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Samstag, 9. September 2017

Paris, June 1799 - Fearless?



----------------------------------------- Paris, Tuilerien, June 1799 -------




Adeláire stretched out in her crouching position on the roof, then let her shoulders circling as well as her head. For days they had been lying on the prowl, watching Bonaparte's Townhouse. After Francesco had told the Council what they had found out about Egypt, the four didn’t hesitate another day to tackle their next goal. Unhappily, the whole household seemed like a busy beehive. And so far they had not been able to find out the reason.



Verne quietly stepped up and also crouched down next to her. Shortly he numbered at her from the side and then gripped vigorously in her shoulder muscles. Adeláire escaped a relieved sigh as her chin leaned on her chest.

"Hold out girl. We'll find an access point." Verne's voice didn’t sound convincing after the past few days.

Sighing, Adeláire sank into a sitting position and laid down her arms on her knees.  "I just don’t understand why the whole house is like a swarm of locusts. It's as if Robespierre's henchmen were behind them." Enervated, she massaged her aching forehead. "What do Arno and Francesco say? Did they find anything?"

Verne just shook his head silently and seemed to concentrate briefly on the bustle among them.  "No, nothing really useful. The challenge to get in and out of this chaos unseen, while still looking for Bonaparte's most private spaces undisturbed...”  He didn’t have to complete his sentence to describe the undertaking in his entire severity.

Silently, the two Assassins sat on the roof for a while, watching the extremely busy hustle and bustle.

"Did you actually talk to Arno again?"

Adeláire blinked confused as to the extreme change of subject.  "Uh... what about?"

Verne apparently consciously kept his gaze from her.  "Well, about your little collision last... and what's that supposed to be between you and him..."

Adeláire didn’t know at the first moment whether she should be upset about his question or just not take it seriously. Verne was a very close friend. For no other reason would he dare ask such questions. In addition, he was also Arno's friend. Nevertheless, she took the moment to think about whether he was crossing the boundaries. And Verne himself seemed to think about it as well. For he left her the time she needed.  "So I don’t know why you want to talk about such a topic in a situation like this, in which we are at the moment. I can comprehend, that you are friends with both of us and you’re giving many thoughts about it. But don’t you think that the timing is conceivably badly chosen?"

Verne just shrugged his shoulders and turned to look at her. There was more than one concern in the gray eyes.  "I'm not just thinking, Adeláire. I'm worried. I know you. And I know him. You are both not the simplest characters. Each one of you carries your own trauma with you. And I'm just not sure if you benefit each other." Verne raised his gaze back into far distance.  "I've already told you; Arno is someone you can like very easily. And I believe, one you can fall in love with very quickly too. Nevertheless, he is who he is. The things he had to experience were enough in one life to destroy a human being. And he's still there and just goes on and on. No idea how he manages this. And much less I have a clue, whether he will ever be able to love someone with all his heart."

Verne fixated on her so intensely that it made Adeláire swallow.  He continued, “Élise was his great love. He knew, and probably loved her since he was eight years old. As you know, they have worked together for a long time to find the murderer of Élise's father and Arno’s foster father. We have to admit, that they grew into an extremely powerful team at that time. She was trained as a Templar in combat as well as we are as Assassins. And yet ... it was not enough."

Verne was silent for a moment again. His wandering gaze returned to her.  "It has destroyed him, Adeláire. And how he managed to get back together again, none of us knows. Arno was always reserved, hiding behind his sharp, sarcastic humor. But what followed on Élise's death was... different... And it's still there. It’s like sore flesh, which he tries to protect even after all these years. And to which he will not open himself up to anyone."

Silence entered, to which Adeláire didn’t really know what to say.  "Why are you telling me all this? And why ironically now?" Her voice sounded brittle and tense. And his gray eyes looked sad as he turned to her again.

"Because I want you to know what you're engaging yourself in, Adeláire. Anyone who knows you can see that Arno is more for you than an Assassinbrother. And far more than the beau, with whom you’ve surrounded yourself. You're also someone who is afraid of intense feelings like a burning fire." He grabbed her hand briefly and squeezed it intensively. "I just don’t want two of my closest friends to injure each other. And not yet even willingly, put simply, because they are who they are. Do you understand that?"

