Chapter Text
The ex-prisoner clasps his hands together, huddled in the seat of the carriage. The windows have curtains drawn over them and the interior is plush, the seats supporting his frame well, but they do the bare minimum of shielding him from the cold weather outdoors.
It was the first snowfall of the season when he received notice of his own pardon from death row. Even more, he was to be released from jail entirely–someone had paid quite a large amount for his release. When he was escorted out of the prison, he was surprised to see such an ornate caravan waiting outside, and even more so when he was informed it was for him.
“What? Where am I going?”
“Hell if I know,” one of the guards replied gruffly. “Guy who bought your freedom sent it for you. Now go on and get out already.”
What a warm goodbye that was, thinks Luca bitterly, amongst all the other emotions cluttering his mind like they’re attempting to fill the new holes in his brain. He can’t possibly be too mad about it, in the end–the relief he feels at no longer having to endure another day in that hellhole far encompasses how huffy he might feel at a lack of social pleasantries–but more than anything, he feels a tense kind of uncertainty at what his upcoming destination is.
All the information he’d become privy to was that the man was wealthy and had a foreign-sounding name. He picked it up in whispers among the guards, followed by utterances of his own name. Perhaps he could have tried to wring more out of them, but knowing how they treated him during his incarceration, he wouldn’t have wanted to push his luck.
Luca draws back the curtains on his side and peeks out. Snow blankets the ground on both sides of the cobblestone road, and he realizes they’ve entered town. It’s far too cold outside for the streets to be bustling with people, but it must normally be quite populated on sunny days–there are still people advertising their wares on the street or others trying to get by, but the street is otherwise left uncluttered for their passage.
It’s here that he realizes that he can see the chateau in the distance before they even turn onto the road leading up to it. The building lies a distance away from the rest of civilization, separated by acres of land he assumes belongs to his new patron. Brick-and-mortar becomes grass, trees, and carefully maintained hedges, and before he knows it they’ve pulled up to where the road ends in front of the manor.
The coachman opens the door for him, and Luca allows himself to be impressed by the manor’s architecture as he steps out. He isn’t quite awestruck the way that a common man would be—though it appears to be his lot in life now, he vaguely recalls calling a building a tad smaller than this one his home, in some far off memory where the concept of money hadn’t crossed his mind and he simply found joy in creation.
Money was an object, however. Its absence led him to Alva, fueled his desperation in experiments, and now it brought him here, standing in front of the house of a man he didn’t know all for the promise of it. He briefly considers the chance that this is a rich eccentric serial murderer; one who makes a habit of purchasing incarcerated peoples’ release so they can do away with them on their own terms… and though the thought was absurd, he decided it would probably be better to bleed out on a Persian rug than on a hard concrete floor.
Two servants of the house rush out to escort him in. He’s still dressed in his rugged jail uniform, and he assumes they’re ushering him indoors to get him out of sight as quickly as possible. Luca fights back a sudden laugh at the thought of it—the ultra-rich and their obsession with elegance and cleanliness at all hours amuses him. He can’t suppress a small giggle, which draws some confusion from the two servants on either side of him.
“Something the matter, sir?”
“No, don’t worry.” His lip twitches in a crooked smile where his snaggletooth bites into the lower flesh. “Just excited to breathe the air of the fresh outdoors.”
I told you no good could come of this. A loony murderer as a houseguest! The Count has gone mad, it’s the wine rotting his brain! One of the servants audibly whispers to the other, but he pretends not to hear and instead cooperates to get himself through the doors.
Their footsteps echo through the hall, and he stops in his tracks, half to take in the sight and half to see if he can spot the aforementioned Count. He doesn’t see anyone fitting the title, but the hall itself is a sight to behold. A marble statue of a woman in loose robes stands as the centerpiece, carrying a jar that she tips over to let a steady stream of water cascade into the fountain below. Encircling her on either side is a set of staircases, their rails gilded and steps carpeted. At their bases stand Greek pillars with matching pink-and-white rose arrangements. There are tall windows facing the garden directly to either side of him, and a dazzlingly ornate chandelier hangs above it all—large enough to crush someone if they stand directly underneath it, Luca thinks. Still, it’s hard not to appreciate the eye for decoration that the owner clearly has.
One of the servants leaves his side—seemingly to go summon the Count—but stops at the foot of the stairs when he realizes his errand is moot, as the man himself stands at the very top, one hand braced upon the rail as he begins his descent.
The Count is tall and lithe, but with all the elegance and hidden strength of a fencer. He dons simple attire in contrast with his surroundings; a few pearl necklaces encircle the exposed skin of his neck, and a ruffled blouse hangs loosely on his frame. (He notes with some interest that the sleeves appear to be transparent.) His golden blonde curls cascades over his shoulders, and Luca feels the weight of his impossibly blue eyes boring into him.
When this man walks down the stairs, Luca finds himself gawking. How could he not? It was a surprise to see such a handsome man as the Count instead of the older senior figure that he had envisioned—though there are slight wrinkles under his eyes that suggest he still has some years on the inventor.
“You arrived precisely at the hour I expected,” states the Count. There’s a subtle French accent to his speech, and he speaks with a gentle lilt. “Good. I am pleased to see you are a punctual man.”
