Chapitre Deux: Le Moindre

It was a journey of half a day. Within the first hour, the leadmost wagon entered the shade of the treeline. A familiar mist creeped up from the surface of the road, sliding up, up, until it swallowed the very tops of the covered wagons. The group of five within Marie Séraphine’s wagon watched through the distortions of the stained glass windows, tense. Just like last night, the mist swallowed horse and wagon and tree alike until everything was muffled and dim. The once-sunny day became colorless and chilly.

Within the wagon, the five companions crowded together on the available seats. Marie Séraphine sat in the driver’s bench at the front, visible only through a small window slot. Just behind her, a platform could be reached by a comically short ladder. This was clearly the bed, piled up with blankets and cushions decorated in the traditional Vistani style. The sides of the wagon, beneath the casement-style stained glass windows, were mainly taken up by benches. Beneath the benches were drawers for storage. In the limited space, every inch was in use. The area behind the door was lined with pegs set into the walls upon which hung iron pots and pans and spoons. The roof (which was shingled like a house, and supported by small rafters on the inside) was lined with a hemp net into which items unlikely to see use during travel were stored. Though the benches were more than long enough for the five of them to sit in theory, in reality they were piled up with clothes and tools and a thousand strange gizmos like the ones Illyan wore. Each one was scrunched up against another or against an uncomfortable pile of personal effects.

In fact, the corner Illyan had installed himself in seemed to be his usual work area. There was a tiny ledge upon which he stored fine tools in easy reach. He had pulled a project of some kind onto his lap and appeared to be absorbed in fiddling with it, despite the bumps and rattles of the road. It was some unfathomable mess of clockwork gears and leather, which he seemed to be sewing white feathers onto with a thick, curved needle.

“...two gold,” Oskar was complaining.

“That don’t sound fair at all, ami,” Illyan agreed. “Two gold’s the wealth of kingdoms.”

“It’s for emotional damages,” Valentina argued. “The poor maid threw up!”

“Not my fault their maid has a weak stomach,” Oskar growled.

“Yes, who has not seen guts of deer strewn about hotel room? Very normal sight.”

“I only had ten gold altogether.”

“One should not form attachments to earthly wealth,” muttered Jinghua, who had never seen ten gold altogether in her life.

“Speaking of which,” Valentina dug into her pockets, retrieving a few items. “You all noticed that the loot followed us back from the astral dream, right? I sold the blank journals we found but I kept the will and the deed to the windmill.”

“Can I see?” Illyan freed up a hand from his sewing project to take the deed from Valentina. Their eyebrows arched. “Can’t be sure, but this looks like the mill atween Barovy and Vallac.”

“Do you know anything about it?”

“Bad-bad place. All Vistani say to keep away.” He handed the deed back.

“Well, that’s promising.” She tucked it away again. “I also have this topaz and platinum necklace. Might sell the cord, anyone need a gem for a component?”

“I will, later, if it’s not too much trouble,” Illyan volunteered.

Valentina handed the pendant over without complaint. “Anything else we should know about Barovy before we get there?”

Illyan rolled his two-toned eyes towards the ceiling in thought, tapping the curved needle against his lips. “Eh bien… The valley’s in its own plane, so non-Vistani can’t get through the mists on their own. If you leave the road, there’s all kinds of monsters. Oh, and if you die in Barovy, your soul can’t escape. The ravens will carry it inside of ‘em. Think that’s about it.”

“Is that all?” Valentina muttered.

The Imbert family wagon rattled down the road for an hour before they came to a slow, rolling stop. Marie Séraphine’s face appeared in the window, calling back.

“We’re goin’ through the gates now, chers. Be there soon-soon.”

Valentina opened the casement window as wide as she could, craning to see as much as she could of what was ahead of them. The other wagons and horses blocked much of her view until they were right on top of the gates. Or rather, right underneath them. The gates in question loomed dozens of feet high, wrought iron far too large and heavy for any mortal to pull open. The gateposts were brown stone carved in the shape of humanoid bodies, so weathered and moss-covered that the details were long lost. The silence of the forest and the heavy mist around them lent the moment a solemn, eerie air.

Through the small windows on the back door, she was able to watch as the massive gates swung closed behind them all on their own, still in eerie silence.

“Shut the windows,” Sveta said. “Is chilly.”

The journey after that lasted another hour. There was little to see outside of the windows except more mist and dark trees. The wheels of the wagons rattled over drifts of fallen acorns and deep ruts in the dirt road. They splashed through pools of still water which reflected the white sky above. There was no sound of birdsong, only the huff of the horses and the creak of the wagons. A few of the Vistani wagons and horses had been decorated with brass bells which chimed softly, contriving to sound almost shy in the oppressive silence of the forest.

Eventually, they came upon a village.

