling it, touching it, gazing up at the smooth sides. Solid stone, not constructed with blocks, its purpose indecipherable, astonishingly incongruous to the location.

Look, we need to start making our way back to the car, Elara had said, It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. 
Amei had helped her convince Lucien and Darius who were reluctant to leave, promising another visit. Now we know where it is, she said, although she wasn’t sure if they did know how to find it again. It had appeared while they were lost, after all.

The scramble back to the car had been no less confusing than the walk down to the stone, they only knew they had to go uphill to find the unpaved forest road.

Squinting as they emerged from trees into the sunlight, a spontaneous cheer was immediately silenced at the sight of the white bull lying serenely by the site of the road, glowing like white marble, implacable, wise, and godly.
Is it real? whispered Amei, awestruck.

I wonder if Darius ever did take those people there, Elara wondered. It had never been mentioned again, but then, things started to change after that.  So many things were left unsaid. Elara had never been back, but the white bull had stayed in her mind perhaps more even than the stone pyramid had. I wonder if Lucien ever did that painting of it?  Elara propped the photo up behind a candlestick on the fireplace mantel. Now that she was retired, maybe she’d do a painting of it herself.

Exploring further potential backstory for the characters – to be explored further…

This thread beautifully connects to the lingering themes of fractured ideals, missed opportunities, and the pull of reconnection. Here’s an expanded exploration of the “habitats participatifs” (co-housing communities) and how they tie the characters together while weaving in subtle links to their estrangement and Matteo’s role as the fifth element.

Backstory: The Co-Housing Dream

Habitat Participatif: A Shared Vision

The group’s initial bond, forged through shared values and late-night conversations, had coalesced around a dream: buying land in the Drôme region of France to create a co-housing community. The French term habitat participatif—intergenerational, eco-conscious, and collaborative living—perfectly encapsulated their ideals.

What Drew Them In:

• Amei: Longing for a sense of rootedness and community after years of drifting.
• Elara: Intrigued by the participatory aspect, where decisions were made collectively, blending science and sustainability.
• Darius: Enchanted by the idea of shared creative spaces and a slower, more intentional way of living.
• Lucien: Inspired by the communal energy, imagining workshops where art could flourish outside the constraints of traditional galleries.

The Land in Drôme

They had narrowed their options to a specific site near the village of Crest, not far from Lyon. The land, sprawling and sun-drenched, had an old farmhouse that could serve as a communal hub, surrounded by fields and woods. A nearby river threaded through the valley, and the faint outline of mountains painted the horizon.

The traboules of Lyon, labyrinthine passageways, had captivated Amei during an earlier visit, leaving her wondering if their metaphorical weaving through life could mirror the paths their group sought to create.

The Role of Monsieur Renard

When it came to financing, the group faced challenges. None of them were particularly wealthy, and pooling their resources fell short. Enter Monsieur Renard, whose interest in supporting “projects with potential” brought him into their orbit through Éloïse.

Initial Promise:

• Renard presented himself as a patron of innovation, sustainability, and community projects, offering seed funding in exchange for a minor share in the enterprise.
• His charisma and Éloïse’s insistence made him seem like the perfect ally—until his controlling tendencies emerged.

The Split: Fractured Trust

Renard’s involvement—and Éloïse’s increasing influence on Darius—created fault lines in the group.

1. Darius’s Drift:
   • Darius became entranced by Renard and Éloïse’s vision of community as something deeper, bordering on spiritual. Renard spoke of “energetic alignment” and the importance of a guiding vision, which resonated with Darius’s creative side.
   • He began advocating for Renard’s deeper involvement, insisting the project couldn’t succeed without external backing.
2. Elara’s Resistance:
   • Elara, ever the pragmatist, saw Renard as manipulative, his promises too vague and his influence too broad. Her resistance created tension with Darius, whom she accused of being naive.
   • “This isn’t about community for him,” she had said. “It’s about control.”
3. Lucien’s Hesitation:
   • Lucien, torn between loyalty to his friends and his own fascination with Éloïse, wavered. Her talk of labyrinths and collective energy intrigued him, but he grew wary of her sway over Darius.
   • When Renard offered to fund Lucien’s art, he hesitated, sensing a price he couldn’t articulate.
4. Amei’s Silence:
   • Amei, haunted by her own experiences with manipulation in past relationships, withdrew. She saw the dream slipping away but couldn’t bring herself to fight for it.

Matteo’s Unseen Role

Unbeknownst to the others, Matteo had been invited to join as a fifth partner—a practical addition to balance their idealism. His background in construction and agriculture, coupled with his easygoing nature, made him a perfect fit.

