identity crisis // noemi

[Lucien Villette de Séraphin]

1794

Everything was gone. His friends and his family, his fortune and property, his identity and ... his life, the life he had known, all swept out from under his feet in the blink of an eye ... gone, gone, gone.

Lucien had never felt so alone and friendless before. Nothing, nothing he had experienced could ever have prepared him for this. Home was no longer home; it was no longer welcoming, and so Lucien had fled at the first opportunity. He should have done that before ... before everything, but he and Camilla had been too afraid of what might have happened if they were caught.

Now it didn't matter. Lucien had nothing left to lose.

He recalled the freshest memories most vividly, of Edmond at the Tuileries, Valentina in the prison, and Camilla, Camilla torn from his arms when the mob had invaded the home -

Everything before that seemed sort of blurry. Lucien didn't understand why. But he knew he couldn't stay in the city.

He had ransacked the Chevalerie safehouse of what sparse resources it had left: a handful of coins, some spare clothes, and some precious documents whose safety Lucien would not risk by abandoning them there, unguarded. Taking the whole lot with him, he had paid for passage out of the city, hitching a ride on a coach here and there until he made it all the way south, to the Mediterranean.

Marseille was a large enough city into which he could disappear, and at the same time it was far enough removed from the Ile-de-France that the radical revolutionary nonsense going on didn't quite reach them.

He had found some shoddy inn near the waterfront crammed in some back alleyway, a popular place for sailors and similar folk. A few sou a week got him a cramped room with run-down, paper thin walls and a window that didn't close all the way, but at least the place had a pallet with fresh hay and as far as Lucien could tell, no rats - at least not up here.

Lucien had been there for a couple of weeks now. He had found that, since 'waking,' he had been terribly lethargic during the day, and slept for most of the daylight hours, only feeling much more alert at night. The street outside smelled terrible as well, even worse than the banlieux of Paris. It wasn't only the outside. Scents just seemed more ... intense. And he could hear everything around him - usually not a good thing at all - but he blamed it on the walls.

He had been starving when he'd first arrived, but the watery bouillabaisse and black bread left him just as hungry - perhaps even more so - than before eating. He felt he was growing ill. He didn't bother to explore the city, staying holed up in that room as he went through the documents he'd taken with him. Sometimes he would lie on the pallet, his fingers stroking curiously at the mangled, welted flesh that encircled his neck.

One night early on in the evening, he had just woken up and was lying in the dark, when he heard some sort of commotion going on downstairs. Sailors were whistling and jeering, which wasn't altogether uncommon, though it seemed more raucous than normal.

Sighing to himself, Lucien rolled over, pulling his cloak over him, his bare toes peeking out from the edge of the fabric. Another pang of hunger jolted through his stomach, and he winced, but he wasn't sure he wanted to give the innkeeper's cooking another try.

(Ooc: Just had a thought that it might be funnier if they were forced to share a room lmfao)

[Noemi Duchambreaux]

(OOC: I'm thinking that should definitely happen )

"I'm sorry, have you got wax in your ears?" Mimi's eyes narrowed as she tilted her head downwards, peering down her nose at the stout, toadlike innkeep. "I said I'd like your biggest room."

"And I said you haven't showed me a damn cent. Why should I give you a room?" he raked a grubby paw through thinning hair, eyeing her with a mixture of detatched interest and weary exasperation.

"Here. Come on." She reached down and began to pry at the clasp of the gold bangle she wore around her wrist. "Gold. Real diamonds. It must be worth as much as three of this filthy place."

"And what am I going to do with that?" he demanded, releasing a distasteful snort. "Wear it on my arm like a damned princess and go frolicking about? Get out already."

Mimi's scowl deepened, as she brought one foot down in a resounding stomp. "You...you listen to me, you fat little swine! My father is one of the richest men in the Indies, and he'll have your head on a pike for treating me with such disrespect!"

There was a resounding silence through the dim first floor of the inn as the other patrons turned their attention towards the spectacle. The innkeep leaned forward, small eyes glinting with malice. "But your father ain't here, now, is he? And I don't a rat's ass how rich he is. If you can't pay, you can't stay. Now get out, before I have Max over here escort you out." He jabbed a stubby thumb towards a broad, sour-faced man who eyed her coldly.