The town of Barovy was a farming village, with fields that stretched away into the damp distance. The fields were mainly barren at this time of year, filled with the brown remains of dying crops. Black birds hopped around in the fields. They passed one lumpy figure covered in pecking birds which Valentina first thought was a corpse. A pecking beak rose triumphantly, trailing a small bundle of straw instead of flesh. The figure was a scarecrow, ripped from its pole and torn apart by the birds. The edges of the fields were delineated by half-hearted segments of fence created by lashed-together branches in X shapes. Stagnant water gathered algae in the furrowed rows.

The village itself was surprisingly large, but huddled into itself like a man sinking into his collar against a light rain. The smaller buildings were brown stone with slate-shingled roofs, usually only one or two stories. Taller, narrower buildings displayed half-timbered facades over plaster. Nearly every building poured sluggish smoke from its chimney, further hazing the air. The streets became cobbled with round stones that gleamed with the damp as the buildings grew denser. It was this transition which seemed to signal the Vistani. The wagons bumped off of the road to pull into a large, grassy area just before the village proper. It might have been considered a village green, except that the grass was all crunchy yellow. It seemed tailor-made for this exact purpose, the Vistani caravan rattling in to fill it up with the ease of a man slipping on a pair of old boots.

By the time the Imbert family wagon came to a gentle rest by the side of the road, many other Vistani’s wagons were already disgorging their occupants. The Vistani made busy blocking wheels, unhitching horses, and unpacking their camp into the same comfortable sprawl it had been outside of Daggerford. To Oskar’s surprise, the silence and dimness of their surroundings didn’t seem to deter the Vistani at all. They still chattered and laughed loudly, lighting fires and singing songs to fill the monochromatic air with color. The flutist from before took up their tune once more, unselfconscious about how the sound must be carrying into the village.

Illyan packed away their project and hastened to fold down the stairs. The others tumbled gratefully out of the cramped space. Marie Séraphine approached, making shooing gestures at her offspring.

“You go on to the ‘ouse, now, I’ll get set up here. C’mon back once you know ‘ow things are.”

She took over freeing their horses from their harnesses and unpacking their belongings. Illyan awkwardly left her to it, clearly not used to being released from what was an everyday process for the Vistani; like his mother had given him permission to leave without dressing. He gestured up the road.

“Eh bien, follow me, I s’pose.”

They led the others through the streets of Barovy with practiced familiarity. The whole area was so quiet as to seem deserted. It gave the impression of walking through the streets at midnight rather than dinnertime. Not a soul was in sight walking the streets with them. Most of the houses had glowing yellow lanterns hanging by their doors; lit against the creep of the fog. What signs there were were mainly painted in muted colors, with simple pictographs above cursive letters. Le Charcutier, Le Boutique, Le Boucherie. Water dripped sluggishly from gutter pipes into rain barrels. Many windows were boarded up or barred with iron. Some few had window boxes hanging beneath them, though all they contained was dirt. Somewhere, a stray cat yowled for all it was worth.

A few streets ran together to form a triangular intersection. At the corner of this was a large building showing more life than the majority of the town. Light glowed from the shuttered windows, and the sound of chatter and even muted laughter could be heard from behind the slats. Smoke poured from the fat brick chimney. Its facade was bare stone on the first storey and plastered on the second. The sign above the door had once read Le Sang de la Vigne, but the de had been scribbled over until it read Le Sang sur la Vigne. Beside the words was a depiction of a vine bearing a cluster of red grapes. From the grapes dripped a red blot that might have been wine or blood.

Illyan led them past this, down another street which meandered south. Here, the buildings were tall and stately. Many boasted small, round turrets capped in slate. Some window boxes here sprouted a few scraggly blossoms. Even so, one barred window leaked the sound of a desolate woman’s sobs as they went past.

“Is that… normal?” Valentina whispered.

Illyan hardly glanced at the house. “From Mad Maryse’s ‘ouse? Ouais, that’s normal.”

They walked on in disquiet. The buildings stretched out, taking up more of the street space, and gaps between each one opened up. At last, no more buildings lined the street. The cobbled path became dirt once more as it led through yellow grass and the bones of ancient, dead hedges towards a single château.

The château must once have been luxurious. Entirely constructed of pale stone, it consisted of a central building flanked by two wings. Every room had tall, narrow windows paned in clear glass with cross-hatched lead joins. The sills and lintels of these windows were carved with medallions and curling vines. In between each window, lion heads snarled with bared teeth. The roofs were shingled in blue-gray slate polished smooth in ribs and cones. The area around the building had once been a garden, the edges delineated by box hedges. A dirt path circled the building, leading towards a drive at the front steps and around back where the stables and carriage-house must be.

