Our father was a studious man, and as such, impressed the importance of good education on us from a very young age. I learned to read and write as early as I could. During the few times our father did acknowledge us, he brought home little stories that we read together before going to sleep; and then, in the dim light of a candle, I continued to read late into the night, when nobody else was awake.
----------------------------------------
Maria arrived at the cabaret a few hours before it opened for business, so it was uncharacteristically empty. The first person she saw was Jules with his broom and a smattering of grease on his face. Maria raised an inquisitive brow.
Jules responded with a rather defeated look. “Oh, so it’s bad, then?”
“Keep it off the finery, would you?” Maria said.
“Of course, Maria! Besides”—he ran his index finger over his charred skin, and then examined the residue—“it seems to have gotten stuck quite firmly.”
Maria sighed, wondering why she continued to keep him around, and remembering that the reason was his immense lack of social life—and his tight lips, which was a fairly good trait for somebody managing the cabaret’s hidden spaces.
“I assume the others are here?” Maria said.
Jules pointed, and Maria followed his stick-like finger. She often thought he must have played a good fiddle with those long, lithe fingers, but she kept this to herself.
Hermine and Josephine were seated around a table near the stage. Maria had only covered half the distance towards them when the main doors opened again, letting in a blade of light that bathed the visitor. Clad in full suit and pants (albeit, both slightly too large for him), he removed his bowl hat and limped to Maria, extending his hand and offering the most surefire smiles. “Ms Lucien, good morning,” he said. “And to the others.”
“Erm. Are you looking for something, Mister Compte?” Maria asked. She did not take his hand, and so Compte returned it to his side where he gripped a handkerchief, using it to wipe his large, sweaty forehead.
“I was alerted of an urgent matter,” he responded.
“I’m just wondering why you’re here, is all,” Maria said.
“Is it not my prerogative to be privy to such things?” He stuffed his handkerchief back inside a pocket in his suit. “Remember, we had a deal.”
“Oh spare me. And wipe that snarky smile from your lips, Josephine.” She met the girls at the table and took her seat. Compte sat across from her in the last free seat, uninvited. “Hermine, please enlighten me, what precisely is Compte doing here?” Maria asked.
“He’s not wrong. We have an agreement, no?” Hermine explained.
Maria rolled her eyes. She hated the politics of these things. It was no wonder it was not at the forefront of her mind—or anywhere close.
“You have my attention for ten minutes,” Compte warned importantly. “I have another meeting I ought to be present at. So speak up, what are we all doing here?”
“Thank you, Denis,” Maria said. “We’re blessed, we are.”
“It is all right, is it not, for him to be here?” Hermine asked.
“Thank you, Hermine. You’re right. He is entitled to be here. And he is here now.” Maria took a glass of red wine from the table and drank. “How much does he know?”
“He? He! I’m right here,” Compte said. “I know nothing. Carcassonne, something about Carcassonne, and that somehow despite the natural ways of things, it involves your more-than-decade-deceased brother, that self-righteous rat, Edgar.”
“Yes, unfortunately even in death, he finds a way,” Maria said, taking another sip of wine. As she returned the glass to the table, she said, “I imagine I will be leaving by the morning to take care of matters over there. My life’s become a habit of cleaning after my brother’s mess.”
Compte cleared his throat in a way that closer resembled a beast you would find in a swamp. “He, erm, is still...This sounds silly, but he is deceased, correct?”
“Only in body, it seems,” Maria said resignedly.
“Well what is the full story?” Compte asked.
She let Hermine explain it, while Maria waited. When she was done, and Compte appeared well-fed with information, Maria said, “I will have Hermine take care of matters at the cabaret in my absence, if she can handle that?”
“Of course,” Hermine said.
Maria looked at Josephine, then, the woman disengaged from the conversation. “And if Josephine will not deny my request, I would have her join me in Carcassonne?”
Josephine shrugged. “If you say so.”
Maria clicked her tongue, satisfied with that. It was not that she wanted the additional company in Carcassonne, but it was long ago ruled that witches of the cabaret move in pairs, if not groups, when venturing from Bellvoir. Maria was no exception to this, even if she did make exceptions for other things. Slowly, she turned her gaze from Josephine to the pallid-faced Compte, who seemed to be growing more restless by the minute.
“Now, as you are well aware, Mr Compte,” Maria intoned, “my previous absences from the cabaret have been seen as opportunities to cause a mess. For example, expensive parties late into the night, and that one time an unauthorised performance of Short Unreal happened. I’m safe in assuming this will not be the case this time? No sneak attacks from your end, I’m hoping.”