Stunned into silence, Mimi let her hands drop to her sides, where they bunched in the dull gray skirts of her travelling dress. A combination of furious indignation and utter astonishment swept through her. No one had ever spoken to her this way in her life. Had this man been under her family's employ, he'd no doubt be sent packing without a moment's consideration, if he were lucky. But he deigned to speak to her as though she were beneath him!

Snickers and low wolf whistles filled the silence as the men took in the sight of the befuddled young woman. Shrewd gazes catalogued skin that had never burnt under the harsh sun, hands that remained unblemished by manual labor, clothes that were made of expensive fabric, and likely personally tailored, despite their plain design. This was a girl of means, and she had no place here. A few of the guests, sailors and dockworkers mostly, ambled over to the shell-shocked young woman, leaning in much too close to her personal space, taking advantage of her disorientation.

Snapping out of the startled daze, Mimi's head whipped from side to side, as she realized that she was, for all intents and purposes, surrounded by a wall of bodies, jostling against eachother, inching closer to her. Calloused hands reached out, tugged at the sleeves of her gown, toyed with strands of her hair, murmured words passing between their owners. Swallowing against her pounding heart, she shoved against one of the men, with about as much success as a flea pushing against a brick wall. "Get away from me!" she snapped, masking her terror with anger. "You filthy brutes! Don't touch me! I'll have you all arrested!"

Her last comment inspired raucous, riotous laughter in the people surrounding her. Sneering down at her, they had the look of hunters inspecting a trapped animal. There was no pity, only contempt, and underneath that, hatred. They hated her for what she was, just as she hated them for what they were.

[Lucien Villette de Séraphin]

In an attempt to drown out the noise, Lucien had pulled his coat over his head, muffling his ears as he hoped for silence. That did little good, however; he could still hear everything with near crystal clarity, something that went even beyond his natural musician's affinity for the intricacies of sound. It was almost as if he were present in the common room, participating in the conversation.

With a grumble, Lucien shoved his coat and cloak off of him, brushing aside the open book of musical manuscripts he had been penning before last falling asleep. He supposed he had slept through the day anyhow, and that meant it was time to get up, but just because he was supposed to do it didn't mean he wanted to.

Groggily he ran his fingers through his curls and stuffed them into a hair ribbon, blindly stumbling about as he slipped his stocking-clad toes into his shoes, and felt around for wherever he had thrown his waistcoat. It was under a half-finished bottle of wine, which he rolled out of the way, fumbling with the buttons of the waistcoat as he struggled into it. Finally the coat, and, properly but still haphazardly dressed, he stomped to the door, still half-asleep.

He didn't even notice that, grogginess aside, he had been able to maneuver through the unlit room without a problem. Opening the door allowed candlelight to stream in, however, and he blinked, disoriented, while a few passing patrons snorted at his stupefied expression.

Another round of guffaws thundered from the common room, and with a glower, Lucien edged down the stairs, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

It didn't take much to figure out most of what was going on. There was a throng of sailors, and, amidst them, some delicate little thing that, like Lucien, obviously didn't belong here. The only problem was that at least Lucien knew how to keep a low profile and didn't go gallivanting around in finery and jewels. The only sign of wealth he had left on him, other than a ... natural composure (which was currently buried under wine and melancholy) was Valentina's wedding ring, the one she had given back to him at the prison the day before her suicide.

His mind didn't bother to wander down that tangent, though, and for a moment he simply watched from the foot of the stairs, leaning against the wall, arms folded, as the woman threw her tantrum.

He wasn't sure if he recognized her. Her tantrum was befitting of soft-fingered nobility, but besides that, he didn't know her face. To him, that was a good thing, because there was less of a chance that she would recognize him in turn.

Blinking dully, he had half a mind to let the situation pan out on its own, but the commotion was bothersome at best, and perhaps despite the jaded bitterness that had recently descended upon his disposition, he still felt some sympathy for her.

So finally with a sigh, he stood up again and began to slink through the gathering, pushing his way over to the front where the innkeeper was probably trying to figure out the most efficient way of gagging the screaming woman.

"Arrested? And when was the last time you spotted any sort of authority of the law within a hundred fathoms of this place?" Lucien sneered right after the woman had delivered her threat which ... nobody took very seriously.

The sailors roared with laughter again, thinking Lucien to have joined their game, but that was foiled when he pushed a few more sou across to the innkeeper.

"She can stay with me for now," Lucien neutrally informed them, immediately grasping onto her forearm as if to lead her away.

"Why didn't I think o' that?" one of the sailors guffawed.

