Search Results for 'turning'

“Godfrey,” Liz peered menacingly over her spectacles at her increasingly rogue editor, “Are you trying to replace me? Because it won’t work, you know.”

“You won’t be able to replace me, either,” Finnley called over her shoulder while sweeping up mouse droppings.

“I too am irreplacable,” shouted Roberto who just happened to be passing the French windows with a trug of prunings.

On impulse, Liz dived through the French windows onto the terrace and snatched the secateurs from the trug over Roberto’s arm.  In a trice she had snipped through Godfrey’s cables.

“Pass the peanuts,” intoned Godfrey mechanically, deprived of electricity and with a low back up battery.  It wouldn’t be long before he was silent and Liz could get back to the business of writing stories.

“I’ll plug you back in, in a minute,”  hissed Finnley to Godfrey, while Liz was diverted with returning the secateurs to the gardener.  “Once she’s settled down.”

Base Klyutch – Dr. Markova’s Clinic, Dusk

The scent of roasting meat and simmering stew drifted in from the kitchens, mingling with the sharper smells of antiseptic and herbs in the clinic. The faint clatter of pots and the low murmur of voices preparing the evening meal gave the air a sense of routine, of a world still turning despite everything. Solara Ortega sat on the edge of the examination table, rolling her shoulder to ease the stiffness. Dr. Yelena Markova worked in silence, cool fingers pressing against bruised skin, clinical as ever. Outside, Base Klyutch was settling into the quiet of night—wind turbines hummed, a sentry dog barked in the distance.

“You’re lucky,” Yelena muttered, pressing into Solara’s ribs just hard enough to make a point. “Nothing broken. Just overworked muscles and bad decisions.”

Solara exhaled sharply. “Bad decisions keep us alive.”

Yelena scoffed. “That’s what you tell yourself when you run off into the wild with Orrin Holt?”

Solara ignored the name, focusing instead on the peeling medical posters curling off the clinic walls.

“We didn’t find them,” she said flatly. “They moved west. Too far ahead. No proper tracking gear, no way to catch up before the lionboars or Sokolov’s men did.”

Yelena didn’t blink. “That’s not what I asked.”

A memory surfaced; Orrin standing beside her in the empty refugee camp, the air thick with the scent of old ashes and trampled earth. The fire pits were cold, the shelters abandoned, scraps of cloth and discarded tin cups the only proof that people had once been there. And then she had seen it—a child’s scarf, frayed and half-buried in the dirt. Not the same one, but close enough to make her chest tighten. The last time she had seen her son, he had worn one just like it.

She hadn’t picked it up. Just stood there, staring, forcing her breath steady, forcing her mind to stay fixed on what was in front of her, not what had been lost. Then Orrin’s hand had settled on her shoulder—warm, steady, comforting. Too comforting. She had jerked away, faster than she meant to, pulse hammering at the sudden weight of everything his touch threatened to unearth. He hadn’t said a word. Just looked at her, knowing, as he always did.

She had turned, found her voice, made it sharp. The trail was already too cold. No point chasing ghosts. And she had walked away before she could give the silence between them the space to say anything else.

Solara forced her attention back to the present, to the clinic. She turned her gaze to Yelena, steady and unmoved. “But that’s what matters. We didn’t find them. They made their choice.”

Yelena clicked her tongue, scribbling something onto her worn-out tablet. “Mm. And yet, you come back looking like hell. And Orrin? He looked like a man who’d just seen a ghost.”

Solara let out a dry breath, something close to a laugh. “Orrin always looks like that.”

Yelena arched an eyebrow. “Not always. Not before he came back and saw what he had lost.”

Solara pushed off the table, rolling out the tension in her neck. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, it matters,” Yelena said, setting the tablet down. “You still look at him, Solara. Like you did before. And don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

Solara stiffened, fingers flexing at her sides. “I have a husband, Yelena.”

