Pink Top City Shorts: Ami Fidèle

Pink Top City Shorts: Ami Fidèle

September 5th, 1957

The late-afternoon sun of early September filtered through the Beaumont estate’s tall, leaded windows in Clerteaux, casting long golden bands across the library's polished parquet floor. Outside, the sprawling grounds remained quiet, insulated from the rest of the world behind wrought-iron gates and ancient stone walls. Inside, only the crackle of cherrywood embers in the hearth and the gentle clatter of porcelain broke the quiet as Armand set down a silver tea service.

At exactly five o’clock, the family gathered.

Narcisse stood near the mantelpiece, impeccably composed in a bespoke three-piece suit of muted plum wool, a tailored cravat tucked neatly beneath his waistcoat. Even at fourteen, he carried himself with an effortless, predatory calm, adjusting his round tortoiseshell glasses with slender fingers.

Across from him, seated bolt upright in an upholstered armchair, was seventeen-year-old Charlotte. Her waist-length silver hair fell in immaculate waves over her teal patterned knit, and her cat-eye spectacles glinted under the chandelier light. Beside her chair rested a slender, cloth-wrapped folio tied with dark grosgrain ribbon.

Charlotte: “Happy fourteenth birthday, Narcisse.”

She said, her voice measured and precise. She picked up the parcel and held it out with both hands.

Charlotte: “I took the liberty of requisitioning something of actual substance rather than frivolous sentiment.”

Narcisse accepted the package, his lips curving into a subtle, approving smile. Untying the ribbon with meticulous care, he folded back the linen wrap to reveal a thick, leather-bound folio stamped with the city’s crest. He turned the heavy, rag-paper pages with reverent delicacy.

Narcisse: “The 1748 municipal transcripts from the Clerteaux archive.”

He observed, his sharp green eyes scanning the calligraphed French.

Narcisse: “The full unredacted minutes of the border disputes, handwritten by the magistrate himself. How did you persuade the archivist?”

Charlotte: “A Beaumont does not persuade…”

She replied coolly, lifting her teacup.

Charlotte: “We remind them where their funding originates. Study the treatises on page ninety-four—the ambassador’s leverage strategies regarding estate jurisdictions are masterclasses in quiet coercion.”

Narcisse: “Exquisite…”

He murmured, tracing the edge of the parchment.

Narcisse: “Thank you, Charlotte. It will be put to exceptional use.”

The study door swung inward, and Gaston Beaumont stepped in. At fifty, he had the same striking silver hair, swept back into a low tail, and wore a brown tweed jacket over a dark vest, an unlit briar pipe resting loosely between his fingers. Under his left arm, he carried a long, brass-cornered case of polished English oak wrapped in dark green canvas.

Gaston: “Archives and treaties, Charlotte.”

He chuckled, his deep baritone carrying the easy gravity of old money and absolute authority.

Gaston: “A formidable foundation, certainly. But a Beaumont must command respect in the open field just as sharply as behind a desk.”

Gaston set the heavy oak case flat onto the mahogany desk. He tapped the brass latches with a thumb, clicking them open in unison. The heavy lid lifted to reveal deep, fitted green baize cradling a pristine piece of British craftsmanship: a bespoke Holland & Holland Nitro Express double rifle.

The blued steel barrels had a mirror-like depth, while the receiver was hand-chiseled with intricate acanthus scrollwork and delicate game scenes. The walnut stock’s grain was dark and swirling, hand-checkered to utter perfection.

Narcisse set his folio down and moved to the desk, his gaze locked upon the weapon.

Gaston: “You have mastered hunting gorillas, cape buffalo, and elephants.”

He said, resting a firm, warm hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Gaston: “Fourteen is the age a gentleman takes responsibility for true power. This is your own Holland & Holland Nitro Express. When the season permits, Narcisse, you and I will travel south once more where you can claim one of the top five with your own gun.”

Narcisse reached down, his hands lifting the rifle from its velvet recess. He checked the action, swinging the heavy barrels shut with a vault-like, satisfying clack. The balance was sublime, settling into his shoulder as naturally as if it had been carved from his own bones.

A slow, cold spark of ambition lit behind Narcisse's wire-rimmed lenses.

Narcisse: “It handles beautifully, Father…”

He said quietly, feeling the cool weight of the steel.

Narcisse: “A truly magnificent instrument.”

Gaston: “See that it is maintained with the discipline it deserves.”

He said with an approving nod, striking a match to finally light his pipe. Fragrant smoke drifted upward, blending with the scent of gun oil, old leather, and bergamot tea.

A gentle knock echoed through the study before the heavy oak door drifted open once more.

Emmeline Beaumont entered with effortless, gliding grace, her presence softening the sharp tang of gun oil and tobacco that hung in the air. She cradled a compact, pale-cream box in the crook of her arm, crowned with a silk baby blue bow. Her warm gaze took in her husband leaning against the desk, Charlotte composed by the tea cart, and Narcisse admiring the cold blue steel in his grip.

Emmeline: “Put the rifle down for just a moment, darling.”

She said, her voice rich with maternal warmth.

Emmeline: “Before the two of you turn my library into an armory, there is one last matter to attend to.”

Narcisse set the heavy double rifle back into its fitted green baize case and stepped forward, curious green eyes fixing on the box. As he drew near, the box shifted slightly with a soft, muffled rustle.

Reaching out, Narcisse pinched the edge of the baby-blue ribbon and pulled it smoothly and deliberately. The silk slid away, pooling across his palms. He lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled atop a plush velvet cushion, was a tiny Himalayan kitten.

The creature was barely larger than Narcisse’s outstretched hand, coated in an impossibly soft cloud of creamy white fur that deepened into smoky seal-point hues across his tiny ears, the bridge of his snout, and his small paws. Startled by the sudden flood of lamplight, the kitten blinked, revealing wide, brilliant sapphire-blue eyes that seemed almost too large for his face. He let out a faint, high-pitched mew that barely reached the bookshelves.