As it was now, the château looked hunted. It seemed to hunch up where it sat, an animal trying to protect the vital points of its anatomy. The pale sides of the building were streaked with dirt and soot. The ground around the building had been trampled into mud, no grass or decorative plants remaining. Every glass window was shattered, the holes of them plugged by planks nailed into place. No light glowed from within. No sound carried across the open stretch of mud surrounding the foundations. A raven wheeled overhead against the white clouds.

Illyan took a single, jogging step before their elbow was seized by Sveta.

“Wait. Look.” She pointed. In addition to the soot, the sides of the building bore long, deep scratches like beasts had been clawing at them. “House was not like this before?”

“No,” Illyan breathed. “Que diable…?”

“We should not approach carelessly,” Oskar advised. “There’s no way to hide as we get closer.”

“Is anyone even inside?” Valentina wondered. “It looks abandoned.”

“My family is inside,” the genasi said, darkly.

We hope, nobody added.

“…We could go up and knock?” Valentina suggested.

“What if people inside are not family?”

“We need a way to scout inside,” Oskar decided.

“I could go down chimney,” Sveta said, doubtfully. The others eyed her figure with equal doubt.

“Could you?” Jinghua voiced it. Though slim and knobbly as a birch branch, Sveta was tall. Her shoulders and hips were within normal dimensions for an adult human woman. The chimney, as far as they could tell, was not. It would be possible for her to slide down it, but it would be a challenge.

Sveta made a gesture with her hands like something shrinking down. “Can use unsealed powers. Become mouse or sparrow. Go right down chimney.”

“You can do that?” Valentina gasped.

“Can do twice. If I do here, maybe cannot become something big and scary if there is fight.”

“Also, if there’s danger in the house, you’ll be facing it as a mouse or a sparrow,” Jinghua pointed out. “What if you can’t get back out to us?”

“What about the windows?” Valentina pointed out. “Can you see from back here? Are they boarded up on the outside or the inside?”

“The outside, looks like.”

“Phooey. If they were on the inside, we could just…” she shoved at the air, miming pushing the boards right off the nails.

“I could try burning through ‘em,” Illyan suggested. “They’re wood, no matter what.”

“Can we please just decide on something?” Oskar growled.

In answer, Illyan approached the house. The others hurried along behind them. Together, they crossed the no-man’s-land of churned mud that surrounded the château. If the windows hadn’t been blocked, they would have been visible from every single one of them on this side of the building. They approached, moving neither quickly nor slowly, coming to a stop beside the front staircase. There was a window here which Illyan inspected closely, prodding at the nails.

“Oskar, give me a hand,” Jinghua gestured towards the roof overhead. The leonine tabaxi went down on one knee, lacing his fingers to form a stirrup of his hands. With a skipping hop, the harengon bounced off of this and sailed easily up to the roof. She balanced there as light as a feather on the wind.

Meanwhile, Illyan was snapping his fingers, creating an orange flame at their tips. This, he held to the boards across the window. The little flame licked across the wood to no visible effect. It did not catch. Frowning, the genasi snapped again, snapped, “Enkindle a ‘eart!”

The fire poured down from fingertips to fill his palm, then sprang forward in a long tongue. The red flickers splashed against the wooden planks, leaving behind no trace. Illyan looked at the unscathed window like a cat looked at someone who had just flicked water at it.

Meanwhile, Jinghua darted around on the roof. She peered into the chimney, eyes squinted. There was no smoke coming out, and the bricks were cold to the touch. The dark shaft of the chimney was utterly pitch black; no light could be seen at the bottom. A faint smell of rot drifted up.

Jinghua hurried back to the gutter. “I don’t think we can get in through the chimney,” she reported. Then, flatly and in the exact same tone, “Someone catch me.”

She flung herself off the roof. Illyan, caught by surprise, lifted their hands. The weight of an adult harengon crashed against the muscles of an artificer. Both of them hit the ground hard. Jinghua stood up and dusted herself off, casual as anything, while Illyan pressed a hand to his abdomen and wheezed.

“Window ain’t… burning, either…”

“Let me try.” Oskar bent his shoulder and went at the window with a series of side-tackles. Sveta joined him. Neither was able to so much as crack the planks across the window. After a few minutes, both stopped, breathing hard. The woman massaged her shoulder at the point of impact while the tabaxi let his jaw hang open. Illyan slowly levered himself upright. Valentina surveyed them all, hands on hips.

“...Can I make a suggestion?” the girl ventured.

“Yeah?”

“Can we try knocking?”

With a hangdog air, the group gathered themselves and ascended the château’s front staircase. The door was not boarded shut, but it bore plenty of signs of abuse. What little remained of the red paint was hatched with deep claw marks and long streaks of soot. Splinters stood out from the damaged doors like a forest in miniature.

Illyan carefully avoided these as they rapped their knuckles on the door.