"I'll pay ye more, m'sieur!" chortled another one, waving coin over his hand. "'Ow much per hour?!"

Another tide of laughter, though it was quickly silenced by the steely glare Lucien shot towards the gathering.

For a moment his vision had blurred again. Everything was tinted red. He must have been coming down with some sort of illness. A flurry of beats filled his ears, like several strings of music in different tempos played all at the same time; he thought it was his own heartbeat, but it was too many. He could hear the breathing of the sailors surrounding the woman, which oddly complemented the beating ...

Perhaps Lucien had zoned out for a moment, his gaze still fixed on one of the sailors. Said sailor had backed away, looking a bit frightened; the others dispersed for the most part, throwing sour looks to the woman but not wanting to put up a fight. What had they seen?

Lucien's brow knit, and he blinked rapidly, shaking his head to clear his vision.

"I'll have another pallet brought up to yer room, m'sieur. Unless you'll be sharin'," the innkeeper snorted.

"Une autre, merci."

Turning back to the woman, Lucien nodded to her and glanced towards the stairs. "Before you protest, 'tis my company, or theirs," he intoned slowly, waving a hand towards the common room, before he turned on his heel and trudged up the stairs, fatigue still weighing on his limbs.

At the very least, it had quieted all of the yelling. Maybe Lucien could get back to sleep now.

[Noemi Duchambreaux]

A man's snide voice cut through the slurred words of the sailors. Her cheeks flamed bright pink as he called her bluff. Fisting her hands on her hips, she whirled around to face him, speaking as she did. "Do not presume to know what I have or haven't--"

Seen, she had been about to say, but she stopped as she came face-to-face with the owner of the voice. Her eyes widened slightly as she took him in, and for a moment she wondered whether or not she was hallucinating.

The words 'angelic' came to mind when describing the figure, with those silvery curls and that musical voice. But his clothing was rumpled, his demeanor short-tempered and irritable, and his comments ungentlemanly, to say the least. However, she had little time to reflect on this, as he turned to the innkeep and paid for her to stay in his room. Her mouth opened to protest, but he had already taken her arm and was leading her away from the scruffy, unwashed crowd that had been hounding her. Their lecherous words had her flushing an even deeper shade of red, blood seeming to all rush to her head at once. She kept her mouth tightly shut as they ascended the stairs, focusing instead on picturing the meal she was going to order. Pheasant, perhaps, or rabbit stew...and then for desert, hmm...would they have marzipan candies? Or puddings?

And then she was going to take a long, hot bath, and...

"Putain de bordel de merde!" She blurted out, invoking one of her father's favorite phrases (one he assured her he'd disown her if he ever caught her saying it). "Is this your room? It's small! There's no real bed! No carpets on the floor! Where do you wash up?"

[Lucien Villette de Séraphin]

Lucien was tersely silent as he led her back up the stairs, almost as if worried that one word might send the creature bolting. Beneath her veil of hot air, he could easily detect the frightened rabbit that she was. It didn't take Lucien much to put two and two together; the woman must have been a refugee from the Ile. Wasn't Lucien in the same boat? In a way, only he wasn't in denial about the disasters that were coming to pass.

The woman's problem, unfortunately, was that she was under the delusion that everything was going to be as rosy as it was before the deluge. Refugee or no, she was evidently expecting something akin to the salons at Versailles.

"Taisez-vous, mademoiselle. Would you prefer the streets? A girl like yourself will last perhaps five minutes out there before another crowd of sailors wanders by - and without the innkeeper's eye, I would imagine they would take their turns with you without even stopping to find a bed first."

Lucien left the door ajar, which was a good thing, as soon enough one of the inn's workers showed up dragging a pallet for the woman. The worker unceremoniously dumped it just inside the door, and Lucien curtly thanked him before toeing the door shut.

"You are evidently a refugee from the north. If you hope to keep your cover, I suggest forgoing the incessant whining. This is the Marseillaise waterfront, not Versailles. Nobody gives a damn about your lineage, or your riches, at least not in the way you wish them to."

With a huff, Lucien moved his sparse belongings from the other side of the room, dumping them on his pallet before moving to drag the new pallet into the opposite corner.

"There is a basin down the hall that you can use. The food comes with the price of the room but you might be better off eating stray cats on the street; the innkeeper's wife cannot cook to save her life. There is a bakery just down the rue, however, which provides bread and stew far more palatable."