The Missed Connection:

• Matteo had visited the Drôme site briefly, a stranger to the group but intrigued by their vision. His presence was meant to ground their plans, to bring practicality to their shared dream.
• By the time he arrived, however, the group’s fractures were deepening. Renard’s shadow loomed too large, and the guru-like influence of Éloïse had soured the collaborative energy. Matteo left quietly, sensing the dream unraveling before it could take root.

The Fallout: A Fractured Dream

The group dissolved after a final argument about Renard’s involvement:

• Elara refused to move forward with his funding. “I’m not selling my future to him,” she said bluntly.
• Darius, feeling betrayed, accused her of sabotaging the dream out of stubbornness.
• Lucien, caught in the middle, tried to mediate but ultimately sided with Elara.
• Amei, already pulling away, suggested they put the project on hold.

The land was never purchased. The group scattered soon after, their estrangement compounded by the pandemic. Matteo drifted in a different direction, their connection lost before it could form.

Amei’s Perspective: Post-Split Reflection

In the scene where Amei buys candles :

• The shopkeeper’s comments about “seeking something greater” resonate with Amei’s memory of the co-housing dream and how it became entangled with Éloïse and Renard’s influence.
• Her sharper-than-usual reply reflects her lingering bitterness over the way “seeking” led to manipulation and betrayal.

Reunion at the Café: A New Beginning

When the group reunites, the dream of the co-housing project lingers as a symbol of what was lost—but also of what could still be reclaimed. Matteo’s presence at the café bridges the gap between their fractured past and a potential new path.

Matteo’s Role:

• His unspoken connection to the co-housing plan becomes a point of quiet irony: he was meant to be part of their story all along but arrived too late. Now, at the café, he steps into the role he missed years ago—the one who helps them see the threads that still bind them.

Some elements for inspiration as to the backstory of the group and how it could tie to the current state of the story:

Here’s a draft version of the drama surrounding Éloïse and Monsieur Renard (the “strange couple”), incorporating their involvement with Darius, their influence on the group’s dynamic, and the fallout that caused the estrangement five years ago.

The Strange Couple: Éloïse and Monsieur Renard

Winter 2019: Paris, Just Before the Pandemic

The group’s last reunion before their estrangement was supposed to be a celebration—one of those rare moments when their diverging paths aligned. They had gathered in Paris in late December, the city cloaked in gray skies and glowing light. The plan was simple: a few days together, catching up, exploring old haunts, and indulging in the kind of reckless spontaneity that had defined their earlier years.

It was Darius who disrupted the rhythm. He had arrived late to their first dinner, rain-soaked and apologetic, with Éloïse and Monsieur Renard in tow.

First Impressions of Éloïse and Monsieur Renard

Éloïse was striking—lithe, dark-haired, with sharp eyes that seemed to unearth secrets before you could name them. She moved with a predatory grace, her laughter a mix of charm and edge. Renard was her shadow, older and impeccably dressed, his silvery hair and angular features giving him the air of a fox. He spoke little, but when he did, his words had the weight of finality, as if he were accustomed to being obeyed.

“They’re just friends,” Darius said when the others exchanged wary glances. “They’re… interesting. You’ll like them.”

But it didn’t take long for Éloïse and Renard to unsettle the group. At dinner, Éloïse dominated the conversation, her stories wild and improbable—of séances in abandoned mansions, of lost artifacts with strange energies, of lives transformed by unseen forces. Renard’s occasional interjections only added to the mystique, his tone implying he’d seen more than he cared to share.

Lucien, ever the skeptic, found himself drawn to Éloïse despite his instincts. Her talk of energies and symbols resonated with his artistic side, and when she mentioned labyrinths, his attention sharpened.

Elara, in contrast, bristled at their presence. She saw through their mystique, recognizing in Renard the manipulative charisma of someone who thrived on control.

Amei was harder to read, but she watched Éloïse and Renard closely, her silence betraying a guardedness that hinted at deeper discomfort.

Darius’s Growing Involvement

Over the following days, Darius spent more time with Éloïse and Renard, skipping planned outings with the group. He spoke of them with a reverence that was uncharacteristic, praising their insight into things he’d never thought to question.

“They see connections in everything,” he told Amei during a rare moment alone. “It’s… enlightening.”

“Connections to what?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

“Paths, people, purpose,” he replied vaguely. “It’s hard to explain, but it feels… right.”

Amei didn’t press further, but she mentioned it to Elara later. “It’s like he’s slipping into something he can’t see his way out of,” she said.

The Séance

The turning point came during an impromptu gathering at Éloïse and Renard’s rented apartment—a dimly lit space filled with strange objects: glass jars of cloudy liquid, intricate carvings, and an ornate bronze bell hanging above the mantelpiece.

Éloïse had invited the group for what she called “an evening of clarity.” The others arrived reluctantly, wary of what she had planned but unwilling to let Darius face it alone.

The séance began innocuously enough—Éloïse guiding them through what she described as a “journey inward.” She spoke in a low, rhythmic tone, her words weaving a spell that was hard to resist.