“Yes, you do,” Yelena said plainly. “And yet, when you say Orrin’s name, you sound like you’re standing in a place you swore you wouldn’t go back to.”

Solara forced herself to breathe evenly, eyes flicking toward the door.

“I made my choice,” she said quietly.

Yelena’s gaze softened, just a little. “Did he?”

Footsteps pounded outside, uneven, hurried. The clinic door burst open, and Janos Varga—Solara’s husband—strode in, breathless, his eyes bright with something rare.

“Solara, you need to come now,” he said, voice sharp with urgency. “Koval’s team—Orrin—they found something.”

Her spine straightened, her heartbeat accelerated. “What? Did they find…?” No, the tracks were clear, the refugees went west.

Janos ran a hand through his curls, his old radio headset still looped around his neck. “One of Helix 57’s life boat’s wreckage. And a man. Some old lunatic calling himself Merdhyn. And—” he paused, catching his breath, “—we picked up a signal. From space.”

The air in the room tightened. Yelena’s lips parted slightly, the shadow of an emotion passed on her face, too fast to read. Solara’s pulse kicked up.

“Where are they?” she asked.

Janos met her gaze. “Koval’s office.”

For a moment, silence. The wind rattled the windowpanes.

Yelena straightened abruptly, setting her tablet down with a deliberate motion. “There’s nothing more I can do for your shoulder. And I’m coming too,” she said, already reaching for her coat.

Solara grabbed her jacket. “Take us there, Janos.”

The corridor outside Mr. Herbert’s suite was pristine, polished white and gold, designed to impress, like most of the ship. Soft recessed lighting reflected off gilded fixtures and delicate, unnecessary embellishments.

It was all Riven had ever known.

His grandfather, Victor Holt, now in cryo sleep, had been among the paying elite, those who had boarded Helix 25, expecting a decadent, interstellar retreat. Riven, however had not been one of them. He had been two years old when Earth fell, sent with his aunt Seren Vega on the last shuttle to ever reach the ship, crammed in with refugees who had fought for a place among the stars. His father had stayed behind, to look for his mother.

Whatever had happened after that—the chaos, the desperation, the cataclysm that had forced this ship to become one of humanity’s last refuges—Riven had no memory of it. He only knew what he had been told. And, like everything else on Helix 25, history depended on who was telling it.

For the first time in his life, someone had been murdered inside this floating palace of glass and gold. And Riven, inspired by his grandfather’s legacy and the immense collection of murder stories and mysteries in the ship’s database, expected to keep things under control.

He stood straight in front of the suite’s sealed sliding door, arms crossed on a sleek uniform that belonged to Victor Holt. He was blocking entry with the full height of his young authority. As if standing there could stop the chaos from seeping in.

A holographic Do Not Enter warning scrolled diagonally across the door in Effin Muck’s signature font—because even crimes on this ship came branded.

People hovered in the corridor, coming and going. Most were just curious, drawn by the sheer absurdity of a murder happening here.

Riven scanned their faces, his muscles coiled with tension. Everyone was a potential suspect. Even the ones who usually didn’t care about ship politics.

Because on Helix 25, death wasn’t supposed to happen. Not anymore.

Someone broke away from the crowd and tried to push past him.

“You’re wasting time. Young man.”

Zoya Kade. Half scientist, half mad Prophet, all irritation. Her gold-green eyes bore into him, sharp beneath the deep lines of her face. Her mismatched layered robes shifting as she moved. Riven had no difficulty keeping the tall and wiry 83 years old woman at a distance.

Her silver-white braid was woven with tiny artifacts—bits of old circuits, beads, a fragment of a key that probably didn’t open anything anymore. A collector of lost things. But not just trinkets—stories, knowledge, genetic whispers of the past. And now, she wanted access to this room like it was another artifact to be uncovered.

“No one is going in.” Riven said slowly, “until we finish securing the area.”

Zoya exhaled sharply, turning her head toward Evie, who had just emerged from the crowd, tablet in hand, TP flickering at her side.