Adeláire nodded silently after a while and looked out over the rooftops of Paris. In the last few days, she had been reluctant to keep distance from Arno, even if the night at the café didn’t make this task much easier. She, herself often sleepless, had experienced an awake Arno on her nocturnal, barefoot expeditions, who barely kept an eye. In two or three moments she had been able to observe how he spent the night writing at his desk, or took and read letters from the box on the table by the wing chair.

An approach in her direction on his part hadn’t been given again. Since her nightly, almost timid kiss, opportunities had opened, but neither of them was willing to use them. As always, when she thought intensively, she bit furtively at her lower lip.  "What do you think, should I talk to him?"

Verne held his gaze in the distance.  "About what? You currently don’t even know what you actually feel. And much less what you really want." He fixed her intensively. "Correct me if I'm wrong."

Adeláire blushed red and removed her gaze away from him.

"You see. And as long as you don’t know, I'd advise you to leave your fingers off. You have only one chance with him to open his heart a little. If you screw up, he'll close the bulkheads and throw away the key for it. You will need time and patience. Unless, and I can’t emphasize enough, unless you really want to be close to him..."

His conclusion sounded like a question, and Adeláire could almost physically feel his seeking examine. She felt like a little girl, still strengthened by the fact that she wriggled at the hems of her cloak in her lap. Verne prevented it by grabbing her hands again and raising her chin.  "You know I like you Adeláire. Like a little sister. And I’m like always there to talk, at any time. But I can’t force you to think about these things. Only one thing I can do is: plea you, to think about them. It would break my heart, if you break the one of the other."

Adeláire swallowed hard and she almost felt, how it began to ascend hot in her eyes. The intensity with which Verne discussed all this left her halfway wordlessly. It also reflected a great deal of her own thoughts. And it was good to have in Verne a friend with whom she could talk about it. Before she even came to reply, a shrill alarm whistle tore the situation.

Without much thought, the two Assassins were on their feet and ducked over the roof edge. Adeláire spread her senses as far as she could to capture what the alarm signal meant.

Deep among them, in a split second, it was clear what status they were in. Thick swaths of smoke bombs spread in the street below them, and a wild turmoil came to their ears. Adeláire re-enforced her senses and finally found Francesco and Arno in the swamp. One of the two was more carried away by the other when they fled, than that he ran himself.

"I think one of them is injured." Verne and Adeláire glided over the roof edge without further adjustment and swung themselves down the fastest way.

Even before they arrived downstairs, they also covered their arrival with smoke bombs. Adeláire activated her senses and pulled the rapier out of her belt. The number of guards, coughing and searching in the swaths, had assumed a worryingly high number. She felt Verne's hand on her shoulder.

"No fight. Let's concentrate on disappearing."

Adeláire didn’t even have to nod to his words to know that he relied on the right decisions. Without a word, they covered Francesco and Arno's escape until they found an underground entrance. Just gone down in the dark, they were allowed to breathe, and Adeláire was able to deal with the thought, which of the two was now injured.

Arno couldn’t suppress a cursing cry of pain when Francesco let him slip to the ground. His left hand camped over his right side, just below the last rib. Even though it was dark, the smell of blood could clearly be made up. From a very lot of blood. Adeláire could feel her heart halting in her chest as she sank beside him and desperately pressed her hands to his.

"How did this happen?" finally came from Verne.

Francesco bled himself out of a wound on his thigh and rubbed absently Arno’s blood on the cloak.

"To be honest, no idea. I held position on one of the roofs, and Arno was on the ground. When he came back to me and we were just wondering how we wanted to go on, a gunshot slammed suddenly and... well..." With a hand movement, he gestured to Arno, who was breathing flat on the ground.

"Merde... Diable... We must take him to the hospital in the sanctuary. Otherwise he will bleed to death here."

Still with a wild beating heart and completely empty head, Adeláire rose and pulled her blouse. She quickly tore off a few lanes and tried to improvise a bandage. Arno cursed cunningly as they pulled him back to his feet and Adeláire doctored him with the provisional. Verne and Francesco took Arno between them and laid one of his arms over their shoulders. As soon as they had left the underground, Arno's head fell on his chest, and his weight became that of an unconscious.

"Diable... hurry..." cursed Verne, cautiously.

Adeláire could do nothing more than secure the surroundings and lead them around guards and other people, against whom they were more than suspicious. She thanked all the divine as they finally reached one of the numerous accesses to the underground catacombs of the Sanctuary. Scarcely dipped into the darkness of the rock walls, Adeláire ran before to inform the hospital.



