Archive of Our Own

All of Alicia's earliest memories are music. Maman always plays beautifully, sounds and stories that weave through the manor. Her fingers dance on the piano's keys, and Alicia dances her dolls and trains along its gleaming back. Clea's harp and Clea's voice and Maman's, harmonizing and clear, and Maman and Clea dance in circles around the ballroom, tugging Papa to his feet to join them even if he's slow with his bad leg.

But Verso does it best, Verso makes the most beautiful melodies and sounds. Verso scoops her up and sits her on the bench beside him. Verso's songs are Alicia's favorites, nothing like anything else she ever hears, and when he’s done with his lessons she runs to his side and begs him to play for her again.

"This one's about you," he tells her, shuffling through the pages.

"But it doesn't have any words."

"Doesn't need to."

Alicia took ill when she was four, confined to her bed despite her protests, and she opened her eyes in the haze of fever and there was Verso at the foot of her bed, playing away. She'd only wonder once she was older how long it took him to move in a piano. 

He teaches her games, gives names to all of Papa's old paintbrushes and sends them play-fighting across the floor until Alicia is in hysterics from giggles.

"Aren't you a little old for that, Verso?" Clea asks, looking up from her sculpture.

"Let the boy dote on his sister, Clea," Maman tells her.

"Someone's afraid to fight the mighty Gestral champion," Verso mutters under his breath to Alicia, who stifles her laughter in her hands. Clea rolls her eyes.

Alicia doesn't take it personally. Clea's good at pretty much everything, but not games. Alicia goes to Verso for that, and no matter how busy he is with his studies he always makes time for her. The baby can get away with anything, according to Clea.

Alicia's not the best at anything. Her dancing is nothing like Maman's or Clea's, she's like Papa, with two left feet and tripping and getting dizzy after twirling in too many circles. She doesn't have a voice as strong as Clea's or Verso’s or Maman’s. The few times Maman tries to sit Alicia at the piano, nothing ever comes out right. She's klutzy on a horse and forgets the rules when she's fencing. Her writing is too embarrassing to show anyone. And of course, she's the weakest Painter in the family. Verso helps her try again and again, no matter how many times she fails, but she can't keep up with him.

"I'm not any good at art," Alicia tells him when he finds her huddled under a bush in the garden, wobbly sketches crumpled in her muddy hands.

"Nonsense," he answers, and smooths out the stained papers like they're made of gold, like Clea painted them, like they aren't covered in tears and mud. "See, look how many beautiful things you made."

But Alicia doesn't like what she makes, not the drawings or the music or the paintings or the words, what she likes is listening, being wrapped up in their world, his world, surrounded by the sounds and dances and the flowers of the garden.

"You're young still," Papa soothes her after she's thrown her ruined canvas to the floor and fled the atelier in tears, Maman's shocked gasp ringing in her ears. "You'll learn, you'll get better. Your siblings have just had more time."

Clea's paintings are flawless. Clea can paint as well as Maman already, swirls of color and light that easily form whatever she could dream of. She can make anything come real in her Canvases, and Alicia's scared to go in Clea's studio at night, because she's pretty sure the statues can move. Clea has impressed the Council. Clea is a prodigy.

But Verso's paintings, his stories, are the best, always changing and creating, worlds that Alicia feels safe and whole in. He brings her into his Canvas and shows her his friends, and his home, worlds so beautiful Alicia feels like she could cry seeing them. Verso made this Canvas, his very first, and he refuses to erase it or start another. He just adds on, layers and layers, fresh paint and new ideas.

"Verso, Alicia! Mes amis!" Esquie crouches down to greet them. "Good timing."

"Oh, no, don't tell me," Verso answers him. "No, no, not a — "

"Did you lose your rocks?" Alicia interrupts him.

"Smart girl!" Esquie croons, patting her head.

"No, don't indulge him," Verso tells her. "We found your rocks last time — "

"They're gone now." Esquie droops. "Carried away by terrible foes…fierce warriors…"

"Did you lend the Gestrals your rocks, you mean? Again?"

"We'll find your rocks, Esquie." Alicia pats his knee (or what she thinks would probably be his knee.) "Don't worry."

Esquie is beaming, even without a mouth. Alicia can tell. "My heroes!"

Clea says Verso's Canvas is silly and childish, but she still comes to play sometimes. 

"You can't just make a rock with a face and call it alive," Clea tells him. "That's not how painting works."

"It's not a rock with a face," Verso answers brightly. "It's Francois."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here!" the rock named Francois roars between them.

Clea folds her arms, but the corner of her mouth is twitching.

Even she's impressed, Alicia can tell.

One day in the village, there's a tree climbing contest. A Gestral takes a terrible fall in front of Alicia, and her screams ring and ring and ring, and Verso wraps her in his arms. "Alicia, Alicia, don't — "

"He's dead," Alicia wails, thinking of their elderly dog and the little bird she found with Papa in the garden.

"Gestrals don't die." Verso crouches down in front of her, takes her face in his hands. "Not forever. They come back. They're not like people. They come back."

Verso doesn't paint death in his world, he tells her. Everyone is safe. Everyone is whole.

They find Esquie's rocks. Clea becomes Francois's best friend. The Gestrals come back.

In the Canvas, everything falls into place, the way Verso says it will.

In the real world, though, Verso lies.

—

It's hard to remember the fire. It's really just the screaming, his screaming, and the pain is splitting her, tearing the flesh from her face, and she smells smoke and blood and his favorite cologne, and the only thing coherent is one phrase.

You're okay. You're okay. You're okay.