“Well.” Compte chortled, his brows kneeling inward as he looked around at the women, and raised his hands in surrender. “Well, no, of course not, Ms Lucien. How long do you anticipate your absence being? There is the matter of the new season, of course.”
“Why do you care so much about the season?” Josephine said. She looked more interested in her glass of wine, which she lifted to the light before taking a sip.
“Not to be blunt,” said Compte, defiantly, “but I don’t. I care that it is money in my pockets. And I do enjoy watching my pockets fill with money.”
Josephine groaned aloud. “Imbecile.”
“We should not be gone longer than a week, Mr Compte,” Maria said. “But Hermine can run things in my absence. She has done so before.”
“Very well,” Compte said. “Just...do whatever you have to. We done?”
“That’s all,” Maria said. Compte threw back his seat and grabbed his bowl hat from the tabletop, putting it back on his head. Pushing in his chair, he proclaimed to the party, “I wish you safe travels, and that whatever’s in Carcassonne provides little trouble for you. I will be awaiting to hear back upon your return. And say hello to the baron for me.” He walked off.
Maria was the next to stand, gathering the remainder of her wine and downing it in a last gasp. As soon as Compte was gone, she declared, “We shall leave tonight, then. Josephine?”
“Fine by me,” Josephine said.
Hermine stood, running hands through her long amber hair, the way she often did when she was overwhelmed. “I do hope it is quick.”
“As do I,” agreed Maria.
“How is the cabaret there?” Josephine asked as she joined the others on her feet.
“Bella runs that one,” Hermine said as she straightened her dress fabrics. “It’s smaller than ours, though does well-enough for itself. Bella is rather popular, I hear, and has run unchallenged for the past two elections, so there’s at least some stability.” Hermine looked at Maria. “You must know all of this, Maria, yes?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Perhaps a dumb question, but why was Edgar Lucien buried in Fosseville and not in Bellvoir?” Josephine inquired. “I can’t be the only one who thought he was buried here.”
Maria felt irritated at having to discuss her younger brother. These were not conversations she had needed to have with people prior to this, and she had liked it that way very much. “My brother, I suppose—and this is not exactly protected information—but he was not the greatest fan of the people, and particularly Bellvoir. You heard Compte, he regards Edgar as, I quote, ‘a rat.’ And he was; it’s one thing perhaps that Compte and I can agree on. Edgar would have despised having to remain in Bellvoir for eternity. Why Fosseville, though? He enjoyed it, in his time. No witches, nobody really who cared about the name. It’s a peaceful town. And my brother never had much peace in his lifetime.”
“It’s sick what they have done to his body,” Hermine mused. “Let a man rest, for God’s sake.” And with that, she gave a large sigh.
Maria addressed Josephine. “Perhaps return to the house and start packing,” Maria said. “There are other matters I must attend to before our departure. Oh, and Hermine, please, come with me. We’ll discuss pressing matters for the cabaret.”
“Precisely, Maria,” Hermine said.
“As you say,” Josephine said. “Maria. Hermine.” She took off, walking past them and out of the cabaret. Maria watched her go, the door swinging shut behind her.
#
Antoinette jumped out of the carriage and walked begrudgingly to the small building where Otto lived. Otto, whom Antoinette had met a number of times, lived in a small tenement set in a bland-looking housing block. It was the sort that attempted to host as many residents as possible while occupying as little space as necessary. As far as Antoinette was concerned, she would rather live on the streets than in such a dull and uninteresting place.
Sighing all the way to the building, she eventually rose up onto the tips of her toes and pulled open the front door. It was dimmer inside than it was out, by a margin, the lighting limited and hazy. With her bag of dancing shoes swaying, she crossed the entry hall to the elevator. “Mister Hesse’s office,” she said to the man operating it. He offered a cautious expression back, looking around apparently to see if there was anybody else with her.
“My mother put me on a carriage and sent me here to go with my uncle, Otto,” Antoinette said in a lazy drawl, not looking at the operator. “So, here I am.”
“Very well,” the operator said sceptically.
He opened the gate (it did not open quietly) and walked into the elevator with her. This was the only elevator that she knew of that was in Bellvoir. When she had asked Maria once about this, Maria suggested that she had never thought about it before.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The ground was shaky underfoot. The operator forced the gate closed and then wrapped his hands around the crank. Antoinette observed his hands; they were big and callused and wrinkly, like he was wearing three pairs of winter gloves over them. You could even see where the grease from the metal had actually become ingrained in his skin, staining it blackish.