Verne and Francesco had cleared the hospital very soon when they handed over Arno. A systematic, but hasty, bustle had begun, and a few skilled hands administered the wound. Adeláire had been standing in a corner the entire time and could only observe the much too pale face with the dark hair strands on his forehead. Now and again her eyes had to wander to his bare chest to make sure that it still lifted and lowered. She scarcely registered the healer, who after all approached her and squeezed her shoulder gently.

"He'll be all right. No fear. He has lost a lot of blood and the wound is quite evil. But if it does not ignite in the next days, he will soon be quite the same again."

Adeláire just nodded, still glancing at the shape, which was now carefully restored into one of the hospital beds.

"Now you should lie down a little as well. He’ got enough opium to sleep through the night. And you should do that too."

Adeláire blinked, confused.  "What? Took Opium?"

The nurse smiled warmly.  "No. Sleep. Medical prescription."

Again, Adeláire nodded silently before she went around the nurse and headed for Arno's sick-bed.

Without sense of time, she sat at his bed. She hadn’t been nurtured to be religiously devout, but still she begged silently to somebody, or something, that they might not take him from her now. After all, it was sheer exhaustion that made her fall asleep at the bottom of his bed, curled up like a cat.

The restless movement beneath her was what finally awoke her. Drowsily she thrashed herself upright and rubbed her eyes. Arno was not yet awake, but caught in a dream. With a pain, his facial expressions twitched before he half-opened his eyes. His stare was glazed due to the opium effects. He seemed to fixate on Adeláire, who had half bent forward, and now raised above him; yet he seemed to see through her. His whisper was almost so soft that it wasn’t alleged to be heard.

“Èlise...?” Powerless, a hand reached out to her.

It caused such a shock to Adeláire that it made her gasp painfully. It squeezed her heart in her chest, as if someone closed a fist around it. As in the reflex, her right hand lay over her breast and she retreated to the end of the bed. Meanwhile, Arno's hand dropped and he slid back into an opium-impregnated sleep.

"I told you, she was, since he could think of, the love of his life..." Verne's voice sounded softly and gently from the entrance to her. Adeláire turned her burning eyes to the wall and owed an answer. How the hell was he always in the right place at the right moment? Finally she gave herself a jerk and pulled her hood to her forehead before she rose from the bed and went past Verne with lowered head.

"I should ..."

Verne grabbed her by the shoulders and held her up.  "...stay here. That you should,” came again in this gentle tone.

She raised her gaze and could hardly make him out through the tears swimming in her eyes.  "What stupidity am I doing here? He will never again let someone into his heart, like he did with her."

Verne smiled gently and sadly.  "No, he will not. But he will do it in a different way. Believe me. He has a good heart, under all the protection he has built up. It just takes time. With him, as well as with you." Gently he took her face between his hands and his thumbs stroked the treacherous tears on her cheekbones. "Take one of the beds, give yourself some sleep, and in a few hours the world will look quite different." Again, he smiled this gentle smile, gave her a kiss on the cheek and finally turned to go.

"Thanks... for everything... today..."

He turned halfway to her and winked cheerfully.  "That’s what big brothers are for."



Adeláire had only got rid of her weapons and cloak, and otherwise stretched out dressed on the bed opposite Arno’s. Without natural light in the hospital, it was impossible to say how late it was when she slowly slid over to the waking state. Still a little sleepy, she squinted and met brown eyes which watched her from the opposite bed.

Adeláire blinked and realized that she didn’t seem to dream anymore. Arno was awake, watching her and finally smiled gently, though clearly exhausted. She sensed that she could do no more than return that smile just as gently. She embedded her head on one arm and made herself more comfortable lying on the side.

“How are you?" Her tone was low, as if her loudness would cause him pain.

He made a bit of a face.  "It feels horrible. As if someone has ripped out each rib individually." He coughed and clenched with a pain sound. At the next cursing, >Diable< was the most harmless thing he used. Adeláire rose hastily and sought something drinkable. After all the Opium and blood loss his throat had to be dry like a desert.

Carefully, she finally slid her hand into his neck to lift his head to drink. With horror she realized, that he was glowing with sweat. He tried to get up, which she prevented with the greatest of ease.