Alicia doesn't remember learning Verso is dead. She doesn't remember waking up. All the pain and medication and grief are clouds that blind her but —

You're okay.

Verso is a lot of things, and a liar is one of them.

She's as far from okay as it's possible to be.

She's trapped in the dark, in the pain, and familiar voices come, sometimes, and unfamiliar ones, nurses and doctors and their hands are gentle but the pain is unyielding and —

"Try not to scream, poor thing, it'll hurt more. I know, I know it hurts, but it'll all be — "

You're okay.

"Alicia, Alicia, it's alright, I'm here, Maman's here too, deep breaths, it'll be over — "

You're okay.

She can't see, and she can't hear either, because Verso's screams and the crackle of the fire are still ringing through her, drowning out everything else.

It's a horrible thing, burning to death. Alicia knows because it happened to her.

She must be dead. She can't possibly be alive, not like this.

Alicia is trapped in the dark, alone. Memories seep in with nothing to replace them, wrapping her up. 

She and Verso are fencing in the garden, and he tricks her and she loses her balance and falls, and he points the foil at her proudly, laughing in the sun.

"Good job," Alicia tells him, hiding the embarrassing sting of defeat, "beating up your kid sister."

"Don't be silly," Verso says as he stoops to help her up. "You're okay."

You're okay.

The day there's light again, they uncover her eye and it blinds her, and it's the fire, back again, and she wails and fights until something is forced under her tongue and she slips back into the dark.

Verso's fingers on the piano keys, even faster than Maman's, over black and white and white and black. Light and dark and dark and light. Alicia chases their image, burned into her mind.

"Should we even be keeping her alive, like this?"

"Clea!"

"Someone has to ask it. Look at her, she can barely breathe — "

"Enough. Enough! I won't hear any more of this."

"It's cruel, Papa."

It is, Alicia thinks, agreeing with that benevolent voice, the one promising oblivion.

Verso, in the distance. She reaches out, begs with a voice she doesn't have.

He smiles, and he's gone.

You're okay.

Alicia doesn't know how long that period lasts, how long she rides the waves of pain and fear and runs after the Verso in her memories. The first time she can remember truly being awake , Papa is sitting by the bed, and he looks twenty years older than the last time she saw him.

And his eyes meet hers, and she knows the nightmare is real.

She can't speak. She can hardly see. They only tell her later, once her left eye can focus again, that the right one couldn't be saved.

Her throat is mangled, her voice gone. Her mind is too drug-fogged to write, so she's trapped in her head. It's a fortune, a miracle, that she can still breathe. Even if it hurts.

But Alicia could bear all of that, really, if it were all.

Verso is dead.

She wakes knowing it, every moment, every bit of pain harder to endure, every tube and needle and bandage change and feeding and dose and test and —

Alicia didn't light the blaze, but it was her mistakes that killed him. And Verso still chose her over himself. He chose wrong.

Somehow, that guilt is the only thing that even starts to ease the pain. The knowledge that she did this, she deserves this, this is her punishment, this is her atonement for killing her brother.

Spaces between moments, between stabs of pain. Heartache and pleas and longing. She thinks she hears a piano.

You're okay.

The pain of her injuries eases, bit by bit by bit. It's a constant, but it no longer rips her up, no longer white hot but aching, throbbing, sore. She can sit up a little, propped by pillows. She can see, dimly, from her good eye. She can hear. She can feel Papa's hand on hers, stroking her choppy hair. She can write, sloppily, to ask questions and give answers. Eventually, she can see well enough to read again, and it's a relief to bury herself into books, to spend just a few minutes thinking like somebody else.

Maman looks at her like she's seen a ghost. Maman breaks down weeping when Alicia tries to greet her. Maman visits less and less.

"Papa had to go to a meeting," Clea announces as she sets a tray down by Alicia's bed. "And he wouldn't hear of having the servants do it, so I've got to give you your medicine."

Unlike Maman and Papa, Clea acts like she always does, interrupted from her work, impatient and harried. Alicia appreciates that. It's almost like everything's all the same.

But even Clea's eyes are red-rimmed at the corners, even her voice hitches at certain syllables.

There's no music in the manor. Alicia never hears anyone playing.

You're okay.

You liar, Verso, Alicia thinks, always lying.

—

Alicia does her best to help, to do as Clea says, to save her parents. But Aline overpowers her. The Chroma brings oblivion. It swallows her whole. 

Alicia really can't do anything right.

The last coherent thought she has, though, is of relief.

—

Maelle hears music from windows sometimes, when she's running through Lumière's streets. She likes stopping to listen, when she has time, perched on a roof or in an alcove. She gets scolded, of course, if her deliveries are late, but Maelle's always getting scolded, so she doesn't really mind.

Running always clears her mind, makes everything feel better when it goes wrong. She runs and runs and hears Lumière around her, and for once she doesn't feel so strange and awkward and wrong. Of course, she can't run off the island. She would if she could, though. Run all the way to the Paintress and punch her in the face — well, the ankle, probably, but still. And then Maelle would run off in another direction, never slowing down, just chasing the endless sky. And it doesn't matter if she's supposed to be doing something else, or supposed to be going somewhere, or supposed to be coming back — it's not like she has anything to come back to, anyway.

Nobody likes it when she runs, of course, but Maelle doesn't like them either. Alone is how she likes it.

She's long lost track of how many foster families she's had when she meets the last one. 

Maelle eyes Gustave and Emma warily as they're signing the paperwork. Apparently they'd specially requested her. Apparently they'd liked her during all the meetings, where Maelle had been trying to be as disagreeable and weird as possible. Apparently they hadn't been put off by the orphanage director's not-so-tactful warnings that they probably wanted a different type of foster kid.

