Chapter Text
Prélude: Lettre à Gustave
Gustave,
I am trying this thing Verso told me about where he talked to people he lost to feel as if they were still there. Except I can’t talk in this world. It absolutely sucks. So I am going to do the next best thing, which is to write.
I never had to write you a letter before because we were never apart. Even if I didn’t see you for three days, I knew you were just holed up in your workshop losing yourself into another project. I knew that in Lumière you couldn’t have gone far, that you were going to reappear eventually -even with one arm missing. That you wouldn’t leave me.
But circumstances change, I’ve learned.
I read a lot these days. Last week I found a book about trains in our library -probably Verso’s. You’d have loved it too. I tried to read it but it was so dense I just couldn’t get through the first chapter. I wish you’d been there to explain it to me while I’d pretend to understand.
I resumed my training as well. Not as exigent as in the Expedition academy, what with my “deeply traumatized body” or whatever, but I bet I still could beat you in a duel right now.
The other day we all went to Verso’s grave. As a family. But I didn’t just feel Verso there, I felt all of you. And it reminded me that you don’t have a grave anymore. That Lune, Sciel and Verso never even got one.
Where am I supposed to go when I miss you all?
I make efforts, I really do. I go out with Monoco -the dog, not the Gestral, although you never knew him so I don’t know why I am specifying- but I avoid people still. I can’t face them, Gustave, I just can’t. How did you do it? How did you go back out into the world after your accident? I was there, yet I feel I did not see. Perhaps you hid how difficult it actually was to me because I was still young. I wish you hadn’t, then I wouldn’t be so lost right now. Papa tries to help me, but he doesn’t understand. Not like you would have.
Papa wants us to move on, and I want him to stop having the face of the man that took you from me. It isn’t fair to him, I know. Yet it is the truth.
It doesn’t help that every time I talk about the Canvas, he just takes this sad, compassionate smile and waits for me to be done. Like he’s listening to a crazy old aunt’s ramblings that he doesn’t have the heart to interrupt. Like half of my life was just a hallucination.
Clea is the only one who doesn’t coddle me. I love her for it though she is still annoying. I think her and Emma would’ve gotten along.
Actually scratch that, they would be terrifying together. We would never know peace again.
Noco is getting bigger, I think he will join our daily walks soon. He has so much energy, it drives Clea up the walls when he tries to get her attention by biting her skirt. It makes the rest of us laugh. It’s nice, I guess, to laugh with maman after so long. After everything.
I don’t know how to end a letter to which I know there will be no answer to. I guess it doesn’t really matter since no one will read it. I wish it made me not care. I wish you were here.
Tomorrow comes.
Maelle
After the initial panic her first impromptu walk had stirred in the house, Maelle had agreed with her parents to warn them before leaving. Other than this condition, they had been more than happy for her to go out again, even if just to walk their dog to the park. It had become a new addition to her schedule; every day, she would write, fence for an hour, walk to the park then come home and join her parents for dinner. Her routine made her feel better than she had in months. She was proud of her progress. Yet, she knew she still had so much to take back, to rediscover, re-learn. And the more she progressed, the more painfully aware she was of what she couldn’t gain back.
The first on that list was her voice.
She had wrecked her vocal cords screaming for her brother in the fire, and then from the ungodly pain she had been in until the doctors had put her under. When she had finally come to, both her brother and her voice were gone.
It seemed ironic that writing had replaced it, when the most talented of Writers in all of Paris were almost assuredly the ones who took it from her in the first place. Oh well, add it to the pile of fucked up things in my life, the teenager deadpanned.
Still, not being able to actually talk beyond a few rasped out words was eating at her. Her family made efforts, turning to her for her input at dinner, her writing pad never far, but it wasn’t the same. She had started to develop pain in her right wrist from writing so much, and had taken to stretching it every morning and every night. Even with its newly gained strength from fencing, she did not write as fast as she’d like. That and her disfigurement were keeping her from taking steps towards other people. She could not face the disgust, the pity even less.
