It was April 10th, 1901, when you finally found yourself in Loudon. Bidden there by the unexpected offer of a hereditary fortune, the time had finally come to see what would come of the matter. This strange, provincial town was once famous the world over for its purported hauntings. Just now, in the light of earnest day, it didn't seem all that much to fear. Sure, the towering church spires, and the remains of other ancient stone constructions could be a bit intimidating. But they also added a great deal of character to that rural landscape. If you climbed up the hill a little ways you could look out and see just about all of it: The familiar collections of deep orange tiled roofs, the little white and yellow brick houses - thick with leafy trees throughout. And beyond, in the distance, there were promising golden fields stretching to the horizon.

It didn't have the fanciful storefront facades and electric lights of Paris, but the old cobblestone roads ran smooth enough. There were a number of shops and services to supply the needs of the town, and several inns as well. In particular, one of those tall high-rises in the east looked to be a very modern hotel. Yes, the changing times could be seen, even here.

It was a little after three o'clock when you were settled in to M. Herbachet's office - the notary who was assigned to settle this case. It seemed to be quite the proceeding, for not just yourself but about six people had been gathered together in that long wooden room to discuss business.

Monsieur Herbachet had a large desk at the end, but he seemed adverse to sitting in it - instead flitting around the room and welcoming everyone in as they arrived, occasionally dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief. He had a finely trimmed black mustache, though his hair was rather more grey. He wore a fine blue vest and bow tie, and a ring of keys jingled at his hip when he walked. His office looked well enough for a man in his standing. It was a bit run down, but clean. He had a large floral rug and bookshelves, some packed with case files. The shutters were drawn shut, so the place was lit only by candlelight when things got underway.

He cleared his throat and said "Of course, before we get into the details, I have to be sure of your identities. It's an unfortunate part of my profession, but very important for legal reasons, you see. Please do introduce yourselves, and I'll take a look at your papers."

Once he had gone through everyone's details to his satisfaction, he breathed a sigh of relief, and proceeded to inform everyone of his contract.

"As you will have read in my letter, my business here concerns my role as executor of a will. My client, who wished to remain anonymous in these proceedings, has unfortunately passed away. He was a wealthy man as far as Loudon goes, but he was survived by no suitable heir. He left behind very detailed instructions about what was to be done with his estate in this case, and though they are unusual - it is my duty to see it done." The man was a professional, though with a slightly florid attitude. He let everyone bristle for a moment while he produced a silver tray with glasses, and a bottle of fine cognac. It was common to offer spirits over serious dealings, and he gestured for anyone who wished to partake. He put a splash in his own glass and sipped it before continuing.

"You're probably all strangers to one another. I know some of you have traveled some distance for the occasion. But believe it or not, this town is not as alien to you as it may seem. You may not know it, but each of you has a direct ancestor that lived in this place many years ago. According to my client's family history, all of your families were close allies in the founding days of his house. When they fell on hard times, your families were the ones who bailed them out. Indeed, their house may never have enjoyed such success if it wasn't for that support. Respecting his family history, my client wishes to entrust the majority of his remaining fortune to those allied houses.

"The years have apparently changed this place more than we can imagine. None of your families have any surviving members in Loudon anymore - I've checked very scrupulously. Which rather brings us to the point. Gathered here today are the nearest living relatives of the families named as beneficiary in my client's will. Congratulations, everyone.

"You are each slated to receive some six-thousand francs, as long as you comply with my client's very modest wishes. He asks only that you each stay here a night in memory of your virtuous ancestors. I've already made arrangements. Each of you will have a room in a different corner of town, somewhere close to where your ancestor might have lived, as far as I can tell. When I have confirmed your stay tomorrow, we can go about transferring the money in a manner that pleases you. That is what my client has asked of me." He finished off his glass and clanked it down a little harder than was appropriate, to which he quickly raised his fingers in apology.