No sound could be heard from the other side.

“Père? Vicomte Imbert? Ismaël, Irénée? Anybody ‘ear me in there?” they called. There was another long silence. Illyan knocked again. “It’s Illyan!”

A soft voice came through the door. “Illyan?”

The voice was quiet, but distinctly feminine. Its accent was like the little ghost girl Rosette’s, only superficially similar to Illyan’s stronger twang. The others were beginning to understand that this was the standard Barovian native accent–one which drew every i into a long ee sound, shortened every th to a t, and completely eliminated h sounds. The rs were guttural, back-of-the-throat noises, while the ns came from deep within the nose.

Illyan’s face crumpled with relief. “Irénée, that you? Let me in.”

“Is it really you, Illyan?” the voice came again. It was extremely faint, almost dreamy.

“Course it is. Irénée, it’s me. Remember ‘ow you used to save me some of the chocolate bread whenever I stayed overnight? Even though Ismaël tried to eat it all?”

“You sound like ‘im. I wish…” Irénée’s voice trailed off.

“Are you ‘urt? Let me in!” Illyan insisted.

“No. No, I cannot. Do not ask. You sound like ‘im.”

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“I am ‘im! Irénée, what’s wrong with you?” The splinters were all that kept Illyan from pasting himself to the door. He danced from foot to foot, visibly agitated by the certainty that his sister was on the other side and clearly unwell. Equally worrying was the way neither brother nor father was answering. This voice, it sounded just like his sister. Whether she was in her right mind, possessed or charmed or what-have-you, that was in question. Illyan couldn’t forget that in Barovy, people were to be trusted least of all. It hurt with a deep pain in their chest for this to be applied where it never had before, to their family.

“We break this door?” Sveta suggested.

“We couldn’t even break the window,” Oskar groused.

“Maybe we should start by finding out what happened,” Jinghua suggested. “Someone in town must know. This didn’t happen subtly.” She indicated the massive burn and claw marks on the mansion, then the field of trampled ground around it.

“Maybe they aren’t answering because your father and brother aren’t inside. If she’s barred the door against her family, that could include them,” Valentina pointed out. “Is there anywhere in town you’d look for them, knowing they weren’t at home?”

“Both of those plans start at the tavern,” Illyan decided. “Le Sang sur la Vigne. That’s always where Ismaël is. Also the place to ask around for gossip.”

The group seemed resolved, but the genasi hesitated. While the others trooped down the château’s stairs, he lingered.

“...I’ll be back later, Irénée. ‘Old on till I can ‘elp you.” He said this quietly, only half-intending for the sound to actually make it through the door. There was no response to indicate it had. Illyan hurried after the others as they made their way back across the no-man’s-land. Once more, the sound of Mad Maryse’s sobs followed them as they wound their way back through town, to the intersection where Le Sang de la Vigne sat. This time, they approached the front door and tested it, finding it open.

The warmth of a roaring hearth fire instantly warmed their damp-chilled bodies as it swung open. The subdued sounds of conversation paused. The taproom within was rough, but welcoming. Clusters of tables filled the space between the door and the bar in the back, which was manned by a large man wiping down glasses. At a table by the door was a cluster of giggling Vistani women. Most other tables held one or two Barovians in sober colors. The only other group was at the back of the room, at a table covered in empty beer mugs. The man at the head of the table was just entering his thirties, with a sweep of wavy blond hair and a strong jaw. He wore a black leather jerkin with silver rivets. He was in the middle of an animated story as the motley group entered, pausing as his attention was caught. His eyes landed almost immediately on the glowing hair and bright clothes of Illyan. They instantly crinkled into a wide smile. A booming voice called across the room.

“Frèrot! You’re back!”

“What did he just call you?” Oskar bristled.

Ignoring him, Illyan strode forward with a cautious smile. “Ismaël, ça va?”

As soon as he was close, Illyan was caught in a massive bear hug. The petite genasi was completely enveloped and lifted easily up to his toes. There were obvious muscles beneath the large man’s sleeves. Standing, he equalled Oskar’s height and breadth.

“Ça va, ça va, I’m so glad to see you well!” the large man who was clearly Ismaël laughed, shaking his armful of genasi back and forth. At last, he let go, both of them dropping to their heels with vastly different expressions on their faces. “And who is this?” His voice had the same musical lilt as Irénée’s and was actually even lighter in pitch than Illyan’s despite their disparity in sizes.

By tacit agreement, the Barovians who had surrounded him melted away, scattering to nearby tables in muttering groups. Oskar, Sveta, Valentina, and Jinghua took their place seated around Ismaël’s table.

“These are my new friends,” Illyan said. “Oskar ‘Ill, Valentina Delarossa, Xiao Jinghua, and Sveta.”