Gustave's…nice. Maelle doesn't trust nice. Sooner or later, she'll push him too far, and he'll get sick of her, and she'll be out the door again. And his sister Emma is the strict type. Maelle doesn't do well with the strict type.

Gustave must sense her staring, because he glances over his shoulder and smiles in her direction. Maelle deepens her scowl, hunching in her chair and clutching the handle of her rucksack. Gustave's mouth quirks, like he's trying not to laugh. Maelle doesn't know what to make of that.

Eventually, it's done. Maelle gets a tired look from the orphanage director as he's showing them out. Maelle sticks her tongue out as the door swings shut between them. Sure, they'll see each other again soon enough, but that doesn't mean she can't have the last laugh for now.

There's nothing remarkable about Gustave and Emma's apartment. It's near the City Hall, where Emma's a councilor, and the civic engineering building, where Gustave works. It's not too far a walk to the school, because Emma insists that Maelle has to go to lessons every day before going to her apprenticeship, and either follows her or sends Gustave to do it, all the way to make sure she goes in the door. But on the whole, it's just like any other foster placement. Not the biggest room Maelle's been given, not the smallest. She's not sharing it, so that's nice.

"What happened to your arm?" It's the first question Maelle asks Gustave, a few weeks into her placement. "The missing one."

He doesn't seem to mind, just continues to turn the pages of his notes on the coffee table. "Work accident — ages ago, did something stupid."

"Really?"

"Yep. Always wear your safety equipment."

"But what happened?" Emma's at work, so Maelle figures she can push her luck a little.

"A friend of mine fell into a piece of machinery," Gustave says. "We were young, weren't being careful enough. He almost died, and I was right there. I got him out, but lost the arm."

"That's true?"

He looks genuinely confused. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Because it doesn't sound real, Maelle thinks, because that's the kind of thing only heroes do in stories, not real people.

"Wasn't so bad, anyway," Gustave adds. "Because now I have this cooler one." He gestures with a metal finger. "I've been working on it, too. Adding features."

Maelle eyes the arm doubtfully. "Yeah, sure. For your Expedition?" She already knows by now that Gustave's big on Expeditions. He loves talking about the history of them, and his plans for his own, which strikes Maelle as really morbid, but whatever. He's probably crazy. That would explain why he decided to foster her.

"Yep. It'll be my secret weapon. Tip the scales against the Paintress."

Yeah, he's absolutely crazy. And going to die, but that's going to happen either way, so whatever. "So you're going to just punch her really hard with your metal arm?"

"That's the plan. Maybe hit her with a sword a few times, too. Should do the trick." He mimes stabbing with his other arm.

An idea strikes Maelle. "Hey. Teach me that."

"What, to use a sword?"

"Yes." Maelle sits forward on the couch. "Teach me. I want to learn. It sounds fun." And maybe, once she gets out there, she can use it.

Maelle's sure she'll get a lecture on why nice little girls don't want to hit people with swords, but Gustave just shrugs. "Alright. When I've got time, I'll show you a few things."

He does. And Maelle's finally found something she's good at, because he's impressed. Maelle doesn't usually impress people, but she's apparently a very fast study, and she can tell Gustave means it. He offers to pay for her to take more fencing lessons in the city, so long as she doesn't fall behind on her other studies. Maelle agrees, even though she thinks school is boring and dumb.

No matter how weird or disagreeable Maelle is, Gustave never seems to care. He thinks her jokes are funny, doesn't scold her for being dark or contrary. He lets her read whatever she likes and buys her her own big journal and helps her spell out the hard words. Maelle finds out she actually likes reading and writing, as long as it's not for school. It’s refreshing.

Even more than that, though, Gustave almost seems to actually like her. Maelle doesn’t think she’s ever known an adult who liked her.

Emma starts teaching Maelle to play the piano in the living room. It's a little small and rickety, not fancy like the big ones they play at restaurants and in the square. It was Gustave and Emma's father's, they say.

"Try that again, Maelle," Emma tells her. "I know you can get it."

Maelle sighs, ruffling the ends of her bangs, and slumps dramatically down on the bench next to her.

"You're a smart girl. You just need to try properly." Emma's fingers on the piano are long and graceful next to Maelle's stubby ones. "You're only getting started, after all.”

"Yeah, but it's boring. I'd rather practice swords more."

"You can practice swords," Emma shoots a pointed look in Gustave's direction, over Maelle's head, "once your piano lessons are done."

"What do I need piano for?" Maelle pushes moodily at one of the keys. "What'll it do to stop the Paintress?"

"Music and art are what keep us human," Emma tells her, without missing a beat. "Not everything has to be about survival. We all benefit from learning things like these. It's just like how you write your stories. That makes you feel better, doesn't it?"

"I guess." Maelle pauses. "Gustave doesn't play the piano, though. Just you."

"Maybe he should try too. It would help him be a bit more cultured."

"I'm cultured," Gustave calls, indignant. "Maelle, tell her I'm cultured."

Maelle helpfully presses a key at the leftmost end of the piano. It dongs.

Emma does crack a smile at that. She doesn't successfully convince Maelle to sit through any more piano lessons, though. Not that Maelle has anything against music. She'd just rather listen than make it.

It's just Maelle and Gustave at dinner one night, with Emma working late. Maelle can tell he's nervous — he keeps glancing at her, pushing food around his plate. Gustave's obvious when he's trying to be casual. He must be getting up the nerve to say something to her. Probably she's in trouble with the school for slacking off or something.

"You can just spit it out," Maelle finally says. "Whatever you're thinking about."

Gustave looks sheepish. "Er...you can tell?"