Lucien swept a couple of wine bottles out of the way with a clink, before sinking back onto his pallet and kicking off his shoes. The coat and waistcoat were discarded of as well, just as before, before he plopped back onto the mattress, pulled his cloak over him, and tried to go back to sleep.

Hmph. You're welcome, he thought snidely to himself. If her whining kept up, he feared he might be spending more than he'd wanted on wine.

[Noemi Duchambreaux]

Her face drained of color when he spoke of sailors and streets, though she stubbornly held eye contact, hands still tightly wrapped in her skirts at her hips. The sound of a worker dragging in her pallet caused her to start slightly, but she hastily pulled herself up once more, chin tilting upwards at a classically haughty, aristocratic angle.

She said nothing as he continued to speak, explaining everything so bluntly, as though she were simply supposed to nod and smile, the way she'd been taught to do when any of her father's wealthier guests began to drone on about sugar exports or the new portrait they'd had comissioned. Sinking down gingerly, she perched at the edge of her pallet, folding her hands in her lap and staring straight ahead. The boning of her stays was digging into her skin, the frothy layers of petticoats that kept her skirts poofed out in a bell shape proving far too ungainly to allow for comfortable repose. She had internalized these discomforts long ago, thinking them part of a necessary suffering, but somehow she was all too aware of them now.

Her savior/critic/instructor had evidently said his piece. She watched, feeling oddly hollow, as he settled onto his own pallet and presumably went to sleep. Mimi could feel the knot in her stomach tightening, an ache that spread through her whole body and caused her throat to tighten. Inhaling sharply, she squeezed her eyes shut, hands curling into fists.

Everything was gone. Everyone was gone. She’d come to Paris for a fairytale wedding and a lavish, mindless happily-ever-after in a sprawling manor, and she’d instead been faced with chaos, disorder and death. Her maids--those girls who had silently arranged her life for her all these years, girls whose names she barely remembered in return--had abandoned her. She was like a lone swimmer in a violent flood, searching for a tree branch to grasp or a piece of driftwood to float on.

Mimi could feel a prickling in the corners of her eyes, hot and needling. She clenched her jaw, turning her head towards the wall. “Crying makes your face puffy,” she reminded herself, in a hoarse whisper. “And it gives you wrinkles. Stop it right now.” Wrinkles and puffiness would not do, even if she had no one to try to impress anymore.

Once her breathing had evened, she rose, groping clumsily at the tiny buttons lining the back of her gown. A snarl curled her lip as she fussed with them, making no progress. She exhaled, exasperated. She would have given anything for a maid to help her out right now, but it appeared that was out of the question.

“M’Sieur,” she called out, face as red as a berry, eyes focused on the wall before her. “I...require some assistance.” ‘I need help’ sounded a little too pathetic.

[Lucien Villette de Séraphin]

Lucien ought to have known better than to expect a peaceful night's sleep right after all of that ruckus, with or without Mlle Colère. When had he last had a peaceful night of sleep? Not since waking.

He had pinned his year-long blackout on some sort of coma, even though, somewhere in the back of his mind, he was sure that he had died that day, that day when the mob finally made it to the house. Perhaps he had been saved at the last moment. Perhaps they had simply left him unconscious and robbed him and his sister. These were all stupid excuses, but this was the product of deep, deep denial.

Things had escalated grievously since then. He still hadn't pieced together what had happened, or even what the true date was, but that wasn't the point, now. He didn't know what was, truth be told. Survival had seemed the most pressing matter, now that he was the only one left of the group.

In any case, he was regretfully plenty awake when the woman called out to him. He heard her struggling with something, and her annoyed huffing and puffing reminded him vividly of Camilla, as did her request when she ruefully asked for help.

The only response she would receive at first would be an irritable grunt of acknowledgment from Lucien; the cloak-clad figure didn't budge for a good moment or two, before finally he sighed and wriggled out of the makeshift blanket, dragging himself to his feet. He ran his fingers through his curls, which, despite everything, had managed to remain at a level of tidiness above the rest of his image; they had come loose from their ribbon, but he left it be, too tired to bother.

There was, again, no source of light besides the sparse moonlight from outside the window, but Lucien silently approached the woman, not requiring her explanation. With a characteristic finesse that implied he had done this plenty of times before (though in what situations was left to be imagined), he swiftly undid the buttons up the back of her dress, tugging the panels of the dress open from behind. Without bothering to ask for permission, he started on the laces of her corset as well, removing them from their grommets.