"Leave this. You'll just tear the wound open again." She held her voice gently but unyieldingly. She had filled the cup only slightly with water so that he could drink in small sips. Again, he made a bit of a face.

"A good Bordeaux would be dearer to me now." His voice sounded weak and cautious, and carefully she let him sink back into the pillows.

Gently, almost tenderly, she drew a dark streak from his forehead.  "Of course. Because Bordeaux is so wonderful with opium."

He grinned obliquely and suddenly breathed flat due to a wave of pain.

"Take a rest. I'm going to look for the nurse." Adeláire sat up from the bed edge as his hand closed around her forearm. She looked at him questioningly, and didn’t know to interpret if what she read in his gaze was due to the fever, or something completely different.

"Thank you ..." His voice was only a whisper before he closed his eyes, relaxed into the pillow and slid back into the resting sleep.

Carefully, Adeláire tended over him and gave the hot, sweaty forehead a gentle kiss.  "You’re welcome..." she said as she finally rose to report to the nurse about his condition.

 --------------------------------

Adeláire lost any sense of time in the hospital. But it was certainly days that she spent at the bed of the feverish Arno and took the nurse’s work from her. Fortunately, the wound had not been inflamed, but the path of healing remained cumbersome. When the fever finally subsided, all involved participants breathed a sigh of relief and something like tired relaxation dared to cease. This also led to Adeláire sinking into a deep, dreamless sleep from which she awoke only when the hum of a male conversation forced itself into her dreams. Just as she wanted to give a sign of awake, she paused.

"She likes you, you know that, right?" This voice she did not recognize. And yet something tweaked at her memories that she should. The question was followed by silence.

"Mhm..." Arno, he was awake. And obviously strong enough to face the conversation of the counterpart.

"Come on, Dorian. A blind man can see that. And she wouldn’t take care of your feverish ass for days if she didn’t have sense for you." The man seemed to hesitate, to be silent, before he continued.  "And I hope, you don’t disappoint her. I know her not as well as our dear Verne, but that she is friends with him and Francesco is enough for me to not want to see her suffer."

"Because of me, no one should ever suffer again..." The silence weighed heavily, which followed these words: "...or die."

Again, continuing silence.

"You know I didn’t like her. But she was much too young to die. I'm sorry, man. And I'm sorry I didn’t tell you that years ago." Again a break followed.

"Why do you say it to me now Jean? Until a few days ago, we could hardly cross each other without getting into conflict." Now Adeláire knew why the voice seemed so familiar to her: LaHache. Hadn’t he and Arno quarreled? Adeláire heard the foreign Assassin scooping across the floor with one foot.

"You know, I've lost a lot of brothers in all those years since I joined the Assassins. When I heard that you were badly wounded, I realized how tired I am to stand at graves." Again silence spread out in the room.

"I know very well what you mean... my friend..." Arno's voice sounded softly, cautiously. And what followed in his words sounded as if hands were encircled underarms and a very old hatchet would be buried.

Adeláire decided to give up her quasi-secret listening post and began, a slow awakening pretending, to loll in the sheets.

"Well, look who's resurrected from the dead."

Adeláire had fallen asleep with her back turned to Arno, so she was now rolling around in her bed to make eye contact. Someone had stuffed pillows behind Arno’s back so he could sit a little more upright in the bed. LaHache sat roping on a chair, his arms resting on the back. The latter smiled openly from a beard more than three days old. Arno, on the other hand, still seemed to be occupied to get rid of the conversation with LaHache and the old memories. When his brown eyes met her, she still saw the dark shadows fade before he smiled gently at her.  "I'm sorry I exhausted you so much. I heard you took all the work from the nurses?"

Before she could prevent it, Adeláire felt herself turned red. Embarrassed, she rose to a sitting position on the bed and brushed her tangled hair behind her ears.  "That would be absolutely exaggerated expressed. I... just... took care of you a little..."

LaHache laughed loudly that it was almost ringing in Adeláire’s ears.  "So, according to Verne’s and Francesco's reports, you have hardly left his side for a moment, sweetheart. Perhaps you should practice fibbing again."

Adeláire felt embarrassment was replaced by anger, which didn’t change anything at further blushing. Her voice sounded correspondingly poisonous as she set an answer.  "My name is Adeláire and not ‘sweetheart’. I‘m unaware, that I know you, Monsieur. Let alone, that I would have given you the same liberties as Verne."