“Evie, tell him.”

Evie did not look pleased to be associated with the old woman. “Riven, we need access to his room. I just need…”

Riven hesitated.

Not for long, barely a second, but long enough for someone to notice. And of course, it was Anuí Naskó.

They had been waiting, standing slightly apart from the others, their tall, androgynous frame wrapped in the deep-colored robes of the Lexicans, fingers lightly tapping the surface of their handheld lexicon. Observing. Listening. Their presence was a constant challenge. When Zoya collected knowledge like artifacts, Anuí broke it apart, reshaped it. To them, history was a wound still open, and it was the Lexicans duty to rewrite the truth that had been stolen.

“Ah,” Anuí murmured, smiling slightly, “I see.”

Riven started to tap his belt buckle. His spine stiffened. He didn’t like that tone.

“See what, exactly?”

Anuí turned their sharp, angular gaze on him. “That this is about control.”

Riven locked his jaw. “This is about security.”

“Is it?” Anuí tapped a finger against their chin. “Because as far as I can tell, you’re just as inexperienced in murder investigation as the rest of us.”

The words cut sharp in Riven’s pride. Rendering him speechless for a moment.

“Oh! Well said,” Zoya added.

Riven felt heat rise to his face, but he didn’t let it show. He had been preparing himself for challenges, just not from every direction at once.

His grip tightened on his belt, but he forced himself to stay calm.

Zoya, clearly enjoying herself now, gestured toward Evie. “And what about them?” She nodded toward TP, whose holographic form flickered slightly under the corridor’s ligthing. “Evie and her self proclaimed detective machine here have no real authority either, yet you hesitate.”

TP puffed up indignantly. “I beg your pardon, madame. I am an advanced deductive intelligence, programmed with the finest investigative minds in history! Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Marshall Pee Stoll…”

Zoya lifted a hand. “Yes, yes. And I am a boar.”

TP’s mustache twitched. “Highly unlikely.”

Evie groaned. “Enough TP.”

But Zoya wasn’t finished. She looked directly at Riven now. “You don’t trust me. You don’t trust Anuí. But you trust her.” She gave a node toward Evie. “Why?

Riven felt his stomach twist. He didn’t have an answer. Or rather, he had too many answers, none of which he could say out loud. Because he did trust Evie. Because she was brilliant, meticulous, practical. Because… he wanted her to trust him back. But admitting that, showing favoritism, expecially here in front of everyone, was impossible.

So he forced his voice into neutrality. “She has technical expertise and no political agenda about it.”

Anuí left out a soft hmm, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but filing the information away for later.

Evie took the moment to press forward. “Riven, we need access to the room. We have to check his logs before anything gets wiped or overwritten. If there’s something there, we’re losing valuable time just standing there arguing.”

She was right. Damn it, she was right. Riven exhaled slowly.

“Fine. But only you.”

Anuí’s lips curved but just slightly. “How predictable.”

Zoya snorted.

Evie didn’t waste time. She brushed past him, keying in a security override on her tablet. The suite doors slid open with a quiet hiss.

Not knowing what else to do to calm his nerves Ellis took Finkley’s advice and took his box of postcards back down off the shelf. Extracting a random one from the middle of the stack he gazed at the picture of a lump of orange rock in the middle of a desert. Turning it over with trembling hands he tried to focus on the message.  It was written in a childish hand and mentioned an outing to the old Bundy place and that Mater had locked herself in her bedroom again, signed lots of love from Clove.

Ellis was trying to decipher the smudged postmark when Finkley barged in again.  “Ellis, sit down,” Finkley said pointlessly as Ellis was already seated. “Detective TP wants to talk to you about the murder victim.”

“But why? I don’t know anything about it.”

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t know anything, I can assure you. Nobody seems to know what’s going on, but TP says he wants to talk to you. Don’t shoot the messenger, Ellis, I’m as confused as you are.  You’re to go to his pod immediately.”  Seeing his discomfiture, Finkley added kindly, “I’ll come with you if you like.”