“Don’t you ask questions?” Antoinette asked.
“Excuse me?” he said, starting to turn the crank, lifting the elevator upwards.
“Well, am I really here to meet Mister Hesse? Or are you even worried about my safety? Lots of bad people around Bellvoir, you know?”
The operator shrugged, and kept looking out at the passing bricks as they ascended the shaft. His big hands continued turning the crank, sweat shining in the tar.
“I’m a dancer,” Antoinette said, showing the shoes.
“Interesting,” the operator responded.
“My mama runs the cabaret. Well, she’s not my real mama. She adopted me when my real mama died when I was a baby, but I don’t really know much about her. I don’t even know my father, to be honest, but apparently he was quite boring, a gardener or something. I’ll leave Bellvoir when I’m old enough and become a dancer. What do you do when you’re not here?”
“Hmph,” he responded.
“Do people ever ask you to be quiet? You’re awful talkative.”
“Whatever, little girl.” They reached their destination and the operator seemed to be in a hurry to open the gate, yanking it aside with such force for a moment Antoinette thought the whole elevator might fall down, like he’d forgotten something.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” she said, skipping out as soon as the gate was open. The operator walked out behind her, avoiding her eyes; though, to be fair, it was a very long way down to find them. He checked the corridor both ways as Antoinette stared up at him.
“You just, uh, watch yourself,” he grumbled.
“Why thank you, you’re very thoughtful,” Antoinette responded.
She began to skip down the hall with her bag swinging. When she arrived at Otto’s room, he looked as prepared for guests as someone who had put a “no guests” sign on his door. His clothes, though fine, were not anytime recently ironed or, it seemed, washed; his hair was a right warfield, all tangled and spider-webby; his face, full of scruff.
“Maria didn’t...mention—” Otto said.
“No, well, it was very last-minute.” Antoinette showed him her dance shoes on the way in, as she peered around at the state of things.
Otto’s tenement was not by any means tiny, but smaller than what Antoinette was used to. No individual room was very large, yet each one joined straight with the next via high arches without doors. Tall bookshelves lined every wall except where Otto had carefully, or not so carefully, placed a fruit bowl painting. These things Antoinette looked at but didn’t pay much attention to. None of the decor seemed particularly significant, most of it likely purchased at cheap from an auction or store.
And thus she found herself throughout the evening working with Otto on a project that he seemed quite unwilling to let loose much information on. Her job was primarily in the furthest room of the tenement, a dusty and wretched-smelling space with boxes full of books, and a blackboard in the corner covered in things she didn’t have the slightest clue how to understand, but occasionally looked at for distraction from the books and to entertain herself.
“There are books in those boxes,” Otto had told her. “I want you to take them out of the boxes, get rid of any duplicates—those go in this box here—and sort the rest of them onto those shelves in order of subject, and then by author. These are inscribed on the inside of the front cover, so you’ll have to check each one before you put them back. And please, Antoinette, don’t make a mess of them. Unfortunately I just don’t have the patience nor the eyesight anymore to fix them. And don’t worry where they came from, all right?”
“Yes. Sure. Okay,” Antoinette responded.
By about an hour into the job, her hands were hurting and she was tired from constantly getting up and sitting down. The pain was mostly in her wrists, and her eyes were going all funny. Natural History. French Politics. Romance Literature. Every now and then, something grabbed her attention and she turned several more pages past the cover, only to be met with exhaustive lines of text that made her dangerously close to falling asleep.
“Tea, Antoinette?” Otto asked, appearing in the doorway.
“Why won’t you tell me where they all came from?” Antoinette asked, at last taking a break and sitting inside one of the empty boxes, poking out her neck.
“Well, it’s a complicated thing. They are varied. How do I say this, they are from many different places—even from around the world in some cases.”
“How do you get them here?” Antoinette asked.
“Again, that is a complicated thing,” Otto said. “Most of the ones you see here, I had previously in my house in Germany, where I come from. Do you know where Germany is? It is quite far from here. I had to put them on a boat. As for new deliveries, well, people send them sometimes. Or rather, I arrange with, how do you say, business partners, maybe. It’s all very complicated for a little girl to understand, you see.”
“Do you ever read them? Have you read any of them?”
“Some of them,” he said with a shrug.
“I don’t understand why you have so many!”
“Well, value in a book is not just to do with whether or not it is to be read by myself. Possessing such books is its own value, particularly many of these. Think of them as being...collectable. Yes, that’s a good way to put it. You collect anything?”
