| |
Neutral
|
Adelaide watched as an unspoken conversation passed between the members of the family. She first watched the man that had drawn her attention, the one that had distracted her so thoroughly upon entering the house. For a moment, his brow furrowed, and she couldn't help but do the same. In an instant, though his behavior shifted, and he glanced towards the oldest, who had the ghost of a smirk on his face. His expression was dangerous, nearly gleeful, which was so at odds with the situation that Adelaide found herself watching him for far longer than necessary. Snapping out of her thoughts, she looked to the youngest boy to see if he was privvy to the silent conversation, but found his gaze to be elsewhere, completely disengaged and disinterested in whatever scheme was forming between the elder siblings. The scene was reminiscent of a past lecture from her own father. Her siblings, older than her, had conspired in secret above her head. The only difference was that in her own situation, she had curiously peered between the two, grasping at facial expressions in an effort to be included. She had only been ten at the time, not yet developed her perception. As she compared the present to her past, Mr. Gentret droned about stipulations, rules, and boring requirements that she had no interest in listening to. It was only the rustle of paper that brought her out of her reverie, and she blinked to find him holding out a thick, well-endowed envelope. She took it with shaking hands, nodding to him absently as she flipped it over to look at the embossed seal. Her eyes traced the handwriting, and something in her mind screamed that this was familiar, something she had seen before. She wracked her brain for the memory, grasping at slipping threads, but she was unable to obtain the picture she desired. Forgoing her curiosity for the moment, she tuned in to the reading as it began. The mother - Adia - had received a decent sum of wealth and jewels, but from the look on her face, Adelaide determined that there was much more to be delivered. Cal was the older boy, and he received another large sum, as well as the golf course on the estate. Again, something in his expression told Adelaide that this was not all that was to be expected. Finally, the one that had captivated her since she entered the estate was called. Beau - a rather fitting name, she briefly thought - was given the collection of sailboats and another rather generous sum. His face was accepting at first, but the slightest quirk of his brow told Adelaide that this wasn't it, and she knew it - aside from the grandeur that hinted at a much larger legacy, many things had gone unlisted. Including, she noted, the property itself. She assumed it had naturally gone to Adia, and brushed it off to ponder later as the Mr. Gentret pulled out another envelope, identical to the one she had thusfar left sealed. He handed it to Beau, who took one look at it and began moving. She backed against the wall for a moment as she watched the scene unfold. Around the room, the other members of the family were whispering, glaring at one another with such detatchment that Adelaide found herself curious as to how the got along to begin with. And the alluring man, Beau, was walking across the room rather hurriedly. She saw him and the oldest share a look, another silent conversation happening, before he fiddled with something under a portrait and disappeared. Adelaide blinked, sucking in a sharp breath, before her brain started to work through the possibilities. He couldn't have simply disappeared, and with an estate of this size, there was bound to be a plethora of secret doors and hidden rooms. Nodding to herself, she pushed off of the wall and stalked over to the portrait. She cast a brief glance at the oldest brother, who seemed to have shifted to conversation with his father, and felt along the underside of the portrait. At first, she felt nothing, running her fingers back and forth along the smooth bottom of the frame. Just as she was about to give in and ask Cal where the strange middle child had gone, her finger caught on something solid and definitely not part of the frame. Grinning to herself, Addie hit the switch, watching as the portrait opened slowly, silent on its hinges. With a victorious huff, she entered the hallway, closing the portrait behind her. The hall before her was dark, void of any light save what came from the frame behind her. Warily, she put her hand out, fingers grazing an unblemished wall. Before her eyes had time to adjust, before her thoughts had time to catch up to her, she was walking, tentatively putting one foot in front of the other. After a minute of careful steps, she bumped into a door, startling as it her nose brushed wood. She fumbled slightly to find the handle, muttering under her breath as she twisted it slowly. Immediately, her eyes were forced shut as the evening light hit her in the face. The minute of darkness was enough for her eyes to have dilated, and the full force of the setting sun caught her off guard. Throwing her empty hand above her head, she cracked her eyes, scanning the grounds for the mysterious man. It didn't take long