As he was introduced, Ismaël’s eyes circled the table. When it came to Valentina, they stuck in place, staring. “Valentina?”

“Um. Yes? Nice to meet you,” Valentina bobbed her head. Ismaël shook the moment off a second later.

“Ismaël Imbert, enchanté. Friends of Illyan’s are friends of mine.”

Nods were exchanged all around the table.

“Ismaël, what’s wrong with Irénée?” Illyan cut to the heart of it.

That wide smile slipped off of Ismaël’s face. He blew out a sigh, combed fingers through his fringe, and slumped until his elbows rested on the surface of the table. “That’s… a complicated answer, frèrot.”

“So explain it.”

“She ‘as… I guess, the way to say it… She was bitten.”

“Bitten?” Oskar blinked. “By what?”

“By whom.” Ismaël sighed again. “The devil Strahd.”

A shock when around the table.

“What,” Illyan grated, “does that mean.”

“It means what I said. I don’t know ‘ow ‘e met her, but Strahd ‘as been getting to Irénée and she ‘as bite wounds on ‘er neck!” Ismaël threw out a frustrated hand.

“Strahd… did this?” Sveta asked.

Ismaël nodded. She sat back, blowing out a sigh of her own. That confirmed something, anyway. It remained to be seen if he was the same vampire she was thinking of or not.

Oskar’s single, golden eye was focused as a sunbeam, fixed to Ismaël. He was learning. At last, he was on the trail of his prey. At last, at last.

“Does that mean… Irénée…” Illyan whispered.

“She is still ‘erself,” Ismaël reassured him. “She is only weak and scared. Every night, the devil’s servants attack our château. We ‘ave boarded the place up to keep them out.”

“Good job on that,” Valentina grumbled.

“Yeah, what’d you to do the windows?” Illyan asked. “I know neither of you can do a lick of magic.”

Ismaël smiled. “It’s incredible, I found this material. You just sprinkle it on something, and it doesn’t catch fire!”

“What kind of material is that?” Oskar asked.

“It’s called asbestos,” Ismaël beamed.

Every single face at the table blanched.

“Okayyyy,” Valentina said, slowly. “Well, you’re going to be even more excited to learn what pulmonary fibrosis is. Maybe even mesothelioma.”

“If Irénée becomes vampire, may no longer be problem,” Sveta suggested.

“We’ll keep that in mind as a treatment option.”

“What kinds of servants?” Oskar wondered.

“Men and wolves, for the most part.”

“Wolves?” Sveta straightened. “Was one wolf missing an ear?”

This garnered looks from the rest of the group.

“...Eh, non. Not that I noticed. I did not get a good look through the windows, after we boarded them.”

“That’s a weirdly specific question,” Valentina pointed out.

Sveta shrugged. “Is specific because was asking about specific wolf.”

“Yeah, that’s the weird part.”

“Sveta, do you know a specific wolf?” Oskar asked.

“I know many wolves.”

Silently, the others shared a look of bafflement. Oskar nodded, very slowly, internalizing the logic of this. Frankly. Sveta looked and acted like a person who knew many wolves.

Illyan re-focused them. “Can’t Père negotiate with Strahd? ‘E can’t just ‘arass a Vicomte’s daughter for no reason, can ‘e?”

This time, it was Ismaël’s eyes that dropped. Still leaning forward on his elbows, fingers of one hand in his hair, he picked up the nearest mug and took a gulp of beer. He couldn’t meet Illyan’s gaze.

The pain in Illyan’s chest was sharper now, like a stab. “Ismaël, where is Père?”

“...I’m sorry, frèrot,” Ismaël whispered. “Our father is dead.”

Illyan sat back in their seat, face going vacant.

Ismaël continued, “The attacks were too much for ‘im. ‘E passed of an ‘eart attack only a fortnight past.”

“Two weeks ago?” Valentina demanded. “Then, hold on…” She dug in her pocket, pulling out the letter. “Could he have written this?”

Ismaël accepted the paper, but barely scanned it. “This is not ‘is ‘andwriting. Père did not write this.”

“In some ways, that’s a relief,” the girl commented, looking again at love of my life.

“In others, very suspicious.”

“You’re saying you didn’t call for me and Maman?” Illyan asked, voice as distant as their face.

“Marie Séraphine is ‘ere, too?” Ismaël shook his head. “No. I come to the tavern every day, looking for any brave enough to take Irénée to a place of safety. None in Barovy ‘ave the courage. I would not ‘ave known ‘ow to contact you, myself.”

“Was sent with Vistana messenger. Arceneaux of Clan Mercier.”

“Eh bien, Mercier is the clan that stays put by the Chȇnier Pool. Just a little ways outside Barovy. Madame Evangeline’s clan.”

“You know these people?”