Despite his calculated composure and aristocratic poise, Narcisse’s expression melted.

He set the box lid aside on the polished desk and carefully slid both hands beneath the kitten’s tiny frame. The fur was warm and weightless. As he lifted the little creature to his chest, the kitten immediately burrowed its tiny, dark-smudged nose into the plum wool of Narcisse’s vest, tiny paws kneading his lapel as it let out an immediate, vibrating purr.

Emmeline: “A gentleman of Clerteaux requires a discerning companion for his study.”

He said with a knowing smile, stepping closer to gently smooth Narcisse's unruly silver hair.

Emmeline: “One who appreciates quiet evenings, warm fires, and good books just as much as you do.”

Even Charlotte leaned forward slightly from her chair, her severe, academic expression softening into a rare, genuine curve of the lips.

Charlotte: “He has an exceptionally dignified face for someone so utterly minute.”

Gaston let out a low chuckle behind his pipe.

Gaston: “A fine judge of character already, Emmeline. He seems to approve of the tailoring.”

Narcisse lifted one hand and gently stroked the soft fur behind the kitten’s velvety ears with a single finger. The kitten leaned into the touch, purring louder and blinking up at him with those crystalline blue eyes.

Narcisse: “His name is Louis.”

He murmured, the cold detachment in his voice replaced by quiet, absolute devotion.

Narcisse: “Louis de Clerteaux.”

With the archival transcripts on the table, the double rifle resting in its case, and the tiny Himalayan purring against his heartbeat, Narcisse Beaumont’s fourteenth birthday was, in every measure, complete.

Gaston let out a low, contemplative ring of blue-gray smoke from his pipe, his gaze shifting from Narcisse’s purring kitten toward Charlotte, who still sat poised with her teacup.

Gaston: “While we are celebrating new milestones today…”

He said, his tone shifting into that unmistakable register of patriarchal authority and high-society diplomacy.

Gaston: “There is another arrangement concerning this family’s future that requires our attention. Particularly yours, Charlotte.”

Charlotte paused, the porcelain cup suspended an inch above its saucer. Her sharp eyes fixed on her father with clinical precision.

Charlotte: “An arrangement, Papa?”

Gaston: “You are seventeen…”

He continued smoothly, gesturing with the amber stem of his pipe.

Gaston: “And as our position in Clerteaux expands, proper alliances must be solidified. I had a long luncheon yesterday with Gustave and Honorine Trémaux at the Cercle des Hommes. We reached a formal accord.”

Narcisse, still gently stroking Louis beneath the kitten's chin, tilted his head slightly. The name drew an immediate calculation behind his round wire frames.

Charlotte: “The Trémaux estate on the eastern ridge…”

She said flatly, her voice betraying neither protest nor enthusiasm, merely analyzing the data as she had been trained to.

Charlotte: “Old blood, extensive landholdings, and influential ties to the regional magistrates.”

Gaston: “Precisely…”

He said with an approving nod.

Gaston: “And Gustave and Honorine have a single heir. Their only child and son, Victor. He is of proper age, well-mannered, and has received the finest classical tutoring. A formal introduction is set for this coming weekend in the parlor. The Trémaux lineage paired with our own will secure Clerteaux’s civic leadership for the next century.”

Emmeline offered a calm, knowing smile and placed a delicate hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. Emmeline: “Gustave speaks very highly of Victor’s introspective nature, darling. He is quite gentle—perhaps an ideal balance to our Beaumont resolve.”

Charlotte set her teacup down with a light, measured chime against the silver tray. She smoothed the pleats of her teal skirt, her pragmatism weighing every political, social, and domestic variable in the proposition.

Charlotte: “If Victor Trémaux proves himself disciplined, rational, and not prone to unnecessary sentimentality…”

She replied evenly, her cat-eye glasses catching the chandelier light.

Charlotte: “Then I will find the match acceptable. I expect him to arrive punctually on Saturday.”

From the hearth rug, little Louis let out a faint, squeaky chirp, entirely oblivious to the monumental legacy and arranged future unfolding in the room.

Gaston tapped the ash from his pipe into the marble tray, a shrewd, aristocratic glint settling in his eyes.

Gaston: “An alliance on paper is merely an opening gambit, Charlotte…”

He added, his deep voice carrying the unyielding weight of dynasty.

Gaston: “The real permanence lies in the bloodline. When the time comes, I expect you to bear Victor a son. I want my little prince.”

Charlotte did not flinch, though her eyebrows arched slightly over her glasses.

Charlotte: “A prince, Papa? You speak as if Clerteaux were a monarchy.”

Gaston: “In everything that matters, it is…”

He replied with an easy, unrepentant grin, settling back against the mahogany desk.

Gaston: “And a Beaumont never builds an empire without securing the succession.”

Emmeline gave her husband a subtle, chastising glance before stepping gracefully toward the double doors.

Emmeline: “That will be quite enough dynasty-building for one afternoon, Gaston. Today belongs to Narcisse.”

She signaled softly toward the hall, and moments later, Armand entered, pushing a wheeled mahogany cart. Atop a silver platter rested a modest, exquisitely frosted gateau—dark chocolate layered with blackberry coulis, adorned with fourteen slender ivory candles that flickered warmly against the study’s shadowed bookshelves.

Gaston: “I suppose. Narcisse isn’t going to find anyone anyway.”

He chuckled. Narcisse’s right eye twitched.

Narcisse cradled the sleeping Louis in the crook of one arm, his free hand smoothing his lapel as the family gathered around the cart.

Charlotte: “Make your wish, Narcisse…”

She said, stepping beside him with a rare, approving nod.

Charlotte: “Though I expect it involves something suitably ambitious."

Narcisse looked at the glowing flames, the reflection dancing sharply in his wire-rimmed lenses. With a faint, enigmatic smirk and a single, controlled breath, he extinguished the candles, leaving only the sweet aroma of cocoa and sugar drifting beside the tobacco smoke.