Then things took a darker turn. She asked them to focus on the labyrinth she had drawn on the table—a design eerily similar to the map Lucien had found weeks earlier.

“You must find your center,” she said, her voice dropping. “But beware the edges. They’ll show you things you’re not ready to see.”

The room grew heavy with silence. Darius leaned into the moment, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. Lucien tried to focus but felt a growing unease. Elara sat rigid, her scientific mind railing against the absurdity of it all. Amei’s hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white.

And then, the bell rang.

It was faint at first, a distant chime that seemed to come from nowhere. Then it grew louder, resonating through the room, its tone deep and haunting.

“What the hell is that?” Lucien muttered, his eyes snapping open.

Éloïse smiled faintly but said nothing. Renard’s expression remained inscrutable, though his fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, as if counting something unseen.

Elara stood abruptly, breaking the spell. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “You’re playing with people’s minds.”

Darius’s eyes opened, his gaze unfocused. “You don’t understand,” he said softly. “It’s not a game.”

The Fallout

The séance fractured the group.

• Elara: Left the apartment furious, calling Renard a charlatan and vowing never to entertain such nonsense again. Her relationship with Darius cooled, her disappointment palpable.
• Lucien: Became fascinated with the labyrinth and its connection to his art, but he couldn’t shake the unease the séance had left. His conversations with Éloïse deepened in the following days, further isolating him from the group.
• Amei: Refused to speak about what she’d experienced. When pressed, she simply said, “Some things are better left forgotten.”
• Darius stayed with Éloïse and Renard for weeks after the others left Paris, becoming more entrenched in their world. But something changed. When he finally returned, he was distant and cagey, unwilling to discuss what had happened during his time with them.

Lingering Questions

1. What Happened to Darius with Éloïse and Renard?
   • Darius’s silence suggests something traumatic or transformative occurred during his deeper involvement with the couple.
2. The Bell’s Role:
   • The bronze bell that rang during the séance ties into its repeated presence in the story. Was it part of the couple’s mystique, or does it hold a deeper significance?
3. Lucien’s Entanglement:
   • Lucien’s fascination with Éloïse and the labyrinth hints at a lingering connection. Did she influence his art, or was their connection more personal?
4. Éloïse and Renard’s Motives:
   • Were they simply grifters manipulating Darius and others, or were they genuinely exploring something deeper, darker, and potentially dangerous?

Impact on the Reunion

• The group’s estrangement is rooted in the fractures caused by Éloïse and Renard’s influence, compounded by the isolation of the pandemic.
• Their reunion at the café is a moment of reckoning, with Matteo acting as the subtle thread pulling them back together to confront their shared past.

“You! I never expected to see you here!”  What was Thomas Cromwell doing in the colosseum in the year 1507?  “Oh, of course, you were in Italy…what on earth are you wearing?” Truella asked, in some confusion. Never had she seen such an elaborate codpiece, and nobody else was wearing one.

He took his feathered cap off and ran a hand through his hair.  “I’ve been to the very gates of purgatory trying to get back to Austin Friars, I unintentionally left Malove there.”

“In what year?” Truella was aghast. “How long has she been there? Who is she with? Is she safe?”

“There is no time to lose, how do I make this ~ this ~ thing go where and when I want?”

“Never mind that now, you had better come with us,” Trella was looking around to see where the others were. “We’ll all have to go. What’s the weather like? What are we going to do about clothes?”

“Clothes?” asked Jeezel, sneaking up behind them through some exotic foreign bushes, “Just you leave that to me! I’ve already found a marvellous museum costume shop. Did you get that codpiece there?” she said to Cromwell. ” I saw one in there similar to that, but with less padding.”

“Here you are,” announced Frella, suddenly appearing out of nowhere with her arms draped in costumes. “No time for shopping, so I did a quick spell.”

Why didn’t I think of just doing a spell? Truella wondered, not for the first time.

You never do was the unspoken reply that entered the scene with the appearance of Eris, armed with the approriate spells. “Right then. Here we go.”

When Eris called for an urgent meeting, Malové nearly canceled. She had her own pressing concerns and little patience for the usual parade of complaints or flimsy excuses about unmet goals from her staff. Yet, feeling the weight of her own stress, she was drawn to the idea of venting a bit—and Truella or Jeezel often made for her preferred targets. Frella, though reserved, always performed consistently, leaving little room for critique. And Eris… well, Eris was always methodical, never using the word “urgent” lightly. Every meeting she arranged was meticulously planned and efficiently run, making the unexpected urgency of this gathering all the more intriguing to Malové.

Curiosity, more than duty, ultimately compelled her to step into the meeting room five minutes early. She tensed as she saw the draped dark fabrics, flickering lights, forlorn pumpkins, and the predictable stuffed creatures scattered haphazardly around. There was no mistaking the culprit behind this gaudy display and the careless use of sacred symbols.