for her to find him, sitting on a bench hunched over the envelope he had received. She began to walk over to him, pausing on her second step as she recalled the look of distrust on his face when she had come in. Sighing, she stopped, kneeling on the ground and opening her envelope. "Dear Adelaide, I apologize for departing this world without introducing myself - I can only hope that this letter will suffice as proper greeting. As I'm sure you've heard by now, the passing of Alistair Blackthorne will have rocked the world, and my family with it. Though not by blood, Vincent Valdaro was as close to family as one could get. I understand that you have since been estranged from his home, but I hope that by bringing you here, I can begin to repair some of the damage. Years ago, your father gave me an heirloom that was not his to give - and in my old age, I became rather fond of this object. A bit selfish, if you'll allow. I have refused to return it, and did not plan to until death was upon me. I hope you believe in Heaven as I do, for this task is my repentance. However, I cannot give anything easily, in life or death. You'll find yourself with a series of puzzles, mysteries, and clues that will eventually lead you to what was stolen - I recommend using all resources at your disposal, or I fear you may never leave. I apologize for dragging you this far to receive a riddle, but as I'm sure Beau will tell you, simply giving things has never been my forte. Good luck on your hunt, Alistair Blackthorne p.s. Many of these riddles may uncover... unsavory characteristics. I will not apologize for being who I am, but do keep in mind, this is as new for you as it is for my family." Addie blinked, rereading the letter twice. She had yet to open the remaining contents of the envelope, and wanted to do so immediately, but something held her back. Blinking away unshed tears at the mention of her family, she looked up, once again finding Beau in the garden. The sun was low, and its golden rays cast an ethereal glow upon him, like a fallen angel weeping for his home. With a resolute sigh, Adelaide got to her feet and walked over to him. "Hello," she said, voice low and comforting. "I don't believe we formally met in the house. My name is Adelaide, and according to this letter, your grandfather has stolen from my family." |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Beaudan sat beneath the alcove of the Valenrow garden, the letter crumpled in his hand. The late afternoon light filtered through the lattice of ivy and roses, casting dappled shadows on the marble bench. He stared at the letter as though it might morph into something else if he willed it hard enough—something clever, intricate, layered with meaning. But it didn’t. The words on the page were starkly simple, devoid of warmth or affection. They seemed to hold no clues, no riddles, none of the verbal chess games his grandfather had so relished. It wasn’t that Beau had expected effusive kindness—his grandfather was not a man given to sentiment—but this felt like a betrayal of character. Alistair had been a man of codes and puzzles, a man who had taught his grandchildren to read between the lines, to find the hidden truth in every message. And now, when Beau needed it most, there was nothing. He leaned back against the cool stone of the bench, letting his head fall against the trellis. The faint scent of roses drifted around him, mingling with the earthiness of the garden. It had been his sanctuary as a child, a place where he could escape the suffocating weight of expectations. But now, even here, he found no solace. The letter taunted him with its simplicity. Beau knew that if there were a hidden message, he would have spotted it by now. Every word, every punctuation mark had been scrutinized, and nothing stood out. There were no ciphers to decode, no invisible ink to reveal. For the first time in his life, it seemed his grandfather had left him with nothing to solve, and that emptiness stung more than he cared to admit. He thought briefly of texting Callum. His elder brother was undoubtedly already knee-deep in his own letter, dissecting it for clues, trying to outpace the ghosts of their childhood competitions. But Beau dismissed the idea as quickly as it came. It was too soon to ask for help. He wasn’t ready to admit defeat, not even to Cal. The sound of footsteps on gravel pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up sharply, his jaw tightening as his eyes locked onto *her*. Adelaide. The girl stood just beyond the alcove, her figure framed by the creeping vines. She held her letter in one hand, neatly folded and pristine, untouched by the anxious hands that had crumpled his own. Beau’s gaze flicked to her face, his expression hardening into something cold and impenetrable. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice low and edged with frost. She didn’t answer—or perhaps she did, but he didn’t hear her. His migraine was worsening, the sharp, relentless throb behind his temples making it hard to focus. Or maybe it was the sight of her that unsettled him. He rose from the bench, unfolding to his full height with the practiced ease of someone who had spent his life perfecting the art of poise. His suit jacket shifted against his shoulders as he straightened, the faint scent of cedar and bergamot trailing in his wake. His gaze flicked to the letter in her hand again, and something in him twisted, not being able to see that she had opened it already. “Haven't you opened it?" he asked, his tone biting. “Why not? What are you waiting for?” He didn’t give her a chance to respond before the questions began spilling out, sharp and relentless. “Do you know what he’s given you? Did he tell you before he died? Or are you just as clueless as the rest of us?” His words were meant to provoke, to unsettle. He wanted her to falter, to reveal something—anything—that might make sense of her presence here. “What did he leave you?” Beau demanded, his voice cutting through the stillness of the garden. “Valenrow? Montclair Lodge? Casse-Cou Château in France? Or was it Crestwood Manor?” The names rolled off his tongue like accusations, each one weighted with history and significance. These were not just houses—they were legacies, pieces of the Morcant dynasty that had shaped his family for generations. Valenrow, the sprawling estate that had been their primary home; Montclair Lodge, nestled in the mountains, where they spent winters skiing; Casse-Cou Château, perched in the French countryside like a jewel; and Crestwood Manor, with its grand halls and storied past, it's sprawling grounds well known in England. He couldn’t bear the thought of any of them being given away, least of all to someone outside the family. “Mummy is going to be furious if you got Nan Blackthorne’s jewels,” he muttered, almost to himself. The thought of his mother’s reaction brought a grim sort of satisfaction. Adia Morcant had been counting on those jewels, not just for their monetary value but for their symbolism. They had belonged to her mother, Pearl Blackthorne, a woman whose name still carried weight in certain circles. Beau could already picture his mother’s face if she discovered that the jewels—the pieces she had coveted most—had been willed to Adelaide. She would see it as a personal slight, a betrayal of everything she had endured to uphold the family’s image. And Beau? He wasn’t sure he could blame her. He took a step closer to Adelaide, his movements slow and deliberate. The migraine still pulsed in his skull, a relentless reminder of the stress and grief he was barely keeping at bay. But he refused to show weakness. Not here. Not now. “What else did he leave you?” he pressed, his voice quieter but no less intense. “Tell me. Was it one of the houses? A hidden fund? A share of the company?” His eyes narrowed as he studied her face, searching for any flicker of emotion that might give her away. “Or was it something else? Some... responsibility? Some secret only you’re meant to carry?” The thought lingered in the air between them, heavy and unspoken. Beau hated how much it intrigued him. He hated the idea that Adelaide might hold answers he never would, that Alistair might have entrusted her with something meaningful, something that mattered. He took a step back, his gaze flicking to the letter in her hand once more. The pristine paper taunted him, a symbol of everything he didn’t understand about her place in this labyrinth of grief and legacy. “Read it,” he said finally, his voice low and sharp. “Whatever it says, whatever he gave you—it doesn’t matter. You don’t belong here. You know who that letter should be addressed to? Edie." |
|
|
| |
Neutral
|
To her mounting disquiet, the man appeared to regard her with barely restrained anger that bordered on fury. Her words had not seemed to register as he began to speak, and for a fleeting, self-doubting moment, she contemplated whether her words had remained trapped within the confines of her own mind—a thought she swiftly and definitively rejected. Adelaide was many things, but uncertain was not among them. She did not fabricate conversations, did not entertain phantoms of speech, and she most certainly would not be cowed by the brutish intimidation of men who believed their stature and volume could silence her. He loomed before her, a thundercloud of barely restrained fury, his frame casting an imposing shadow that seemed calculated to diminish her. His accusations cascaded around her like a torrential downpour, each word laden with vitriol and unspoken grief. She remained characteristically composed and aloof, allowing the tempest of his emotion to rage unchecked. Alistair Morcant's cryptic warning about familial despair echoed in her memory, lending her a degree of compassion for Beaudan's visceral reaction. This was, after all, a man confronting the loss of his family member, his world suddenly destabilized by an outsider who held some inexplicable key to his family's intricate and troubled narrative. His initial volcanic rage gradually subsided into something far more treacherous—a soft, almost velvet-edged tone that carried within it more menace than his previous roar. When the unexpected mention of another emerged, it caught her entirely off-guard. She had steeled herself for the predictable interrogation: probing questions about