Anyone could tell, Maelle thinks, even a perfect stranger, but whatever. "What'd I do?"

"Oh, nothing — it's not that. It's just..." He trails off.

Maelle waits. She's not letting him off the hook. Emma says Gustave needs an encouraging push sometimes.

Finally, Gustave speaks again. "Been almost a year, hasn't it? Since you, er, came to stay with us, I mean."

That hadn't occurred to Maelle. She's never spent this long in one foster placement. "Yeah…"

"We could, well…" He looks nervous. "Could look into…into, well, making things more — more permanent. If, y'know, if you like."

Maelle stills. Something starts pounding in her chest, something terrifying. "What?"

"I mean…if, you know, you wanted me and Emma to become your guardians…like, officially. It's been long enough now that we could apply. To, er…to be a family."

Blood is pounding in Maelle's ears. She pushes her chair back from the table, its legs screeching, and she turns and she runs, throws the apartment door open and bolts down the hall, the stairs, the darkening streets, goes as fast as she can and doesn't look back even once.

Heedless of any obstacles, not following any path, Maelle runs. She doesn't know what scared her. She doesn't know why she had to run. But she had to.

It's all over now, anyway. Once Maelle runs away, she's a problem. They won't want her anymore. They definitely won't want to be her family.

She doesn't have a family. She'll never have a family. He should have known that. Stupid Gustave.

When her legs are burning and she's gasping for air, she finally stops. She knows where she is, thanks to all her time as a courier. She’s far from Gustave and Emma's, halfway across town. By now, it's dark out, and starting to rain.

Maelle turns down an alley and scoots into an alcove behind a wooden box. She just fits. Rain is starting to trickle down the walls, dripping into her hair. She rests her cheek against cold stone.

Shows Gustave and Emma right, she thinks. Taking on a problem kid. Now they know why they shouldn't have done that.

Maelle dozes, lightly, even in the wet and chill. She's slept worse places. She's jolted awake to an even darker night, and rushing footsteps in the alley.

"Maelle?"

There's no way Gustave managed to chase her all the way here. No way. Why would he? Maelle holds her breath, squeezes in tighter and tries to be absolutely silent.

Gustave calls for her again. Every muscle in Maelle's body is tense.

She's absolutely in trouble.

Gustave pauses, then walks towards her. Maelle tries to be even stiller, if that's possible, tries to not even breathe.

"Maelle…people outside told me they saw you come in here."

Maelle refuses to fall into his trap. He must be bluffing.

Gustave sighs, then tugs the wooden crate away from Maelle's alcove. Apparently he wasn't bluffing. 

Maelle does her best to look dignified, which is hard when her damp hair is plastered to her forehead. Gustave doesn't look mad, but she's sure he is. And she's not giving him the satisfaction of knowing he won this one.

"You've got to be freezing," Gustave says. "Come along out of there."

Another trap. Maelle shakes her head. He's way too big to reach her in here, so she'll just stay until he gives up and leaves.

"I'm sorry." Gustave leans down into the alcove, at her level. "If you don't want to be adopted, then — I won't bring it up... just — just don't run like that again, okay? I — You scared me."

"You don't want me," Maelle says. "Nobody wants me. Maybe you think you do, but you're wrong."

"That's not true."

Maelle huffs.

"Really, I…" Gustave leans against the alley wall. "Listen, I'm — not always the best with words, but I do want to be your family. Emma does too. You're a great kid."

Maelle glares at nothing.

"It's up to you. I'll follow your lead, okay?"

"If you want me to come back with you," Maelle says, "you have to promise. Promise you're not gonna change your mind and get rid of me. You have to mean it."

"Then I promise. I mean it."

"You'd better not be lying."

"Of course not."

Maelle drags her sleeve over her eyes. "'Cause I hate liars."

"I'm not lying, I promise."

"Pinky promise."

Gustave looks very serious. "Pinky promise."

"Okay." Maelle sniffles. "Now you can't change your mind. Emma too. You're stuck with me."

"I won't. Now come on." Gustave holds out his hand. "Let's go home."

Maelle clambers out, her legs stiff from her hiding spot, and Gustave picks her up and hugs her. Maelle doesn't actually ever remember being hugged before. It does warm her up, even if she's way too old to be carried like a little kid. But she pushes that thought aside, resting her head against his shoulder.

"Let's not tell Emma about this," Gustave tells her as they're walking home, and for some reason Maelle laughs so hard she starts crying again. But that means Gustave stops to buy her a crepe, so it's worth the embarrassment.

By next year, Gustave and Emma are her official guardians. At some point, they start saying family. Maelle walks the line of daughter and sister. They don't make a big deal out of it. They don't really have to.

And yet, that feeling of wrongness, of not-belonging, never quite goes away. Lumière feels wrong. This isn't where Maelle's supposed to be. She has to see what's out there. She knows that, feels like she was born knowing it. She might have found a place, she might be happier now, but she's still the same foster kid, running and running, chasing something undefinable. Throwing rocks that won't reach the Paintress and wishing she could fly like them. She practices her swordplay, her running, and her writing, and she dreams.

The years pass by faster, after that. Sometimes Maelle wonders how time was so much slower before.

After the 66th Gommage, when Maelle's fifteen, she finds Gustave up in the rooftop garden, staring at the Paintress, the giant painted 34.

He's part of 33. Maelle's known that all along. And by now, she's made up her mind. She just has to convince him. He'll be a softer touch than Emma. Now seems like a good time to try, with the Gommage still fresh.

"I'll be along to the festival shortly," Gustave says, without turning to look at her. Maelle knows he had a lot of friends who were thirty-four. "Tell Emma not to worry."