Were he in any better sort of mood, a choice teasing remark or two would certainly have accompanied the gesture, but as it were he remained resolutely silent, still much immersed in an infectious air of melancholy. She had her own troubles; he had his.

He grasped at the fabrics, holding them steady at her waist until he was sure she had a grip on them, at which, again without permission, he swept up the back of her gown to unclasp the fastenings of her pocket hoops and petticoats and pull the lot away from her. He evidently knew his way around the entire ensemble just as well as a chambermaid would have, and that was as much as he could do while still affording the woman some shred of modesty.

Dropping the panniers on her pallet, he looked around for her belongings, if she had brought any, to search for a nightshirt for her. If not, he'd have to lend her one of his.

[Noemi Duchambreaux]

He was evidently quite skilled in the removal of womens' garments, and even a naive and coddled girl like Mimi knew fairly well why. A man did not know his way around a woman's clothing unless he wore them for fun (her parents had spoken once, in hushed voices, about how a man of wealth and reputation was rumored to prance around in his wife's dresses) or he spent a great deal of time taking them off. Despite his generally pretty appearance, she somehow doubted he ran around in skirts and stays for fun, so she was left to assume that he was a...what did they call it? A rake. Yes, that was likely the proper term.

Though his attitude seemed to contradict this idea. He was done in moments, with nothing in the way of 'improper behavior' (removing her clothing aside!). She was grateful for the help, and the privacy he allowed her was much-needed bonus. Keeping her back turned to him, she shed all but her chemise. The garment was opaque and chaste, long-sleeved, ending just below the knee, but she still felt naked, having only been seen in this state of undress by her maids.

She stood on the edge of the pallet as she stepped out of her shoes and worked off her stockings and garters, tossing everything onto the big, fluffy ball of other garments she'd discarded onto the edge of her pallet. Quickly, however, she realized that she would not be able to fit on the pallet with her clothing occupying roughly half of it. Muttering another of her father's choice swears, she stepped off the pallet, letting out a shriek as her foot almost came down on something warm and furry. She caught sight of a small, scurrying figure, it's claws scratching the stone floor as it dashed away.

Now white as a ghost, Mimi reached down and grabbed ahold of her thick wool traveling cloak. Wrapping it around herself, she remained standing on her pallet, looking like some sort of specter from long ago, mournful and befuddled. She quickly schooled her expression into one of contempt, announcing loudly and haughtily, in her most condescending of tones, "The conditions here are perfectly abominable. Why anyone would choose to stay here is beyond me." With that said, she settled down, curling up into the smallest ball possible at the end of the pallet. She was somehow exhausted and restless at once, unable to sleep, but unwilling to move. Despite her desire to stay awake, however, she found herself drifting into a sort of half-sleep.

[Lucien Villette de Séraphin]

Having retired back to his own pallet, Lucien was just drifting back asleep when the woman's shriek startled him awake. Sighing, he watched her for a moment, his expression weary beyond reason, but though he tried to be annoyed at her sheer childishness, he still couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for her, even if he hid it well.

"The answer is because nobody chooses to stay here. It is borne from necessity," Lucien spoke tersely. "And do feel free to shed the courtier's demeanor. The only person you are impressing is yourself."

She didn't need the fancy dress for Lucien to know who she was; the insufferable air around her spoke volumes on its own. Upbringing was always detectable in how one carried themselves, no matter how subtle; thankfully, Lucien was much better at disguising it, though that might have had to do with the fact he was consciously trying to, where she was not. Now and again something would slip, though; his speech, for example, was much too eloquent to be categorized as that of one of the local poissonniers or something.

He kept his finery at the very bottom of his traveling bag. He had no more use for it and was hoping to sell it off at the next possible opportunity, even though it was difficult to find somewhere to do so, somewhere that wouldn't attract him attention. At the same time a corner of his mind was still reluctant about it; Camilla had made him those clothes, a suit of plum and gold with gold embroidery and ... and he had woken in them, even though he was certain he hadn't been wearing them when he'd been killed -

Er, when he'd gone into a coma, that was the story. It was almost as if someone had dressed him up for his burial, but ...

Now he was being absurd.

Shutting his eyes tight, he tried not to think too much about his new roommate, and instead focus on returning to sleep for the billionth try that night. This time, he was actually successful (the woman quieting down helped as well). In a way, he sort of hoped he hadn't been.