LaHache raised his hands defensively and whistled briefly through his teeth.  "Whoa, sweet... ehm... Adeláire... Take it easy. I meant no offense." His grin wandered to Arno, while his gaze moved slowly from her and over to the other bed. "Well, you've picked something nice. Tame is now really different."

Arno's gaze rested with a strange smile on her as he answered.  "Well, did you really expect an Assassin's Sister to be described as handy?"

"Would be bad, if it were so. If she did, she'd rather not join a murderous secret Cult." Verne's answer to the question, which was not really serious, came from the door to them. How long he had been leaning there and listening to everything, none of the three could say.

 Adeláire crossed her arms in front of her chest and drew a sinister expression.  "Are all now finished with their jokes on strangers cost?"

"Nana, now brush your ruffled fur smoothly. In our fellowship it just goes a little bit rougher now and then. Not true Verne?" LaHache still grinned at Adeláire while Verne entered the room.

"Hm, to be honest, actually only when you're with Jean." Latter half turned around in his chair and gave Verne an obscene gesture.

"You abject brother traitor. If we do not bind together yet, who will?" Verne grinned down at LaHache.

"All others except you, Pig-Head."

"Pah ... Ta gueule[1]...!"

Adeláire felt her anger slowly dissolve thanks to Verne. Seeking, she looked around for her clothes and found them out of reach. Arno would already know her in her “birthday suit”, but this was not the case for Verne, much less for LaHache. Embarrassed, she nipped two or three buttons to her blouse and draped the bedsheet around her waist. Finally, her unsteady gaze fell upon Arno and was held there by brown eyes. While LaHache and Verne were still friendly squabbling, Arno implied that they should get rid of the two. Softly smiling, she nodded mutely.

"Mes amis, as much as I appreciate your visit, I think I'd like to recover a bit more."

Adeláire wondered if Arno himself would believe these words, if they had been presented to him. They didn’t sound convincing to her ears. And the grin of the two, mentioned as friends, showed clearly, that they didn’t think particularly different. However, Verne hit LaHache on the shoulder and picked up the thrown ball.  "Come on, big pal. Let us give the good Arno a little more rest. We still need him. And hopefully soon." A wink shot at Adeláire, before Verne turned his back to the room and started walking away.

LaHache rose from his chair and set it aside. Then he nodded silently to Arno before turning to Adeláire and reached out his stoutly right hand.  "By the way... Jean... Jean-Jacques LaHache. Pleased to meet you, Adeláire." He smiled openly, his eyes as dark as Arno’s, radiating a pleasant warmth.

Adeláire replied the smile, and snatched the offered hand.  "Adeláire Fontaine. Very pleased as well Jean." A short, strong handshake, before LaHache tapped with a gallant gesture briefly on the forehead and then also left the room.

As soon as they had left, Arno quietly heaved a sigh, closed his eyes and sank back into the pillows. Adeláire rose from her sleeping camp and slipped hastily into her breeches. Carefully, she settled down on Arno's bedside and gently inspected the bandages.

"Hm, they must be renewed. I'll go quickly and tell the nurse." But before she could get up, his hand caught her and made her turn her gaze at his facial expressions. His dark hair was woozy of fever, and his skin color was still too pale. But she could see that he was much better. In his gaze lay warmth and almost costly he looked at her features. She could only guess how untidy she might appear momentarily. And certainly almost as exhausted as he himself.

"Thank you... Adeláire..."

She smiled gently.  "You said that already." He blinked briefly, making her laugh softly. "After the first night, you were briefly something like awake. You've already felt the need to thank me." Yes, definitely, she liked this mischievous, boyish smile on him.

"I'm sorry if I should repeat myself. But this time, I hope I will at least remember that I said it, and try to avoid further redundancies."

Again, she laughed a faint laugh.  "Well, if you can express yourself in such specifically chosen way again, you are actually better." Gently she returned the pressure of his hand and wanted to rise to find the sister. Again he stopped her. Adeláire's gaze turned into a question and was answered by a gesture. Arno's free hand lifted and brushed the tangled hair behind her ear. Softly, fingertips pushed into her neck and she had to ask nothing questioningly in order to know whereupon this run out.

"You're injured..." she whispered softly.