“Not as such. They’ve been there almost as long as Barovy ‘as. They don’t move, like the other clans, like Clan Rambeaut. I’ve never traveled there myself, nor ‘ave I spoken to any of their clansman besides…” He nodded to the three Vistana women seated by the door.

“What does Clan Mercier have to do with any of this?” Valentina wondered.

“With our family? Nothing I can think of.”

“How is is that you are able to go in and out of the chȃteau every day, to come here and look for help?” Oskar demanded.

“The devil Strahd’s minions do not attack during the daylight, such as it is. I know I am seen by his spies, but what else can I do? As long as I am back ‘ome by nightfall, so far I ‘ave not been attacked myself. I fear Irénée would not fare the same.”

“Where were you planning to send her?” the tabaxi continued to interrogate.

“I was trying to ‘ire someone to escort ‘er to Vallac,” Ismaël grumbled. “None of the fils des putains ‘ere ‘ave the guts.”

“Vallac?” Illyan sat up suddenly, eyes aglow. “You were going to just send ‘er to the next town along?”

“Where is Vallac?” Jinghua asked.

“There are three towns in Barovy Valley,” Illyan explained. “Barovy, Vallac, and Kresiquer. In that order, they go from east to west. To send ‘er to Vallac… You might as well just stash ‘er at the neighbor’s ‘ouse! Strahd owns everything in this valley!”

“Vallac ‘as walls,” Ismaël argued. “At the very least, it is better she not live right in the shadow of ‘is ‘ome!”

“What does that mean?” Valentina wondered, beginning to feel like they’d have to ask this same question every few sentences.

Ismaël stabbed an accusing finger at the nearest shuttered window. “On a clear day, you might be able to see Castle Ravenloft from that window. That is where the devil Strahd lives. In Vallac, per’aps out of sight would be out of mind! The Lord ‘as plenty of women in the valley to choose from, I am sure. ‘E can go bother one of them instead of my Irénée.”

“That’s not good enough! ‘Oping ‘e will leave ‘er alone isn’t good enough!” Illyan slammed their palm on the table, rattling the many mugs there.

“I was not planning only to ‘ope! Once I am able to leave ‘er alone… Well, I ‘ave been training my whole life! I will find Strahd and…!” He drew one gloved finger across his throat.

Illyan was not appeased. “All by your lonesome? Forget it. Maman and I will take ‘er! We’ll get ‘er out of the valley to where Strahd can’t reach ‘er!”

His agitation was spreading to Ismaël now. The man clenched his jaw. “Do you think if Marie Séraphine could ‘ave taken us to safety years ago, she wouldn’t ‘ave?”

“Why would you ‘ave left? You ‘ad everything! Père, money, a home, a title! Now, you’ve lost it all, and we still ain’t good enough to save you?”

“I am not saying you will not, I am saying you cannot!”

“You don’t know that!”

“I know if it was that simple to leave, Barovy would ‘ave been emptied centuries ago!”

By now, the rest of the group had begun to feel as if they were witnessing a domestic row. Heads moved back and forth, watching the brothers as their voices steadily rose to yells. Oskar glanced away from the table entirely, his face a grimace of discomfort. He watched instead as the heavyset bartender stared straight ahead, not even looking down at the glass he was wiping with a stained cloth. Still staring vacantly, he put the glass down and picked up the next from its storage rack beneath the countertop. Oskar watched long enough for the bartender to wipe all six glasses in the line. When he reached the end, Oskar saw the bartender pick the first one back up again and begin wiping.

Oskar turned back to the table, where the argument continued to progress.

“...would not trust the Vistani with my sister, in any case.”

“What,” Illyan’s voice suddenly dropped low in a way just as dangerous as the shouting had been, speaking very slowly as he asked, “does that mean.”

Ismaël sank back, contrite. “I am sorry, frèrot. I did not mean you or your Maman.”

“But what does it mean.”

“It is only…” Ismaël’s voice also sank to a cautious whisper. “You know not all Vistani are like you and Marie Séraphine. Clan Rambeaut is free. Clan Mercier… Many other clans in the valley… They serve the devil Strahd. They spy for him. They cannot all be trusted the way your clan can.”

“Oh, is that all?” Illyan wondered, nastily. A second later, he scoffed and looked aside. Truth be told, Illyan hadn’t had much contact with clans aside from his own. Clan Rambeaut was unusual in that they spent the majority of their time on the other plane, outside of Barovy, only coming back a few times a year to rest and visit and pay respects to Madame Eva. Even within the valley, Illyan had never traveled further than the Chȇnier Pool where Clan Mercier camped. He had never been what you’d call a social butterfly; too consumed with his projects and his research. He didn’t have any friends among Clan Mercier, nor had he spent much time talking to them outside of family dinners around the fire where nobody much addressed Illyan personally.

