The Author

“Well, what are you doing just standing there?” Mrs. Bellerose snapped, her rose-red dress flaring as she turned on her heel. “Please, sit in the living room. Emil is preparing the tea.”

The words came out like a gentle command rather than a suggestion.

I followed her into the main lobby, my steps heavy as I approached the wide leather couch. The room was more extravagant than anything I’d seen in real life—like something from a Baroque painting come to life. Gold-leaf accents ran up the molding, a massive chandelier loomed overhead, and the scent of roses hung in the air, as if the house itself wore perfume.

I sank into the couch, careful not to get too comfortable. Every inch of this place screamed wealth, and I wasn’t sure I belonged in any of it.

Mrs. Bellerose seated herself across from me with exacting grace, smoothing her dress as she sat. Her posture was so rigid it might’ve been carved in marble. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the ticking of an antique clock on the wall.

Tick Tick Tick

She stared at me—sharp eyes narrowing like I was an exotic creature under examination.

I looked away.

“Emil!” she suddenly called, her voice cracking the air like a whip.

“U-uh, almost done!” came the reply from the kitchen. The kettle whistled violently.

When Emil finally emerged, he carried a silver tray trembling with porcelain teacups and a few slices of dry-looking bread. His hand was red—burned, probably—but he forced a sheepish smile anyway.

“Here’s the tea,” he announced, like he hadn’t just fought a miniature war with boiling water.

Mrs. Bellerose took a cup, her eyes flicking from Emil’s hand to his face.

“Let’s get to the point,” she said, her voice soft but unmistakably commanding. “My name is Nora Bellerose. I’m your aunt. You will treat me with the same respect you would any parent.”

She gestured to Emil. “This is Emil. We’re engaged. Treat him no differently.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, instinctively sitting up straighter.

Nora glanced around the room and frowned. “Where is Fleur?”

“She’s visiting her grandmother’s suite,” Emil murmured, pushing up his glasses.

Nora’s gaze faltered for a moment. “I see.”

A flicker of something—grief, maybe—passed through her eyes before she buried it beneath her usual composure. I wasn’t sure.

She turned back to me. “Asher, Emil will show you to your room. Dinner is at seven. Not later.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stood, gave one final tug to her skirt, and vanished without a glance back.

Emil lingered, still holding the tray.

“What about the tea?” he called after her, his voice echoing off the wall and tall ceiling.

No answer.

Once the click of her heels faded upstairs, he sighed and smiled. “Let me show you to your room, Asher.”

I followed him up a spiraling staircase, through halls lined with gilded frames and plush carpets. My room was simpler—quiet and unadorned. A queen-sized bed, a dresser, and a ticking clock overhead.

“This used to be Emilie Bellerose’s room—the previous estate owner,” Emil explained. “And no, we’re not related. Just a coincidence in names.”

I blinked. “Didn’t assume that, but… okay.”

Emil chuckled nervously and sat on the bed’s edge, his fingers fidgeting.

“Sit?” he asked, tilting his head.

I sat beside him.

“I know this is... hard,” he began carefully. “Losing your parents. Coming here to strangers. We just want you to feel safe.”

His voice carried warmth. I nodded before I could think.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

“That said,” he continued, “Nora can be difficult. Try to be patient. Losing her sister... it’s still fresh.”

My hands clenched. My mother had barely been buried, and I was supposed to think about her grief?

Still, I gave a tight nod. “I understand.”

Emil looked toward the window. “Fleur, too. She lost someone just before you arrived.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Her grandmother,” he added, quieter this time. “It was sudden.”

There was something eerie in his tone—not sadness exactly, but like the memory still lingered in the walls of the room.

“She should be back soon. Please, try to get along.”

“I’ll try.”

Emil stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to start dinner. Nora gets... impatient when she hasn’t eaten.”

I almost laughed. “Thank you, Mr. Bellerose.”

“Just Emil,” he grinned. “Unless Nora’s in the room.”

After he left, I unpacked slowly. My hands stopped when they reached a charred leather journal.

I opened it.

A photo slipped out—my father, smiling beside a red-haired man in a café. A friend? Maybe more.

“Dad…” I whispered, my voice cracking.

I wanted to cry. But the tears didn’t come. They stayed buried along with everyone else’s grief.

—

Tick Tick Tick

The clock reminded me—6:30. Dinner soon.

I headed downstairs and waited in the parlor. By 7:00, the clatter of pots signaled it was time.

A warm scent drifted out—a creamy, savory stew.

Emil looked up as I entered. “Ah, this? Blanquette de Veau. One of my comfort dishes.”

“It smells amazing,” I said honestly.

“Everything my husband makes is amazing,” Nora declared, striding in with a towel on her head and a silk robe.

She caught me staring.

“Is there something on my face?”

“No! Sorry—I’m just tired.”

Nora had gotten self conscious and pulled out a hand mirror from nowhere and started checking the folds of her eyes for any sleep or dirt.

Emil cleared his throat. “Still no sign of Fleur? She’s been gone for quite a while.”

“She’s probably still at the mother’s suite,” Nora said with a sigh. Then her eyes shifted to me. “Asher, would you go fetch her?”

She gestured toward the foyer. “Follow the path to the left. It’s tucked near the trees. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Wait—Nora,” Emil started.