property, inheritance, the sanctity of familial wealth. Instead, he mentioned an new individual, someone conspicuously absent from the will but evidently significant enough to warrant his anger. Momentarily unmoored, she found herself struggling to construct a coherent response. Her lips parted, then closed, a silent ballet of nascent thoughts struggling to take form. With a measured sigh that betrayed more composure than she felt, she extracted the envelope's contents and moved, placing the letter upon the bench with a deliberate gentleness that contrasted sharply with the garden's charged atmosphere. "Have you quite concluded your performance?" she murmured, her voice a razor-edged whisper. Then, lifting her tone to ensure clarity, she continued, "Read it. Or don't. It matters little to me, and I suspect it will illuminate nothing of my true purpose here. Perhaps you might unravel its mysteries, given how masterfully you've been interpreting your own correspondence." With a sweep of movement that was equal parts dismissal and defiance, she turned and stalked into the garden, her trajectory carrying her down a twisted path toward a resplendent cluster of roses. As she knelt among the crimson and ivory blooms, preparing to examine the remaining documents, a fragmentary memory flickered at the periphery of her consciousness—tantalizingly close yet maddeningly opaque. She recalled, with a sudden visceral clarity, a scene from her childhood: two men engaged in a heated discussion, their voices rising and falling like competing waves. She had been beneath a table, her cherished doll clasped tightly, when a sudden, violent slam had sent her retreating to the doorframe, heart thundering in her young chest. The precise nature of their argument remained shrouded, an enigma wrapped in the soft, failing light of memory. The stranger's face remained frustratingly indistinct—only her father's furious expression remained sharp, etched with a complexity of emotion she could not yet comprehend. Attempting to draw more details from the recalcitrant depths of her memory proved futile. Each mental probe sent spikes of pain lancing through her temples, a warning against her excessive intrusion. With an irritated exhalation that spoke volumes, she finally unfurled the first document, her gaze sharp and intent. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Beaudan watched Adelaide stalk away, his jaw tight with irritation. Of course, she wouldn’t share whatever Alistair had left her. That would have been too simple, too easy. Instead, she would keep it to herself, holding the secret like bait—or worse, as blackmail for some future play. With a frustrated scowl, Beau dragged a hand down his face, the frustration threatening to bubble over. He turned sharply and stalked in the opposite direction, his leather shoes crunching against the gravel path. There was no way he would be reduced to trailing after her, a lost puppy begging for scraps of information. That wasn’t him—not now, not ever. But his migraine had other ideas. Pain speared through his skull with a cruel, almost vindictive intensity, and he stumbled, gripping the back of a nearby bench for support. For a moment, the world tilted on its axis, his vision blurred by the relentless pounding in his temples. Beau pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to force the pain back into the recesses of his mind. He needed three things, and he needed them fast: a cold glass of brandy, a handful of Tylenol, and a phone call to his estranged sister. With those necessities locked firmly in his mind, Beau straightened his shoulders, brushed off his suit, and started toward the house. As he approached Valenrow’s grand entrance, the muffled clamor of voices grew louder. He frowned, slowing his steps. The press was still gathered at the gates, their shouts echoing over the estate’s high stone walls. Even with the gates shut and the security team in full force, the vultures found ways to make their presence known. Beau’s lip curled in disgust. The journalists had been circling like sharks for days, hoping for the smallest scrap of drama to sensationalize. When he was sixteen, he’d found it amusing. He and Callum had been regulars in the tabloids, their every move dissected and praised. Handsome, charming, wealthy—the Morcant brothers were the golden boys of the East Coast elite. But now, at twenty-one, the novelty had worn off. The endless scrutiny was suffocating. He couldn’t so much as glance at a woman or buy a new car without it becoming a headline. Even his grief was a commodity, plastered across gossip sites with captions like, *"The Handsome Morcant Heirs: Dashing Even in Mourning."