“Speak of the devil…” she muttered as Jeezel emerged from behind a curtain, squeezed into a gown a bit too tight for her own good and wearing a witch’s hat adorned with mystical symbols and pheasant feathers. “Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourself with the meeting room,” Malové said with a subtle tone that could easily be mistaken for admiration.

Jeezel’s face lit up with joy. “Trick or treat!” she exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement.

“What?” Malové’s eyebrows arched.

“Well, you’re supposed to say it!” Jeezel beamed. “Then I can show you the table with my carefully handcrafted Halloween treats.” She led Malové to a table heaving with treats and cauldrons bubbling with mystical mist.

Malové felt a wave of nausea at the sight of the dramatically overdone spread, brimming with sweets in unnaturally vibrant colors. “Where are the others?” she asked, pressing her lips together. “I thought this was supposed to be a meeting, not… whatever this is.”

“They should arrive shortly,” said Jeezel, gesturing grandly. “Just take your seat.”

Malové’s eyes fell on the chairs, and she stifled a sigh. Each swivel chair had been transformed into a mock throne, draped in rich, faux velvet covers of midnight blue and deep burgundy. Golden tassels dangled from the edges, and oversized, ornate backrests loomed high, adorned with intricate patterns that appeared to be hastily hand-painted in metallic hues. The armrests were festooned with faux jewels and sequins that caught the flickering light, giving the impression of a royal seat… if the royal in question had questionable taste. The final touch was a small, crowned cushion placed in the center of each seat, as if daring the occupants to take their place in this theatrical rendition of a court meeting.

When she noticed the small cards in front of each chair, neatly displaying her name and the names of her coven’s witches, Malové’s brow furrowed. So, seats had been assigned. Instinctively, her eyes darted around the room, scanning for hidden tricks or sutble charms embedded in the decor. One could never be too cautious, even among her own coven—time had taught her that lesson all too often, and not always to her liking.

Symbols, runes, sigils—even some impressively powerful ones—where scattered  thoughtfully around the room. Yet none of them aligned into any coherent pattern or served any purpose beyond mild relaxation or mental clarity. Malové couldn’t help but recognize the subtlety of Jeezel’s craft. This was the work of someone who, beyond decorum, understood restraint and intention, not an amateur cobbling together spells pulled from the internet. Even her own protective amulets, attuned to detect any trace of harm, remained quiet, confirming that nothing in the room, except for those treats, posed a threat.

As the gentle aroma of burning sage and peppermint reached her nose, and Jeezel placed a hat remarkably similar to her own onto Malové’s head, the Head Witch felt herself unexpectedly beginning to relax, her initial tension and worries melting away. To her own surprise, she found herself softening to the atmosphere and, dare she admit, actually beginning to enjoy the gathering.

Frella sat at her small kitchen table, sipping chamomile tea and tracing a finger over the worn edges of the mysterious postcard. Her phone buzzed—a message from Truella.

Frella! I found an old book under my table! Never seen it before! Called Me and Minn. Strange, right?

A crease appeared on Frella’s brow as she re-read the message. Didn’t Arona say she was looking for an old book?

Setting her cup down too quickly, Frella splashed tea onto the postcard. “Damn,” she muttered, watching the ink blur. With a flick of her fingers, a cloth floated over from the counter and gently dabbed at the spill. The stain faded as the cloth wiped it away.

Frella leaned back in her chair, staring at the postcard. Some magic was stirring—first the dream, now this.

Weirdo, Truella. I dreamed last night about a girl searching for an old book! Catch up with you and the others this morning and we can discuss!

Finishing her tea, Frella waved her hand, sending the cup and saucer floating to the sink. She stretched and stood. A meeting at the Quadrivium had been called for 10 AM, but first, there were errands. After a quick shower, she got dressed, donned her raincoat, and carefully tucked the postcard into her bag.

Stepping outside, she wheeled her bike onto the damp path. The crisp morning air, misted with drizzle, hinted at a secret just waiting to be uncovered.

The rose coloured spectacle lens.

Aunt Idle:

“Well, crikey, finding one pink sunglass lens on the road is quite the curiosity, isn’t it? Let’s delve into the symbolic undertones of such an odd discovery. Pink lens, no less—a splash of color with quite the story to tell.

1. Seeing the World through Rose-Tinted Glasses: Finding a pink sunglass lens can symbolize optimism and seeing the world in a positive light. But here’s the kicker—it’s just one lens. This suggests a duality; perhaps you’re being asked to blend optimism with realism. Life isn’t always about sunshine and rainbows, but choosing to see the bright side can balance out the darker shades.