"Look here, I have a wonderful advance for you all. I mentioned the family jewelry in my letter, yes? Here are the items in question..."

Monsieur Herbachet unlocked a drawer on his desk, and retrieved a polished box from within. He sat it out on the desk and flipped it open for all to see. Inside was a soft bed of velvet, and five beautiful golden rings. They all shone brightly, but each one was set with a different gemstone. Ruby, Amethyst, Sapphire, Emerald, and Topaz.

"This one is for you, Mademoiselle," the notary said, offering Joséphine the sapphire ring. Even in the dim candlelight, the light blue jewel seemed clear as glass; a faint highlight danced behind it from the interplay of the facets.

---

---

Joséphine listened intently to M. Herbachet’s explanation of the circumstances, carefully avoiding bringing the cognac into her gaze. It simply wasn’t worth trifling with gloves over a ceremonial nip. With subtle nods and measured head tilts, she made an effort to deliver the distinct impression that, though the promise of the inheritance itself was certainly compelling, the little story that came with the affair was by no means to be discounted. As M. Herbachet explained the terms of the inheritance, an amused little huff escaped Joséphine’s nose. Truly, was such a thing even a term? Spending the night in Loudon seemed only sensible anyway, for once this matter here was concluded, it would already be late enough in the afternoon that a train to Lyon would be of some inconvenience, to say nothing of the distinct risk of a particularly late supper without an appropriate goûter to keep the day on a sensible course.

An amused little smile grew on Joséphine’s lips as she considered the matter of the term—or, in more accurate terms, thematic accommodations—which came coupled with the inheritance. And then, just then, M. Herbachet offered a sweetener to the saccharine pot!

« Thank you, Monsieur! » Joséphine chirped as she inspected the ring. For a moment, she found herself utterly compelled by the gentle beauty of the ring, but no sooner had the ring made its way into her hand than it had occurred to her that the invitation to the ring was perhaps better understood as an elegant means to elicit introductions in a less unfortunately direct way than had been previously alluded to by M. Herbachet.

Without further hesitation, she rose from her seat, offered a slight curtsy, and gazed across the room.

« I suppose this might be an appropriate cue to begin introductions, » she began, « Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Joséphine L’Hôte—L’Hôte as in the host of a gathering, that is.»

Joséphine’s diction was methodical and careful, offering the distinct impression that there had been some extensive effort in her past to cultivate it. Most saliently, little glimmers of foreignness, provinciality, or perhaps simple old-fashionedness wriggled their way into her otherwise radio-perfect elocution in the form of her pronunciation of « r », for her tongue seemed incorrigibly prone to bringing it forwards to a little trill, rather than backwards into a more Parisian uvular sound.

« I might like to mention here that I—Oh, wouldn’t you know it? » she interrupted herself, having fiddled with the ring and slid it over her kid glove onto her left ring finger, « How perfectly it fits! Auspicious, indeed… But, ah, I had meant to say that I come from New Orleans and have found myself engaged in postsecondary education at the faculty of Letters in the University of Lyon. I am most looking forward to making your acquaintances. »

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---

Sam rose from his chair with a faint exhale, brushing his hand down the front of his coat in an absent gesture as he tried to settle himself. He glanced briefly toward Joséphine, offering her a respectful nod before speaking.

"Mademoiselle L’Hôte," he began, his voice steady but unpolished, marked by an edge of effort as he worked through his phrasing. "Yer introduction was... well, can’t say I’d match it. But it’s a pleasure to make yer acquaintance all the same." Turning his attention toward Monsieur Herbachet, he nodded again, more curtly this time, though the gesture carried an understated respect. "And Monsieur Herbachet," he added, his words deliberate, "thank you for, uh... bringin’ us all together. Can’t imagine it was a simple task."

Finally, Sam faced the room at large, clasping his hands behind his back in a gesture that felt slightly too formal for him, but fitting for the moment. "Good afternoon to the rest of you," he said, pausing briefly as if collecting his thoughts. "Name’s Samuel Trentwell—or just Sam, that’s what most call me." He shifted on his feet slightly before continuing.