* The memory of one such headline made Beau’s stomach churn. He shoved the thought aside and slipped into the house, carefully avoiding the main corridors. He didn’t want to run into his mother—not in her current state. Adia Morcant’s grief was a spectacle all its own, filled with dramatic sobs and bitter rants about who had received what in the will. Beau didn’t have the energy to deal with her tirades right now. Instead, he made his way to the study at the back of the house. The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the scent of old leather and varnished wood filling the air. He approached one particular shelf with practiced ease, pulling two specific books—one with his mother’s name embossed on the spine, the other with his aunt’s. A soft click sounded as a hidden doorway swung open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit passage. Beau stepped inside without hesitation, the hidden passageway as familiar to him as the rest of the house. These secret corridors had been his playground as a child, a place to escape prying eyes and meddling relatives. They were still useful now, though for far different reasons. A few minutes later, he emerged into his bedroom, closing the concealed door behind him. The room was a study in understated elegance, with dark wood furniture and muted tones that reflected his taste. Beau immediately went to the small bar cart by the window, pouring himself a glass of brandy with a steady hand. He downed half of it in one gulp before rummaging through the drawer of his nightstand for his migraine medication. The pills were washed down with the remainder of the brandy, the combination providing a fleeting sense of relief. Feeling marginally better, Beau pulled out his phone, wincing at the sight of the cracked screen. The device still worked, though just barely. He unlocked it to find a slew of notifications—articles, social media mentions, speculative messages from acquaintances he hadn’t spoken to in years. He scrolled through the headlines, his scowl deepening with every swipe. *“Morcant Family Feud: Who Will Inherit Alistair’s Fortune?”*
*“No Charity for the Rich: A Closer Look at the Morcant Will.”*
*“The Morcant Brothers: Grief Has Never Looked So Good.”* The last one nearly made him throw the phone across the room. His grief was not a spectacle. His life was not a sideshow for the masses to consume and critique. Needing a distraction, Beau dialed the number he had been avoiding for weeks. He wasn’t sure if Edie would pick up—they hadn’t spoken properly in years—but he was desperate enough to try. To his surprise, the call connected after a single ring. “Beau,” came the familiar voice, warm and teasing. He felt the tension in his shoulders ease at the sound of her. Edie had always been his favorite sibling, the one person who could bring him back to himself when the world felt too heavy. Their conversation was brief but comforting. Beau read her the letter aloud, his voice tinged with frustration. Edie, true to form, didn’t give him the answer outright. Instead, she dropped a hint—a subtle clue to set him on the right path. He sighed, shaking his head with a wry smile. That was just like her, always leaving him to figure things out for himself. But he couldn’t be mad at her. Nothing would ever shake his affection for his brilliant, irreverent sister. “Don’t drink too much,” she warned before hanging up. “And don’t tell Mummy we talked.” The line went dead, leaving Beau alone with his thoughts. The pain in his head had dulled to a manageable ache, and for the first time in days, he felt a glimmer of clarity. He had a clue now, a starting point. But his thoughts kept circling back to Adelaide. He still didn’t know what to make of her. She didn’t belong here—of that, he was certain—but that wasn’t her fault. Whatever his grandfather had seen in her, whatever reason he had for including her in the will, it wasn’t something she had asked for. Still, Beau couldn’t shake the anger bubbling beneath the surface. This was his home. His family. His legacy. And yet, she held a piece of it in her hands, refusing to let him see. His jaw tightened. Fine. If she wanted to play games, he could wait. He knew exactly where to wait. Beau made his way back through the tunnels, this time dropping from a window down onto a hidden section of the roof. The flat, sun-drenched space at the back of the house had always been his retreat—a place to think, to escape, to breathe. He had managed to lose his suit jacket on the way there, and shrugged off his white button-up, letting the warm sunlight wash over his bare skin. The tension in his chest eased slightly as he sprawled out on the roof, his gaze fixed on the endless blue sky above. Adelaide would come to him. And when she did, he would be ready. |
|
|
| |
Neutral
|
Adelaide's hands were shaking as she gently opened the parchment, breaking the embossed wax seal as delicately as possible. Though it was meant for nothing other than sealing letters, something deep within her refused to tarnish its beauty. Her eyes flitted over the paper briefly, and she found herself scoffing to the roses before crumpling the paper in her fist. In his original letter, Alistair had been rather wordy, providing her with clues to her presence and a bit of history to assauge her curiosity. This, however, was comically short, straight to the point - one that she certainly had no desire to comply with. Find Beaudan. She sat for another moment, a small hysterical giggle bubbling out of her as her eyes traced the delicate line of the flower petals. Her estranged father was somehow involved with a family riddled by insanity - that had to be it. She