Maelle-Alicia thought back on her painted counterpart, on the conversation they’d had without the other girl uttering any word. Beyond this occurrence, did Canvas Alicia, with over a hundred years of not having a voice, find other modes of communication? Maelle wished she could ask the girl now. They could’ve been good friends, she knew -in another life, maybe they were.
She would stick to her routine for now, she thought as she threw the stick to Monoco, the dog bolting after it. The teenager was at the Parc Monceau for their daily walk. However, her thoughts had distracted her, and she had thrown the stick way off, sending it behind bushes, beyond her line of sight. Monoco, not caring one bit, darted far from the girl before she could hold him back.
“Mo-” the girl started calling out, a reflex. The noise died in her throat, sending her in a coughing fit. When she had recovered enough, seeing the dog hadn’t come back, she ran after him. Cussing internally at her restrictive skirts, she stumbled out from the grass back on the path, frantically looking for the spotted fur of her dog. She fought back the urge to whistle for him, the act so unladylike she was sure her mother would somehow feel it and appear out of thin air to admonish her.
Panic was on the verge of gaining control of her when she finally spotted Monoco. He was wagging his tail, looking expectantly at a stranger who was sitting on a bench. Maelle slowed down, not wanting to exert herself in public -again, very unladylike- but still walked decidedly up to the pair. Relief flooded her at finding her dog. She clapped her hands to get his attention. Monoco’s head turned; the stranger’s, at first, didn’t. Then, following the dog’s gaze, the man looked to his left, directly at Maelle. The girl froze.
It was the first time someone outside the Manor had looked at her. She hadn’t thought about the man seeing her, too focused on Monoco. She could feel that her scarf had come undone, revealing her scars. Her hand shot up to her loose hair; after running, it had gotten out of her face, exposing her empty eye socket. Quickly, she pulled a strand in front of it, hoping in vain the man hadn’t gotten too good a look.
Bringing her gaze back on him, she saw the inevitable surprise in his eyes, followed by… amusement? No, that couldn’t be right. Before she could think on how to react, the stranger pointed at the dog, raising his eyebrows at Maelle. Not in shock, but in a silent question, she realized.
Slowly, she nodded.
That seemed to be answer enough for the man, who only smiled at her, still not speaking. Was he shy? Maelle could work with shy: perhaps he would assume the same of her and not take her silence personally. She started to let out some of the tension in her shoulders, observing the stranger a bit more. He must’ve been in his twenties, wearing a nice enough suit, but one that had seen use. He had brown hair and brown eyes that looked at her intently, but not unkindly. He wasn’t exactly staring; he simply was focused on her, like he was listening intently to what she was saying. Except neither of them was speaking.
Her eyes trailed down to his hands, and she saw the stick he was holding: it was the one she had been throwing for Monoco. Horror spread over her face, realizing it must’ve landed very close to him, if not hitting the back of this nice man’s head. She opened and closed her mouth multiple times, not knowing how to apologize: she had left her writing pad at home, not expecting to have to talk to anyone.
“I- Sorry, I-” she pushed, barely a whisper, yet it sent her into another coughing fit. The girl turned away, trying unsuccessfully to save face. She saw the man’s hands come up to hover her shoulders, a respectful show of help if she needed it. She raised up her hand and shook her head. The man nodded, and stood back down, waiting for her coughing to end.
When it eventually calmed down, Maelle was red in the face, and not just from the effort. She was mortified at how poorly the interaction had gone. She had hit this man with a stick, run up to him, and instead of apologizing, she’d coughed for 30 seconds in his face.
Sheepishly, she brought her eye back to him. The brown-eyed stranger was simply looking at her patiently, his kind smile still on. At least one of us still has manners.
Not knowing what else to do, she put her palms up against each other as if a prayer, and bowed her head in apology. She hoped the message was getting across.
Bringing her head back up, she saw the man’s smile was now wider. He nodded twice, seemingly unbothered by what was shaping up to be one of Maelle’s most embarrassing moments. She averted her gaze, occupying her hands by hooking Monoco’s leash back on. The teenager was preparing her long overdue escape, but turned to the man to at least bow goodbye.