The sky was a bright vivid blue with hardly a cloud in the sky. He was lying on his back, admiring the color and soaking in the warmth of the sun. The grass smelled nice and fresh, recently trimmed, but then the scent of earth was stronger, overpowering everything else. Something tickled his nose, and suddenly he felt something cast onto him. Dirt! The scent of earth filled his nose, he could taste it in his mouth; he heard the sound of a spade as it shoveled more of the dirt onto him.

"Attendez!" he called, but he could no longer see the sky; only black, and there was no more sun; only the cold, cold dirt as it clouded his senses, shutting out the world beyond.

Then that great hunger started to gnaw at him again; his throat was dry. He was sitting by a fountain, the one of Neptune out on the grounds of the chateau. Overcome with thirst, he spat dirt from his mouth and bent to drink, but the water did nothing but dry out his throat more. Then he realized the water had begun to darken, turning into a beautiful, saturated crimson; he stared, fascinated for a moment, before looking up to see the statue was bleeding from its mouth and ears, its lips twisted into a gruesome smile -

Lucien woke with a start, breathing hard, perspiration on his brow. He scrabbled to sit up, but then realized he was still in the inn room, and that it was still the dead of night. He looked around wildly and spotted the sleeping figure of his roommate. So her arrival hadn't been part of his nightmare. Tch.

His hands were still trembling as he instinctively reached for the closest wine bottle, uncorking it and taking a drink from it. His palms were cold, but they were also sore; glancing at them, he realized he'd scratched himself pretty badly to the point of having broken skin.

He blinked, examining his nails. They were longer than he remembered. Guh, had he really neglected to maintain his appearance that much?

Pushing himself to his feet, he dragged himself out the door and down the hall to use the washroom. The cold water helped a bit; he decided he wasn't going to go back to sleep anytime soon. Maybe he could visit the bakery and fetch something for him and the woman - but he didn't know what hour it was. It was probably still closed.

Deciding to wait, he returned to the room and sank back onto his mattress, gingerly picking up his journal, so that he could scribble something down. The last used page was an unfinished nocturne; they usually ended up that way, and he found a new page, beginning to scrawl musical notation as quickly as if he were just writing down thoughts.

He realized then that he still didn't know the woman's name. He threw another considering look to her. Perhaps she could accompany him if he went to find provisions; he wasn't quite keen on leaving her to her own devices, seeing how wonderfully that had gone last time.

[Noemi Duchambreaux]

Noemi's dreams had hardly been more pleasant than her roommate's...whatever his name was. They were the sort of nightmare that appeared under the guise of a pleasant dream, beginning benignly enough.

She stood on the beach, sand sparkling and fine and white beneath her bare feet. One hand held a lacy parasol aloft to shield her carefully tended-to complexion from freckling or browning beneath the Caribbean sun. Sapphire waves lapped at the shore, the rhythmic 'swoosh' a calming counterpoint to the mournful, throaty cries of the gulls circling ahead.

"Mimi!"

She glanced up. Priscilla, one of the elderly Negro house slaves, motioned for her to come over. Brows arching curiously, Mimi made her way over, careful not to let the hems of her skirts get dirtied in the sand. "What is it, Pris?"

Priscilla gave a little tut, dark brown eyes dancing merrily. "The party, ma petit! The guests have started to arrive already."

Guests? Party? Why didn't Mimi remember a party? Surely she would have remembered far in advance! She would have had her outfit planned to the last detail, and her hair styled...her brow puckered (despite coaching from her mother to never do that, as it invited wrinkles) and she turned back to look at Pris. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!" Pris gave a harrumph of impatience, speaking with a familiarity that had stemmed from the fact that she'd all but raised Noemi.

An acrid smell hit Mimi's nostrils, and she turned eyes landing on a pillar of smoke pushing upwards towards the sky. She lowered her parasol, curious gaze taking in the grisly sight. "Pris, there's a fire!" she heard herself calling, though her voice sounded somehow detatched, disembodied. "It's right around...it's...I think it's our house!"

Now panic coursed through her, adrenaline spiking in her veins. Gathering up her skirts, Mimi dashed towards the road where it began at the farthest reaches of the sandy shore. The cobblestone streets were uneven and rough against the tender bottoms of her feet, but she ran on, past stately manses and blooming greenery. Despite the warm weather and early hour, no one was about. The windows did not reveal any movement inside any of the houses. No one sat on their veranda, fanning away the heat.