At this exact moment, Illyan was livid. They were absolutely devastated that their father had been dead for two weeks while they lived their usual life without a care, without knowing. Vicomte Killian Imbert may not have been a towering figure in Illyan’s emotional life, but he had never been anything but kind and supportive. Maman loved him. He had never tried to tie her down the way non-Vistana sometimes did, he just let her follow her heart and raise Illyan in the manner of her people. Illyan felt ill to imagine how much this loss would hurt her. They were ill to think of some strange man preying both literally and figuratively on his sister, who had never so much as spoken a harsh word in her life or thrown a punch. His gentle sister, who wore pretty dresses and saved Illyan chocolate bread and always decorated the château seasonally even when everything outside the window was white mist year-round. She had neither physical nor magical means to protect herself from aggressive men, even ones who weren’t undying devil-lords.

For that, she’d always had Ismaël. Their older brother thought the sun rose just to hear their sister crow. To him, she could do no wrong and have no bad ideas. Every misstep, he was there to take the blame. Every disagreement, he was there to argue her side. Irénée had never suffered so much as a hangnail without Ismaël’s intervention.

It shocked Illyan to the absolute core to hear what kind of harm had slipped past Ismaël now. It made him livid to hear these mealy-mouthed half-measures coming out of Irénée’s champion. Ismaël had escaped unscathed while their father died and their sister was assaulted, and now he thought he’d bother to do something?

As angry as he was, though, Illyan had to admit. Ismaël wasn’t wrong about absolutely everything. However clumsily put, Ismaël was right not to trust Clan Mercier with Irénée’s safety. That much was clear–the messenger of the false letter was one of theirs. Who knew what Arceneaux would have done if he’d been entrusted with Irénée?

About that.

“Père didn’t write that letter,” Illyan re-confirmed. He’d settled down to a proper resentful sulk, arms folded across his chest. “So who did?”

“It’s clear that somebody wanted to lure us to Barovy,” Jinghua said. “For what purpose remains to be seen.”

“Who even knew us? Us, I mean, as group?” Sveta appealed. “We were never in same room in real life until messenger found us; how would anyone know about shared dream?”

“Maybe they didn’t, necessarily. Arceneaux didn’t even recognize us by sight, and the letter didn’t mention anyone’s name,” Valentina pointed out. “He only knew Illyan’s dad’s surname.”

“So… Mastermind knows Illyan’s family situation and danger Irénée is in, and that Illyan worked with group in dream, but maybe does not know us personally.”

“Or Arceneaux was just told to find the most recognizable one of us,” the girl shrugged.

“I am fairly recognizable,” Oskar grunted.

“Oh, wait! Wait, wait, wait!” Valentina suddenly dove into her pockets, rifling through papers. “Ah-ha!” She emerged with a single sheet of paper, which she smoothed across the surface of the table. It was the letter that she had found in the trapped chest in the hidden study. The one which had been signed Strahd de Varius. She laid next to it the letter Arceneaux had delivered, calling them to Barovy. It required no great scrutiny to notice that both letters were written in the same blue ink, in the same spidery hand, on the same rich yellow paper. Even the red wax used to seal each one was the same.

Oskar let rip a ragged snarl. “Strahd!”

“Oh thank the Lord,” Valentina sighed. “Irénée is the love of Strahd’s life.”

“It all seems to come back to him,” Jinghua noted.

“But what does man we have never met want with group of us?” Sveta wondered.

“It don’t matter,” Illyan decided. “We’re leaving the valley and taking Irénée with us. Ismaël, you too.” When the man groaned and rubbed a palm across his face, Illyan gave him such a glare that Ismaël half-expected himself to end up cursed. “Objections, frère?”

“I just do not think it will be as easy as you ‘ope, to leave,” Ismaël sighed, then raised his hands. “I’m not arguing. We can try. You’re in charge right now, frèrot.”

“Damn right, I am.”

“We are in charge,” Sveta corrected.

“As you say. ‘Ow do you know these people, Illyan?” Ismaël asked. “I know you never met them in Barovy. You said you shared a dream?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Illyan agreed. “It’s ‘ow we met.”

“And you are willing to ‘elp us protect Irénée?”

“Of course,” Valentina nodded. “It’s what my god would tell me to do. The Morninglord would never stand for a… whatever Strahd is… doing… whatever he’s been doing… to a young woman.”

“Is devil?” Sveta wondered. “Devil Strahd?”

“This is a nickname,” Ismaël admitted. “Barovians call ‘im that. ‘E is a vampire, not a devil. ‘E ‘as ruled this valley since ‘e settled it centuries ‘ence. There was only a tiny Barovy village before ‘e came. Back then, the valley was part of the normal plane and not cut off by the mists. The people ‘ad souls, then.”