"I’m, uh, what you’d call an... an inventeur—" he hesitated, his brow knitting slightly as though second-guessing himself on the gender before nodding and pressing on—"yes, inventeur. It’s a way of sayin’ I spend me time fixin’ things or thinkin’ up somethin’ new. Whether it works, well, that’s another matter." There was a faint flicker of a smile at his own expense before he cleared his throat lightly and gestured toward the shuttered windows. "Loudon... it’s different from London, but it’s got a certain... caractère, I s’pose. I can’t say I know much about me family’s history here, but, well, maybe there’s somethin’ worth learnin’."

He glanced briefly around the room before giving a small, almost apologetic nod. "Anyway, I’ll not keep on. Lookin’ forward to what’s ahead." With that, Sam returned to his seat, resting his hands lightly on the edges of his notebook. While his words had been cautious and understated, his thoughts continued to spin, not on the past, but on the possibility that this strange gathering might just be the start of something better. The faint heat of embarrassment prickled at his neck as he reflected on speaking French out loud, and to a room of French speakers no less, for what was, essentially, the first time.

M. Herbachet's own emotions soared high with Joséphine's pleasure. The delight on his face was plain to see when she tried on the heirloom ring. "Ah, it's simply magnifique, Mademoiselle." He listened politely to her introduction and replied "Likewise, my dear. I knew that you would be an educated woman, but the University of Lyon? That is quite impressive!" Of course, it was likely that he already knew that much about Joséphine, but her academic accomplishments certainly deserved some recognition.

The notary listened carefully to Samuel, not daring to interrupt for fear of breaking the man's concentration. He looked to the others in that dimly lit room with a slightly opened mouth - a shared recognition of the young man's foreign persuasion. "And you must be the Englishman! And quite a charming one, too, isn't he?"

"An inventor, you say? Why, if only you had come to our country sooner, you might have attended the grand technological exposition in Paris last year. I saw the most wonderful and dreadful displays at the exhibits there - I still can't make sense of how they were done, honestly. But such scientific mysteries are better left to young, enterprising minds like your own." Once the pleasantries had died down somewhat, he offered Samuel the emerald ring.

--

One of the other participants that day was a blonde woman with a quiet, even sombre, air about her - which contrasted strongly with the general gaiety of the proceedings. She was fairly young, and judging by her fine clothing, she had come from a family with some privilege. The woman was dressed in a black fitted bodice, with slightly puffed shoulders and a modest neckline. It drew in narrow at the waistline, but opened up wide again at the bottom with voluminous matching skirts. The most striking thing about her was that she wore a lacy black veil over her face, and a prominent cross at her chest. If you weren't mistaken, this was the attire of a lady in mourning... perhaps that could explain her listless and dour attitude.

She had sharply declined the cognac before, but she was not impolite in accepting the topaz ring from the notary. "It's beautiful, Monsieur. Would that I could say I would treasure it, but it is as the wise author of Ecclesiastes says: All is vanity and vexation in the end." She did not place the ring on her finger, instead putting the piece safely away in her purse.

M. Herbachet bristled a bit at this, but he addressed her carefully. "Sœur Valérie Bisson. I am surprised to see you without your habit."

"I have taken leave of the abbey," she answered quickly. Apparently, Valérie was a dedicated woman of the catholic church, though the subject seemed to make her cringe. Even behind the veil, one could see the rueful expression in her watery blue eyes. "But I have not forgotten my vows. I will see this money put to charitable use, as Christ commanded. Six thousand francs will empower the church to help the needy and to save many souls."

--

The meeting concluded without issue, and it was agreed that everyone would meet at the notary's office again around noon tomorrow to seal the deal. Each participant was directed to the lodging that had been prepared for them. It had already grown late in the afternoon, but there would still be time to unpack your luggage and have some dinner.