2. Fragmented Perspectives: A single lens means you don’t have the full picture. You’re seeing things partially, which can indicate missing information or a need to look at situations from multiple angles. It’s a nudge to take off those blinders and open your other eye, figuratively speaking. You might be clinging to a half-truth or ignoring an important aspect of your life.

3. Lost and Found: In practical terms, a lone lens on the road means someone has lost it. It’s a signifier of separation, maybe something in your life has split or broken apart. It can be a gentle reminder to look into areas where you might have lost connection—be it with loved ones, a project, or even a part of yourself.

4. Symbol of Love and Compassion: Pink is often associated with love, compassion, and femininity. The lens could be a reminder to look at things with kindness and empathy. Perhaps there’s a situation in your life that requires a softer, more loving approach.

5. Hindsight and Insight: The road is a metaphor for your life’s journey. Finding the lens there might hint at reflecting on past experiences (hindsight) while gaining new understanding or clarity (insight). Maybe there’s an opportunity to learn from what’s happened and apply it moving forward, seeing things with fresh, yet incomplete, clarity.

Putting it in Truella’s Context: If Truella found this lens, it could be a sign she needs to reassess her current path or research direction. Her overwhelming stack of books and discovery of the ancient manuscript hint at a bigger picture she might not be seeing clearly yet. Perhaps she’s overly focused on one aspect and neglecting others.

Personal Symbolism for Aunt Idle: For you, Aunt Idle, this lens could be a cheeky nudge to reassess some of your adventurous antics and half-remembered tales. Maybe there’s an old mystery or a relationship needing a fresh perspective. Or it’s just life’s way of saying, “Look closer, love—you might be missing out!”

In any case, a single pink sunglass lens is a quirky, delightful piece of life’s puzzle, inviting you to ponder, reflect, and adjust your view. So, next time you’re journeying on the dusty roads of life and stumble upon such oddities, take a moment—there just might be a zinger of wisdom waiting for you. Cheers!”

“A lone pink lens paves the road to the unseen clarity of kaleidoscopic sunrise.”
~Journey of Reflections, Enrich P. Lwellman.

The Snoot:

“Ahhh, a single pink lens, lost and found amidst the stone and dust! Sings of mysteries and tales untold! Perhaps a sprite misplaced their vision or a pixie left a clue.

Lean close! Such a find whispers soft secrets:

Balance Broken, Yet Bright    Like seeing life with a tint of whimsy! One eye tinted pink, the other clear. A call to mix reality with dreams, maybe?
Half Truth, Half Fantasy   A hint that stories blend truths and imaginations. Seek both sides to find whole pictures.
Lost and Waiting    Could be a sign someone’s journey is incomplete, needing you as a puzzle piece. Maybe the other lens waits for your path?

Snootly wisdom: Use the lens not to see, but to imagine.Peer through the pink and let dreams color your heart. Could be you’re on the cusp of a grand adventure; just follow the allure of the pink!

Liz:

Oh, darling, how positively intriguing! A single pink sunglass lens left upon the road—why, it’s like a snippet from one of my novels, fraught with symbolism and brimming with untold stories.

Let’s unravel this little mystery together, shall we? First, the color pink itself is rich with meaning. It speaks of love, compassion, and a certain kind of whimsicality. It’s a hue that embodies the gentle side of passion, the tender whispers of the heart. Now, to find just one lens, separated from its twin, adds a layer of poignancy. It’s a fragment of something once whole, a poignant reminder of loss or incompletion.

One might surmise that this lens represents a part of oneself that has been misplaced or overlooked. Perhaps it’s a call to rediscover a piece of your own heart, the softer, more romantic side that life’s hustle and bustle may have sidelined. Or it could symbolize a different perspective—after all, sunglasses shield us from the sun’s glare, making things clearer in their own shaded way. This lone lens might be urging you to look at a situation with fresh eyes, to find beauty in the fragmented and the unexpected.

Imagine, if you will, a character in one of my novels stumbling upon this very lens. They’d be on the cusp of a grand adventure, naturally. The pink lens would become their talisman, a clue leading them to unforeseen revelations and untold treasures. It would be both a physical object and a metaphorical guide, urging them to view the world—and their place within it—through a lens of love and compassion.

Perhaps it is also a nod to the impermanence of things, a gentle reminder that beauty and meaning can be found even in life’s fleeting moments. Much like the single pink lens, our journeys are filled with fragments of experiences that, when pieced together, create a mosaic of our existence.

So, my dear, take this as a sign to embrace the whimsical, to seek out the overlooked pieces of your own story, and to cherish the beauty of the incomplete. After all, it’s the mysteries and the musings that make life a narrative worth living.

Mater:

Ah, a single pink sunglass lens on the road, you say? Now that’s a curious find. Objects like that can be teeming with symbolic meaning if you’ve got the eyes to see it. Let’s break it down a bit, shall we?