"Emma didn't send me." Maelle stoops down next to him to pick up a stone, testing it in her hand.

"Ah." Gustave does the same. "Well, what's wrong, then?"

Maelle decides to cut to the chase. "Your Expedition's next year."

"Yeah, it is." Gustave throws his rock, watching it fly away. "Don't worry. Emma'll take care of everything."

"That's not it." Maelle lets her own rock fly. "It's just…I decided something."

"Oh?"

"I want to come on the Expedition."

"I assumed you would, honestly," Gustave says. "You'll be a credit to the 25th — "

"No, I mean…on next year's Expedition. The 33rd. With you."

Gustave stares at her. "What're you saying?"

"Just that. I want to join the 33rd. I want to see what it's like out there."

"You'll have so much life left," Gustave argues, turning to face her, the Paintress and rocks forgotten. "I can't let you — I'm your guardian, that's — "

"What life? There's no life in Lumière. I don't belong here."

"That's not — you always say that, but you do, Maelle. There's so many people who care about you here."

"Who? Just you and Emma. And you're leaving. Emma doesn't have that much time left either."

"But — "

"I have to get out there. I have to see it. Even if it means less time, it'll be better time. Isn't that what matters?"

"But you'll die." Gustave grips her shoulder. "You understand that, Maelle? Being young won't protect you, I can try to keep you safe, but I — you'll die."

"I see people die every year. I'm not afraid."

"That doesn't mean you can just — throw away your life."

"I thought we were laying the trail. For those who come after. Right?"

"That's — it's different. You're so young — "

"I'm old enough."

"Your future — "

"Isn't it better to do something with my future, instead of waiting around for it to end? Otherwise, what's the point?"

Gustave's still fumbling for words. "But — listen, listen, Maelle — "

"You know you can't stop me," Maelle tells him. "If you manage to keep me off that boat, I'll just go the next year."

They both fall silent. Maelle can hear the distant sounds of the 34th Expedition down below, celebrating their upcoming departure.

Even now, she wants to go with them.

Finally, Gustave sighs, dropping his hand from her shoulder. "You understand I'm going to keep trying to change your mind."

"Yeah, feel free." Maelle's won. She knew she could.

"And you have to tell Emma."

"Sure." Emma won't approve, but she's also not part of the Expedition. She won't be able to physically keep Maelle off the boat like Gustave could. And if he's on Maelle's side, it'll be easier.

"Really, though," Gustave says. "If you do change your mind — you can. I won't think any less of you. You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I know."

"Pinky promise?"

Maelle sighs. "Double pinky promise."

—

Maybe they've been on the Continent for years. Maybe it's only been a few weeks. Maelle has no idea. Time doesn't seem to mean the same thing here that it did in Lumière.

No, it can't have been years, or Lune and Sciel would have Gommaged. That's the only real indicator Maelle has, though.

Don't think. Just forward. Continue. They're getting closer. They can do this. They have to do this or all of it will have been for nothing —

Maelle glares out towards the shining 33 on the horizon, tossing a rock in her palm.

"What'll you do if you actually hit her one day?"

Maelle doesn't turn around. "Cheer, probably."

"And then?"

"Do it again, maybe." Maelle shrugs. "Gustave…Gustave never really said what he'd do, either."

"Ah." Verso glances sideways as he comes to stand next to her. "I suppose it never seemed likely enough. But you're closer than you've ever been before, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Maelle mutters. "Closer than he ever was."

"...Yes."

"He should have thought ahead, though." Maelle squints out at the Monolith. It's closer then ever, but still so far. "Bad planning, Gustave."

"Nobody's perfect, I guess."

"Oh, Gustave definitely wasn't perfect. He was awkward and a pushover. And he was a liar, too. After all that."

Verso pauses. When it's just the two of them like this, he reminds Maelle of Gustave a little, but that's probably just because she sees Gustave in the shadows of everything now. Haunting her. "He...was?"

"Yeah. He told me when Renoir came, he'd run. He promised he'd run." Maelle hurls her rock as far as it can possibly go, sailing into the distant fog, making her shoulder burn from effort. "And then he didn't. I hate liars."

Verso looks away. "I see."

He doesn't press further. Good. They've already had way too many conversations about grief and family, and Maelle doesn't feel like talking about all that heavy junk again.

"It's not what I thought it'd be like, out here," Maelle finally says.

"What did you think it'd be like?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe I'd…belong. That it'd feel right. Not like Lumière. But…" Maelle cuts herself off. "Oh, never mind."

Verso takes the hint, and stays silent.

Maelle can only finish the thought inside her own head.

She spent her whole life wanting to run, to escape, to find the right place. And now, after all that, she's finally starting to think that maybe she did find the right place. She was just too stupid, too much of a kid, to realize it.

She misses Lumière. She wants to go home.

Home's gone. All she can do now is push forward. 

And somehow, one way or another, she'll kill Renoir. That flame will keep burning, keep her going. Kill Renoir. Beat the Paintress.

If she lives through that, then…

Then there still won't be a home to come back to, but at least she'll have done what Gustave wanted. And for herself, at least she'll have made Renoir bleed.

That’s the vow that keeps her moving.

—

But of course, Verso lied too. They were much bigger lies than Gustave ever told, and before she knows it, Maelle's at the end of the world, watching all the family she has left turn to petals and ink in front of her. In that moment, with everything gone, the instant before her own death, Maelle knows, knows, knows she was wrong, that Gustave was right, that she was running away from her true home all along.

Maelle's thinking of that moment again as her eyes lock with Verso's across the Canvas, as they hold the world in the balance between them, as the faceless child continues to paint.

