Chronicles of Mystery

The splendor of the past

The maid went inside, followed by Lucy and Alistair. Lucy opened her eyes wide and began to turn her head in all directions to soak up the place. She knew the description of the place by heart. She had read it so many times in the newspaper that the page had ended up tearing and getting corner.

The floor was tiled with a black and white tamping that made it look like a gigantic chess board. The dark walls were covered with precious woodwork. From the ceiling hung the most enormous chandelier that had ever been seen. A thousand crystals and candles hang from this work of art. In every corner of the hall, plants in fine porcelain vases, straight from China. Marble colonnades with bluish veins. The ceiling was painted with sublime scenes. Angels flying in the skies, forests, lakes, hunters in pursuit of their prey, young girls with smooth white skin washing their laundry in a river. It was a sumptuous frieze mixing divine and human. On the walls, hunting trophies such as deer heads hung. They gazed at the visitors with their dead eyes and seemed almost to dissuade them from continuing on their way.

At the far end of the room, between the two staircases covered with a ruby ​​red carpet descending at each other, was the Averleys' fireplace. The tallest chimney there is, or at least that was how it looked to Lucy. It was marble, like the walls, carved with delicate symbols, the A of Averleys, plants and flowers, and even animals. An iron grate wrapped its arms around the logs to contain the blazing fire.

Finally, the hall's greatest masterpiece, described many times in the newspapers, admired for its beauty and realism, a painting of the Fiery Angel, the Great Protector of China. It had been specially commissioned by the Countess from one of the greatest artists of the time. It was said, in fact, that the Countess was a great admirer of the conqueror from Asia. She had therefore had this painting made and then displayed it in the hall of her home, where the guests who were invited to the parties had quickly made it famous with their praise.

In this painting, Izumi Shinzo, the Angel of Fire, was represented. It was about the warrior who had stood up to Western invasions and protected her country until her capture by the enemy camp who had taken her for a witch and had burned her at the stake without any other form of trial. Centuries later, her history was discovered and she became a legend. However, some doubted the existence of this heroine and the veracity of her fights.

It was said that Izumi, at the height of her glory, had been able to single-handedly reduce the most powerful European army to ashes in the Battle of the Dawn. No one had witnessed the scene. On the morning of the fight, Izumi had arisen alone, the last fighter of the army of China and Japan, ready to defend her country. When the evening came, there remained on the battlefield only the corpses of European soldiers, charred, without a single survivor. Mountains of lifeless bodies on the scorched earth and, in the center of the field, the standard of the Chinese army, the last element still standing, planted on the dead, waved by the wind.

The only person to return from this clash was Izumi. This is where she got her nickname of Angel of Fire or Black Phoenix, in front of the desolation caused by her confrontation. It was rumored that the fighter was not human and had a mysterious power that allowed her to annihilate the least of her enemies.

Of course, historians had never been able to confirm this story. They had only been able to note the disappearance overnight of an entire battalion of soldiers, but nowhere was there mention of Izumi.

It was the myth behind her origins, her strange abilities as well as the way she disappeared that had attracted so many people including the Countess.

The painting was supposed to depict Izumi at the end of the Battle of Dawn, the last one still standing before the multitude of corpses, the slaughter she had accomplished. The artist had painted her as a superhuman being, in golden and orange armor, sparkling and splendid, without the slightest stain of blood on it. Erect like a spear, heroic and brave, steadfast, sword in hand. A face without the slightest imperfection, of an almost frightening beauty, stoic and cold. Long jet black hair, shiny and smooth, tied in a ponytail, fluttered gently down her back, carried by a light breeze.

The sun was setting behind, igniting the horizon with thousands of scarlet colors. The bodies of the downed soldiers disappeared in its light, defeated by the Angel of Fire. And in the distance, flying gracefully among the mountains, was a golden eagle with golden-brown plumage and a gaze that seemed to have seen the whole world and quietly contemplated the expanse of the dead before it.

In the eyes of the Izumi in the painting shone an astonishing rage, an ardent and indomitable fire, the will to protect her people and her emperor.

Most people agreed that this was probably one of the most beautiful paintings of the legend of Izumi Shinzo.

Lucy had already read so much about it, she had imagined it a thousand times, but when she finally saw it, she was still blown away. A slight smile was born on her lips as she had the impression that in her heart a real ray of sunshine had infiltrated. Her eyes got wet. Through this portrait, it was a passage to another dimension, the dimension of dreams that had populated the long hours of solitude she had endured. This painting was like the embodiment of everything she had hoped for, bright and burning in its scarlet majesty, seeming to be a source of light within the room. She almost felt like she was standing in front of the real Izumi. Her mind could not help idealizing this image and spreading on the painting something magical that existed only in her thoughts.

Yet, little by little, as her eyes began to examine everything thoroughly, she noticed something peculiar. The illusion created by the excitement of going to this place dissipated and the mansion finally revealed its true colors. The place looked like it had been abandoned. The tiles were covered in a thick layer of dust. The chandelier was off and many of its crystals were cracked. The woodwork smelled musty. The plants in the vases had long faded. The fireplace was extinguished, no fire was crackling behind the ornate grate, the logs were sleeping gently in their den. Even the painting seemed to have undergone the violence of time. The colors were washed out in places, the canvas was tearing a little in the corners.

The great hall, the entrance to the Averley mansion, smelled musty and must not have seen visitors in years. All the festivities, the past joys, seemed to belong to another century, buried under the layer of dust. One could only feel their distant echo which only reinforced the present decadence.

The place seemed deserted, they had heard no noise since they had entered.

Suddenly, a crack sounded. Footsteps echoed down one of the marble stairs. A person gradually emerged from the shadows, walking down the red carpet.

She was a middle-aged woman, blessed with incredible beauty. She had wavy caramel-colored hair tied in a messy bun. Yet, this hairstyle seemed to have been studied for hours to look so perfect. This hair seemed incapable of having the slightest knot. She had a peachy complexion, flawless and smooth, not a trace of a single wrinkle. Her skin seemed to be infinitely soft, like velvet. Her eyes were verdigris, with a deep look that pierced you and pinned you to the spot, underlined by a line of black pencil that deepened their sharpness even more, the shaded lids. Her lips were pale, light pink and barely detached from the rest of her skin.

She was dressed in an elegant an distinguished manner, in a way that showed her rank very clearly. She wore a dark blue high-necked waistcoat adorned with gold frills, arabesques and embroidery. The vest had a green piping and was tied at the waist with a ribbon of the same color, matching his green look. Below, a bustier cut from the same fabric, with a row of buttons on the chest. She had on a long emerald skirt, one of the petticoats of which was attached at the back, provided with a series of golden fringes. Her petticoats ended in a short train in the back.

Lucy would have recognized this unreal beauty anywhere, this grace and this haughty posture, even this finery. This was the Countess of Averley in person.