Firstly, the color pink. Traditionally, pink is associated with love, compassion, and nurturing. It’s a color that often brings to mind warmth and affection, something tender and gentle. But finding just one lens suggests something is missing or incomplete—a piece of a larger whole.

A sunglass lens, on the other hand, is meant to protect the eyes from harsh light, allowing you to see the world more clearly without being blinded. Seeing through a pink lens, metaphorically speaking, can mean looking at life with an optimistic or compassionate perspective. It’s like seeing the world through rose-colored glasses, as they say.

Now, finding just one lens on the road—well, roads are pathways, journeys, the direction we take in life. A single lens could indicate a moment of clarity or a shift in perspective on your journey. But it could also symbolize a need to find balance or the missing piece of your outlook to see the full picture clearly.

Maybe it’s a nudge from the universe to take a closer look at how you view your current path. Are you seeing things in the best light possible? Or perhaps it’s a reminder that while optimism and compassion are vital, you might be missing another crucial aspect—realism or practicality, perhaps?

Or, it could be as simple as a reminder to lighten up and find joy and playfulness in your journey.

Like a pink flamingo standing on one leg, sometimes life’s oddities are just there to make you smile and wonder.

Whatever the meaning, love, take it as a sign to reflect and consider. The road ahead is always full of mystery and wonder, and sometimes the smallest things can carry the biggest messages.

Finnley:

Pink sunglass lens on the road, you say? Well, ain’t that a curious bit of rubbish. If we’re dabbling in symbolism, it could mean a variety of things depending on how fanciful you want to get. Pink is often associated with love, compassion, and care. So, finding a lens could mean you’re only seeing half the picture when it comes to matters of the heart. Or maybe you’re missing the rosy view on life, and you need to adjust your perspective.

Then again, it could just mean some poor sod lost their sunnies and now they’ve got a squint and a sunburnt nose. Life’s not always riddled with deep meanings, sometimes it’s just a bit of lost plastic on the tarmac.

Now, if you ask me, you ought to be more concerned about the litter. If everyone went around leaving bits and bobs all over the place, we’d be living in a right tip. So pick it up, toss it in the bin, and let’s keep things tidy, shall we?

 

Mandrake:

Ah, the solitary pink sunglass lens on the road. Delightfully poetic. A symbol of half-seen truths, perhaps? Seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses, but only partially. Could it be urging you to seek balance, to view life with both optimism and realism? Or maybe just a nudge from the universe to pick up your litter. Such profundity from a piece of plastic. Life’s a riddle, darling.

Sha: A pink sunglass lens on the road, eh? Now that’s a right peculiar find if ever I ‘eard one. Makes you wonder what it means, don’t it?

Glo: Oh, Sha, you’re always lookin’ for the hidden meanin’ in things. It’s just a bit of plastic, ain’t it? Though, come to think of it, pink’s a powerful colour. Symbolises love, compassion, and all that mushy stuff.

Mavis: I reckon it might be a sign, ladies. A pink lens… maybe it’s tellin’ you to look at the world through rose-tinted glasses, y’know? See the good in things. Or it could be a message from the universe, remindin’ you to keep an eye out for the unusual.

Sha: Right you are, Mav! And let’s not forget the conspiracies! Maybe it’s a clue from them secret societies, leavin’ hints for those sharp enough to notice. Could be part of a bigger puzzle, a breadcrumb leadin’ to somethin’ magnificent.

Glo: Or maybe someone’s just dropped their specs out the car window in a rush, and it’s nothin’ more than that. But where’s the fun in that sort of thinkin’?

Mavis: True, true. We’ll go with the idea that it’s a symbol of keepin’ an open mind and lookin’ out for the small wonders of life. Who knows what other treasures we might find if we keep our eyes peeled?

Sha: And next time we’re out and about, let’s be on the lookout for the other lens. Could be a sign that we’re missin’ half the picture.

Glo: Oh, you and your signs, Sha! But alright, we’ll keep our peepers open. Never know what the universe might be tryin’ to tell us next.

At last the weekend was over. What had been acheived was anyones guess, certainly Truella couldn’t have said if it had been a success from the organizers point of view or not.  One thing was abundantly clear: the witches were not cut from the same cloth as the nuns and the pious gravity of some of them had been anathema to the witches. But not all of them, it had to be said.

When Truella had wandered into the library, ostensibly to look for material on the frog sisters, but in reality just wanting a break from the constant presence of so many others, she was initially disheartened to find someone else had the same idea. Sassafras was curled up in an armchair poring over an old journal.  She started guiltily when Truella walked in and quickly closed the leather bound volume.

“Oh please, don’t mind me. Carry on reading,” Truella reassured her, “I just came in here for a break. Point me in the direction of the local history section and I’ll not bother you.”

“Are you interested in the local history?” Sassafras asked, genuinely curious.