Joséphine would be staying at l'Hotel Saint-Pierre on Saint Pierre Road. This was evidently in a wealthy part of town, as there were only a few estates here, each with a large yard to itself. The hotel was finely decorated in a traditional style, and its clientele were fashionably dressed and well put-together.

Samuel would be staying at the Croix Guesthouse at Saint Croix Place. This was the large modern hotel which was visible from a distance before. It was one of the tallest buildings around, with eight stories of rooms and amenities. Everything was still brand new and practically spotless. The furniture had a more functional design, but some of the more ambitious architectural elements like the facade and central staircase are in an appealing Art Nouveau style.

Valérie would be staying at l'Hotel des Remparts on Chaude Street. Unfortunately for her, this place was fairly run down and grimy. The hotel was in the bad part of town, and after a certain hour the street outside became populated with shady characters.

And the others had their own lodging arrangements. If asked, the attendants at each place would relay that everything has been paid for ahead of time by a middle-aged man, confirming M. Herbachet's story. Each room had been cleaned and prepared for your arrival. Though the furnishings and dimensions were different, each room contained a vase with a lovely bouquet of damask roses and nutmeg flowers. Beautiful and fragrant as they were at first, these very flowers would be the first sign that something wicked was afoot in Loudon.

At exactly midnight, you were awoken by a strange light in your hotel room. It only persisted for a moment, but in that moment, the vase seemed to faintly glow before your eyes. Shortly after, however, the smell of the bouquet changed from fragrance to putrid stink. The room filled with a noxious rotting scent, causing your eyes to water, and quickly inducing headache. It will prove most impossible to go back to sleep while the bouquet remains in your room, and you already feel sickened from the fume...

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Breathtaking. Arcade had arrived in Loudon early in the morning, and spent all the time that he could walking its paths before the scheduled meeting. There was something uniquely charming about this little town caught between past and future that Paris lacked. He loved the city. He loved the people and he loved the changing times and all the new possibilities that they brought. Yet, much of his upbringing was in the fields and forests outside the city. The light filtering in through the trees, gently dappling the forest floor in a golden hue. The gently flowing streams that ran stones so smooth you'd struggle to find silks more pleasant to run your fingers across. And away from the forests, the fields of green grass and the proud, rocky hills that dotted the verdant landscape. Many of his paintings were an attempt to capture the mystique and grandeur of the natural world. By Arcade's reckoning, he failed every time. Such was the beauty of the world, and such was the inadequacy of his paintbrush to capture it.

Here, in Loudon, he felt connected to both man and nature in a profound way. So in a word: breathtaking.

Many memories within the city and without also came to mind as he walked the cobbles and climbed the hills of this charming town. Seeping like black oil into the recesses of his mind and spreading from those buried places in slow, oozing dribbles. So much shouting. So much confusion. So much pain. Try as he might, and try Arcade did, he could never fully excise those foul-minded remembrances when they reared their heads. Better to accept the washes of guilt and grief without resistance, and be glad when they passed.

As Arcade smiled with only a trace of grimness up at the sun as it rose to prominence in the sky, he reflected on the irony of finding pain and solace in the exact same things.

---

The meeting with the executor had gone well enough. Arcade was gracious and polite, but had to hide a trace of disappointment at the news that not only were none of the individuals gathered relatives of his, but that indeed he had no surviving relatives in Loudon. Six-thousand francs went a ways towards settling that disappointment, however. The business was thriving, but the extra currency would buy security for the grandchildren his mother was already making remarks about wanting. It wasn't… a prospect that displeased Arcade, but neither had he given the subject much thought. His own family as it currently stood had quite the broken history, and only freshly on the path to something that resembled healing. Could he bring a wife and children into his world without continuing what seemed to be a generational tradition of failure as both husband and father? He thought so, but neither was he entirely sure.

