Page 13 of Ashen Torment

I exit the Pavilion, him close behind me; the morning air nips slightly at my skin.

“Word has reached me that your recent performance was a great success,” he adds as we cross the courtyard separating the Pavilion from Rochefort Manor.

“And from whom did you learn this news?”

“Everyone is speaking of it.”

We push open the main oak door, and the butler greets us. His black hair, combed back, gleams slightly under the morning light.

“Bonjour, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

“Bonjour, Moreau.”

“The Viscountess is expecting you,” he announces, carefully adjusting his spectacles upon his nose.

Behind me, my valet pauses.

“Bonjour, Jean-Baptiste.”

“Étienne.”

They hold no particular affection for one another.

I reach the dining room. My mother is already seated, clad in her black dress, her hair swept up.

“Good morning, Mother.” I say as I take my seat.

She lifts her face and sets her white porcelain cup upon the table.

“Evander.”

The scent of freshly poured tea permeates the room.

“How are you?”

The table is laid with care: porcelain cups, warm brioches, raspberry jam. The aroma of tea mingles with the scent of fresh butter. I take a scone without any particular enthusiasm.

“As is becoming.”

Moreau approaches, lifts the teapot, and pours the tea into my cup, never averting his gaze from the polished surface of the liquid.

“Are you not drinking, Evander?”

I drink the tea without enthusiasm. Lukewarm, bland, insipid. Greatly overrated.

In the background, amidst the steam rising from the cups, I notice a newspaper folded neatly beside a plate of brioches. Its presence slightly breaks the monotony of the table. I reach out a hand and lift it with caution, the scent of fresh ink reaching me. I rest my elbow upon the table and open the pages.

The Illustrated Times

September 11, 1870

On the evening of Saturday last, the 3rd of September, the Viscount Rochefort graced the assembly at Silverbrooke Manor with a performance upon the violoncello, leaving a profound and lasting impression upon the distinguished aristocratic guests in attendance.

The recital, distinguished by a most impeccable technique and a singular emotional intensity, was received with that silent reverence customary among the highest circles of our nobility. It is indeed a rare and noteworthy occurrence to witness a young gentleman of such high station so devoted to the rigours of classical composition.

For an instant, I forget the insipid tea, I forget my mother seated but a few paces away, all that exists is the newsprint between my hands and the subtle sensation of being watched by the invisible eyes of the one who penned the lines I am reading.

Every detail of the performance, every applauded gesture, every recorded look... all recounted, without the possibility of correction, without the possibility of evading the gaze of others.