The Asylum 2050

They had been talking about leaving for a long time.

Not in any urgent way, not in a we must leave now kind of way, but in the slow, circling conversations of people who had too much time and not enough answers.

Those who had left before them had never returned. Perhaps they had found something better, though that seemed unlikely. Perhaps they had found nothing at all. The first group left over twenty years ago—just for supplies. They never came back. Others drifted off over the years. They never came back either.

The core group had stayed because—what else was there? The asylum had been safe, for the most part. It had become home. Overgrown now, with only a fraction of its former inhabitants. The walls had once kept them in; now, they were what kept the rest of the world out.

But the crops were failing. The soil was thinning. The last winter had been long and cruel. Summer was harsh. Water was harder to find.

And so the reasons to stay had been replaced with reasons to go.

She was about forty now—or near enough, though time had softened the numbers. Natalia. A name from a past life; now they called her Tala.

Her family had left her here years ago. Paid well for it, as if they were settling an expensive inconvenience. She had been young then—too young to know how final it would be. They had called her difficult, willful, unable to conform. She wasn’t mad, but they had paid to have her called mad so they could get rid of her. And in the world before, that had been enough.

She had been furious at first. She tried to run away even though the asylum was many miles from anywhere. The drugs they made her take put an end to that. The drugs stopped many years ago, but she no longer wanted to run.

She sat at the edge of the vegetable garden, turning soil between her fingers. It was dry, thinning. No matter how deep she dug, the color stayed the same—pale, lifeless.

“Nothing wants to grow anymore,” said Anya, standing over her. Older—mid-sixties. Once a nurse, before everything had fallen apart. She had been one of the staff members who stayed behind when the first group left for supplies, but now she was the only one remaining. The others had abandoned the asylum years ago. At first, her authority had meant something. Now, it was just a memory, but she still carried it like an old habit. She was practical, sharp-eyed, and had a way of making decisions that others followed without question.

Tala wiped her hands on her skirt and looked up. “We probably should have left last year.”

Anya sighed. She dropped a brittle stalk of something dead into the compost pile. “Doesn’t matter now. We must go soon, or we don’t go at all.”

There was no arguing with that.

Later, in the old communal hall, the last of them gathered. Eleven of them.

Mikhail leaned against the window, his arms crossed. He was a little older than Tala. He thought a long time before he spoke.

“How many weapons do we have?”

Anya shrugged. “A couple of old rifles with half a dozen bullets. A handful of knives. And whatever rocks and sticks we pick up on the way.”

“It’s not enough to defend ourselves,” Tala said. Petro, an older resident who couldn’t remember life before the asylum, moaned and rocked. “But we’ll have our wits about us,” she added, offering a small reassurance.

Mikhail glanced at her. “We don’t know what’s out there.”

Before communication went silent, there had been stories of plagues, wars, starvation, entire cities turning against themselves. People had come through the asylum’s doors shortly before the collapse, mad with what they had seen.

But then, nobody came. The fences had grown thick with vines. And the world had gone quiet.

Over time, they had become a kind of family, bound by necessity rather than blood. They were people who had been left behind for reasons that no longer mattered. In this world, sanity had become a relative thing. They looked after one another, oddities and all.

Mikhail exhaled and pushed off the window. “Tomorrow, then.”

THE SURVIVORS ON EARTH AND THE POSTMAN IN SPACE

The Marlowe Family.

Ellis Marlowe, retired postman, on ship:  born 1980. 70 years old in 2050.

Molly Marlow, his mother, born in 1957, 93 years old in 2050. Survivor on earth.

Ellis’s son Ethan Marlowe born 2010. 40 in 2050 and a survivor on earth.

Ethan’s daughter Tundra Marlowe, born in 2038. 12 in 2050 and a survivor on earth.

Ethan and his Ukrainian partner Nina Shevchenko, Tundra’s mother, disappear in 2039, not returning from an expedition to find one of Effin Muck’s Farsink communication stations to maintain contact with Ellis the postman in space.