Feet aching, Mimi came to a halt at her family's house. It was perhaps a ten-minute walk (or run, as it were), because of their proximity to the ocean. The house was ablaze, fanciful bits of plaster molding and wooden roof shingles raining around her, adding to the piles of detritus littering all around. Flames leaped and licked at every surface, embers glowing a furious red. But through the gaping, broken window, she caught sight of movement.

Pris had been right. There was a party going on. Guests waltzed about in the great room, or gossiped in little knots, or sipped punch and lemonade from delicate little cups, somehow oblivious to the fact that they were surrounded by great walls of flames.

Mimi wanted to scream. Her mouth opened, but only silence escaped her parted lips. A wave of odorous, sulferous smoke washed over her, and she doubled over, coughing.

Noemi awoke with a quick, quiet inhale, eyes rapidly blinking open before focusing on the creaking, bare ceiling above. She was tangled in her travelling cloak, head half-buried in a sea of fluffy petticoats. Sitting up, she nudged the heap of her garments off the small pallet, only half-registering the dirt and mouse droppings they were likely to pick up on the floor. Her gaze travelled to her companion of sorts. He appeared to be sleeping as well, though judging by his uneven breathing and the microscopic twitchings of his facial muscles, his dreams were hardly pleasant. She sank back down and all but closed her eyes, feigning sleep and peering at him through her lashes as he awoke with a start. He seemed disoriented and even frightened.

Still pretending to be asleep, she watched as he rose and left the room, and then returned shortly after. He picked up a journal and began writing in it, though it didn't seem as though he were writing words, judging by the movements his hand was making.

Silently, she sat up, cloak wrapping around her like a blanket, before she cleared her throat, softly. This total stranger was going to see her in a state of repulsive dishevelment, with her face unpowdered and her hair rendered total chaos, but she supposed she'd have to find the maid, or whatever this place had, to help her later.

"Why are you all the way out here?" she asked, her curiosity apparent, all tact gone. "Are you running from someone? Are you a criminal?"

[Lucien Villette de Séraphin]

For a good moment or two, Lucien didn't even react to the woman's movements, nor her voice. His focus was on whatever he was writing, but when he had penned the end of the phrase, he did look up, blinking stupidly as if only having just realized the woman had been talking. To him. Obviously.

He was surprised to find her flowery speech and overall haughtiness gone. That probably earned another stupefied blink, before her actual words sunk in. Quickly he looked down at his book, closing it resting his hands atop it.

"I am not certain if I am running from someone or something, but whoever or whatever it is, I have not yet confirmed its identity." Despite himself, a wry smile crept onto his features. "If I am a criminal, my only crime was that I was privy to knowing the course of history and yet completely powerless to alter it."

His words were unintentionally cryptic, his tone slow and pensive as if he were honestly giving her inquiry thought and not just brushing it aside.

His expression had twisted into a frown, but he shook his head, absently rearranging his scant belongings by the pallet.

"My name is Lucien, by the way. 'Tis a pleasure. Or at least as much of one as is manageable in this hellhole."

The wry smile returned.

"And what is your story, Mademoiselle .... ?" he prompted for a name, tucking a stray curl behind his ear as he looked across at her.

[Noemi Duchambreaux]

"Privy to knowing the course of history," she repeated, dark brows arching as she scrutinized the man across the room. What precisely did that mean? His words were straightforward, but...for all intents and purposes, entirely impossible. He looked in no mood to do any further explaining, and thus Mimi carefully filed away the strange commentary to be dissected and analyzed at a later date, and moved on to addressing his subsequent queries.

"Monsieur Lucien." She actually, physically stood at this, giving a flawless curtsey. The kind that wealthy girls like Mimi learned from the etiquette and posture tutors their parents hired. "My name is Noemi Duchambreaux. I regret to inform you that it is not a pleasure to make your acquaintance, because saying otherwise would be lying. We are in a strange and horrible place, and while I know very little of what is going on outside, it all seems...unsavory, to say the least. Please understand that this is not a personal slight against your character." Her words were so precise, so formal-sounding. One had to wonder if this girl had ever really been allowed a 'casual' conversation with anyone in her life. "But had we met under different circumstances, perhaps I would be able to call our meeting pleasurable."

It was laughable, this wide-eyed, serious-faced young woman trying so desperately to sound composed when she could scarcely handle the idea of there being rats on the floor of this wretched place. On top of that, she had given away her identity without a second thought, inviting all sorts of ill luck to befall her. Duchambreaux sugar was a fairly well-known brand, mostly used in coffee houses. It stood to reason that this entitled, well-dressed little soubrette stood to inherit a large amount of money.