Armand sliced the cake with practiced elegance, serving delicate porcelain plates while little Louis nestled deeper into Narcisse’s plum vest, purring softly through the celebration.

~

By quarter past three on Saturday afternoon, the tension in the Beaumont drawing room had begun to thicken. Gaston stood before the marble hearth, arms crossed behind his back, checking the pocket watch on his waistcoat, an unmistakable crease between his brows. Charlotte sat on the velvet settee, back perfectly erect, hands folded over her lap, her cat-eye frames glinting coldly as the grandfather clock chimed each passing minute. Narcisse stood near the arched entryway, cradling the tiny Himalayan kitten against his plum waistcoat and stroking Louis behind the ears, his haughty disinterest masking an acute, analytical curiosity.

The sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway finally cut through the silence. When Armand opened the double mahogany doors to announce the guests, Gustave and Honorine Trémaux swept into the foyer with all the stiff grandeur of their lineage, offering swift, polished apologies for the delay.

Then their sixteen-year-old son came, trailing half a step behind them.

Victor Trémaux paused in the doorway, momentarily flustered, lifting one hand to adjust the gold link at the cuff of his dark three-piece suit. The autumn breeze slightly tousled his white hair, curling it softly around the frames of his rectangular glasses. Beneath the clear lenses, his deep blue eyes darted across the grand foyer with quiet, introspective gentleness, catching the light beside a delicate beauty mark just beneath his lips. He carried none of the sharp, predatory arrogance that filled the Beaumont household; Victor moved with a poetic, almost self-effacing grace, looking thoroughly out of his depth yet strikingly handsome in the soft September glow.

Victor: “Forgive the tardiness.”

He murmured, his voice soft and velvety, with an earnest, melodic warmth.

Victor: “Our motorcar threw a belt near the village, and... well, we made haste as soon as it was mended.”

Standing in the shadow of the arched entryway, Narcisse stopped breathing.

His fingers froze mid-stroke against Louis’ soft fur. The fourteen-year-old boy simply stared, his jaw parting just enough to let go of the icy, practiced sneer he had spent years perfecting in front of the mirror. His gaze traced the gentle curl of Victor's hair, the precise line of his tailored suit, and the awkward, tender smile touching the older boy’s face.

Then came the sensation.

It started low in Narcisse’s chest, sudden and violently warm, before rising like a wildfire up the column of his throat. A hot, prickling flush flooded his cheeks and burned at the tips of his ears, entirely beyond his command. Narcisse had studied Machiavellian treatises, tactical treatises, mastered the Nandrasana plains, and the calculated balance of sovereign power, but he had no language for this physiological rebellion. His chest tightened; his heart thudded against his ribs with an erratic, fluttering rhythm that felt entirely foreign.

What on Reona is this? Narcisse thought, frantic and silent, his throat going dry as he clutched the kitten a fraction tighter against his ribs. Is it indignation? A fever? Irritation at his tardiness? He wondered.

Yet he could not tear his eyes away. Every calculated insult he had prepared to defend his sister’s dignity evaporated.

Charlotte rose from the settee, her posture rigid as she smoothed her pleated skirt and stepped forward to greet the boy chosen to be her suitor.

Charlotte: “Punctuality is a virtue, Monsieur Trémaux. However, mechanical failures are beyond human control, so we shall overlook it.”

Victor turned to Charlotte and bowed his head in courtly respect.

Victor: “Mademoiselle Beaumont. You are very kind to be so forgiving.”

As Victor straightened, his blue eyes drifted past Charlotte and caught Narcisse, frozen by the door. Victor gave the younger boy a gentle, friendly nod, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses as he noticed the tiny ball of cream fur curled against Narcisse’s chest.

Victor: “Ah…”

He whispered softly, smiling directly at Narcisse.

Victor: “What a truly lovely kitten.”

The flush on Narcisse’s face deepened into a vivid, burning crimson. He quickly ducked his chin, pressed his cheek against the fur on Louis’ head, and adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers, hiding behind his bangs. For the very first time in his life, Narcisse was utterly powerless, trapped under a spell he didn't comprehend, watching his sister’s prospective husband with a bewildering, quiet awe.

Victor reached into the inner breast pocket of his charcoal jacket, his fingers slightly trembling with youthful nervous energy, and withdrew a slim, marbled paper notebook bound with a fine strip of burgundy ribbon.

Victor: “I... I brought this for you, Mademoiselle Charlotte…”

He said, his cheeks tinging with a faint, modest warmth as he held out the booklet with both hands.

Victor: “Father told me of our intended meeting, and I felt that standard flowers seemed so fleeting. These are a few verses I transcribed by Charles Baudelaire, alongside some lines of my own composition regarding the early autumn mist across the Clerteaux valleys.”

Charlotte received the notebook with precise fingertips. She untied the ribbon and opened it to the first page, her cat-eye glasses catching the chandelier light as she inspected the flowing, artistic script.

Charlotte: “Baudelaire…”

She remarked in a cool, analytical tone, entirely unswayed by romantic flair.

Charlotte: “Emotionally turbulent, though structurally metered. The penmanship is clean and legible, Monsieur Trémaux, which shows an appreciation for order. However, verse does not govern an estate nor balance municipal ledgers.”

Victor’s shoulders sank a fraction, an earnest, sheepish smile touching his lips as he ducked his head.

Victor: “No, I… suppose it does not. I only hoped it might offer a moment of quiet contemplation.”

Across the drawing room, still standing half-hidden near the heavy damask curtains, Narcisse felt his heart twist painfully.

How dare she dismiss it so coldly? Narcisse thought, his gaze burning into the delicate marbled notebook in his sister’s hands. To Narcisse, the notion of Victor sitting late at night by lamplight, dipping a fountain pen to write out his soul onto rag paper, seemed almost painfully sublime. He looked at Victor’s downcast blue eyes and the soft mole near his mouth, and that strange, suffocating heat surged straight to his cheeks once more.