Tundra is with her great grandmother Molly in the survivors group, who join with survivors from the mental facility.

Some ideas to pick apart and improve on:

Some characters:

• The Murder Victim: A once-prominent figure whose mysterious death on Helix 25 is intertwined with deeper, enigmatic forces—a person whose secret past and untimely demise trigger the cascade of genetic clues and expose long-buried truths about the exodus.
• Dr. Amara Voss: A brilliant geneticist haunted by fragmented pasts, who deciphers DNA strands imbued with clues from an ancient intelligence.
• Inspector Orion Reed: A retro-inspired, elderly holographic AI detective whose relentless curiosity drives him to unravel the inexplicable murder.
• Kai Nova: A maverick pilot chasing cosmic dreams, unafraid to navigate perilous starfields in search of truth.
• Seren Vega: A meditative archivist who unlocks VR relics of history, piecing together humanity’s lost lore. Mandrake her cat, who’s been given bionic enhancements that enables it to speak its mind.
• Luca Stroud: A rebellious engineer whose knack for decoding forbidden secrets may hold the key to the ship’s destiny.
• Ellis Marlowe (Retired Postman): A weathered former postman whose cherished collection of vintage postcards from Earth and early space voyages carries personal and historical messages, hinting at forgotten connections.
• Sue Forgelot: A prominent socialist socialite, descended from Sir Forgelot.
• Sharon, Gloria, Mavis: a favourite elderly trio of life-extended elders. Of course, they endured and thrived in humanity’s latest exodus from Earth
• Lexican and Flexicans, Pronoun People: sub-groups and political factions, challenging our notions of divisions
• Space Absinthe Pirates: a rogue band of bandits— a myth to make children behave… or something else?

Background of the Helix Fleet:

Helix 25 is one of several generation ships that were designed as luxury cruise ships, but are now embarked on an exodus from Earth decades ago, after a mysterious event that left them the last survivors of humanity. Once part of an ambitious fleet designed for both leisure and also built to secretly preserve humanity’s legacy, the other Helix ships have since vanished from communication. Their unexplained absence casts a long shadow over the survivors aboard Helix 25, fueling theories soon turning into myths and the hope of a new golden age for humanity bound to a cryptic prophecy.

100-Word Pitch:

Aboard Helix 25, humanity’s last survivors drift through deep space on a generation ship with a haunted past. When Inspector Orion Reed, a timeless holographic detective, uncovers a perplexing murder, encoded genetic secrets begin to surface. Dr. Amara Voss painstakingly deciphers DNA strands laced with ancient intelligence, while Kai Nova navigates treacherous starfields and Seren Vega unlocks VR relics of lost eras. Luca Stroud and Ellis Marlowe, a retired postman with vintage postcards, piece together clues that tie the victim’s secret past to the vanished Helix fleet. As conspiracies unravel, the crew must confront a destiny entwined with Earth’s forgotten exodus.

Amei attached a card and ribbon to the last of the neatly wrapped gifts and placed it under the tree. This one was for Paul—a notebook with a cover of soft fabric she’d block-printed with delicate, overlapping circles in muted blues and greens. The fabric was left over from a set of cushions for a client, but she had spent hours crafting the notebook, knowing all the while Paul probably wouldn’t use it. He was impossible to buy for, preferring things he picked out himself. Tabitha had been far easier: Amei had secretly made a dress out of a soft, flowing fabric that Tabitha had fallen in love with the moment Amei showed it to her.

The house felt calm for the moment. Tabitha had gone out earlier, calling over her shoulder that she’d be back in time for dinner. Amei smiled at the memory of her daughter’s laughter. Her excitement about Christmas was palpable, a bright contrast to the quietness that had settled over everything else. Amei used to feel like that about Christmas too. This year, though, she was only making the effort for Tabitha.