wouldn't downplay their grief, but Alistair himself simply had to be deranged to believe her both capable and willing to compromise with his family - to find something she had no clue existed! Shaking her head, she composed herself quickly, slipping into her typical mask of indifference. She would play the game, for a bit at least. She would find Beaudan, who clearly had no desire to interact with her, and she would tell him that she quit. Carefully, she pushed herself off the ground, dusting her pants off before turning back towards the secret entrance she had found. Though, she mused, she hadn't truly found it. She eyed the wall for a secret latch, letting out a small yip of victory when she found a singular stone that potruded slightly further than the rest. Pressing it, she watched as the door slid open a few inches, before easing it the rest of the way and sneaking back into the hidden hall. Her steps were light, more confident in her return trip. There had been nothing hindering her path on the way out, and none of the remaining family had come through the secret hall while she was outside. She determined she was nearly halfway through when something solid, warm, and definitely human ran into her. She let out a yelp, falling back a few paces as she struggled to regain her footing. The hall way still dark, the light from the portrait not nearly enough to ascertain whether the visitor was familiar. She knew, deep down, that it was not Beaudan. Knew that the air wasn't charged like it had been moments ago, that this person was somehow more contained. She didn't have time to process that this may not have been a good thing before a steady hand found her shoulder. anchoring her while she continued to reorient. "Adelaide." The voice was clipped, cold and devoid of any intonation. The hand left her shoulder as quickly as it had appeared, and then the figure was off, walking towards the garden. As the door opened, she saw the briefest flash of Cal, the oldest of the sons, and she couldn't stop the tremor that crept up her spine. Without uttering a complete sentence, Cal had solidified something primal in Adelaide, an understanding that he had little regard for her and wanted her out of his way. Shivering, she continued on shaky feet, her mask of composure cracking with every step towards the sitting room. Her steps slowed gradually, until she found herself stopped a mere foot from the portrait. She was no longer aloof, her indifferent demeanor thrown out and replaced by the growing unease within her. Instead of exiting, she felt along the wall for anything - in her old home, secret halls held more than one exit. To her immense relief, after a pass on the opposite wall, she felt a small indent in the papering. Her fingers delicately traced outward until they grasped a thin divot - a covering, surely invisible to those who weren't looking. She pulled it away, slowly twisting the knob, and sighed when it opened to a stairwell, still light from the fading sun. Her steps echoed in the passage, the wallpaper doing little to hide her reverberating presence as she continued up, twisting with the wall. Eventually, the steps turned out to a lovely terrace overlooking the property in its entirety. Here, she stopped, breathing in and out as her emotions slowly calmed. She would hear if someone else came up the stairs, she would be able to prepare to face them. Slowly, her heartrate slowed, and her cool mask fixed its fractures. She finally allowed herself to take in the stature of the house built around her. To her utter shock, the roof to her right was occupied. Though there was a bit of distance between them, Beaudan lay bare-chested on the shingles. Adelaide couldn't help but scoff lowly, remembering the carefree message Alistair had granted her. Find Beaudan. Mission successful, she thought bitterly. Despite this, she found herself staring at him, not speaking as she had intended to. His skin was fair, and she could see tan lines from days in the sun. While his face belied a boyish charm, his body said otherwise - muscle tone that was only achieved by at least moderate athleticism sculpted his arms and torso, highlighted by the golden light the sun provided. She allowed herself another moment to stare silently, before dragging her eyes to his face and clearing her throat. "I don't know if you're deaf or incompetent, but I was speaking to you earlier. Would you please explain why the first words of this stupid treasure hunt were 'find Beaudan' so I can get on with this and get the hell out of here?" |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