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, simply looking at her. Coming to a decision, he pointed at himself, then drew a line between his ear and mouth with his index. He let his hand fall back down on his lap, looking expectantly at Maelle.
Gears were turning in her head. Was that a common way to say goodbye in Paris now? Had she been in the Canvas so long a new vernacular was installed? That seemed unlikely. Then why point to his ear? His mouth? Why would he not speak if he wanted to tell her some-
Oh.
The man was Deaf-Mute. Un Sourd-Muet.
Before she could do anything of this new discovery, the deaf man pointed at her lips, then trailed his index and thumb on his. She nodded. That earned the biggest smile yet on the man. And how strange a reason to smile! Maelle had just confirmed she was mute; he had seen her cough her lungs out after trying to speak two words; he could see the deep scars afflicting her. Yet by his smile, you could believe she had revealed she was first ballerina at the Opéra Garnier.
He gestured between the two of them, then brought both his indexes together. It was both a statement and a question. We are the same, you and I, yes?
Maelle didn’t know the answer. She had never considered meeting someone who could be, even partly, like her; to see herself reflected in the voiceless communication was almost too much. Her bottom lip started to wobble, and before she could break down in front of this stranger, she turned on her heels and ran, Monoco in tow.
Later that night, after avoiding Clea’s questions as to why she seemed so shaken all dinner, Maelle was finally in the safety of her room. Her meeting at the park was replaying on loop in her head. So many things had happened in such a small amount of time, yet her mind always ran back to the detail of the man’s smile. He had seen her, and he had smiled at her. And she, in turn, had run away in the rudest of affronts.
Beneath the shame of how she had acted, Maelle found a longing. She ached to know more about this man. How did he live his life? How did he communicate? Was he born deaf or did he have an accident, like her and Gustave?
Was he really like her?
That last question turned in her mind as she found restless sleep for the night.
She had come back to the park. Why wouldn’t she? It was part of her routine. She wasn’t going to stray from it just because of a regrettable reaction. The fact she had her writing pad on her this time was merely a coincidence, she told herself. She had taken it out of habit of carrying it around. Nothing to do with the hope in her chest of seeing the man again.
She managed to lie to herself for half of her walk through the park, before she caught the first glimpse of him, perched on the same bench as the day before.
Her step faltered a bit, but she did not let her legs freeze like they had the last time. The teenager pushed through her apprehensions and walked toward the stranger.
Monoco seemed to recognize his new friend, and went ahead of Maelle to go greet him. The man lit up upon seeing the dog, petting his head and laughing at his excitement. Strange thing, she heard the man laugh. It was an unusual noise, like his nose was reverberating the sound. Still, Maelle had thought the man unable to make any sound, but perhaps he, like her, had some limited vocal capacity? She added the thought to her seemingly endless pile of questions, and planted her feet on the ground in front of him.
The man looked at her like he had expected to see her. Of course he’d have figured she was there upon seeing Monoco, but the girl couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d somehow known she’d come back to find him.
Putting the thought aside, Maelle pulled out her notebook and pen from her bag. With her quick script, she only hesitated a brief second before writing what she meant to say, and turned it to the attention of the stranger:
‘I think I am like you, but I don’t know how to be.’
That earned another laugh from the man, his throat making a noise unlike anything Maelle had ever heard. It was unabashed, free of the expectation of what a laugh should sound like, and simply came out true. The now joyous man reached gently for her pen and paper, Maelle giving it enthusiastically. Her heartbeat had risen, and her cheeks were probably flushed from the excitement: yet she did not find it in herself to care, not so close to something so crucial.
The man turned the pad back to her, his answer beneath her first sentence:
‘You had a pretty good start before running off yesterday.’
If her face wasn’t red before, it certainly was now. The teenager started shifting from one foot to the other, her arms finding each other at her back like she had taken the habit of doing when she did not know what to do with them. Taking pity on her, the stranger gestured for her to sit down next to him. Maelle obliged happily.
