XXXII
The ship settles into the dying grass with a low, resonant hum that makes the ground tremble beneath our feet. The mirror‑sky above reflects its hull in a thousand broken angles, each shard catching the ship's glow and scattering it across the barren field like fractured starlight.
The ramp lowers.
Cold air spills out, carrying the faint metallic scent of alien machinery. I step down first, boots sinking into the brittle, brown grass. The alien moves beside me, its silhouette tall and fluid, bioluminescent seams along its form pulsing in slow, steady waves. Behind us, the coachman and footman descend carefully, the unconscious blonde aristocrat slung between them like a sack of grain.
Two soldiers from the ship flank us, their armor humming softly, visors reflecting the looming shape of the Madam's mansion.
The mansion sits at the edge of the field like a sleeping beast—grand, shadowed, its windows dark except for the faintest flicker of candlelight behind heavy curtains. The fog hasn't fully lifted; it clings to the ground in thin, reluctant ribbons, curling around our ankles as we approach.
The coachman leads the way.
His greatcoat flaps in the morning breeze, half‑faded edges trailing like smoke. He climbs the stone steps with the weary determination of someone who has survived the night by sheer stubbornness. The footman follows, boots scuffing the marble, the aristocrat's limp head bouncing with each step.
We stop before the massive front doors.
Carved oak, dark as old blood.
Iron hinges thick enough to hold back a small army.
And at the center the bronze lion's head knocker, its mane wild, its mouth open in a silent roar. The coachman lifts it.
BOOM.
The knocker slams against the door, the sound echoing through the mansion's bones. It rolls through the front hall, up the staircases, into the servants' quarters. A second knock follows, louder, more insistent.
BOOM.
Inside, movement stirs. Footsteps in quickstep.
Whispers. A startled clatter of dishes.
The rustle of curtains being pulled aside. The servants are waking, and preparing for visitors.
The alien stands beside me, silent but alert, its presence a steady pulse of otherworldly calm. The soldiers shift their weight, hands resting lightly on their weapons. The footman adjusts his grip on the unconscious aristocrat, who groans faintly but does not wake.
The coachman lowers the knocker and steps back.
The echoes fade, and mansion listens. We sense several curious gazes at the mansion windows.
And behind the heavy doors, someone approaches with authority.
Someone who has been expecting a delivery is nearing as the door opens with a crack of light.
Louise throws the door open so fast the hinges gasp.
Her bright red hair is a flare of warmth against the dim foyer, and before I can even breathe she's on me. Her arms wrapped tight, cheek pressed to my shoulder, relief pouring off her like sunlight after a storm.
"You're finally back," she says, voice thick with emotion.
For a heartbeat, everything feels normal. Safe. Like the nightmare night never happened.
Then her eyes lift over my shoulder, and her body starts to shake.
Because behind me stands unexpected visitors.
The alien, tall and shifting, bioluminescent seams glowing faintly in the morning gloom
The coachman, coat torn, face pale, leaning heavily on the doorframe as his body bears another soul's weight
The footman, exhausted but upright, shoulders supporting and carrying
the unconscious blonde aristocrat, limp between them like a fallen marionette
And flanking us, two of the alien's soldiers, armor humming softly with otherworldly energy
Louise's mouth falls open.
Her gaze darts from one figure to the next. Her blue eyes grow large in confusion, shock, and a flicker of fear all warring in her expression. Her hands hover in the air as if unsure whether to reach for me again or slam the door shut.
"By the mirrors…" she whispers. "What happened to you all?"
Behind her, the mansion stirs awake servants whispering, footsteps gathering, the faint glow of lanterns being lit. The Madam's house, usually so composed, feels suddenly alive with tension.
Louise steps aside, still staring, still trying to make sense of the strange procession on her doorstep. The formal doorman behind her frowns as Louise had suddenly usurped his usual duties to open the door and announce visitors. He coughed lightly into one gloved hand.
"Come in," Louise says at last, voice trembling but resolute. "Quickly. Before the Madam sees the state you're in, lordy, you look a fright."
But the Madam has already seen, her eyes betrayed her thoughts. She was not half pleased with the situation that landed at her manor door.
Madam appears like a soft thunderstorm. She rolls in quiet, composed, but carrying the weight of something that could level a city if it wished.
She descends the grand staircase with a small lamp in hand, its warm glow catching the edges of her formal dressing gown. The fabric is rich but modest, cinched at the waist, the neckline demure. Her hair swirls in half‑black, half‑white. It has been swept into a quick chignon, curls spiraling like smoke around the crown. Even hastily arranged, she looks like a portrait stepped out of a gilded frame. She pauses at the bottom step.
Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, unsettlingly calm. She takes in the scene with a single sweep. She deeply inhales, gathering thought.
She looks through the room at me, disheveled but alive. Then her sight makes its way towards the alien, tall and luminous, a creature no one in this house has ever seen. She takes in two armored soldiers, humming with otherworldly energy. Worry graces her face as her sight focuses on unconscious blonde aristocrat, draped across the fainting couch like a fallen prince. Louise, red‑haired and breathless, hovers protectively at my side.
Madam lifts her lamp slightly, letting the light spill across the parlor.
"Well," she says, voice smooth as lacquered wood, "what have we here."
She steps closer, the hem of her gown whispering across the marble.
"I expected you back much earlier, dear girl," she continues, tone warm but edged with amusement. "With a few boxes, perhaps. Maybe a pet, if you were feeling indulgent."
Her gaze drifts to the alien soldiers, then to the aristocrat, then finally settles on you. "But instead," she murmurs, lips curving into a slow, knowing smile, "you have brought me many more treasures than I had thought."
The lamplight flickers across her face, catching the faintest glint of satisfaction in her eyes.
Interest. Deep, calculating interest reflected in her face.
Louise shifts beside you, suddenly aware of the gravity in the room. The alien straightens, its bioluminescent seams pulsing once in acknowledgment. The soldiers remain still, waiting for your cue.
Madam tilts her head, curls brushing her cheek.
"Well then," she says softly, "We are in need of an explanation. Shall we begin?"
Madam arranged for a small tea with vegetarian snacks and treats as I was made to freshen up and change clothes and the alien accompanying me was made to wash. We sat on the couch before her as she sipped her tea, occasionally nibbling on a petit four, a small square shaped pastry. This was the madam's version of a formal interrogation.