Narcisse hugged the tiny Himalayan kitten tighter against his chest, burying his chin in Louis’ cream-colored fluff just to keep anyone from seeing the jealous, bewildered scowl twisting his face. He would have read every single line Victor wrote until the ink wore off the page.

Before he could stop the words from forming, Narcisse stepped forward, his voice cutting through the high-ceilinged drawing room with uncharacteristic sharpness.

Narcisse: “I love poetry!”

The words hung in the air like glass on the verge of shattering.

Gaston froze, his pipe lowering half an inch from his mouth as his bushy silver eyebrows drew together in sheer disbelief. Charlotte tilted her head slowly, turning toward her younger brother with the clinical, dissecting gaze usually reserved for an anomalous specimen under glass. Even Gustave and Honorine Trémaux paused in their quiet murmured conversation, their attention pulled entirely to the fourteen-year-old standing rigid by the draperies.

Narcisse instantly realized what he had done.

Heat flared across his cheeks and temples with humiliating intensity, burning so hot he was sure his wire-rimmed glasses might steam up. He had spent his entire youth cultivating an aura of cold, calculating intellect—a young lord concerned with treatises, ballistics, estate power, hunting, and geopolitical leverage. He had never openly expressed passion for something so sentimental, let alone shouted it across a formal reception.

Louis, disturbed by his master’s sudden jolt, let out a tiny, inquisitive peep from within the crook of Narcisse’s arm, pawing lightly at the plum wool of his waistcoat.

Gaston: “You love poetry, Narcisse?”

He repeated, a deep, skeptical rumble in his baritone, giving his son a piercing look.

Gaston: “Since when does a Beaumont boy who just received a double-barreled Nitro Express occupy himself with romantic verse?”

Charlotte closed the marbled booklet with a soft, authoritative thud.

Charlotte: “Indeed. Only yesterday you were exalting the strategic brilliance of eighteenth-century border dispute transcripts. I was unaware Charles Baudelaire factored into your municipal studies.”

Narcisse stiffened, desperately scrambling to recover his shattered dignity behind a haughty, aristocratic mask. He cleared his throat, lifting his chin despite the crimson flush still staining his pale skin.

Narcisse: “A comprehensive mind requires an appreciation for meter, cadence, and linguistic precision…”

He insisted, his voice wavering only slightly before locking into a cool, defensive cadence.

Narcisse: “One cannot command language in diplomatic spheres if one ignores its most refined artistic iterations.”

Across the circle of velvet furniture, Victor’s expression brightened entirely. The older boy's self-conscious slump vanished, replaced by an earnest, luminous smile that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes behind his glasses.

Victor: “Do you really, Narcisse?”

He asked softly, taking an instinctive, eager step closer. His eyes shone with genuine delight at finding a kindred spirit in a room otherwise choked with contracts and cold pragmatic scrutiny. Victor: “Most people in Clerteaux find verse trivial, or worse, frivolous. But Baudelaire... he understood that beauty and darkness are forever bound together. Which of his works do you admire most?”

Narcisse stared at Victor’s open, handsome face, feeling utterly trapped under those blue eyes. His throat went dry. His heart hammered furiously against his ribs, beating in tandem with the purring kitten clutched against his chest.

He swallowed past the dry lump in his throat, his fingers tightening instinctively against his lapel as he held Victor’s radiant gaze. Every ounce of his intellect raced to produce something worthy, something that wouldn't betray the frantic fluttering behind his ribs.

Narcisse: “Les Fleurs du mal…”

He managed, forcing his tone into an even, haughty cadence to mask the heat still searing his cheeks.

Narcisse: “Specifically, L’Héautontimorouménos—‘The Self-Tormentor.’ It possesses... a striking clarity. ‘Je suis la plaie et le couteau, je suis le soufflet et la joue.’ The wound and the knife; the blow and the cheek. He understood that true mastery requires confronting both power and suffering.”

He paused, his glasses askew, his thumb slightly unsteady, desperate to sound like a calculating tactician rather than a flustered adolescent.

Victor’s eyes widened with profound, open admiration behind his rectangular spectacles. A breathless smile curved his lips, lighting up his gentle features.

Victor: “You know it by heart… and to choose that verse in particular. Most only quote his lighter pieces on love or decay, but you see the deeper philosophical conflict.”

He took another half-step toward him, leaning in as if the rest of the drawing room had ceased to exist.

Victor: “It is rare to find someone who understands that poetry isn't merely decoration—it is an anatomy of the soul.”

Narcisse’s breath hitched. Under Victor’s earnest, undivided attention, warmth surged back into his neck, threatening to engulf his composure. Little Louis gave a tiny, contented squeak against his chest, breaking the spell just enough for Charlotte to clear her throat with deliberate, razor-sharp precision.

Charlotte: “A fascinating recital, Narcisse.”

She interrupted coolly, setting the marbled booklet firmly onto the side table.

Charlotte: “However, Monsieur Trémaux is here on a matter of formal family acquaintance, not an academic seminar. Perhaps we might take our tea.”

Gaston let out a low, dry chuckle behind a cloud of pipe smoke and gestured toward the velvet seating.

Gaston: “Indeed. Come, Victor, sit. Let us see if your understanding of local land tenancy is quite as spirited as your recitation.”

Victor reluctantly turned away from Narcisse, though not before offering the younger boy a warm, conspiratorial smile over his shoulder. Narcisse stood frozen, watching Victor’s every graceful movement, his young mind thoroughly conquered, and his world quietly turned upside down.

~

The Beaumont manor was enveloped in heavy, midnight silence, the long corridors illuminated only by the pale, silver glow of the moon filtering through the high casement windows. Everyone in the grand estate had retired to their quarters—Gaston with his study books, Emmeline asleep, and Charlotte resting after an evening spent dissecting the Trémaux family holdings. Because the repairs on the Trémaux motorcar had taken past nightfall, Gustave and Honorine had returned home while Victor had been courteously offered the eastern guest suite for the night.