Somewhere down the hallway, Paul’s voice murmured on a call—distant, like everything about him lately. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and cloves from the mulled wine simmering on the stove, but even that warm, festive scent felt like it was trying too hard.

The house felt big, despite the occasional bursts of life it saw on days like this. It had felt that way for months now, the weight of unspoken things pressing against the faded walls.

She sighed and reached for the decoration box, pulling out a small clay angel with chipped wings. The sight of it made her pause. Lucien had given it to her years ago, one Christmas, and declared it “charmingly imperfect,” insisting it belonged at the top of her tree. She smiled faintly at the memory, turning it over in her hands. Every year since, it had held its place at the top of the tree.

“Still not done?” Paul’s voice cut into her thoughts. She turned to see him standing in the doorway. At the sound of Paul’s voice, Briar, their elderly cat—or technically Paul’s cat—emerged from behind the curtain, her tail curling as she wove around his legs. Paul crouched slightly to scratch behind her ears, and Briar leaned into his touch, purring softly

“She thinks it’s dinner time,” Amei said evenly.

“You always go overboard with these things, Amei,” Paul said, straightening and nodding towards the gifts.

“It’s Christmas,” she snapped, the irritation slipping through before she could stop it. She turned back to the tree, her fingers moving stiffly as she busied herself with strands of sparkly tinsel.

Paul didn’t respond, but she could feel his gaze linger. It was the silence that had grown between them in recent months, filled with everything they couldn’t bring themselves to say…yet.

The sound of the front door banging shut and brisk footsteps broke the tension. Tabitha burst past Paul into the room, her cheeks flushed from the cold. “Hey, Paul. Hey, Mumma Bear,” she said brightly. Her eyes lit up as they landed on the tree. “The tree looks gorgeous! Don’t you just love Christmas?”

Amei switched on the TV for background noise as she tackled another pile of books. The usual mid-morning chatter filled the room—updates on the weather, a cooking segment, and finally, the news. She was only half-listening until the anchor’s voice caught her attention.

“In the race against climate change, scientists at Harvard are turning to an unexpected solution: chalk. The ambitious project involves launching a balloon into the stratosphere, carrying 600 kilograms of calcium carbonate, which would be sprayed 12 miles above the Earth’s surface. The idea? To reflect sunlight and slow global warming.”

Amei looked up. The screen showed an animated demonstration of the project—a balloon rising into the atmosphere, spraying fine particles into the air. The narration continued, but her focus drifted, caught on a single word: chalk.

Elara loved chalk. Amei smiled faintly, remembering how passionately she used to talk about it—the way she could turn something so mundane into a story of structure, history, and beauty. “It’s not just a rock,” Elara had said once, gesturing dramatically, “it’s a record of time.”

She wasn’t even sure where Elara was these days. The last time they’d spoken was during lockdown. Amei had called to check in, awkward but well-meaning, only to be met with curt responses and a tone that made it clear Elara wanted the conversation over.

She hadn’t tried again after that. It hurt more than she’d expected. Elara could be all or nothing when it came to friendships—brilliant and intense one moment, distant and impenetrable the next. Amei had always known that about her, but knowing didn’t make it any easier.

The news droned on in the background, but Amei reached for the remote and switched off the TV. Her mind was elsewhere, tangled in memories.

She’d first met Elara in a gallery on Southbank, a tiny exhibition tucked away in a brutalist building. It was near Amei’s shared flat, and with her flatmates out for the evening, she had gone alone, more out of boredom than genuine interest. The display wasn’t large—just a few photographs and abstract sculptures, their descriptions dense with scientific jargon.

Amei stood in front of a piece labelled The Geometry of Chaos—a spiraling wire structure that cast intricate, shifting shadows on the wall. She tilted her head, trying to look engaged, though her thoughts were already drifting towards home and her comfy bed.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

The voice startled her. She turned to see a dark-haired woman, arms crossed, studying the piece with an intensity that made Amei feel as though she must have missed something obvious. The woman wore a long, flowing skirt, layered necklaces, and a cardigan that looked hand-knitted. Her dark hair was piled into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

“It’s quite interesting,” Amei said. “But I’m not sure I get it.”

