BEN
Ben watched the fireplace intently.
After searching his sister’s space, he’d departed for the beach to clear his mind. It seemed like a fine idea until he lost too many hours on a washed-up log in deep contemplation. If not for the growing chill and the rumbling in his stomach, he might have been there all night. The fire in his room and a bowl of steaming stew was a welcome sight; he found it hard to leave the room again once he was settled.
“I see you barely ate anything.” Jacques’s voice startled Ben.
“Gods, man! Do you ever knock?”
His companion peered into the half-eaten bowl. “Too many potatoes?”
Ben rolled his eyes and slumped backward into the chair. “It was fine.”
“Well, if you didn’t eat, did you at least get anywhere with your daydreaming?” Jacques asked. “Have the mysteries of these bygone halls unveiled themselves to you? I can’t imagine there were any answers in the fire.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Clearly,” Jacques said, setting the bowl back down. He invited himself to sit in the empty chair opposite Ben’s and mimicked a similar posture. “I couldn’t find much more after you left.”
“I expected as much,” Ben sighed, shifting in his chair. There was a persistent pain in his forehead that throbbed when he moved his head.
Jacques must have sensed his frustration, saying, “That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything to find.”
“Naturally, she had secrets,” Ben said. “Of course, it would be hard for us, or anyone, to find the truth.”
“Do you want to know what I think?” Jacques asked.
“If I’m being honest, no.” Ben shot him a weary look. “But you’ll tell me anyway.”
“I think your father knew something about what your sister was going through, and that initial she carved into her desk means something.” Jacques paused, narrowing his eyes. “Those names mean something. There’s a silver bullet to be found among the debris she left behind.”
“You think my father knew her secret?” Ben’s eyes widened. He never even thought to suspect his father, though it would make perfect sense. What better way to keep the questions at bay than to send off the one witness to it all under the pretense of grief? The notion of it boiled Ben’s blood.
“All I’m saying is that it’s a possibility.” Jacques shrugged. “Did you ever read that letter he left you? I’d bet my bum knee that there’s a morsel or more of information there.”
“No. It’s gone missing.” Conveniently.
Ben ground his teeth together and shoved to his feet. “I need a change of scenery.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll be in my father’s study,” Ben grabbed his robe again and opened one of the bedroom doors with a flourish. “If you haven’t eaten, have Sylvie bring your supper here. Sit, enjoy the fire, and turn in for the night.”
Jacques nodded, too tired to argue, and let Ben go without another word.
Ben made quick work of the stairs and closed himself behind the double doors of his father’s study. It was anger that brought him there, and it would likely serve to stoke his motivation for the rest of the night. It took a few tries, but Ben relit the neglected fireplace and set the gas lamps ablaze.
He crossed the room to his father’s desk and settled into the worn cushion of his chair. Ben eyed the disarray of his father’s workspace and huffed a breath.
“How did I fail to notice your mess?” he asked aloud. Being there with Hugo earlier, he barely saw anything except the vein bulging from the other man’s forehead.
It would be harder to find anything useful than he thought.
Still, he was there and he was determined. Ben piled every strewn bit of paper together and separated the stack into groups. They were the first papers he’d managed to get his hands on, and of course, none of them seemed unusual at first glance. It was in the third pile that he noticed what he deemed ‘out of the ordinary.’ There was a short stack of written receipts with the same names scrawled in his father’s handwriting: Hugo Marchand and Arnaud Cuvilyé.
Ben skimmed the receipts—a few simple purchases, some older than others, though there were a few that were new. One in particular stood out: a large purchase of wine, but the transaction was incomplete. There was a considerable amount of money lost to the sellers: Marchand and Cuvilyé.
So, Marchand was telling the truth. They really were in business together…
The receipts were damning, and he could hardly blame Hugo for being angry over the loss. Still, it would be impossible to pay either of the men back in full—at least, not for quite a long time. His father should have warned them before negotiating any terms. The Leones were bordering on broke.
His father borrowed money from his cousins from time to time to keep up with the small staff they kept, but never enough to get into bed with any businesses—or partners, for that matter. Ben leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. He wanted to know about Soleil, not about his father’s business deals.
Why can’t it just be easy? He wondered lamely, catching the look in his mother’s painted eyes above the mantelpiece.
She was an inquisitive woman, and the artist had captured that in perfect detail. But the subtle quirk of her lips meant something different to him now, as though her portrait had something to hide, too. He wondered if she knew about her husband, if she was the true keeper of his secrets and not the papers on his untidy desk.
“If only portraits could speak.” He yawned, his eyes fluttering shut. Her gaze never left him as he faded into sleep. “You would tell me the truth.”
LATE NIGHT ENCOUNTER
REMI
Someone was watching her; she felt a presence as she slept.
Remi’s eyes peeled open slowly, adjusting to the darkness. The familiar outline of her bed came into focus, followed by the armoire and the fireplace beside it. Embers shone on the hearth. A chill ran down her spine as the door of her bedroom creaked softly behind her, a breeze washing across her back.
Something loomed in the doorway, unmoving.