Narcisse had not slept a single wink.

Dressed in his dark silk pajamas, he padded soundlessly down the carpeted hallway. His heart thudded against his ribs like a caged bird, each beat echoing loudly in his own ears. He reached the eastern guest room door and paused, his hand hovering over the cold brass knob. With a slow, ambidextrous touch, he turned it without a whisper and slipped inside, easing the door shut behind him.

The guest suite was quiet, scented faintly with cedarwood and the clean, sweet bergamot cologne Victor wore.

On the grand four-poster bed, Victor lay fast asleep beneath the dark counterpane. Without his glasses, his face looked softer, almost ethereal in the blue wash of moonlight. His white hair spilled across the white linen pillow, and he breathed slowly, evenly, and peacefully. His parted lips curved faintly in rest, and the tiny beauty mark just beneath his lower lip stood out distinctly in the shadows.

Narcisse stepped closer, his breath catching. He felt like an intruder in a holy sanctuary, drawn by an irresistible, magnetic current he could not command. He stopped at the bedside and simply gazed down at him.

All the calculating coldness Narcisse prized, all his talk of municipal power, ledgers, and ballistics—it all dissolved into dust before the boy resting before him. Victor was gentle in a world of sharp edges. He carried poetry where others carried weapons.

On one knee on the mattress, Narcisse leaned in slowly. Heat returned to his face, brilliant and dizzying, and his hands trembled slightly as he braced himself against the bedding. His glasses slipped down his nose, but he didn’t care to fix them.

He closed his eyes and leaned down further, pressing his lips softly, tenderly against Victor’s.

The kiss was feather-light, trembling with the innocence and raw, terrifying wonder of a fourteen-year-old’s first true feeling. Victor’s lips were warm and soft against his, tasting faintly of sweet night air and the tea they had shared hours earlier. For a suspended, breathless second, Narcisse forgot who he was, who his family was, and why Victor had been brought to Clerteaux in the first place.

Then a soft breath brushed his cheek as Victor stirred.

Gaston: “What are you doing, Narcisse?”

The voice hit the quiet room like the cocking of a hammer. Low, resonant, and entirely stripped of warmth, it shattered the midnight stillness.

Narcisse recoiled from the bed as if burned by white phosphorus. He stumbled backward onto the polished parquet floor, his breath tearing sharply from his throat as his round spectacles rattled violently down the bridge of his nose. Every drop of blood drained from his face, leaving him paper-white in the blue wash of moonlight.

Gaston stood in the open doorway.

Framed by the faint amber glow of the corridor gas lamps, the patriarch of Clerteaux stood tall and unyielding, wearing a heavy velvet dressing gown. He held his unlit briar pipe loosely in one hand, his eyes piercing through his round glasses with lethal, dissecting focus. Those eyes held no sleep—only the cold, immovable steel of an aristocrat who missed nothing under his roof.

On the four-poster bed, Victor shifted faintly beneath the sheets, mumbling softly in his sleep before rolling over toward the wall, completely undisturbed, the heavy drape of exhaustion keeping him under.

Narcisse scrambled to his feet and pressed his back against the mahogany bedpost. His chest heaved frantically, his heart hammering against his ribs so violently it made his vision pulse. His ambidextrous hands, usually so disciplined and composed, were clenched into white-knuckled fists behind his nightshirt.

For the first time in his fourteen years, the sharp-tongued, calculating young prodigy had no tactical retreat. No treaty to quote, no Machiavellian defense, no clever retort. He was trapped under his father's icy, judgmental gaze, caught hovering over the boy brought to Clerteaux to marry his sister.

Gaston didn't raise his voice. He took a single, measured step across the threshold, his leather slippers barely whispering on the floorboards.

Gaston: “Out.”

He commanded, his voice dropping into a razor-edged murmur that cut deeper than any shout.

Gaston: “Into the hall. Now.”

Narcisse swallowed, his throat completely parched. He cast one desperate, fleeting glance back at Victor’s peaceful, sleeping silhouette, then lowered his head and walked past his father, bracing for the consequences that awaited him in the dark corridor.

Narcisse crossed the threshold into the dimly lit corridor, the floorboards cold beneath his bare feet. The heavy oak door of the guest room swung shut behind them with a muffled, decisive click, sealing Victor away in the quiet sanctuary of sleep. The gallery air was drafty and smelled of polished mahogany, beeswax, and the lingering, dry bite of Gaston’s pipe tobacco. Sconces cast long, severe shadows across the vaulted ceiling, flanking portraits of long-dead Beaumont ancestors who peered down with unyielding judgment.

Narcisse turned to face his father, his chin raised in a desperate, instinctive bid to summon his habitual composure.

Narcisse: “Father, I—”

The blow arrived without warning.

A sharp, violent crack shattered the manor’s midnight quiet. Gaston’s open palm struck Narcisse across the left cheek with the brutal, practiced force of a man accustomed to commanding immediate obedience.

The impact snapped Narcisse’s head sideways with sickening speed. The force sent his round glasses flying from his nose, clattering hard against the wainscoting before spinning across the runner rug. Narcisse stumbled, his balance failing as he crashed hard against the paneled wall, his shoulder catching the wood with a dull thud.

A high, deafening whistle pierced his left ear. Pain bloomed across his cheekbone and jawline like raw fire, hot and throbbing, radiating straight down the side of his neck. The skin flared a violent, angry crimson beneath his silver fringe.

Gaston stood towering over him, his velvet dressing gown falling stiffly around his frame, his jaw clenched so tight his temple muscles twitched. His eyes, magnanimous and jovial only hours before over birthday cake, were now chilled to sub-zero slate.

Gaston: “Is this what you are?”

He hissed, his voice dropped to a lethal, suffocating rasp that trembled with controlled fury.

Gaston: “A pervert creeping into the bedchamber of another man's son like a common degenerate?”