The group had long suspected Strahd was undead, but it was at last confirmed. Oskar’s lips were pulled back to show his teeth. Sveta took an idle sip of an abandoned, half-full beer, red lips pursed in thought.

“Stupid nickname,” was Oskar’s opinion.

Ismaël shrugged. “There are worse.”

Something in his tone caught Valentina’s attention. She smiled, teasingly. “What do they call you?”

“Around ‘ere–Ismaël le Moindre. It means the Lesser. Lesser than my father, the Vicomte.” Once more, Ismaël’s eyes got stuck on Valentina as he spoke to her. The look on his face was pure puzzlement. “Pardon me, Mademoiselle, but… Where are you from?”

It was Valentina’s turn to shrug. She leaned back, twirling her hair idly. “Oh, I don’t know. Here and there.”

“What of your family, the Delarossas?”

“You don’t know them, I’m sure.”

“I am not so sure of that, myself.”

Everyone’s heads turned at that.

“You know Valentina’s family?” Sveta asked.

Valentina protested, “I’ve never met him before.”

Ismaël shook his head. “No, no. It is only…” He laughed, awkwardly. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but you look remarkably like my sister!”

“Like Irénée?” Illyan blinked. “Now that you mention it… ‘Cept for that mole…”

“I’ve never met her, either,” Valentina said, firmly.

“Why would you be asking, Ismaël?” Illyan wondered. “It’s just a funny coincidence, that’s all. We know Irénée’s family–that’s us!”

“We are ‘er family,” Ismaël agreed, in a half-hearted tone. “But there’s things you don’t know, frèrot.”

“Getting that a lot today, me.”

“It is… Listen. You were too young to remember, but when I was fifteen, Père found a girl who ‘ad wandered into Barovy out of the mists. She couldn’t remember ‘er name, where she came from, or anything about ‘erself. That girl… was Irénée.”

Illyan could hardly react to yet another shock. He simply stared as Ismaël told the story.

“Mère was actually already passed by then. Irénée was about five years younger than me, though, so it was easy to say nothing and just let others assume she was Mère’s. I ‘ave always thought of ‘er as my sister. Marie Séraphine and Père treated ‘er the same. Still, it seems clear that she came from outside the mists, and if you did as well, per’aps you and she…”

“Nope,” Valentina said, somewhat strained now. “No way. It’s a total coincidence.”

“Can you say this for sure?”

“I don’t have any family!” Valentina finally burst out.

The awkwardness levels, already near critical thanks to the Imbert family feud, suddenly spilled over the top. For a few moments of ringing silence, everybody avoided making eye contact with everybody else. In those moments, it became abundantly clear how loudly they had been speaking until now, and how quiet the tavern around them was. Ismaël’s erstwhile drinking buddies were studiously applying themselves to their new drinks and pretending to be deaf. The table of Vistana women, however, were casting sidelong looks in their table’s direction. The bartender stared ever a thousand yards ahead, wiping glasses mechanically as if no shout could attract his interest.

Valentina fidgeted in her chair. “...I don’t,” she repeated, more calmly. “I’m around her age. If you found her at ten, there’s no way I wouldn’t remember having a sister. I was alone way before that. So it’s just a coincidence.”

“My apologies, Mademoiselle,” Ismaël offered. “I meant no offense. I only thought that Irénée would love to meet you.”

“Well, maybe we should go do that.” The girl tilted her face down, letting a wing of curls fall over her face. “Is she going to let us in?”

“She will if I am with you,” he replied. “I told ‘er not to answer for anyone else. Allons-y.” He stood, then visibly checked himself. “I mean… Shall we go, frèrot?”

Illyan pulled a face. In any other situation, his brother’s bumbling might be funny. Right now, his heart hurt. “Ouias, let’s mosey on outta here.”

As a group, everyone pushed back their chairs and strode towards the exit. This necessitated passing right by the Vistana women’s table. All three watched them pass with strange smirks. Sveta alone looked back, making solid eye contact with one of them.

The Vistana woman blew a kiss, bangles on her wrist clinking. Her lips were painted dark maroon against her pale white skin, her dark curls held back by a bright pink scarf. One curl escaped to bounce against the curve of her cheek.

Sveta, somewhat at a loss, lifted her own hand and pointed back. It seemed insufficient, so she pointed with the other hand, too. The woman giggled.

Crossing the threshold, several things happened.

The first was that Sveta swooned in place. All of her joints seemed to turn to water at once, the world reeling around her. The light, dim and filtered through clouds, seemed to bloom bright enough to eclipse her entire view. Before she’d even realized it, she was half-collapsed on Oskar’s shoulder. He automatically grabbed her around the waist, saving her from a spill onto the street.

At the same time, in the middle of the group, Jinghua said, “Oh no.” Then, like a blown candle, she vanished.