"No man has died of such a thing..." he whispered softly as well, while his drag in her neck brought her closer to him.

"We should not..." His breath was close to hers and her vision was filled with dark eyes.

"Give me one good reason why we should not." His voice sounded rough.

"We... I..." She could feel his smile close to her lips.

"Shut up…"

Their words were so gentle that one could almost hold them for a whisper of the wind. Gentle, tender, cuddly was the kiss, which they shared. He almost felt a little innocent, if it were not his free hand, which, warm on her skin, moved up her spine, and snuggled her closer to him.

Adeláire swarmed the senses and she felt a lump narrowing her throat. All the tension changed to relief at the thought that he would live and get well. Softly tentatively, she let her fingertips stray from his temple into dark hair. And who would have been able to say how long they had enjoyed each other in this way, if Arno had not jerked among her suddenly hissing with sudden pain, as she shifted her weight a little.

"Diable ..." he growled restrained.

Adeláire backed away from him and glanced quickly at the bandages. No blood. So they had not ripped up a seam.

"Merde... I… I'm sorry... so much to it, that no man has ever died of such a thing." She didn’t like the pitch between desperate excuse and remorseful growling. Arno’s face grimaced painfully, possibly from the bit of irony, before he relaxed again and sank back into the pillows.

"That, I wanted to make since you were awake." Adeláire chuckled amused.

"What? Feeling Pain?" Arno smiled softly. Sadness seemed to glide over his features, as so often in moments in which it was valid to confront feelings. Unsure, Adeláire lowered her hands in her lap and didn’t know what to do or say.

"Even if you do not perhaps notice it all… too often... I appreciate people who take care of me at such moments."

Adeláire smiled softly, stroking the always rebellious strand of dark brown hair from his forehead.

"As Verne once said so nicely, it's easy to like you. And beyond that, you are a Brother, Order and Creed or not. That alone would suffice, if..." She swallowed and didn’t know what to do any more. Her hand sank back into her lap.

"If ...?" Why had she only known, that he wouldn’t just simply leave this unfortunate end in the room.

Embarrassed, she turned her eyes away.  "Well, if… there was not… something else..." She didn’t dare to lift her voice. So she almost descended into a whisper. The silence between them stretched almost intolerably. Adeláire finally turned her gaze back to him and didn’t know what to expect. All the more surprising was the calm warmth radiating from him.

Still silent, he picked up her hand and led the inside of her left wrist to his lips. He seemed neither willing to give a corresponding reply to her words, nor to investigate further in depth what exactly she was trying to express with what was said. And somehow she was more than grateful to him at that moment.

Almost painfully it tore them both apart as the sister entered with an irritating, “Ah, the patient is awake”. In short, their eyes held on to each other before Adeláire rose and yielded to the sister's interruption.

----------------------------------

 Adeláire had more or less moved her study to the hospital. They were lucky that most of the Assassins seemed to be prudent in their missions and there were hardly any other injured in which to tend. Her copies of Bonaparte's documents occupied one of the beds, while unceremoniously transformed the supply table into a desk.

Arno recovered steadily, but for his taste, probably not fast enough. He was often seen strolling through the hallways of the Sanctuary, and was finally carried back halfway by one of the Assassins, who were delegated to throw an eye on him. Adeláire had given up at some point to comment on these excursions. Unquestioningly, after such occasions, she merely inspected the bandages and then devoted herself to the fuss of the information again.

Arno finally returned from one of his excursions without any foreign support. Still cautiously choosing his steps, he crossed the sickbay, focused, balancing two cups of coffee. Adeláire stretched out her hands to take one of them from him, and sucked in the scent, at once savoring.

"That comes at precisely the right time." Arno rounded the table and set his cup off. He propped his hands right and left besides her, and gently snuggled to her back. Sighing softly, Adeláire straightened from her half-bended posture and enjoyed the feeling of his chest, which raised and lowered in breathing. Dumbly she enjoyed the moment as he was, without the need to have to overfill it with words.

Adeláire finally raised her left hand and let gentle fingertips slipping over his throat line into his neck. She turned half in his arms and didn’t have to wait long for the warm lips. If they had not been able to use all the time in the sickbay for intimacy, then at least, quite equally intimate, conversation. They had clearly come closer, though many secrets still lurked behind many walls. Especially this one, which grew around the nature of their feelings, and which both dreaded like the devil hates holy water.