"I came here from Martinique, to meet my fiance, the Vicomte d'Avennes. But..." she trailed off. Was it 'polite', or 'appropriate' to divulge any more? "Things did not turn out as expected," she concluded, simply. "But I'm sure I will be on my way back to Martinique in no time. This sort of...political unrest can't really go on much longer, can it?"

[Lucien Villette de Séraphin]

The wry smile remained throughout her speech, unimpressed but nonetheless accustomed to her flowery words.

"Perhaps," he parroted dully, stroking his chin, and already beginning to wonder what sort of deeper predicament he had just subjected himself to. Did he not already have plenty enough on his plate? How foolish he was for nosing into someone else's business! Bah. But no matter how much Lucien would have liked to feign apathy, he knew he wasn't that uncaring.

He thought he recognized her name, but Lucien's attention had always been on the arts and such - musical and artistic culture, considering his and Camilla's areas of expertise - so it took him a while to place it.

"Tea? No ... coffee ... Martinique - ah, sugar," he mumbled to himself, his lips pursed.

Shaking his head, he broke himself from his reverie again.

"Can it?" he repeated. "I do not know; I would not hold my breath, ma chère." He sighed. "I have seen ... things. None of which make me feel very optimistic."

Again, he didn't mean to sound cryptic, but half the time when he spoke, his mind seemed to drift elsewhere.

Subconsciously his fingertips felt at the wedding band still worn on his finger. His brow knit, and he glanced down at it before folding his hands again with another sigh.

"Well. Once it is daylight, I shall procure bread and stew from the bakery down the rue. Would you care to accompany me? All things considered, it would probably be best that you do, as I do not think we have made very good friends with the inn's other residents."

[Noemi Duchambreaux]

((Well, gosh-darn it to heck, I posted and for some reason it didn't show up. Reposting.))

"Things," she repeated. Yes, she seemed to have a penchant for parroting. One slim black brow arched, but her expression changed to one of unabashed curiosity as her eyes dropped to her newfound acquaintance's hands. Her shrewd gaze immediately took note of the glittering golden band on his ring finger. The way he looked at it, the way the look alone followed a rather ominous statement, hinted at something rather dark.

"What happened to your wife?" The question was blurted out before she could stop herself. Instantly, a flush rose on her pale cheeks. "I'm...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. That was...improper of me. Forget I said anything."

Standing, Mimi grabbed her cloak and wrapped it around herself. "I'm going to wash up. I'll be right back."

It took her awhile to locate the washstand in the corridor, do to the darkness, but after a few moments of squinting in the gloom she caught sight of it. Pushing her sleeves up, she approached it with the same distaste a chambermaid might feel approaching a brimming chamberpot. Well, this questionable water was better than nothing. Cupping her hands under the water, she splashed her face and scrubbed her hands, lamenting the absence of her Italian marble and mother-of-pearl washstand back in Martinique, the little soaps her father had brought her from Holland, molded into the shapes of flowers and smelling sweetly of almonds and cinnamon and rose hips.

She shook her hands out to dry them as best she could, but the sound of a low, wry chuckle behind her had her tensed. She stifled a shriek of surprise and chanced a look over one white shoulder.

One of the inn's patrons, a large, barrel-chested and hirsute man in stained clothes, leaned against the wall, watching her with crossed arms. She was surprised to find that his gray eyes were clear, not addled by drink or whatever else.

"Easy there, petite souris. I'm not here to paw at you like those other brutes."

Mimi swallowed, steadying her voice by masking it with her brattiest, haughtiest tone. "Then I have no business with you. And I request you leave me be."

He tutted. "The little mouse thinks she's a princess. I come to you not as a threat, but as a friend."

"And what makes you think I need your friendship?" she asked, clasping her hands behind her back to still their shaking.

"It is your decision whether or not you will accept it. But let me offer you a word of warning--your new friend, with all his fancy airs, is not what he seems."

Mimi wanted to ignore his words, dismiss them. But somehow his voice, his tone was...honest. Serious.

"Beneath all the silk and lace ruffles is a lean, hungry cat. So don't come crying when the cat gets hungry, petite souris. Do not say I didn't warn you."

Mimi shoved past the man, trying to ignore the frantic beating of her heart. He did nothing to stop her.

Once inside the room, she closed the door and leaned against it, carefully avoiding Lucien's eyes.