Neither of them will move. Neither of them can move.

There has to be something, Maelle thinks, something she can say that will make Verso understand, make him realize that she just wants to live, that she wants everyone to live, and how can that possibly be wrong? She just has to convince him to come home. He's running away from the people who love him, just the way she used to run, and he's wrong, can't he just see that?

But of course, he's just as stubborn as her, and she can see that in his eyes, the mirror of hers, the same obstinate, unwavering determination, the same desperate hope, the same unwillingness to consider any other future.

Maelle's grip tightens on the handle of her blade, and she watches Verso's do the same.

Only one dream survives.

—

a dream to paint

Maelle trips, sobbing, into Lune and Sciel's arms. There's so much to do, and she's so tired. She's seen so much, endured so much.

"But it's over now," Maelle mumbles into Lune's shoulder. "It'll…it'll all be different."

"Sure it will be," Sciel says, stroking her hair. "You can fix everything. Take as long as you need."

It takes Maelle some time to pull herself together, to gather the energy, but she starts cleaning up the tattered remains of Lumière. Renoir did a lot of damage, but fortunately, it hasn't been long. The buildings remember the shapes they were, the earth holds onto old paint and ink, and Maelle walks the streets she knows so well and builds the world around her.

She's not used to building and creating like this. It's nice. 

With the shell completed, Maelle moves to the next step. Lumière's final Gommage is still fresh, the Chroma still waiting, ready to return to its old form. It doesn't take much to see what it used to be, what it wants to be. Person by person, one at a time, and then Maelle picks up speed, and there are whole groups at once — the people of Lumière come back.

"It's amazing," Lune murmurs, watching her. "Like nothing happened."

"This is still the easy part," Maelle mutters, catching her breath.

"Don't rush yourself." Sciel rubs her shoulder. "One bit at a time."

Nobody understands what happened. They all assume it was a side effect of the Paintress's death. So-called death. Maelle doesn't know how she would even begin explaining everything she knows now. She probably shouldn't. Maybe people shouldn't know the nature of their own existence. Maelle knows she wishes she didn't.

And she's not like her mother. Everyone will get to be happy here. Everyone can choose the lives they want. All Maelle is doing is bringing them back and giving them a place to stay. She'll do the other Gommages too, at least the ones recent enough to be remembered. She'll save the Expeditioners who died on the continent.

And eventually, when she's ready, Verso…

But Maelle can be patient. Lumière first. While the chroma's still fresh, while it's still easy. Maelle's unsure of her powers, what their limitations might be. Sure, Papa and Maman made it look easy as breathing to create people from scratch. But she's not them. Alicia certainly was never able to do anything like this.

Alicia never tried to do anything like this, maybe.

When Lumière is back as it was when they returned, back to celebration and joy (not that any of them really understand why it was interrupted at all), Maelle's eager to keep going, to attempt her next, desperate hope, but she stays to speak to Emma, at least. She owes her that much.

"What is it you're not telling me?" Emma says, watching Maelle with a critical eye. She reaches out and takes a curl of Maelle's silver hair, running it between her fingertips. "Something happened to you. Everything that's happening, it's got something to do with you, hasn't it?"

"It's all okay," Maelle assures her, covering Emma's hand with her own. "Don't worry. I've got it. We're okay."

Emma clearly isn't convinced by this winning argument, but Maelle doesn't dare say more, at least not yet. She doesn't want to get Emma's hopes up yet — there's a difference between restoring something Renoir only just erased, and restoring something…older.

Still, hope is thrumming in her chest, an earnest, fluttering thing.

Emma's eyes are searching hers, clearly seeing that hope, and not understanding. "I just…be careful. Alright, Maelle? I know…I know you defeated the Paintress, but…"

"I'm always careful," Maelle tells her, which is such an obvious lie that the corner of Emma's mouth quirks. "Don't worry. When I'm finished, I'll come home. We'll be a family again."

Emma finally lets her go, hand falling to her side. "I'm trusting you, Maelle."

"I promise." She hopes, with every bit of her soul.

With Lumière back as it was, Esquie is ready to fly again. Maelle's willing to go just the two of them, but Lune and Sciel insist that they want to be there too. Monoco stays behind. He's been quiet, mourning Verso, Maelle's assuming, after how long they were together, and unlike the others, he doesn't seem reassured by Maelle's plans. In the end, she gives him his space.

So, as one again, the original Expedition goes to the cliffs.

Maelle feels like she's been there dozens of times, in nightmares, in her memories, over and over, trying to see what she did wrong, trying to fix it, stuck in a past that she couldn't change.

She can change the future, though, now.

There's nothing left in that cavern but a few stray, wet petals. Maelle feels mud shift under her boots as she steps forward, stares into the dark, half expecting Renoir to emerge again.

"Is it…easier, to do it here?" Lune asks. "Or do you have to do it where he…?"

"I'm not sure," Maelle says. "I…think it's easier? I don't think it's necessary, exactly. It might just be all in my head."

"Psychological advantage?"

"Yeah, that." Maelle runs a hand through the air, tracing the threads of Chroma. She's scared, now, with her hopes so close, with the possibility of failure now real and present. "I don't…well, Alicia wasn't very good at Painting. I don't know when I'll hit her…my…limits. Clea and Verso were — I'm not them."

"Don't worry," Sciel says. "Just do what you can. That's enough."

"I really…" Maelle's voice wavers. "I really want him back."

"I know," Sciel says. "Just try. It'll be alright. We're right here."

"Yeah…" Maelle holds out a hand and closes her eyes.

