I

Madeline Duchamp opened her eyes. They shone green with the burning intensity of a cat. It took her a moment to get her bearings, and when she did, it filled her with the same feelings that had been consuming her for days. She was lost in a maelstrom of darkness and despair. Feelings she knew she had no business entertaining because under normal circumstances if she were to witness someone else behaving as she herself was, she would consider them to be infantile and tell them so in no uncertain terms. Madeline Duchamp would not suffer fools, even if that fool were herself.

Her attention was drawn to her reflection in the mirror, and she found, not for the first time, she did not recognise the old woman staring back at her. Pale face, white with sickness and lined with age, dark circles buried deep into thin, alabaster skin under her eyes. But the eyes shone with the fire and intensity they always had. Whatever else was going on, whatever monstrous entity ravished her body, her spirit was fighting back; that much was evident in the sharpness of her eyes. Her eyes were the conduit of her spirit, and her spirit was more substantial than anything else, of that much she was sure.

A small bird landed on the veranda, strutting with its tiny, frail legs across the patio, and it saddened Madeline because such a mundane action still felt out of reach for her. Even such a simple act felt out of reach to her. She was not sure why she was feeling or acting the way she was, only that it felt as if she had no choice as if such decisions had been taken out of her hands. Madeline was not sure she believed in God, or much else for that matter, but whatever else was happening, it felt like her bodily actions were no longer entirely of her own volition.

Madeline turned her head slowly to the two framed photographs on the bedside table, but she could not bring herself to look at them, for she felt sure their gaze would be fixed expectantly on her, showing their judgement. She closed her eyes again, hoping to disappear into the dark recesses of her mind once again. It had comforted her in the preceding days, so much so that she had lost count of how many had passed. She felt safe there. She felt loved.

When she closed her eyes again, unable to keep them open for another second, she was suddenly catapulted into what felt like another world, another planet. A vast oasis of sand that moved back and forth, images presenting themselves and then disappearing as quickly, the sand blowing away, moving like an hourglass. For the briefest of moments, she caught glimpses of faces, of places, all of which she had seen, but she could not reach them physically or mentally. She recognised everything but remembered nothing.

The faces were from her past, of that much she was sure. Smiles and hidden messages, codes in well-lined faces, relaying things only she could know. A tall man with a proud face and a high forehead, blue eyes that sparkled with warmth but were tempered with sadness, the heavy cloud of secrets. Another face appeared, emerald green eyes so light she felt like she could see heaven in them. She reached out again, but the sand disappeared, replaced with yet more memories. Or were they? This time, she recognised nothing and no one, but by chance, and for the briefest of moments, she saw the boy with the emerald eyes, but this time he was older. He was looking at her with a curious expression on his face, pushing glasses into his hair and fixing her with a longing, sad look.

The expression of a man whose memory had been triggered by something long forgotten. His thoughts were clear: you are not meant to be here. You are the past. You have been gone a long time. She sucked in a breath with such force it hurt her rib cage. He doesn’t know me. I’m a photograph on his desk at best. A memory filed in the back of his mind only brought out on rare occasions.

She was unsure how she felt about that — relegated to an afterthought. She had hoped… she had hoped for what? That the world would forever mourn her passing? Had she really thought that? Had she been so foolish to believe her footprints had been so significant in the walk of life that their imprints would be forever missed? She supposed, at best, she most probably had become an amusing anecdote. Oh, that Madeline Duchamp was a card, wasn’t she? Quite drôle, but oh so terrifying!

The young man with blond hair (still too long, she noted with her usual irritation mixed with admiration that he did not care to cut it no matter how much he was chastised) resembled her, or at least the image she had of herself that vehemently disagreed with the reflection in the mirror.

If she had been able to, Madeline would not have been able to stop herself from smiling when she noticed his hand was entwined with another, belonging to a young man with a beaming, kind face and an abundance of fair curls that bounced on his forehead when he moved, like a young child searching out his next adventure. The two men scrutinised each other with the burning intensity of two people very much in love, and Madeline’s heart beat so fast she feared it would explode from her body.

He found it. She exhaled with such force she wanted to scream it into the dry, barren air. He found what we all look for but are too scared to keep should we find it. He found it, and he kept it. I did right by him, she thought proudly, completely ignoring the fact that however he ended up where he did, it likely had very little to do with her. She had let him move into the unused attic at the top of her sprawling Parisian mansion, and despite herself and her misgivings, she had allowed him to occupy a part of her heart. It was more than she had ever given anyone else, but she suspected, in the end, it had not been enough for him. More than anything, she hoped it had been and that, in some small way, he had found his way through life thanks to what she had done.