“It’s not about getting it. It’s about recognizing the pattern,” the woman replied, stepping closer. She pointed to the shadows on the wall. “See? The curve repeats itself. Infinite, but contained.”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” she said. “Do you?”

Amei laughed, caught off guard. “Not very often. I think I’m more into… messy patterns.”

The woman’s sharp expression softened slightly. “Messy patterns are still patterns.” She smiled. “I’m Elara.”

“Amei,” she replied, returning the smile.

Elara’s gaze dropped, and she nodded toward Amei’s skirt. “I’ve been admiring your skirt. Gorgeous fabric. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, I made it, actually,” Amei felt proud.

Elara raised her eyebrows. “You made it? I’m impressed.”

And that was how it began. A chance meeting that turned into decades of close friendship. They’d left the gallery together, talking all the way to a nearby café.

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.

Spring 2024

Matteo was wandering through the streets of Avignon, the spring air heavy with the scent of blooming flowers and sun-warmed stone. The hum of activity surrounded him—shopkeepers arranging displays, the occasional burst of laughter from a café terrace. He walked with no particular destination, drawn more by instinct than intent, until a splash of colour caught his eye.

On the cobblestones ahead, an artist crouched over a sprawling chalk drawing. It was a labyrinthine map, its intricate paths winding across the ground with deliberate precision. Matteo froze, his breath catching. The resemblance to the map he’d found at the vineyard office was uncanny—the same loops and spirals, the same sense of motion and stillness intertwined. But it wasn’t the map itself that held him in place. It was the faces.

Four of them, scattered in different corners of the design, each rendered with surprising detail. Beneath them were names. Matteo felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He knew three of those faces. Amei, Elara, Darius… he had met each of them once, in moments that now felt distant and fragmented. Strangers to him, but not quite.

The artist shifted, brushing dark, rain-damp curls from his forehead. His scarf, streaked faintly with paint, hung loosely around his neck. Matteo stepped closer, his curiosity overpowering any hesitation. “Is that your name?” he asked, gesturing toward the face labeled Lucien.

The artist straightened, his hand resting lightly on a piece of green chalk. He studied Matteo for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said simply, his voice low but clear.

Matteo crouched beside him, tracing the edge of the map with his eyes. “It’s incredible,” he said. “The detail, the connections. Why the faces?”

Lucien hesitated, glancing at the names scattered across his work. “Because that’s how it is,” he said softly. “We’re all here, but… not together.”

Matteo tilted his head, intrigued. “You mean you’ve drifted?”

Lucien nodded, his gaze dropping to the chalk in his hand. “Something like that. Paths cross, then they don’t. People take their turns.”

Matteo studied the map again, its intertwining lines seeming both chaotic and deliberate. The faces stared back at him, and he felt the pull of the map he no longer carried. “Do you think paths can lead back?” he asked, his voice thoughtful.

Lucien glanced at him, something flickering briefly in his eyes. “Sometimes. If you follow them long enough.”

Matteo smiled faintly, standing. His curiosity shifted as he turned his attention to the artist himself. “Do you know where I can find absinthe?” he asked.

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Absinthe? Haven’t heard anyone ask for that in a while.”

“Just something I’ve been chasing,” Matteo replied lightly, his tone almost playful.

Lucien gestured vaguely toward a café down the street. “You might try there. They keep the old things alive.”

“Thanks,” Matteo said, offering a nod. He took a few steps away but paused, turning back to the artist still crouched over his map. “It’s a good drawing,” he said. “Hope your paths cross again.”

Lucien didn’t reply, but his hand moved back to the chalk, drawing a faint line that connected two of the faces. Matteo watched for a moment longer before continuing down the street, the memory of the map and the names lingering in his mind like an unanswered question. Paths crossed, he thought, but maybe they didn’t always stay apart.