‘Sorry for teasing. My name is Mathieu. What is yours, Mademoiselle?’ He’d written, handing back the pen and pad.
Mathieu decidedly had some hard questions for her. Both her names felt like a partial lie, a half-truth of who she was; only giving one or the other would be to lie by omission to her new… friend?
Looking up, she realized in a flash why she had felt so at ease with him: his deep brown eyes were eerily similar to Gustave’s. Even though the rest of his traits bore no further resemblance to her brother-father -his hair darker and straighter, his beard more well-kept- she felt the cold hand of grief tightening its grip on her heart.
Nonetheless, the realization helped her decision.
‘Alicia. But you can call me Maelle.’
Mathieu put his hand flat against his chest and lightly bowed his head at her. She returned the gesture. Nice to meet you as well.
In the following hours, Maelle talked more than she had in months. The pages of the notebook quickly filled with a mix of words and drawings, Mathieu often opting for a mix of both, and Maelle following him, giddy of sharing the same mode of communication -and, perhaps to show off her drawing skills. They talked about anything and everything: her love of fencing, his work as an accountant in a printing shop from the 14th arrondissement, their shared love of dogs (Mathieu did not have any, but grew up with one). The girl did not feel the pressure of all the questions that had been bubbling in her head since the day before. They had all disappeared in favor of getting to know the kind man’s interests, rather than shortcomings. She wanted to ask them eventually of course, but the need to make a new friend had won out fast, after months of only talking to her own family.
He, in turn, did not pry for details as to her accident. Simply watched her as she wrote, drew, took a stick and showed him her fencing form. They had a mutual understanding of being outcasts: the painful details that came with it would be shared after, with trust. With time.
Mathieu was kind, and he was funny. His expressions and movements were big, emphasizing the most important idea of what he’d have just written down. Sometimes he would express entire ideas without taking the pen once. Maelle figured he’d had to find ways to communicate without always relying on paper. He also clearly wanted to make her laugh with his antics, and succeeded more often than not.
Much too soon came the time for her to go back home. She did not want a repeat of the panic she had caused the house. A sigh left her lips and her shoulders sagged, which gained her a sympathetic look from Mathieu. He pointed towards the entrance of the park. She nodded. They got up and started the walk back, Monoco strolling beside them. Maelle could not help but miss the conversation already. Sharing a notebook was well and good, but it still had its limitations, one being they could hardly ‘walk and talk’. They fell into a companionable silence up to the park’s gates. Mathieu indicated to Maelle he was going the opposite way from her. The need to ask him if he was going to be there the day after was gnawing at her, but before she could get her notebook out, a hand on her new friend’s shoulder made them both look up.
A tall man with auburn hair, around the same age as Mathieu, was grinning at him, seemingly not having noticed Maelle. Mathieu turned to him, smiling back, and then-
His hands started moving really, really fast. His expressions were accompanying his gestures, as big and exaggerated as he’d done in the park. But the shapes of his hands for the most part did not make any sense: they seemed arbitrary, and yet his interlocutor nodded along, answering in the same manner.
Maelle could only gape at the conversation happening in front of her. She wasn’t the only one, passers-by openly staring at the two men exchanging hand gestures in the middle of the street. Not everyone seemed as genuinely fascinated as the mute girl: she could hear some scoffs, and even a grumbled remark about the two men “making a spectacle of themselves” as an older lady passed behind her. That made Maelle frown.
Yes, the sight was unusual: the two friends were taking up space, making some noises here and there, their faces moving in big expressions. But the girl could not find anything but yearning in herself to know more about this intricate system of signs. It was the same longing she had felt when Mathieu had asked her -signed to her- if they were alike. Maelle still wasn’t sure if they indeed were. But I’d like to be, she surprised herself thinking.