The figures faded again, like breath disappearing from a misty mirror, and she realised they had not been there in the first place. They were not her memories; they were her dreams. A future she had no part in and most likely one she had imagined to make herself feel better.

The pain in her body was consuming her; she knew that. There was little fight left. Was there enough? She had thought there might be, but it was becoming clear just how wrong she was. The reserves she had sought to rely on were all but gone. And now all it left her with were just two more faces in the dark, features becoming increasingly blurred by a swirling mist of nothingness. Was that what death was? Was that all she had to look forward to? Vast empty rooms filled with people she could no longer see or communicate with? Would she sense them near her? The thought of not was just too much for her to stand. She had to, she simply had to, because then what else would be the point in death if not to be reunited with all that had been lost by going before? Madeline Duchamp would not allow it; she simply would not. She would not allow pointlessness to corrode her life away. She had not lived that way and had no intention of dying that way.

Madeline kept staring, desperately trying to focus on the faces, but the mist was too strong, and it filled her with despair because it all felt horrendously cruel. She sought to open her mouth to speak, but the words had already been spoken, and they had dissipated into the air, never to be seen again and destined to be nothing more than whispers that may or may not have been spoken.

Behind her, a sudden gust of air startled her. She meant to look around but was not sure she did. For so long she had been sitting in the chair, she was unaware even if she could move any more.

Madeline… Madeline… It’s me, Madeline…

Hugo.

Her eyes snapped open again, and they widened. She surveyed the room, and it was as if she was seeing everything for the first time. It did not feel like a space she had occupied. This was not her home. She did not belong here.

Madeline… Madeline.

This time she felt her body move, and slowly her head turned in the voice’s direction. Her head pounded in her chest. Emerald green eyes. Young skin, blond hair still too long. A smile that could melt the coldest of hearts, hers included.

Hugo.

She watched him inch forward, taking the tentative steps of someone who was perpetually afraid of being seen and noticed but unable to stop themselves from propelling forward. It would be his blessing, and it would be his curse, she was sure.

Madeline opened her mouth to speak, a slow breath escaping into the air. The colour of her eyes changed to match his. To match his vitality. ‘What the hell took you so long?’ she growled.

Hugo appeared aghast. ‘What do you mean?’ he mumbled, pressing his hand against his chest.

Madeline waved her hand dismissively, indicating he should help her to her feet. He raced towards her. ‘What took you so damn long?’ she repeated.

‘I don’t know,’ Hugo answered honestly with a confused shrug.

‘Did you walk from Paris?’ Madeline demanded. She turned her head, giving Hugo an appraisal that took so long it caused him to shudder. ‘You didn’t hitch a ride with a truck driver, did you?’ she asked, lips twisting into a mischievous smirk.

Despite the moment’s intensity, Hugo threw back his head and laughed. ‘You never fail to surprise me, Madeline,’ he said honestly. ‘And non, for the record, I did not hitch a ride with a truck driver.’

She gave him a satisfied nod. ‘Bon. Knowing you as I do, I’m sure it would have ended disastrously with you naked and tied up.’

Hugo laughed again, relieved that he could find some kind of amusement in his past traumas, one of which had led to him being tied naked to a tree. Madeline had never let him forget the circumstances of the rescue. ‘I really don’t know what movies you’ve been watching, mais…’

Her lips twisted, and she waved a hand dismissively. ‘Well, it is too late to cry about your tardiness. You are here now, and that is all that matters,’ Madeline said, bone-dry lips pulling into a tight smile. She could feel her spirit coursing through her body, pushing away the illness consuming her. She grabbed Hugo’s hand, and together they pulled her to her feet. ‘Better late than never,’ she exhaled, already out of breath from standing.

‘For what?’ Hugo asked, his brow creasing with confusion.

‘We have much to do and no time to do it,’ his grandmother responded grumpily. ‘Help me get my face on,’ she instructed. ‘We have a murder to solve, but that doesn’t mean one has to look like a homeless person to do it.’

Hugo nodded, guiding her towards the enormous dressing table. When they reached it, Madeline steadied herself, lifting her head towards him. ‘There’s so little time,’ she said again, his face growing ever paler as she confronted him, ‘but by Dieu, I won’t let them get away with it,’ she informed him forcefully. ‘I won’t die until they pay for what they’ve done.’ She stopped, her breathing rapid. Her face softened. ‘Are you with me, my darling boy?’ she asked with hopeful desperation.

Hugo took a long breath, blinking rapidly. ‘Always, Madeline, always.’