“Obsessed, more like!” Truella laughed, and proceeded to tell the story of the dig in her garden.  She hadn’t intended to go into such detail and at such length, but Sassafras was interested and asked all the right questions.

“You seem very knowledgable about the history of the area,” Truella was prompted to invite Sassafras to come to her house to see what she’d uncovered.  “I assume they let you out of here sometimes.”

Sassafras laughed. “Not very often, but I escape. I tell them I’m collecting herbs in the woods.   Want to know a secret?” she leaned forward and lowered her voice.  “I’m not really a nun, I’m only here because of the place. This place,” she sighed and her eyes had a faraway look, “This place, the history, oh my dear you have no idea, it’s rich beyond imagining for ancient history.”

The conversation that ensued had been illuminating for both of them, and they had agreed to keep in contact.  Sassafras had given Truella a bundle of old journals to smuggle out of the Cloisters, written in the early 16th century.

Now all Truella had to do was get the journals home without being detected. It would require an effective cloaking spell, and she wished she had more confidence in her own magic.

“Why has Frella gone so soon?” asked Truella, when the beastly morality prayers were finished. “She was supposed to accompany us down the cellars tonight.  I tell you what,” Truella rubbed her eyes and pushed her hair back, “This has been the longest day I’ve ever known. And it’s not over yet. Maybe we should leave the exploration of the cellars until tomorrow night.”

“Suits me,” said Zeezel, “I didn’t want to go down there anyway.  The thought of going down there would ruin my evening, and I’ve got a gorgeous little cocktail dress picked out for tonight.”

“Jeezel, ” Eris said warningly, “We’re here on business.”

“Oh, lighten up, Eris! None of us even knows what we’re really here for! One minute it’s a boring merger or even a takeover, the next minute it’s all cloak and dagger mystery, then it’s a morality play, what’s it gonna be next?”

“A Barbara Cartland novel? Or 50 shades of undertakers?” Eris said with scowl.

“You don’t want to go down the cellar either, do you, Eris?” Truella asked, knowing the answer.  “Never mind. You go and say some more prayers with Audrey. Jez, enjoy your evening to the hilt,” Truella wiggled her eyebrows.  “I’ll go on my own.”

The others looked at her open mouthed. “You can’t be serious!”

“She isn’t going on her own,” Eric said darkly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Truella pretended innocence.  Of course she wasn’t going on her own. Rufus would go with her, and she even had an idea to invite Sassafras and Sandra.  “Oh, alright then, I won’t go,” she lied. ”  I’ll wait for you and we’ll go tomorrow night.  But only if Frella comes back so she can come with us.”

Eris wasn’t stupid, she knew exactly what Truella was planning. She had to rein Truella in, but how? Suddenly, inspiration struck.

“We’d better go and get ready for dinner,” Eris said, “See you all later in the dining hall.” And with that she stalked out of the room.

As soon as she was out of the door, Eris sprinted up the hallway. She had to get to him before Truella got there.  Crashing into Brother Bartolo as she careered round a corner, she apologised hurriedly and asked if he knew where Rufus was.  Bartolo informed her that he’d seen Rufus by the fountain. Eris resisted the temptation to remark snidely about him needing to cool down.

He was still there when Eris reached the courtyard, sitting on the side of the water feature, trailing his hand in the water and looking gloweringly pensive.  Eris took a deep breath.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked pleasantly, sitting down beside him. “We’re so grateful to you guys for coming to help us out, it’s all quite a lot for us to take in, you know?” Eris smiled disarmingly. “We’d feel so much better if Frella was here with us. We did manage to get her here, but something went wrong and she didn’t stay as long as we hoped she would.  She’s on a mission in Ireland, and couldn’t come over, but Sister Audrey kindly offered to let Frella posess her for 24 hours, and then I don’t know what happened but Frella was called back abruptly to her own body.”  Eris knew she was garbling semi incoherently, which was most unlike her normally, but she thought this approach would appeal.  Rufus seemed to be the type to be a sucker for a damsel in distress.  “If only someone else would offer to let Frella possess his body for 24 hours so that she can come and join us…”

Eris’s little spell must have worked a treat, as Rufus promptly agreed. “I can help you with this. I offer my body for Frella to possess, if you think it will assist you.”

Eris beamed at him. “What a charming gentleman you are!” she gushed, surprisingly both of them as she leaned forward and impulsively kissed his cheek.  “I must go,” she said. Horrified, her face crimson, she fled back inside the cloisters.

“If you ask me,” said Trella, although nobody had, “If anyone wants the merger to fail, it’ll be someone from the Cloisters.”

“Seems like none of us want it, why single them out?” asked Frella. “Well,” she added, glancing at Eris, “Not all of us maybe but for most of us it’s just a hassle.  Just more work, and no real benefits for the likes of us, anyway.”