Narcisse pressed his trembling fingers against his burning cheek, his vision blurred without his lenses. His chest heaved in frantic, uneven gasps, each inhale tasting of copper where his teeth had scraped the inside of his lip. The shock was absolute; he had been chided for intellectual missteps and corrected on matters of decorum, but he had never known physical violence at his father's hands until this very moment.

Gaston: “He is your sister’s arranged suitor…”

He snarled, stepping into Narcisse’s space until his shadow completely engulfed the boy. He leaned down, his face inches from Narcisse’s pale, stinging face.

Gaston: “Victor Trémaux is the vehicle for our family’s consolidation of Clerteaux. He is here to secure lands, honor, and a bloodline—a prince to follow after me. And you degrade yourself, this house, and your name by preying upon him while he sleeps?”

Narcisse’s throat constricted. Shame and fury burned behind his ribs with equal, volcanic intensity. The heat in his face was no longer the dizzying flutter of first romance; it was the humiliating brand of condemnation. He wanted to speak, to invoke Baudelaire, to argue that beauty and power were not so easily separated, but the cold realization of his father’s absolute authority crushed the words before they could form. Narcisse’s trembling hands picked up his glasses.

Gaston grabbed his son’s wrists and dragged him to his bedroom. He locked the door behind him after he threw Narcisse on his bed. The glasses fell on the floor. Gaston untied the sash on his dressing gown.

Gaston: “You want to learn the hard way, Narcisse? I didn’t want it to come to this, but you give me no choice.”

He said coldly. Before Narcisse could utter another word, Gaston clamped his large hand over his mouth, and his body was crushed under Gaston’s weight.

In the foyer, Narcisse’s headboard banged against the wall with Gaston’s hoarse moans and Narcisse’s muffled screams.

~

Gaston stood up and tied the sash on his dressing gown.

Gaston: “Well, I suppose the ‘Virgo’ is no longer a virgin.”

He quipped. Narcisse lay on his bed with tears down his cheeks, in pain, humiliation, and burning fury. He locked his hateful green eyes on Gaston.

Gaston: “You will listen to me very carefully, Narcisse…”

He whispered, his voice turning into an icy edict.

Gaston: “If I ever catch even a whisper of this—if you look at that boy with anything other than cold, familial distance or tell anyone what happened—I will dismantle every ambition you have ever harbored. You will not see Nandrasana again. You will not touch the estate affairs. I will send you to the strictest academy in the north, where they beat boys until they can barely hold a pen.”

He straightened, smoothing the lapel of his robe with an eerie, terrifying restoration of aristocratic dignity. He looked down at the fourteen-year-old huddled in his bed with cold disgust.

Narcisse’s fingers trembled violently as they fumbled through the dim shadows for his glasses. He found them near the bed, slid them over his ears with shaking hands, and pushed himself up.

The heavy oak door of his bedchamber clicked shut, and Narcisse immediately threw the brass deadbolt into place with a frantic, trembling flick of his wrist. The metallic snap sounded like a tomb sealing. He collapsed against the solid wood, his knees giving out, and slid down the frame until his bare feet curled against the frigid edge of the parquet floor.

In the breathless, suffocating dark of his room, only silver ribbons of moonbeams sliced through the heavy velvet drapes. Narcisse sat there in the shadows, his chest shuddering as ragged, silent gasps tore from his throat. The high whistle in his left ear refused to abate, a deafening ring pulsing in agonizing sync with the throbbing heat on his face and the pain in his rear.

He noticed a pool of blood on his bedsheets. He lifted a hand to touch his cheek; the skin was swollen, feverishly hot, and tight as stretched parchment. A tiny smear of dark copper still clung to the corner of his lips where his teeth had cut the delicate flesh.

Across the room, from the depths of an upholstered wingback chair, two luminous sapphire disks blinked open. A faint, questioning mew broke the stillness.

Little Louis scrambled down from the cushions, his tiny seal-point paws pattering softly across the polished floorboards. The Himalayan kitten trotted directly to where the fourteen-year-old boy sat crumpled on the bed, nudging his cold, velvety nose against Narcisse’s trembling fingers before clambering clumsily onto his lap. Louis buried his creamy, cloud-like head into the fold of Narcisse’s dark silk torn pajama shirt, purring with a deep, rumbling vibration that resonated straight into the boy’s chest.

Narcisse drew his knees to his chest, lifted the tiny creature, and pressed the kitten’s impossibly soft fur against his burning, unbruised right cheek. Hot, silent tears finally spilled over the rims of his wire-rimmed spectacles, tracing burning lines through the shame and shock coating his skin. He wept without sound, suffocating every sob into the kitten’s warm body, his small shoulders shaking beneath the weight of a humiliation that felt far heavier than the stone walls of the Clerteaux estate.

His father had struck him like a master striking a defective hound. He violated him. Gaston had looked down at him not merely with disappointment, but with visceral, unadulterated revulsion. He had called him a degenerate, a disgrace to the bloodline that Narcisse had spent fourteen years striving to embody. None of his calculated composure, his encyclopedic retention of treaties, his marksmanship, or his unblemished posture had shielded him from the brute violence of a patriarch who viewed his children not as human beings, but as chess pieces in an autocratic game of dynastic succession.

And Victor. The memory of those soft, parted lips, the delicate beauty mark beneath them, the tousled white hair against the linen pillow—all of it felt permanently tarnished by Gaston’s cruel betrayal and violation.

He lay on his bed. He set Louis onto his sternum, where the kitten curled into an immaculate little ball of warmth, chin resting right above Narcisse’s erratic heartbeat. With slow, calculated care, Narcisse reached up, removed his round glasses, and set them onto the mahogany nightstand beside the cloth-wrapped volume of eighteenth-century municipal transcripts Charlotte had given him.

Without his lenses, the ceiling was an indistinct, misty void. Narcisse stared into that darkness, his breathing slowing as frantic panic drained from his veins like water from a cracked cistern. In its place flowed something terrifyingly cold, clear, and absolute.