For the first time in days, Matteo felt a strange sense of possibility. The map was gone, but perhaps it had done what it was meant to do—leave its mark.

Mon. November 25th, 10am.

The bell sat on the stool near Lucien’s workbench, its bronze surface polished to a faint glow. He had spent the last ten minutes running a soft cloth over its etched patterns, tracing the curves and grooves he’d never fully understood. It wasn’t the first time he had picked it up, and it wouldn’t be the last. Something about the bell kept him tethered to it, even after all these years. He could still remember the day he’d found it—a cold morning at a flea market in the north of Paris, the stalls cramped and overflowing with gaudy trinkets, antiques, and forgotten relics.

He’d spotted it on a cluttered table, nestled between a rusted lamp and a cracked porcelain dish. As he reached for it, she had appeared, her dark eyes sharp with curiosity and mischief. Éloïse. The bell had been their first conversation, its strange beauty sparking a connection that quickly spiraled into something far more dangerous. Her charm masking the shadows she moved in. Slowly she became the reason he distanced himself from Amei, Elara, and Darius. It hadn’t been intentional, at least not at first. But by the time he realized what was happening, it was already too late.

A sharp knock at the door yanked him from the memory. Lucien’s hand froze mid-polish, the cloth resting against the bell. The knock came again, louder this time, impatient. He knew who it would be, though the name on the patron’s lips changed depending on who was asking. Most called him “Monsieur Renard.” The Fox. A nickname as smooth and calculating as the man himself.

Lucien opened the door, and Monsieur Renard stepped in, his gray suit immaculate and his air of quiet authority as sharp as ever. His eyes swept the studio, frowning as they landed on the unfinished painting on the easel—a lavish banquet scene, rich with silver and velvet.

“Lucien,” Renard said smoothly, his voice cutting through the silence. “I trust you’ll be ready to deliver on this commission.”

Lucien stiffened. “I need more time.”

“Of course,” Renard replied with a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We all need something we can’t have. You have until the end of the week. Don’t make her regret recommending you.”

As Renard spoke, his gaze fell on the bell perched on the stool. “What’s this?” he asked, stepping closer. He picked it up, his long and strong fingers brushing the polished surface. “Charming,” he murmured, turning it over. “A flea market find, I suppose?”

Lucien said nothing, his jaw tightening as Renard tipped the bell slightly, the etched patterns catching the faint light from the window. Without care, Renard dropped it back onto the stool, the force of the motion knocking it over. The bell struck the wood with a resonant tone that lingered in the air, low and haunting.

Renard didn’t even glance at it. “You’ve always had a weakness for the past,” he remarked lightly, turning his attention back to the painting. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t disappoint.”

With that, he was gone, his polished shoes clicking against the floor as he disappeared down the hall.

Lucien stood in the silence, staring at the bell where it had fallen, its soft tone still reverberating in his mind. Slowly, he bent down and picked it up, cradling it in his hands. The polished bronze felt warm, almost alive, as if it were vibrating faintly beneath his fingertips. He wrapped it carefully in a piece of linen and placed it inside his suitcase, alongside his sketchbooks and a few hastily folded clothes. The suitcase had been half-packed for weeks, a quiet reflection of his own uncertainty—leaving or staying, running or standing still, he hadn’t known.

Crossing the room, he sat at his desk, staring at the blank paper in front of him. The pen felt heavy in his hand as he began to write: Sarah Bernhardt Cafe, November 30th , 4 PM. No excuses this time!

He paused, rereading the words, then wrote them again and again, folding each note with care. He didn’t know what he expected from his friends—Amei, Elara, Darius—but they were the only ones who might still know him, who might still see something in him worth saving. If there was a way out of the shadows Éloïse and Monsieur Renard had drawn him into, it lay with them.

As he sealed the last envelope, the low tone of the bell still hummed faintly in his memory, echoing like a call he couldn’t ignore.