When offered the cognac, he hesitated before politely accepting, though he took only the faintest of sips from his glass. If his father were alive today, he would hide him for having even that much.

The individuals gathered were an eclectic bunch, including the rather flamboyant Monsieur Herbachet himself. The other inheritors themselves were quite striking figures in their own rights: an American that spoke with a noticeably aureate diction, and excellent command over the French language aside; an Englishman, a tinkerer apparently, with a fluency in French that Arcade would have lauded as impressive if not for the woman to speak directly before him; and an impressively dressed woman that Arcade assumed by her dress and sour attitude had possibly suffered a recent loss. M. Herbachet seemed to recognize this apparently pious woman, despite suggesting everyone gathered at present had no surviving relatives within Loudon.

The picture painted itself, really, although there was a hostility, or perhaps a coldness between the two, that puzzled Arcade.

When it came time for him to make his own introductions, he found that compared to the others assembled, he felt rather ordinary. He also felt suddenly self-conscious of the saber at his hip, and briefly wondered at the irony that he should have such a thing on his person while his brush stayed behind in Paris. Perhaps he was cutting an image of himself that wasn’t entirely truthful to his core.

Not long after, the meeting ended without issue, and Arcade departed for Old Cemetery Road and his lodgings at the Crescent Hotel.

---

Lying upon his bed at the close of day, he held the ruby ring gifted to him between thumb and forefinger, admiring the way its facets caught and refracted the light from the gaslamp that flickered upon his bedside table. It was a strong red, deep and full, and looked pleasing upon his finger when he briefly tried it on in the privacy of his chambers. The thought of wearing something like it in view of others embarrassed him a little. It’s not that his clothing was particularly cheap or drab, but a jeweled ring was still a level of finery he was ill-accustomed to. Perhaps his opinion on the subject would change with time, but for now, as the rumbling of the train departing the station nearby shook him from his admiration and reverie, he wrapped it up carefully in a handkerchief and placed it upon the end table.

Soon after, the light in the lamp flickered no more, and Arcade fell into sleep.

It was only a few hours past that point that an unearthly glow washed across his room, stirring him bleary eyed from sleep. As he fumbled for the lamp, the scent of putrescence filled the air, emanating from what was moments ago a sweetly smelling bouquet of flowers. Stifling a gag, his eyes watering, he began to dress himself hurriedly. Trousers. Shirt. Vest. Saber? Hm, fine. He would feel himself a poor son otherwise. Saber. Boots. Coat. Grimacing deeply, he snagged the cloth-wrapped ring off the nightstand and thrust it into a pocket before pushing out of the room. Good God, what a foul odor. Not wanting to subject the rest of the hotel to his misfortune, and unsure of where he should even dispose of the offending flowers, he elected to leave the vase behind along with the rest of his belongings for now.

He would take a short walk about town to clear his head, then return to lodge a request for a new room with the proprietor if the smell persisted on his return.

The air immediately outside his room was a significant improvement, but the crisp, cool air of the nighttime here in Loudon was even better. With a small sigh of relief, Arcade stepped out into the gloom.

---

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The meeting lingered in Sam’s mind as he trudged up the stairs to his room at the Croix Guesthouse, his notebook tucked securely under one arm. The place was newer and fancier than he was accustomed to—everything polished and gleaming like it’d only just been built. The high ceilings and ornate staircase were a far cry from the dim workshop floors he knew so well, and though he appreciated the craftsmanship, the air of luxury set him slightly on edge.

He’d kept mostly quiet after the meeting had ended, preferring to mull over the odd assortment of characters he'd found himself among. There was Joséphine, with her sharp wit and polished manner, a woman as confident as she was educated. Then there was Sœur Valérie, cloaked in mourning and weighed down by words so heavy they seemed to hang in the air like a church bell’s toll. And, of course, Monsieur Herbachet, with his easy charm and endless politeness—a man who seemed to know far more about all of them than they knew about him.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck as he closed the door to his room behind him, his boots echoing faintly against the wood floor. The emerald ring now sat in his coat pocket, a weight far heavier than its size would suggest. He hadn’t tried it on yet, though he supposed he’d have to at some point if this whole strange affair continued down the path it seemed to be taking.