Tears dried on his swollen cheek, stiffening into salt.

“I will dismantle every ambition you have ever harbored.”

“A prince to follow after me... I will send you to the strictest academy in the north, where they beat boys...”

Gaston’s voice echoed through the boy’s skull like venom.

Narcisse’s hand drifted down to stroke the fur behind Louis’s ears, his touch steadying until his fingers were as calm as ice. He was a strategist; his mind was forged in foresight and unyielding architecture. He had studied how kingdoms fell, how treaties were rewritten, and how arrogant rulers met their ends not by a foreign invader's blade, but by the quiet poison in their own bedchambers. Gaston thought him broken. Gaston thought an open palm, his violation, and a lecture on dynastic purity would bend the boy’s will into complete subservience.

Gaston had made a lethal miscalculation.

A slow, chilling smile touched the bruised, bloodied corner of Narcisse’s lips. It was a predator’s smile, devoid of the childlike wonder that had blurted out verses of Baudelaire only hours before.

Narcisse: “You will not dismantle me, Father…”

He whispered into the pitch-black room, the French syllables dropping like lead weights onto the stone floor.

Narcisse: “You will not dictate whom I look upon, nor who enters this family, nor whose life is sacrificed for your petty empire.”

He thought of the heavy English oak case resting downstairs in the study—the Holland & Holland Nitro Express double rifle Gaston had given him for his birthday, a masterwork of blued steel built to shatter the skulls of the most dangerous beasts on the Nandrasana plains. He thought of the decades ahead: seasons of patience, and the quiet accumulation of power, land, and resources within Clerteaux.

Narcisse: “I will endure you for now…”

He murmured, his green eyes sharpening in the dark with a vicious, unyielding resolve.

Narcisse: “I will bow my head, I will balance your ledgers, and I will smile when you toast the Trémaux alliance at dinner. But one day, Gaston Beaumont, I will rid this house of you. You will wither, you will fall, and every stone of this estate will belong to me.”

Louis let out a soft, sleeping sigh against his chest. Narcisse closed his eyes, sealing the vow behind the locked gates of his mind and letting the cold darkness of Clerteaux swallow him whole.

~

October 18th, 1974

A persistent, icy drizzle tapped against the towering leaded glass of the Clerteaux manor library, shrouding the surrounding woods in a thick, slate-gray gloom. Inside the vast, mahogany-paneled sanctuary, the damp chill was kept at bay only by the steady, hypnotic crackle of beech logs within the carved marble hearth.

Narcisse Beaumont stood by the tall arched window, thirty-one, cutting an imposing, razor-sharp figure in a deep plum-black wool three-piece suit. The boyish roundness that had once softened his jaw in 1957 was entirely gone, carved away by seventeen years of ruthless governance, unyielding ambition, and absolute emotional insulation. His wavy, silver-white hair was swept back with aristocratic precision, framing high cheekbones and cool, calculating green eyes behind slender, wire-rimmed glasses. Between his fingers, a Sobranie Black Russian cigarette burned slowly, its pale, fragrant ribbon of smoke curling upward into the dim rafters.

On the mahogany desk behind him sat a crystal tumbler of iced mineral water and a small, velvet-lined tray holding a delicate silver spoon—the kind used for tasting sauces.

Narcisse drew a measured drag from the cigarette and exhaled a thin gray plume against the rain-streaked glass. Every October, when the autumn mist settled into the hollows of Clerteaux just as it had on that fateful weekend seventeen years prior, the ghosts of the manor stirred in the corners of his mind.

He remembered July 24th, 1958.

Charlotte had turned eighteen that summer evening. The dining hall had been resplendent with sterling silver candelabras, heavy linen, and the suffocating grandeur Gaston always demanded. Gaston had spent the preceding months relentlessly negotiating the Trémaux union, commanding the household like an untouchable monarch, never once suspecting that the quiet, dutiful fourteen-year-old boy he had struck in the corridor had already sentenced him to death.

Narcisse had spent ten meticulous months studying toxicological treatises in the estate’s private vaults, cross-referencing rare botanical alkaloids with the municipal records Charlotte had given him. He had not used brute force; brute force was the weapon of an unrefined brute like Gaston. Narcisse had chosen something colorless, tasteless, and utterly lethal in minuscule doses: an extracted nightshade distillate slipped into the rich shallot-and-truffle reduction prepared specifically for the head of the table.

He had meant only to eliminate Gaston.

The memory still settled like a suffocating stone behind his ribs. He had calculated Gaston’s portion, his seat, his habit of monopolizing the roasted venison. But Narcisse had failed to foresee Emmeline’s sudden, affectionate gesture—laughing at one of her husband’s boastful remarks, leaning across the table to share a taste from his plate with her silver fork.

Within four hours of the final toast, horror had collapsed over the manor. The violent convulsions, the agonizing paralysis, the frantic shouting of the domestic staff echoing down the stone halls. By then, both Gaston and Emmeline were dead.

The investigation that followed was swift, brutal, and entirely blinded by social prejudice. Gaston’s tyrannical temperament had earned him countless enemies among the valley’s working class, and suspicion immediately fell on the estate’s head chef, an aging man who had clashed with Gaston over wages just days earlier. Narcisse, with the chilling, calculated composure of a prodigy, had ensured the vial was discovered planted among the culinary herbs in the pantry. The magistrate ruled it premeditated homicide driven by a servant’s bitter malice; the chef was condemned, and the Beaumont name remained pristine, untouched by the stain of parricide.

Charlotte inherited a broken heart and an unbending, hardened resolve that made her legal mind even colder. And Narcisse had inherited the estate, the fortune, the power, and a silent, rotting core of guilt. He had freed himself from Gaston’s tyrannical hand, yes, but at the cost of the only woman who had ever looked upon his peculiar nature with warmth. The boy who had sought revenge against an arrogant father had become a monster who destroyed his own mother.