He’d forgotten how much he liked the roof. The sunlight poured over his skin like liquid gold, the warmth of the terrace beneath him radiating up through his body. There was a quiet arrogance in the way he sprawled across the tiles, shirt discarded and arms folded lazily behind his head, his lean frame basking in the sun. Beau Morcant looked every inch the king of this small domain, content to half-doze as the brandy left its faint heat on his lips and the painkillers dulled the pounding in his skull. For a fleeting moment, all the tangled threads of inheritance, intrigue, and betrayal unraveled into nothingness. This was his haven, the perfect place to clear his head and dwell on the letter—a puzzle piece that felt deliberately fractured. He sighed, closing his eyes against the sunlight filtering through the edge of a shadow. The momentary reprieve didn’t last long. The distinct sound of footsteps on the shingles, calculated and precise, told him his solitude had been compromised. Of course, it would be Callum. Beau felt the presence of his older brother before he saw him, his dark shadow spilling over the terrace like a storm cloud. Cal had always had that effect—smothering, oppressive, and just sharp enough to needle under the skin. Beau rolled onto his side, propping his head on one hand as if to bask in his brother’s disapproval, pretending not to notice the hard glint in Cal’s eye or the smug set of his jaw. He decided to amuse himself by saying nothing, testing just how long his brother could endure being ignored. Callum hated wasted time more than anything else, and Beau, ever the contrarian, loved wasting it. It took less than thirty seconds. “Beau,” Cal snapped, nudging him sharply in the ribs. “Let me read what the old man wrote to you.” Beau snorted softly, still feigning disinterest. “Straight to the point, are we? What happened to a little foreplay? You didn’t even bother pretending you came up here to ask how I’m doing.” He finally rolled onto his back, squinting up at his brother through the glare of sunlight. “Anyway, hell no. Since when have we shared anything? I know for a fact you’re just bitter about not getting Casse-Cou, and for your information—” Beau smirked, deliberately slow and sharp, “—that was promised to me. Nice try.” For a fleeting moment, he thought Cal might explode then and there. But to his surprise, his brother’s composure didn’t crack—at least, not entirely. Instead, Cal leaned closer, his voice cutting through the lazy atmosphere like a blade. “Do you want Adelaide to get everything?” The name hit its mark, and Beau’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He didn’t let Cal see it, though; he wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Instead, he pushed himself up onto one elbow and countered smoothly, “Did you want Edie to win every time?” That did it. Cal’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he stormed away, retreating back through the hidden passage with all the grace of a slammed door. Beau chuckled under his breath, lying back against the sun-warmed shingles. He’d always found a certain satisfaction in riling his brother, and watching Cal lose his temper was a sport in its own right. He stretched languidly, his muscles rippling as he adjusted his position, folding his shirt into a makeshift pillow. The day, he decided, was finally going his way. The sunlight kissed his skin as he let his thoughts wander, the letter resurfacing in his mind. He could feel its weight even now, tucked away in his jacket pocket. It was cryptic, of course—his grandfather wouldn’t have had it any other way. Every sentence was deliberate, each word selected to torment and tantalize in equal measure. Beau couldn’t help but wonder if he’d missed something, some subtle clue hidden between the lines. He sighed, letting his head fall back against the makeshift pillow. Whatever it was, he would figure it out. Eventually. His lips curved into a lazy smile as sleep began to pull at the edges of his mind. And then, of course, someone had to ruin it. The sound of a throat clearing snapped him back to the present. Beau frowned, his full lips tugging downward in irritation. He opened one eye, squinting against the sunlight to see who had dared to interrupt his peace. What he saw made the corner of his mouth quirk upward in a smirk. “Enjoying the view, are we?” he drawled, not bothering to sit up. The words came out lazily, laced with a confidence so practiced it might as well have been second nature. He reached for the brandy glass at his side, taking a slow sip as if to underline his complete lack of urgency. It wasn’t lost on him that this was the second interruption in as many minutes. Between Callum and now this...intrusion, it seemed he wasn’t going to get the quiet he craved. Still, he decided to play along—for now. “So,” he mused, swirling the brandy in his glass, “why exactly did the old man send you to find me? Surely he knew we’d get on so well.” The sarcasm in his voice was as sharp as a razor. “What was it? A secret mission? Or did he just hope you’d throw yourself off the parapet to save us all the trouble?” His words were deliberately biting, but his tone carried a flicker of genuine curiosity beneath the barbs. Why him? Why now? His grandfather wasn’t the type to act without reason, and that reason—whatever it was—felt important. Beau let out a slow breath, setting the empty glass aside. “Let me see the note,” he said coolly, his voice softening but losing none of its edge. “And the other letter, too. If he left you anything specific, that might give us a clue.” He leaned back against the shingles, watching carefully now, his sharp hazel eyes betraying the calculating mind behind his laid-back exterior. Whatever game his grandfather had set in motion, Beau intended to win. He just needed the right pieces to fall into place. |