The tall man finally seemed to notice the young lady’s presence next to his friend. He quickly schooled his surprise at seeing her scarred face -a gentleman, then- and nodded at her, before looking back at Mathieu with a quizzical brow and a rapid gesture. His friend searched his words for a moment, before putting one hand into the other in a sort of self-handshake. That sign was followed by a quick succession of one-handed ones, before the stranger turned to face her once again.
“Enchanté, Mademoiselle Maelle, my name is Camille,” the man startled her with his voice, strong and tinted with a slight accent. He could talk? Was he not a Deaf-Mute then? The day did not stop with its surprises. The redhead waved shyly in answer, then, remembering something -wanting to try to reach out to this new man- she drew her fingers over her lips in the same motion Mathieu made the day prior.
At that, the grin Camille had worn the entire conversation grew.
“Ah, I see!” He chuckled, “You have the easy part in our conversation then. Simply mouth the words and I will do the work.”
Maelle stared at the strange request. Surely, he had to be joking?
Her shock seemed to make both men laugh. Mathieu signed something quickly to Camille, who nodded emphatically like his friend had just confirmed a suspicion of his.
“I can read lips, Mademoiselle. Do not worry about your voice: our friend certainly doesn’t worry about his.” He added with a conspiratorial grin, signing as he talked. Mathieu nudged him playfully.
“...Really?” Maelle mouthed, amazed that such a feat was possible.
“Yes! And I dare say I’m quite good at it,” the man boasted, his voice still quite loud. The girl was starting to get an idea as to why. Though he wasn’t mute as she initially thought, Camille was most certainly deaf, and could simply not hear himself. That would also explain his strange accent that she couldn’t place. The onlookers were still sending judging glares their way, frowning at the mere idea of someone in the street speaking above what was deemed a polite, quiet conversation. And though Maelle would’ve loved to be able to not care about what people thought, she couldn’t help but squirm under the scrutiny. Reflexively, Alicia pulled her hair in front of her eye, careful not to cover her mouth.
“Pardon Monsieur, but I have to go home soon,” she excused herself, “It was a pleasure meeting you.” Scrambling for her notebook, she turned it to Mathieu with one hopeful word written on it:
‘Tomorrow?’
He nodded without hesitation and waved her goodbye. As she turned again to Camille, Maelle found him staring pensively at her, as if meaning to add something. He seemed to decide otherwise, only bidding a polite: “The pleasure was all mine. Good day, Mademoiselle,” before the girl could flee the scene, away from the watchful eyes of high society.
Her walk home was too short to process all she had experienced. Again, the youngest Dessendre was only half-listening through dinner, though it went unnoticed for most of it. Her family had descended into a heated -if not futile- debate, and it would’ve been useless for her to try and participate, her arguments obsolete before she could finish writing them.
She found herself longing for the company she’d held all afternoon: with Mathieu, they’d been on equal footing, though he’d apparently held back on her with his fascinating hand code.
The two men she’d met had shaken her worldviews. In one afternoon, the mute girl had talked in multiple ways she’d never considered, and had gained the certainty it had only been scratching the surface of what was possible. For the first time since she’d left the Canvas, Maelle- Alicia felt hope for her future.
She could imagine the expedition’s reaction to her now. Lune and Gustave would be proud of her almost scientific experimentation; if those two had given her something, it was a thirst for knowledge. Sciel and Monoco would joke about her getting picked up like a stray by any older figure; Verso would give her a small smile with his arms crossed, playing aloof, but his eyes would betray the pride he felt at her going out and discovering the world for herself.
Just you watch, brother. I’m gonna be unstoppable.
No matter his being faded Chroma by now; she would boast to him even in death.
‘What was that, with your hands?’
The teenager had all but shoved the notebook in Mathieu’s face out of excitement. Taken aback by the sudden onslaught, he took his time to read. As she went to give him a pen, he stopped her, producing his own writing material from his messenger bag. He had prepared for their meeting, Maelle realized gleefully.
‘French Sign Language,’ he answered on his little black notebook. The three words were short, straightforward. They hit her like a tidal wave.
