The sound of rain against the roof tiles was soft—almost unreal. Clea kept insisting. She was already consumed by her suspicions, digging deep, clinging to any scrap of information.
She had taken over the reading room on the second floor, piling up papers, letters, and scraps of archive sheets as if preparing for a military operation.
Alicia watched her from an armchair, notebook on her lap, drawing disconnected shapes. Beside her sat Esquie, his golden eyes calm. Maybe he was listening to the conversation. What would he have said at a moment like this? That was the question spinning in Alicia's head, trying to escape Clea's intricate theories and wild connections.
"If you think about it," Clea said without looking up, "nothing that happened makes sense if we assume the Laroque are the culprits."
Alicia raised an eyebrow. She stopped sketching Noco. On a fresh page, her hand wrote:
"Why?"
"Because the Laroque already have all the power they want," Clea answered, as if stating the obvious. "They control the guild's administration, the international relations, even some academic circles. What happened with the fire, the writers' breach… it was personal. It wasn't a power struggle. It was surgical. A move to harm both our guild and theirs."
Alicia's surprise showed. Clea's deductions made sense. Well, she was sharp. Maybe not everything in her head was obsession, even if their parents thought otherwise. Alicia wrote again:
"Then who?"
Clea hesitated. She swallowed. Her voice dropped.
"The Durands."
Alicia didn't write right away. She just looked at her, lips pressed together. Maybe everything was falling into place. Perhaps the missing piece was Antoine himself. It hurt to consider it, but they had already talked about it. It hurt because she had been the Dessendres' weak link, in the end. But she had never imagined the truth would be so stark—and yet so invisible.
"I know it sounds absurd," Clea continued, "but ever since Antoine appeared, ever since word spread about a strange talent in the Durand family… there's something about his gift that defies what's possible. I already told you how I felt when I saw him. And someone as ambitious as Carlo Durand wouldn't just keep that power locked in some miserable room."
"Can you tell me something about Antoine's family, please?" Alicia asked, already certain Clea had done her homework.
Clea nodded. Of course she remembered everything. She'd spent the last couple days pouring over those scattered notes, finally weaving them into a coherent thread of thought. She grabbed an old notebook and began to speak aloud, as if needing to hear the words herself to believe them.
"Carlo Durand. Born in 1847. At 29, he left for Germany to study philosophy and literature. There he met Eleanor von Ehrenwald, a woman with a French father and a German mother. Strangely, she took her mother's surname. No idea why. She was a painter, writer, multi-instrumentalist—just a prodigy. They married in 1888. Antoine was born in 1889. Eleanor died in 1898 at the age of 41, when Antoine was 9."
Pause. Alicia glanced at Esquie. He would have laughed. He'd have wanted to meet such a marvelous woman. Maybe he'd have asked to hear her music and dance with her. But reality pulled her back. Clea eventually resumed.
"Dante, Carlo's eldest son, was born in 1883—six years older than Antoine. His mother… she was older than Carlo, from a diplomatic family. It's said Carlo married her out of obligation—pressure from his parents, political alliances, all that. But… he didn't love her. Maybe Eleanor was the only woman he ever truly loved."
Alicia slowly wrote:
"What happened to Eleanor?" she asked, curious about the woman who had seemed so brilliant.
"I don't know. There are whispers behind walls," Clea replied, now looking directly at Alicia. "They say she ran away and suffered a tragic accident. Some claim she died of a sudden illness. But those are convenient explanations."
"Then?" Alicia pressed, noting Clea's hesitation.
"Yes, Alicia," Clea said, checking her notes. "She took her own life. No one knows how. But that's the most consistent theory. They say her talent was immense, and she was an emancipated woman—something these uncivilized brutes we call men still couldn't stand."
Alicia seemed to understand. Rumors had been growing louder about women demanding equal ground with men—in politics, in academia, in work. Even beyond that. She noticed Clea had more to say.
"There was immense pressure and expectation on Eleanor. People's reactions to her brilliance were mixed, but all cut deep. The writers despised the idea of a woman leader, so they scorned her as much as they could. The painters wanted her with them, for her skill and her ideals. The musicians thought she belonged to their ranks. And Carlo… with each new voice, he restrained her more. He caged her. Made her his possession."
"But… then why do you think Carlo wants revenge, if he might be the reason she died?" Alicia scribbled hastily, her writing now messy.
"We don't fully know yet, Alicia," Clea answered. "But you have to understand—when someone powerful loses the one they love most and chooses to blame the world for it… they become dangerous. Dangerous because they blind themselves. And the world won't be able to defend itself against a fury with no direction."
At that moment, the door opened. Renoir appeared, elegant as usual, though his hair was damp from the rain. He had been standing outside for a few seconds, listening in. And the more Clea spoke, the deeper the clash of memories struck him—and the heavier the guilt. If only they had pressured Eleanor less, perhaps things wouldn't have ended as they did. For her… or for the Durands.
"You're still at this?" he said, arms crossed. "Aline and I are back. The painters' guild is doing what it can to mediate the situation with the writers. Things are moving. It's neither wise nor healthy for you to stay locked in this theory without proof."
Clea straightened up, her gaze sharp. She was done with her parents' passivity. Her ideas had taken shape. And they would fall with a crushing weight when everything was clear and connected.
"And what if the proof is buried in the history no one wants to examine? What if all this was woven years ago?"
Renoir sighed. His voice turned colder.
"Do you know what you're doing with this, Clea? You're raising an accusation without foundation. Accusing the Durand family is not just reckless—it's irresponsible. The writers' guild has shown willingness to identify the real culprit and hand them over to justice. If you keep pointing fingers blindly, all you'll do is make the world think the Dessendres have been consumed by rage."
Clea clenched her fists. "Of course we've been consumed, old man. I had to clean up your mess while you and Mom were pulling each other's hair inside the Canvas," she thought, biting her tongue. Saying it out loud would have been explosive.
"What if you're just afraid to look where you shouldn't?" she shot back, clearly referring to the writers.
"And what if you're seeing ghosts because you can't handle the void Verso left behind?" Renoir countered—not with cruelty, but sorrow. "I don't say this to hurt you. I say it because this guessing game could burn you too, daughter."
Alicia stood up. She walked to the table and wrote with determination:
"I want to know the truth."
Renoir looked at her. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then stopped himself.
"Then do it properly. Not just on gut feelings. With facts," he said, looking at her the same way he had the day he left the Canvas.
Then, Renoir left without closing the door. Clea turned to Alicia, with a faint but sincere smile.
"We will. And when we know everything, there'll be no more silence."
She saw Alicia hesitate. The girl held her notebook—no, she hugged it now. She also looked away, her gaze hidden. Clea approached and placed both hands on her sister's shoulders.
"Will you stand with me in this, Alicia?" she asked, a rare hint of fear in her eyes. "Even if things get dark, will you be there?"
Alicia nodded. She frowned, took her notebook, and wrote:
"There will be no silence. Everyone will know."
Eventually, that would come to pass. But it was still hard to tell just what the Dessendre sisters would uncover. Harder still, almost impossible, was knowing how they'd react when they finally met the truth. And that moment was approaching fast.