The Chroma is there, faint and old and largely formless. Maelle assumed so. It's been too long for it to just be lingering on the surface, ready for her to reform. She can't just paint over her mother's sketches this time, tracing guidelines like when she was a child. She has to dig deep.

Maelle doesn't know how much time she spends like that, drifting through the Chroma, reaching out, listening. Petals and light and ink, through the air, through her veins. Aline's Chroma, Verso's, now hers.

Her memories, her stories, her hope, her love. Her family.

Maelle's body moves of its own accord, and she reaches out, into the tangle of discarded sketches and spilled paint, and pulls him free.

And Maelle opens her eyes to see a bloodied Gustave stumbling into the air in front of her, like nothing ever happened at all. Like she was strong enough to stop Renoir. Like Verso came earlier.

Maelle can only stand frozen for a moment, eyes wide at what she's just managed to do.

Gustave stares at her, out of breath. "Maelle?"

"Real," Maelle whispers, her mind catching up with her eyes. "You're real…"

"Where did — " He looks around, eyes wide. "...why's it light out?"

Maelle runs to him, nearly knocks him over, grabbing hold of him as she bursts into tears.

"What's wrong? Are you alright?" Gustave's hand settles on her head. "What…what happened to your hair?"

Maelle can only wail inelegantly at him, burying her face in his tunic, holding on like he'll be gone again if she lets go. Maybe he will be. She can’t take it for granted. 

Then Sciel grabs hold of them both, crushing Maelle flat between herself and Gustave, and Lune joins them, her hands on both their shoulders before Sciel tugs her closer, and they all hold onto one another. There are waves crashing on the shore below, and Maelle's home, finally, after her entire life running, and she lets out the breath she didn't know she was holding. She did it. She can do it. And even more importantly, he's here.

For the first time, maybe in her entire life, she thinks everything will be okay, and the relief and joy lights her up from inside.

Finally, Maelle leans back, beaming through her tears. "We won."

"Won…?" Gustave trails off. "I think I've missed something."

"Yeah, a bit," Sciel says cheerfully, clapping him on the back. "Don't worry, we'll catch you up."

"Good?" Gustave looks around the cave again, seems finally satisfied that there's no present threat, and relaxes, his arm wrapping around Maelle. "Er. Good, then. Looking forward to it."

Maelle rests against him, exhausted, overwhelmed. There's so much more she wants to do. To rebuild, to regrow Lumière, to turn it into the place from Verso's memories, happy and thriving. To bring back more people, like Sciel's husband, like the rest of Expedition 33, like Sophie, like so many that were Gommaged.

And, when she's ready, to bring back Verso. Maelle's Verso, the painted Verso. She's not giving up on him. She never will. She just has to find the right way to do it.

Gustave can help, she knows it. He always knows how to fix things, he's better with people then her. Together, they'll all find a way to put Verso back together, to heal him, to live out just one life together. 

They can show him that Lumière's still beautiful. They can show him how to be happy again.

It's not perfect, it can never be perfect, but it'll be life, and that's always the right choice.

—

a dream to love

Alicia opens her eye and sees the ceiling of the Manor over her head, and she knows, and that knowledge crushes her, starves her.

She lost.

Alicia pushes herself upright, struggling to get to her feet even as her head spins. Papa's there, saying things she can't hear, his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to sit.

Alicia's crying, trying to call out, forgetting she can't anymore, left her voice in the Canvas, with everyone, with Verso —

"It's done," Clea's voice comes from far, far away, sharp enough to cut through the fog in Alicia's head. "That damned Canvas is gone. Finally."

"Good," and Renoir loosens his grip on Alicia, and she can see tears in his eyes even as relief fills his face, "that's good."

And just like that, a hundred years end.

Alicia tries, really she does. She's been trying all along, to find joy. But Verso's still there, lurking in her nightmares, and now it's not only him — now she has an entire family of ghosts, trailing after her in the manor's cold halls. She keeps jumping at shadows, thinking she sees them, hears them, thinking that she should show that to Lune, this to Gustave, tell Verso about — 

Alicia wakes one morning to Verso's stuffed Esquie lying on the pillow next to her. She's not sure who would have brought him. Papa denies it.

She buries her face against the worn, rough fabric. It’s not the same as the real him.

When Maman is well enough, they bury Verso, finally. Papa had always said they only would once everyone could stand together. And they do, but everyone's so distant, so cold. It's not like Gustave's funeral. But Gustave wasn't real.

Alicia doesn't think she's real, either.

She keeps thinking of herself as Maelle, even if nobody calls her that anymore. But Maelle and her life is still there. In the corners. Old paint that won't flake away.

And she wants to go home.

Alicia tries to tell herself, halfheartedly, that they are home now. But Maelle won't listen. Maelle is rattling the bars of her prison, crying out, begging to go somewhere that doesn't exist anymore, that never really existed in the first place. 

Sometimes it's easier to think of Maelle as a separate person, Alicia reflects ruefully, but it's not really true. Or does it matter? One or two, what matters is she's trapped here now. And they're both lonely, and they're both afraid, and they're both grieving. Maelle's her brave side, her strong side, and without her face to lead them Alicia's reeling and frightened, meek, hiding, flinching. Who was the girl that fought Papa and Maman and so many monsters?

It can't be Alicia, at any rate. Alicia can't even tell her father no.

And every breath brings back something she's lost, everything hurts, burning in her throat, her lungs, her face, just like the fire.

Papa is gentle, doesn't hold her lie against her. Alicia almost wishes he would. She could handle rage. His grief weighs heavier, bending her in two. Alicia doesn't tell him about her own ghosts. She can't bear to burden him further.