Maelle had known gesturing could supplant talking for simple asks: yet even in her wildest dreams, she couldn’t have imagined such a complex array of symbols and movements. And now she learned it wasn’t just a code: it was a whole language. A language she still had the capacity to speak. The thought made her dizzy.
Her next words were written shakily: ‘Teach me.’
Mathieu smiled at her. It wasn’t the same joking smile she had gotten all previous afternoon. This one was tainted by a deep sorrow, and an even deeper pride. His eyes were trained on her, and they seemed to be searching for something in her expression. Not having expected this serious a reaction, Maelle stared back at the man, feeling her own determination burning in her eye. Finally, Mathieu nodded.
Joy exploding in her chest, Maelle jumped and hugged the man who had become her friend so fast; the man who had just agreed to share his language with her, to open his world to her; the man who was hugging her back tentatively, clearly surprised by her outburst but not pushing her away.
Suddenly remembering they were not in laid-back Lumière but in 1906 Paris, with all its rules and strict etiquette, Maelle pulled back, blushing in embarrassment after having forgotten herself so.
Mathieu only gave her the same warm smile she had gotten used to so fast. The girl found herself smiling back.
They started with the basics: “hello”, “thanks”, “my name is”… soon though, Maelle could feel those same looks as the day before. Sitting on a bench in a public park doing gestures people did not recognize was once again bringing curious -and not always benevolent- eyes on the pair.Just being near the center of attention the previous evening had made her heart barrel in her chest for the entirety of the walk home. Now panic was starting to eat at her once more, the scrutiny of passers-by on her scars feeling like the scrawling of bugs on her face. Noticing her discomfort, Mathieu guided her to a quieter part of the park. Once they were seated at their new bench, he took back his notebook and wrote something that despite its kindness, sent a shiver down Maelle’s back:
‘I won’t force you, but facial expressions are important for sign language. To really speak it, you’ll have to stop hiding.’
The teenager looked back up at her friend, not even trying to conceal the anguish overtaking her. Yes, she had noticed how expressions seemed to replace the tone of voice in indicating intention in a sentence; however, it did not stop her desire to shove her face behind her hands and never let anyone see her again.
Maelle thought back to how she’d fled from Camille and Mathieu the day prior, despite her wish to continue talking to them forever, all because she had been scared of looks.
She couldn’t deny she was hiding. Though indoors she put her hair up in a ponytail or double braids as she did in the Canvas, as soon as she went out, she let it down to cover her eye socket. Doubled by the scarf she masked her face scars with, Maelle had indeed created herself an armor to allow herself to go -at least partly- back out into the world. An armor that was now threatening to suffocate her; either she kept it, and continued to be invisible but alone; or she took it off, allowing herself to speak and to be seen.
Breathing a deep intake, the finest fencer in Lumière forced herself to sit straighter and tucked her hair behind her ears, out and away from her face. She slowed her breathing, and looked at Mathieu. His proud expression sent her straight back to the past, to the beginnings of her adoption by Emma and Gustave; when she’d finally felt safe enough to come out of her shell, and was rewarded for it with acceptance and love, with that quiet expression that seemed to say: “There you are. I knew you were brave enough to do it.” With that silent but burning certainty that if her step faltered on the way, reassuring hands would catch her.
The hands had changed across time: soft hands with long pianist fingers that used to tuck her in so long ago; mismatched flesh and metal hands that had felt more like home than anything that came before or after; precise hands that bent the elements to their will and healed her with efficiency and care; calloused hands that braided her hair and tickled her; wooden hands that sparred with her and helped her up when she fell; rough hands that shoved her out of harm’s way and held her at the end of everything. And now, dancing hands, showing her the steps to join its mesmerizing waltz.
So many hands had shaped who she was, and the only way the young woman had of showing her gratitude was to use her own hands to learn to speak, and thank them. Even if they weren’t around to see it anymore: she would honor those who came before.
“D’accord,” Maelle signed, earning a grin from her tutor.
That night, she dreamed of a ballet of hands, ever-shifting and dancing, welcoming her in their embrace.