The room itself was spotless—almost unnervingly so. Everything looked like it had been set just so, from the neatly made bed to the gleaming vase of fresh flowers on the side table. Sam eyed the bouquet for a moment, his curiosity briefly flickering. Nutmeg flowers, weren’t they? And damask roses, too. He didn’t know much about flowers, but they had a certain elegance to them, bright and fragrant in the soft lamplight.

He shrugged off his coat and draped it over the back of the chair, stretching his arms as he let out a long, weary sigh. It had been a long day—longer still, thanks to the strange circumstances that had drawn him to Loudon in the first place. Still, there was a part of him—a small, nagging part—that couldn’t help but feel a flicker of excitement. He didn’t much care about the family history or the stories of ancestors long gone, but the thought of what this inheritance could mean for his future... that was something worth sticking around for.

Shaking his head, Sam sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing the spine of his notebook as if to ground himself. He wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring, but for now, all he could think about was getting some rest. The faint scent of flowers filled the room as he blew out the lamp, and within moments, the day’s weight pulled him into sleep.

---

Sam woke with a start, the faint glow of light cutting through the shadows of the room like an intruder. He sat up quickly, rubbing at his face as he tried to make sense of it. The light wasn’t coming from outside—no streetlamp or passing carriage—but from the vase itself. The flowers were glowing faintly, an unnatural, otherworldly sheen that made his chest tighten in unease.

He blinked hard, shaking his head to clear the sleep from his mind, but the sight didn’t vanish. Just as quickly as the light had appeared, it began to fade, leaving the flowers dim and ordinary once more. For a moment, Sam thought he might’ve imagined it, but the thought was interrupted by the smell.

It hit him all at once—thick and putrid, as though the flowers had rotted from the inside out in an instant. The fragrance from earlier was gone, replaced by a stench so foul it turned his stomach and clawed at his throat. He coughed into his sleeve, the acrid taste sharp on his tongue as he stumbled to his feet.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, wincing as a sharp pang throbbed behind his eyes. He pressed a hand against the wall for balance, his breath coming shallow as the nauseating smell thickened, wrapping around him like a shroud. Each breath was a struggle, the fumes leaving his head swimming and his stomach twisting.

He moved toward the vase, slow and deliberate despite the pounding in his skull. The flowers looked innocent enough now, their petals soft and untouched by the rot their smell suggested. He reached out carefully, brushing the cool glass of the vase with his fingertips, but the stench only seemed to worsen, clawing deeper into his lungs.

"Right," Sam rasped, stepping back and pulling on his coat in quick, jerking movements. The room was unbearable now, and he couldn’t afford to stay—not with his head spinning and that foul, choking air filling every corner. He grabbed his notebook and shoved it under his arm, his steps unsteady as he made his way to the door.

---

The night air hit him like a splash of cold water as he stepped outside, his lungs greedily drawing in the cool freshness. He exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest easing slightly with each breath. The lingering headache pulsed faintly, a reminder of whatever had just happened, but his thoughts were already beginning to churn.

The glow, the smell, the timing—none of it made sense. It didn’t feel like some simple trick of reflection or an accidental chemical reaction. Yet his practical mind clung stubbornly to logic, dissecting the scene with precision. Something had to explain it. The flowers? The vase? The air in the room? He paced along the empty street, his boots clicking softly against the cobblestones as he ran through the possibilities.

Even as his thoughts churned, Sam couldn’t help but glance back at the guesthouse, its tall, darkened windows looming in quiet stillness. Whatever had just happened, it wasn’t natural—and it wasn’t something he could ignore. He set his jaw, his fingers flexing at his sides as if itching for tools he didn’t have.