|
|
| |
Neutral
|
Adelaide winced at his comment, a delicate flush rising to her cheeks - a telltale betrayal of the emotion she desperately wished to conceal. Though she hoped he might not have noticed the intensity of her gaze, it seemed Beaudan's ego was expansive enough to fill in the unspoken spaces between them with his own presumptions. Rather than dignify his remark with a verbal response, she executed a fluid, almost feline movement, swinging one leg over the ornate terrace railing. Her toes traced the outer ledge, testing its structural integrity with a calculated precision, her previous shakiness gone. When Beaudan lifted his drink and took a measured sip, she found herself transfixed by the elegant trajectory of his throat - the subtle bobbing of his Adam's apple, the deliberate way he swallowed. Quickly realizing the intimacy of her observation, she wrenched her gaze away, punctuating her embarrassment with a soft, unconvincing cough. Mercifully, he continued speaking, his voice cutting through the charged silence without deigning to meet her eyes. She took a moment to gaze out at the gardens before replying. "I wish I could tell you, I truly do," she said, her tone a complex tapestry of frustration and defeat. "As much as I've appreciated our sporadic exchanges of wit, I'm growing weary of them rather quickly. This note provided me with but a singular directive: locate you, with as few words as possible, it seems." Her response was detached, facial expression carefully blank and designed to maintain distance. Her gaze shifted back to him warily. Though he made no physical advance, the mere proximity of her leg dangling precariously over the banister transformed what might have been playful sarcasm into something more sinister. She began to retreat, swinging her leg back over the railing with the intention of descending the stairs, but his words - so incongruent with his previously combative tone - arrested her movement. There was a genuineness that caught her entirely off guard; Beaudan, it seemed, possessed an uncanny ability to dismantle her carefully constructed defenses. Sighing, a sound laden with resignation, Adelaide once more navigated the railing. This time, she settled both legs over the edge, her feet tentatively exploring a mere three inches of space suspended above a precarious drop. Her descent to the broader expanse of rooftop was anything but graceful - a small miscalculated jump resulted in an inelegant sprawl that left her breathless and unexpectedly close to her enigmatic companion. "Well," she murmured, a hint of sardonic amusement threading through her voice, "that was substantially more dramatic than anticipated." Her hands, steady despite the preceding tumult, retrieved the original envelope. With meticulous care, she extracted both letters - both the original and the most recent development - and extended them toward Beaudan. "This initial correspondence is remarkably in depth," she continued, her confusion taking precedence over emotional turbulence. "I understand that I'm meant to undertake some manner of elaborate treasure hunt, and Alistair has masterfully woven threads of reminiscence throughout. What eludes my understanding is his motivation in connecting us. He was well aware of my estrangement, surely cognizant that we've never interacted since I haven't been home in years. And yet, he seems convinced of some deeper understanding between us - though I don't understand how, seeing as I have no desire to be around you." Her verbal exposition served to dissipate some of the internal storm, and she twisted to her side, observing Beaudan as he scrutinized the letters. Her mind, ever restless, drifted to the peculiar encounter in the shadowed hallway. "I encountered your brother," she stated, her voice carefully emotionless, indifferent. "Or more accurately, we collided in the secret hall I followed you from. He struck me as... tense." Her eyes remained fixed on Beaudan, searching for any minute fluctuation in his expression - a tell, a crack in his carefully maintained facade. Was this pervasive hostility merely a familial trait, or was the presence of an unknown entity sufficient to unsettle the entire household? A moment of contemplative silence stretched between them before she murmured, her tone softening almost imperceptibly, "I apologize. My presence here is as unwelcome to me as I presume it is to you, particularly during this period of mourning." Turning away, she directed her gaze skyward. The sun completed its languorous descent, surrendering to the approaching night. Shadows lengthened, and a crisp evening chill began to infiltrate the atmosphere. Mirroring the external transformation, she allowed a metaphorical coldness to wash through her internal landscape - systematically purging the remnants of emotional volatility. There would be time for sentiment later. For now, survival and success were her sole priorities. She intended to extract whatever mysterious prize awaited her with surgical precision and minimal entanglement. |
|
|
Winter 
Night 
Clear Moon: 