She cut him off with a look.

Whatever he meant to say, he let it go.

I was already headed to the door.

It creaked open loudly, just like when I arrived. You would think the kind of money they have that they’d hire a carpenter to replace the hinge. But, alas…

Outside, the sunset painted everything in bruised orange and bleeding red—a sky on fire.

I followed the path Nora had described, flowers brushing my legs as I passed.

Cardinals. Celosias. Lycoris. Poinsettias. Zinnias. Hibiscus. Red carnations.

Red.

Too much red.

I blinked—and for a second, and the garden became a fiery field of ash. It was that street. My street. The weight of my shoes as they hit the concrete. In the distance, a house collapsing in on itself.

The spell broke as my eyes blinked with a stutter.

I had reached the mother’s suite. The building stood quiet, gray and brittle, the aftermath of great fire. It reminded me of home.

And there—on her knees—was a girl, crying out not to this dismal building lost to the flames, but for the warmth of someone she’d lost.

I didn’t know her yet. But I knew that cry.

Because it was mine, too.

I stood frozen. Watching felt wrong, but I didn’t know what else to do.

It didn’t take long for her to notice me from the corner of her eye and quickly stand, brushing off the dust from her pale blue coat. The sun was nearly gone, and for a moment, her pigtails caught the last gold of the dying light.

“W-who are you?” she asked, startled.

I must have spooked her. Justifiably so.

“I’m Asher. Nora—I mean, your mom—took me in. I’ll be living with you all from now on.”

I smiled nervously, my eyes averting their gaze to the flowers.

She was silent for a moment but oddly accepted my presence.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Fleur.” She stepped closer, cautious, and held out her hand.

I noticed the scratches across her skin, and the faint impression of a ruler on her wrist.

I took her hand. My eyes followed from her fingers to her wrist, up to her ocean-blue eyes.

We stood there for a moment, caught in silence.

Then I remembered. “Aunt Nora sent me to find you. Dinner’s ready.”

“Oh. Thank you. I’ll be there in a minute,” she said, pulling back slightly, unfinished tears still in her throat.

But the sun had fully set, and I hesitated.

“We should head back now. It’s already dark,” I said, pointing to the moon casting its pale shadow across the grounds.

Truthfully, that wasn’t the only reason I urged her. I knew that if she stayed—crying over her dead grandmother—she could stay forever.

So, gently, I guided her back with me. Back home, for dinner.

—

We had seated at a wide finely finished wood table that was, from my observation, too big for the 4 of us, not considering how it had only been the 3 until my arrival.

Emil sat across from me on the long end, while Fleur sat at the shortside to my left and Nora to my right. For most of the meal, we silently ate our stew with not much to say.

I wanted to make a few comments about the luxurious decor in the house like the wall mounts I had seen earlier in the halls, but I forced myself to behave and not say anything that could get me in trouble.

“Say, Asher-”, Emil’s eyes widened as I sipped on the remaining drops of broth from my spoon.

“Do you like reading?”

My head looked up for a moment, almost clumsily spilling the spoon I had been drinking from.

“I do, how did yo-”

I had thought back to the journal I’d pulled out from my bag earlier, the one with the picture of my father. I must’ve left it out on the bed. Emil must’ve noticed it walking past my room while I was fetching Fleur.

Nora’s voice cut through my lore dump, waving her spoon in the air like a conductor. “Emil is a world renowned writer. He’s written 3 bestselling books.” She said with a sort of pride. It was almost like that was the only thing she was proud of Emil for….

Emil scratched the back of his head nervously, “Oh Nora, you flatter me. I’m just a humble writer.”

Nora had a devilish glance of her eyes to Emil. “If you were just a humble writer, you’d have already been served papers.”

The two, for the first time looked at each other with some kind of… passion? It was a strange dichotomy from earlier. I thought, “I wonder what Nora was implying– oh. It’s an adult thing…”

Gross.

I looked at Fleur who was awkwardly staring at the broth in the center of her spoon, trying to ignore her parents acting all chummy. I’d thought to myself if this back and forth light switch relationship was what she had to deal with, then maybe I might be able to survive this family. You’ve inspired me, Fleur.

“So, what kind of books have you written?” I asked, curious about Emil’s work.

Perhaps that was the wrong question because Nora suddenly seemed embarrassed. Emil, on the other hand, his eyes were lighting up with a spark of passion as he rushed to clear all the tables, grabbing Fleur’s spoon out of her hand while she was eating, dropping off all the dishes in the backroom of the kitchen and hurriedly returning with 3 books that he had apparently written.

All the while, I watched as Nora’s eyes went nervously wide open like Emil was about to do something overly embarrassing.

SLAM!

Emil had excitedly smacked the table with his books like a kid wanting to show their mother a picture they drew in art class.

“I thought you would never ask! This book is called ‘The Downtrotten Donkey’, it’s about a donkey who is always sad because everyone around him is so happy!”

He passed this book to me and I glanced at the cover realizing that Emil wasn’t just any author…

“And this one! ‘The Precocious Pig’!” It’s about a little pig who acts too much like an adult and makes his friends not have fun.

He was…

“Then there’s ‘The Happy Honey Bear’! It’s about a happy bear that loves to eat honey.”

A children’s author.