“Where else am I going to go?” Luca’s mouth twitches in good humor again. “First thing I saw was your big fancy carriage sitting right outside the jail, and they woulda caught me if I tried to run.”
The Count raises an eyebrow, but makes no other gesture to indicate amusement or distaste otherwise.
“You must already know why I asked for your presence here.” He stops just in front of Luca and looks down upon him, being barely a foot taller. “You are to assist with a request of mine, and in return, I will support your future endeavors, whatever they may be.”
“Yeah. Well, uh, this is really sudden, and I’m…” Luca hesitates, trying to remember the social etiquette of the upper class. “…very… grateful for the opportunity that you, that you gave me and all, but I’m kinda confused. We don’t even know each other.”
“Not directly,” admits the Count. “I was briefly acquainted with your mentor before his passing.”
Alva Lorenz. The genius that died, the man he was accused of murdering, and the one whose wife he had lost all his savings to. A name that both improved and ruined his life. The irony is not lost on Luca, who crosses his arms and gives an amused huff.
“Oh, okay, I get it. You paid for the opportunity to kill me yourself ‘cause you wanna pull off some vigilante justice.”
“Monsieur Balsa, I have seen the records. His death was an accident, nothing more. My money was paid only to free an innocent man.”
A sweet talker. A part of his fractured reasoning pushes back against it, telling him that it’s just to gain his trust. Looking objectively at his circumstances, however, this was the first man to have proclaimed his innocence since the accident—and it was hard to prevent that from softening his emotions somewhat.
“Okay.” Hesitance still colors his speech. “So you need me to do what?”
“We may discuss the specifics later—first, I must apologize, for I have been deeply impolite in not first introducing myself.” The Count gives a deep bow, his flaxen hair dropping from his shoulders. “My name is Joseph Desaulniers. You may simply refer to me as Joseph, as I will oversee your needs until our agreement is fulfilled.”
Luca’s eyebrows shoot up and lower just as quickly, though his quick blinking betrays this concealment of emotion.
“Well… thank you. Pleasure to meet you, Joseph. It sounded like you already know my name, but, ah, you can just call me Luca.”
Joseph only nods, and he can’t tell if he’s smiling or not. Past all of the pleasantries, there’s an air of mystery around him. If the locals weren’t averse to his release, perhaps he could ask around when he had free time…
“Come with me,” Joseph says, pulling him out of his thoughts by beckoning with a ringed hand. “I will show you around.”
He responds only with a nod and follows him up the stairs, giving a cursory glance back to the servants that accompanied him inside. They jerk their heads away as if caught staring, but he can see them whispering to each other again.
The tour of the interior passes by quickly for Luca. There’s the typical rooms that every house has—he’s shown his bedroom, which looks quite comfortable and spacious (and even has a bookcase with a desk for writing, which he appreciates.) There is the long dining hall, the living room… the rest of it blurs together in his head.
Joseph saves the garden and greenhouse for last. Though it’s no doubt a more pleasant sight in warmer seasons, the greenhouse is left untouched by weather and inside are the most gorgeous and eye-catching plants he could ever hope to see in his life. Luca’s family never had a penchant for gardening and he couldn’t identify most flora, but he recognized the look and the pleasant scent of lavender nearby. Judging by how much there is in comparison to the rest, he presumes that the Count must be quite fond of it.
“These are most of the facilities you should know about.” Joseph turns to lead him out. “I will show you where we will work tomorrow morning after breakfast.”
Luca starts to follow. “Thanks. I appreciate—“
Does he trip on something? A stone corner, or a raised section of cement, perhaps? Whatever the case, the shorter man finds himself tripping and falling to the floor, barely able to save himself from a nastier spill by catching himself on his hands. It’s short lived; pain suddenly shoots through his legs and he lets out a cry, crumpling to the floor. He feels Joseph’s hand on his back and what must be him shouting, but it sounds like it’s far away.
“Monsieur Balsa, what’s the matter? …Constance, summon the local doctor! …not responsive…”
He’s struck by a sudden wave of confusion and fear. Didn’t he just trip? Why do his legs feel like he’s getting electrocuted all over again?
What’s happening to him right now, with the way his body jerks uncontrollably while he feels he can’t move at all?
He doesn’t know. All he registers is something soft being placed under his head, and whatever’s being said to him is drowned out by what he can only describe as a strange humming noise. Luca tries saying “I can’t move, I can’t hear anything,” but even though his lips are shaping the sounds, he can’t communicate.
When he regains clarity and awareness of his surroundings, he’s being lifted and carried back inside. There’s a significant lapse in his memory that leaves him puzzled, and he remains silent as he’s carried into what he thinks is someone’s bedroom and laid down on top of a mattress.
He blinks and looks up at the figures surrounding him. There’s multiple now—Joseph is nearby, along with a slightly frazzled maid by his bedside, who he assumes has carried him. Another servant pops her head in to say something, then leaves, and the Count appears to notice Luca’s calmer state.
“Are you doing alright? The doctor will be here to see you soon.”
His brain moves at a snail’s pace to formulate a response. Luca doesn’t know why, but a profound sense of shame overtakes him. “Think so… head hurts…”
“You must be tired. We will leave you be; just get some rest.”
Joseph doesn’t have to tell him twice. As soon as he sees the two figures exiting the room, he turns on his side and falls into a deep slumber.