It takes longer for Alicia to speak with Maman. She's quiet, soft, almost fragile. Alicia never could have thought of her mother as any of those things, before Verso died. She sits by Alicia's bed, hands in her lap, head bowed, for a long time before she finally speaks.

"I'm sorry."

Alicia keeps her gaze on Esquie in her lap.

"I should never have…Renoir and I should never have dragged you into this. It wasn't your battle to fight. It wasn't right. I know it made everything harder for you."

Alicia doesn't think she would answer even if she could. What can she say? If she said everything she wanted to, it would only break them both further.

"I love you." Aline's voice is so weak. Alicia thinks of her singing, loud and strong and ringing through the halls, a lifetime or two ago. "I…I hope that we have time where I can…show that to you. Make it up to you."

Alicia manages a tiny nod, remembering Lune and Sciel and Emma.

Does she have hope for the bridge between her and her mother to mend? She doesn't know. The weight of grief and pain is too heavy for her to see ahead right now.

Weeks go by before Alicia has a third visitor.

"Still lying about?"

Alicia lifts her head from the pillow. Clea's standing in the doorframe, silhouetted from light behind her.

"For goodness's sake, turn on some lights." Clea leans over to light the lamp. "You've only got the one eye, I don't know how you're expecting to see otherwise."

Alicia makes a questioning noise.

"Papa's been after me to check on you." Clea's marching around the room, turning on lights. Alicia screws up her eye. "I don't know what good he thinks it'll do. I warned you, he warned you, you knew what you were getting into. You made this mess yourself."

Alina mutters assent.

"I'm busy. I don't have time to look after you. At least Renoir and Aline are trying to make up for things now, but they're not as young as they were…" Clea trails off. "Regardless. Here I am. Go on, get up and do something. Read your little books or write poems or whatever. I'm not expecting you to actually come and help me, but there's no point on being alive if you're just going to hide away alone forever."

Alicia picks at a loose thread on the duvet.

"Well, I can tell Renoir I tried." Clea turns to leave, long hair falling in a curtain behind her. Her back is perfectly straight, without regrets. Alicia envies her. She can't fathom that kind of confidence. "I'm not Verso. I'm not going to coddle you the way he would. Get up or don't. It's not my problem."

Alicia doesn't answer.

Clea pauses in the door, turns her head slightly. Not enough for Alicia to see her face, just enough to address her. There's a long pause before she speaks.

"You know, none of us ever said you couldn't paint."

Alicia makes a confused noise.

"You're a Painter too, aren't you? And you must be half-decent by now, if you've made it this far. So paint. Make something…nice. Just don't be stupid about it like Maman was."

And she's gone, door swinging shut behind her with a click.

Alicia sits up in bed, staring at the door, but Clea doesn't return. Alicia can her her footsteps marching away down the hall.

Would Verso coddle her?

She pictures him sitting on the end of her bed, one leg folded under him. His face is younger and older and smooth and scarred all at once, dressed in a suit and a tattered Expedition uniform, hair solid black and streaked with white. It doesn't matter, though. They're both there. They're both with her. Their marks are on her soul now.

Clea wants me to paint, Alicia tells him, lips moving soundlessly.

Verso smiles. "Clea's got the right idea."

Please, Alicia begs. Help me do this right.

"Don't be silly. You can do this. All those stories about home. All those things you wrote in Gustave's journal. Lune and Sciel, Esquie and Monoco, Gustave and everyone else — build them a home. Make a place where they can be safe, away from our wars. It won't be the same. They won't be the same. Just like Noco, they'll always be different — but they'll still be real, like we were."

Even Maman could barely put together a world like that.

"Maman wasn't trying to make something new. She was just building on the bones of a dead man. What matters is that you paint them, you tell their story, and then you let them go. Let them grow and change and be without you — the way Maman never could."

Then they'll just die again, right? I'll have to lose everyone again.

"I mean, it's up to you." Verso stretches back on the bed, leaning against the footrest. "Don't have to do any of this. Can just, I don't know, take up a new hobby. Fishing or something."

Be serious! Alicia wishes she was imagining him less annoying. And…even if I repaint Lumière…even if I try to make it as it was…Verso won't be there. Your soul. It's gone. And you don't…you don't want to be there, do you?

Verso grimaces. "Absolutely not."

It's not the same without you.

"Nothing is, right?"

No.

"And that's okay. It won't be the same as mine. It'll be yours."

I'm scared.

"I know. So was I. I felt like you too, you know."

But you were amazing. You were both so amazing.

"So are you."

Alicia wants to look away, but she can't bear to. She can't watch him go again.

"So go. Paint something." Verso nods towards the untouched easel in the corner. "Have new adventures. Live a new life, in endless worlds. Paint and write and grow. Make beautiful things and then come home to Maman and Papa at the end of it all."

Not by myself. Not without you.

"You never needed me."

Alicia's eye stings. I do!

"Want's not the same as need. You've made it this far. You can keep going. I know you can." His voice softens. "Even knowing everything, I wouldn't have made a different choice that night, you know. I'd still choose you. Remember that, okay? Always."

I love you so much.

"You too," and she hears both Alicia and Maelle, and then he's gone.

Gone, but still there, with everyone else, tucked into the recesses of Alicia's heart.

Alicia looks at her empty, dust-covered easel. She hasn't made a painting of her own since before the fire, and she's never had the skills to create a true Canvas. 

Her fingertips trace over the seams of Esquie, the memories he holds.

It won't be the same, won't bring back what she's lost. But it will be a new canvas, a new life, a new tomorrow.

For those who come after, Gustave would say.

She'll paint something beautiful.