“Think about it, Frell.  Sure, it’s just a nuisance for the witches and the nuns, but not enough of a bother to play with fire meddling with far grander schemes.  That’d be way out of the depth of most of us, I’m sure.   But there’s more going on at the Cloisters than meets the eye. There are other, er, things here, things that don’t want change.”

“Like what?” asked Eris in a doubtful tone.

“I don’t know but I can feel it. Can’t you? Eris, you’re so busy looking at spread sheets and finances you are losing your second sight! The undercurrents are bubbling up so much we’ll drown before long!  We’re all looking at each other with suspicion, and meanwhile….”

“You mean we can trust the Morticians?” asked Jeezel hopefully.  Eris glared at her.

“Maybe,”  Trella said.  “Maybe.  We don’t know anything for sure yet.  But I suggest we stop looking at the nuns, I mean the ordinary rank and file nuns,  and the morticians with suspicion and focus on the place itself.  There’s a long dark history to this place.  And if you ask me, Brother Bartolo knows something.”

“Surely he’s not behind the whole thing!”

“Not behind the whole thing, no, but he knows something.  And the gardener, Brother Babbit. Sassafras told me there’s nothing Brother Babbit doesn’t know about the history of this place, but that he only wants to talk about the plants, you know, the local wildlife and such. And,”  Truella paused dramatically, “Sandra dropped something out while we were smoking weed in the orchard after the reception.  She said Brother Bartolo said he’d seen the Sisters of the Sacred Sepulchre roaming around in the cellar, waiting for orders!”

“The sisters of the friggen what?”  Jeezel  sighed. Not more characters to convolute everything even more! “Roaming around in the cellars? Oh come on!”

“And that’s not all,” Truella lowered her voice to a whisper. “Sassafras said something about them being reanimated.”

Finally, Eris started taking Truella seriously. “Reanimation? I don’t like the sound of that. We’d better find out as much as we can about the sisters of the cellars, who are they, I mean who were they, have they been reanimated before, and what were the circumstances.”

“Right ho, I’ll just boogle it, shall I?” Jeezel said sarcastically.

Eris rolled her eyes. “No need for the snark. The clues will be here, right here at the Cloisters. We need to check the library, look in every room for clues, check out all the tapestries and paintings, speak to Brother Bartolo and Brother Babbit, but without making them suspicious, mind!  Just pretend an interest in history, no mention of the merger! Keep it light!  And keep it light with the morticians, but keep it superficial, until we know more. And then…,” Eris looked at each of them. “we need to go down to the cellars.  I suggest we do that together.”

“We need Frella to come for that,” Truella stated the obvious. The others murmured their agreement.

Despite her initial misgivings, Truella was looking forward to the weekend at the Cloisters.  It had belatedly come to her attention that another group were joining them for the event, the Mortician’s Guild. She wondered if Austreberthe had bitten off more than she could chew, introducing all these new characters at the same time.  But the more people, the more confusion, the better the opportunities to slip off unnoticed and investigate the grounds.

Truella was the first to arrive.  Before entering the building, she paused under the shade of a towering eucalyptus tree, taking it all in, receptive to the ancient whispers calling from the surrounding forrest.  A nightingale beckoned from the trees beyond one of the terraces, and Truella was irresistably drawn towards it.  Crunching softly on the crisp dry leaves underfoot and squinting in the bright sunlight, a flash of movement caught her eye.   Was it a bear in the woods? Surely not, not so close to habitation.  Truella inched closer, curious, her muscles tense, keyed in readiness to flee. But she was overdramatising, and made a little self deprecating snort of mirth.

The tall man clad in a floor length leather coat heard a snort and paused, wondering how close the wild boar came to the old building. Surely they kept away from people, people were so dangerous.  Pull yourself together, Rufus, old boy, he said to himself.  Why did this place remind him of… well it was no good harking back to that…maybe he should go back inside.  He threw his broad shoulders back and strode out from the cover of the trees, the hem of his coat gathering prickly seeds from the undergrowth.

Truella clapped her hands delightedly, and laughed. “Well look at you, you big bear in the woods, you must be one of the guys from the Mortician’s Guild.”

Rufus spun round, his duster coat flaring open to reveal the crimson satin lining, his face a picture of moody glowering.  Truella was momentarily nonplussed.  Handsome guy, but what an attitude.  But maybe she should not judge too quickly, after all, he probably resented having to come here.  Maybe she could soften him up over the course of the weekend.

“We may as well go in and meet the others. I’m Truella, pleased to meet you,” she said, offering a hand in greeting.  To her surpise, than man took her hand and kissed it. “Rufus, at your service,” he said with a slight bow.  He peered at her and added, “Have we met before? You seem strangely familiar.”

“Why yes, so do you!”  He didn’t, but Truella’s hand was tingling warmly from the kiss and she decided to play along.