fil de la mer

Ch. 6

A lot is going to change

Monsieur Neuvillette— the man dressed in blue— seems to have become the spectre that haunted Fontaine; few had had the fortuitous circumstances of meeting him, yet everyone spoke of him.

"I heard he has skin as smooth as fresh milk," one whispered.

"And eyes that shine like the rarest sapphires," another chimed in.

The whispers grew louder as the days went by, yet this renonwed Monsieur Neuvillette remained as elusive as a moonlit shadow. His name echoed through Fontaine, his legend growing with each telling. And the Duke Wriothesley found himself consumed by the search; the memory of their stolen kiss crossed played on repeat in his mind.
It was a moment that had left him breathless, a whisper of passion that had set his heart aflame.

Wriothesley was losing his head over Neuvillette.

The mere mention of the name sent his thoughts spiraling into a tornado of longing and frustration. He'd scoured the city, his eyes peeled for any sign of the mysterious man. Yet, Neuvillette remained as elusive as the horizon at dawn—always out of reach, but ever-present in the Duke's thoughts.

Lady Charlotte, with her ever-ready Kamera and her journalist's intuition, was his only hope left.
She'd been working tirelessly, using her sources in the city's underbelly, piecing together the puzzle of Neuvillette's life outside the gleaming halls of the Court.

The trail grew colder with each step.

Wriothesley's patience was wearing thin, yet Charlotte remained unflappable.

"We'll find him," she assured him, her voice a mix of excitement and determination. Her eyes, usually sharp with curiosity, had taken on a dreamy quality when she spoke of the elusive figure. It was clear she too was captivated by the story unfolding before them.

The persistent rain outside Fontaine mirrored Wriothesley's mood. It painted the countryside in shades of gray, a stark contrast to the vibrant life within the city walls. The dampness seeped into his bones, but he didn't mind. It was a small price to pay for the chance to protect Neuvillette from the vipers that lurked in the shadows of the court, eager to feast on his innocence.

Wriothesley sat in his office, the warmth of the fireplace a comforting embrace against the chill of the persistent rain. His hand wrapped around the delicate porcelain of his teacup, the amber liquid within it untouched. The scent of Earl Grey wafted through the air, a gentle reminder of the simple pleasures that seemed so distant amidst the storm of his thoughts. The room was made of leather-bound books and the faint scent of ink, yet the comfort it usually provided was lost on him. His eyes kept drifting to the window, watching the raindrops dance against the glass like a ballet of despair.
The ticking of the grandfather clock echoed through the silence, each second a painful reminder of the time slipping away. The search for Neuvillette had become a consuming obsession, a quest that left no stone unturned. Wriothesley took a sip of his tea, the bitter taste a reflection of his current mood.

The warmth spread through him, but did little to quell the storm brewing in his chest.

Another week had passed, and with it, the whispers grew more feverish.

The rain outside had become a constant, an eerie soundtrack to the city's anticipation.

Wriothesley's eyes scanned the pages of the letters and documents that had piled up on his desk, but his mind was elsewhere.

The hunt for Neuvillette had taken precedence over his ducal duties, leaving a trail of neglect in its wake.

His hand, usually steady and precise, trembled slightly as he held his pen, ink staining the parchment with the weight of his impatience. The once orderly room reflected the chaos within him, scrolls and maps crumpled into balls of frustration.