“I don’t collect anything,” Antoinette said.
“You wouldn’t understand, then. Anyway, would you like tea?”
“Okay, thank you. Any will do.”
Otto nodded, though delayed for a moment. He picked up a book that was sitting on a shelf and glanced at the cover, flipped it over. “Ah yes,” he said glumly. He tossed the book on a pile that immediately crumbled, and walked out. Antoinette watched the collapsed tower of books, more of them falling in a disorganised scatter on the dusty floorboards.
“Are you kidding,” she muttered.
She picked up a few more books and stacked them. Then sighing, she put them down and jumped out of the box, weaving out of the room. She heard Otto starting the fire in the kitchen, so she knew where not to go. Taking the other direction, Antoinette began wandering through the apartment on her quietest ballerina feet.
Let’s see what I can find in here, she thought. Into a cramped sitting room, she saw, again, little but bookshelves and the same boring decorations. Geez, give me something good.
She gently pushed on a closed door, peeking through the slit. Hazy sunlight lit the room like murky water in a pond. Her eyes darted, catching more and more things as slowly she creaked the door further. She saw a desk come into view, with a lamp on it. This must have been Otto’s private study, where she had never stepped foot in before. Usually he kept the door locked, or if not, kept his eyes on her so as not to let her wander too far. Then, if it wasn’t Otto keeping a watchful eye, it was Maria, who rarely sent her off alone.
“What do we have here?” Antoinette said.
Before she knew it, she was stepping inside with the door closing behind her. Her feet took her across the red rug in the middle of the room to the desk, where she went en pointe and peeked over the top, checking the contents of his table.
She slid a manuscript page from the table and looked at it.
To the attention of Mister Hesse,
The latest shipment contains several high-value copies of note. A number of manuscripts (7 of 55) contain reduced accuracy, although remain at or slightly above acceptable levels. As always, the complete inventory list is attached separately. These are being made available for distribution immediately.
As an aside, Dubose says there was an incident with a distribution house in Cristueux being investigated. Remember to maintain secrecy with your clients, and that we operate via word of mouth only. Please alert me should you believe your work is compromised.
This shipment contains the long-awaited Chateaubriand novel, which was delayed due to missing chapters. We believe this will be a popular release.
Antoinette’s lips formed the words on the page, and then she immediately threw it back on the desk, her eyes going wide. She glanced to the door, still closed.
She side-eyed the paper she had just finished reading.
This really made her feel like a cool detective. And, by the sounds of it, Otto was doing something very shady. Were all of these books...copies? Fakes! But what made him so important to be the one to have so many?
I feel like I should tell Maria about this. She jumped onto Otto’s chair and picked up some other bits of paper scattered around. She didn’t understand all of it. There were a lot of numbers, and where he’d made complete sentences of things, she couldn’t really read his handwriting. But there was something fishy going on, that was for sure. It was not normal for someone to have so many books, and now she had a feeling where they were coming from.
The floorboards creaked outside the door.
Heart jumping, she threw herself from the chair and ducked underneath the desk, nearly banging her head on the top. At around this moment, she heard the door open.
“Antoinette, are you here?” Otto called.
She held her breath, squeezing her eyes shut.
Otto remained at the door for a while, then eventually walked away, and Antoinette released her pinched breath. She climbed back up and slid from the table one of the pieces of paper, scrunching it deep into a pocket in her skirt.
When she returned to Otto in the kitchen, he had just finished brewing the tea and had two hot cups on the table. Antoinette seated herself opposite him, noticing he was writing something on another piece of paper. She tried, unsuccessfully, to peek at it.
“Where were you?” Otto said.
“I was just in the bathroom. Are you going to tell my non-existent mother?”
“Hmm.”
“Do all old men just go around saying ‘hm’ all the time? That’s exactly what the guy downstairs kept saying, like he had something stuck in his throat.”
“I’m not old,” Otto complained. “As for the elevator man, well, he is up there.”
Antoinette took a sip of tea, and hissed. “Hot!”
“It’s just off the stove, of course it is.”
“It’s just off the stove,” Antoinette repeated.
“Okay, little girl, I’m not going to play this game.” He drank an ungodly mouthful of tea and put his small glasses back on, continuing to write.
“I like your glasses,” Antoinette said.
“Oh, thank you,” Otto said without looking up.