Narcisse closed his eyes and took a slow, trembling breath as he tapped the ash from his Sobranie into a crystal dish. The empire was his. Yet the mansion's silence was an eternal prison.

Narcisse: “Is that not so, Louis?”

He murmured in the dim room, his baritone voice soft and intimate, stripped of its public venom. Narcisse: “Power has a rather bitter aftertaste.”

He turned away from the window, expecting to see the luminous blue eyes and smoky seal-point face blinking back at him from the velvet armchair beside the hearth.

For seventeen years, Louis had been his sole constant. The tiny kitten Narcisse had clutched to his chest in tears on his fourteenth birthday had grown into a majestic, plush-coated Himalayan of exceptional dignity. Louis had sat curled upon his desk through Charlotte’s marriage to Victor, the birth of Tristan, the housefire that put Charlotte and Victor in comas, and every silent evening when the weight of that July evening threatened to crush Narcisse’s sanity. In a world full of duplicitous aristocrats and transactional alliances, Louis was the only creature Narcisse loved without condition or defense.

The cat lay curled in his usual crescent atop the emerald velvet cushion, his fluffy, silver-cream tail draped gracefully over his dark brown paws.

Narcisse took two steps toward the hearth, a faint, rare smile touching his lips.

Narcisse: “Wake up, little prince. Armand will be bringing the evening cream shortly.”

Louis did not stir. No inquisitive chirp answered him. The tiny, soft twitch of the dark ears did not occur.

Narcisse froze mid-stride, the Sobranie cigarette slipping from between his fingers to land forgotten on the parquet floor, sending up a tiny spiral of gray ash.

A sudden, suffocating cold swept through the room, far more piercing than the autumn rain outside. Narcisse moved to the armchair in unsteady, halting steps and dropped to his knees on the antique Persian rug.

Narcisse: “Louis?”

He whispered, his throat constricting violently.

With a trembling hand, Narcisse reached out and touched the cat’s plush flank.

It was still soft, but beneath the thick coat, the little body was entirely still. No gentle, vibrating purr, no rhythmic rise and fall of breath. The flesh was cooling, stiffening into the terrible, unyielding rigidity of death. At seventeen, his gentle life slipped away quietly in his sleep, by the warmth of the embers, while his master stared into the rainy dark of their haunted past.

Narcisse’s hand hovered, trembling as if he had been struck across the face all over again.

Narcisse: “No…”

He leaned forward, slid both hands beneath the Himalayan’s limp, weightless form, and lifted him gently to his chest, just as he had on his fourteenth birthday. He pressed his face deep into the cool, cloud-like fur behind Louis’ dark ears. The familiar scent of cedarwood, hearth ash, and old books clung to the cat’s coat, but the spark of life that had comforted a terrified boy in the dark was gone forever.

A ragged, choking gasp tore from Narcisse’s chest. The unyielding Beaumont master, the man who had watched his parents perish without shedding a single public tear, broke entirely. He curled over the lifeless body of his cat on the hearth rug, weeping in suffocating, silent agony, clutching the final piece of his innocence against his heart as the rain lashed mercilessly against the glass.

~

The persistent autumn rain drummed a somber cadence against the taut black silk of the umbrella held high overhead. Mist hung thick among the ancient yews and weeping willows that bordered the Beaumont private cemetery, veiling the ornate wrought-iron gates in cold, gray vapor.

Narcisse stood motionlessly before the newly turned soil, entirely swathed in a tailored black wool greatcoat, its high collar turned up against the bitter draft. His pristine leather dress shoes were planted firmly upon the wet grass, immaculate and unbothered by the damp. Behind his round glasses, his green eyes were unreadable, chilled into an impenetrable facade of aristocratic detachment that concealed the hollow, aching void behind his ribs.

A pace behind his right shoulder stood Armand, his posture formal and unbending despite his advancing years, holding the umbrella with steady, silent fidelity.

At Narcisse’s feet rested a small, modest marker carved from fine white Carrara marble, nestled beside the towering, grandiose mausoleums of the Beaumont lineage. The stone was unpretentious, polished smooth, and freshly engraved with delicate French lettering:

LOUIS

July 11th, 1957 – October 18th, 1974

Fidèle Ami et Prince Silencieux de Clerteaux.

“Il est des beautés qui ne meurent point.”

A single cluster of pale blue hydrangeas—reminiscent of the silk ribbon that had wrapped his box so many years ago—lay atop the dark soil, drenched in glistening droplets.

Narcisse drew a long, slow breath from a Sobranie Black Russian, the ember glowing like a solitary crimson spark in the overcast twilight. He exhaled a thin, sharp plume of pale gray smoke that mingled immediately with the rising mist.

Narcisse: “Seventeen years, Armand…”

He said softly, his voice low and velvety, stripped of its usual razor-edged command.

Narcisse: “A lifetime for a creature so small. Yet barely an instant in the history of this wretched ground.”

Armand: “He lived a life of supreme comfort, Monsieur Narcisse.”

He replied with measured, solemn reverence, keeping the shelter perfectly angled against the encroaching drizzle.

Armand: “He was loved. Few souls who walk these grounds can claim either with such certainty.”

Narcisse’s lips curved into a faint, bitter sneer as his gaze drifted toward the grand family vault a dozen paces away, where Gaston and Emmeline lay interred beneath tons of sculpted granite and cold Latin epitaphs. He had spent his youth executing a cold, patient retribution against his father, ensuring his own undisputed sovereignty over the estate. Yet standing here, with the rain soaking the hem of his trousers, the empire felt desolate. The double rifle in his study, the municipal ledgers, the vast land deeds—none of them could purr against his chest in the dark.

He took one final drag of the cigarette, flicking the spent filter toward the gravel path.

Narcisse stepped half a step forward, out from under the umbrella, just long enough for the cold October rain to graze his face. He reached down and gently traced the chiseled letters of Louis’ name on the freezing stone.

Narcisse: “Sleep well, my little prince…”

He murmured, the words meant only for the quiet ground beneath.