Antoinette looked around, thinking about the various things in Otto’s kitchen. What she hadn’t noticed before was the clock, which looked antique and old, standing up against the wall. She also hadn’t noticed many other things, such as how the view outside the window was actually quite nice to look at, framing big trees and red roofs. A line of white birds stood perfectly along the steeple of one nearby, and she could have sworn they were watching her.
“Where is Maria, anyway?” Otto asked.
“Doing some cabaret thing. Her brother sent from Carca-whatever and I think she’s going to have to go there. You don’t have to worry, though, she’ll take me with her. Because last time she didn’t, and she promised she would take me next time. Which is this time.”
“Carcassonne?” he asked. “I wonder what that must be about.”
“Yeah. Same. She never tells me anything, that woman.”
Otto raised an eyebrow and shook his head.
By the time Maria returned to collect her, it was dark outside, and most of the books were organised on the shelves. Antoinette was tired, and while her hands had hurt before, they were incredibly sore now. She was lying down using some books as a pillow; her small, skinny legs kicked up in the air with her brand new shoes gleaming in the lamplight.
“Antoinette!” Otto called.
Antoinette climbed excitedly to her feet and ran out of the room, meeting Otto and Maria at the front door. “Finally!” Antoinette cried, throwing her arms around Maria. “Please, take me out of this crazy man’s home. He’s made me his slave!”
“Hey, don’t tell such lies!” responded Otto.
“Thank you, Otto,” Maria said. “I appreciate you keeping her here while I was away. I hope she behaved herself. Did you listen to Otto, Antoinette?”
Antoinette jumped backwards, stepping lithely on her dancing shoes. “Yes. Like I said, I was basically his slave for the whole day. You know how many books he has?”
Maria was looking around. “Yes, I imagine plenty.”
“She mentioned your brother sent word?” Otto said.
“Yes, well, I shouldn’t be surprised that she told you. My dull-headed brother requires me, but it’s nothing you or anyone need to be concerned about. I will see that I’m there as soon as possible to clean it up. You know Alfred, utterly incapable of solving anything himself.”
“Pardon me for prying, but what exactly might the nature of this be?” Otto asked. “Far as I have gathered, it is quite unusual for your brother to call your assistance.”
“It is a matter of witches, that is all.”
Otto groaned. “Hmph.”
“Can we go?” Antoinette asked, already at the door.
Maria and Otto said something else about coming back later that night so he could show her something before she left. Then, after a little while longer, as Antoinette slowly crept towards the front door, Maria turned from Otto and walked away. She gave Antoinette a look that indicated all-clear to depart, and Antoinette did not wait around.
They stood a few paces away from the carriage as the driver extinguished his cigarette and fed his horses some fat apples under the dim gas lamp glow.
“Antoinette, I will be leaving with Josephine first thing in the morning to Carcassonne,” Maria said quietly in the dark and empty street. “You will be staying in the house during this time, and if you are lucky, they will teach you a thing or two at the cabaret. You would enjoy that, won’t you? Perhaps one of the girls can teach you some dances?”
“Huh, but you said—”
“No,” Maria bit back. “I will not be taking you to Carcassonne. I’m sure you can understand that the business there is not simple. You wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“I would! I don’t want to be stuck here again.”
“Antoinette, that is my final word on it.”
“Well you can’t stop me. I’ll just catch a train.”
“You will not.”
“But ma—”
“Antoinette, stop it. I said no, and that means no. If you keep on fighting with me, I won’t let you come along next time, either, or the time after that.”
“Oh, like you would anyway!”
Maria gave off a hmph, same as the elevator man and Otto. They were all the same, all these old people. Angry and no-fun and treating her like she was no good at anything.
Antoinette crossed her arms and stamped her feet.
The carriage driver opened the door, soft yellow light spilling out onto the side of the street and illuminating Maria’s outfit. “Ready for you!” he called.
“I’m not coming,” Antoinette pouted. “You said.”
“So you’ll elect to remain here all night?” Maria said. “Where will you sleep? Cuddled up on the hard rock ground? And it gets miserably cold, too, but if you insist.”
Maria strode confidently to the carriage and did not look back as she vanished inside. The driver stared at Antoinette, and Antoinette stared at him, waiting for Maria to acknowledge her, to come get her and tell her to come in after all, but Maria did no such thing.
“Little one, I’m not waiting all night,” said the driver.
Antoinette lowered her eyes, her dance shoes hanging from her fingers, as she walked through the darkness to the carriage and got in. She did not look at Maria the whole ride back, staring out the window at the passing scenery, which became darker as they went.