When they finally separated from each other appreciatively, his left arm clenched around her waist and pulled her closer to him. With his right, he fished after the previously parked coffee cup.

"Slowly I think we should see that we gather more information. If even Paton doesn’t find a line in this mess, it may be really hopeless." Arno seemed to think briefly. "Or we’re simply missing too much."

Adeláire also took her coffee and looked at the mess on the table in front of her and a bit away on the hospital bed.  “Hm, you're probably right."

"Well, then maybe you will be happy that the working part of the team finally found something."  Verne grinned at these words broadly and pushed the hood in the neck. Behind him, Francesco and Jean followed. Arno separated from her and stepped half round the table. How Verne always got such an appropriate timing for his appearance remained a mystery to Adeláire. It was Arno, who took word first.

"You have continued to investigate while..."

"...while you’re playing Sleeping Beauty? But, of course we do. The job does not take care of itself." LaHache grinned broadly through his beard and made himself comfortable on one of the free beds.

"You... did you help?" Arno raised his eyebrows, then gave questioning glances to Verne and Francesco. The latter looked for a chair, let himself down, and, failing to answer the question, crossed his legs. Verne finally leaned with the hip against the treatment table and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Well, you are both, so to speak... absent. Then Francesco and I thought that a little reinforcement would not be a bad idea. And if you agree, then I would strongly advocate our team to strengthen to five men. Who likes to renounce LaHache's mon petit cherie." That made him and Jean grin wide as Arno smirked. Francesco remained silent, as did Adeláire.

Arno finally glanced over his shoulder to Adeláire and then let him wander to Francesco, who behaved remarkably calm.

"Cesco, your opinion?" Arno finally asked him in a neutral tone. Francesco raised his eyes to Arno, then left him to LaHache and back again. Mutely, he fixed Verne a moment before he answered.

"Depends on whether all can pull themselves together. I personally do not feel like repeating the Marcourt Disaster. If you could assure me that you behave like adult men, then... yes... then we should enlarge the team."

Francesco had always had the peculiarity of getting things to the point. This was probably the characteristic that linked him and Arno so closely and made them such good friends. So Arno merely nodded at his request.  "Accepted."

“J’ai aussi[2],” came only from LaHache.

 Francesco nodded mutely and earnestly.  "Good. Then we can continue. Verne?" He took the ball and turned his gaze to Adeláire and Arno.

"That's why we all came back here together; as we said at the beginning, we finally found something." This time it was Adeláire, who raised her eyebrows in amazement while Arno simply sipped his coffee.

Verne grinned and finally became serious.  "The reason for the whole upheaval in the townhouse was that Joséphine bought a house in the country. And she's already starting to divide her household here and to establish some things away to Malmaison. That is why the many arrivals, deliveries, people, staff. However, we have not yet been able to find out exactly how she intends to deal with Bonaparte's private affairs and whether she wants to give up the townhouse entirely. The ones, we were able to ask, were of the opinion, that she would probably wait with this decision until he returned from Egypt."

Adeláire crossed her arms in front of her chest and began to pace back and forth behind the table.  "This means that there are diverse questions. Among other things, whether she will leave the townhouse at some point and move to Malmaison with the split household. If that were the case, we might have a better access to the townhouse. Only then would it be possible to find out whether there was anything else to be found for us or whether she had taken everything with her. If she had taken everything, we would have to infiltrate this country house as well." Adeláire stopped her trek and raised her left hand against her lower lip to prevent herself from biting. Confused, she met the broad grin of LaHache.

"Don’t withhold them all the good news."

Adeláire and Arno looked questioningly at Verne, who also grinned briefly.

"How well can you both dance?"

Adeláire blinked and briefly glanced at Arno, before they both fixed Verne again. Adeláire apparently found at first her tongue again.  "Ehm... why are you coming to such a question now?"

Verne grinned again.  "Well, because the good Joséphine organized a Paris farewell in the townhouse. Quasi for all those friends, which she will then probably not so often get to see. In which one or the other, she is perhaps not so very sad about it. But this is a different story." Verne seemed to feel a thieving pleasure regarding the lore advantage towards Arno and Adeláire.

"And as fortune would have it, we have actually been able to… organize… invitations to this ball. And since you two handsome beings are the only ones in our illustrious round with special abilities, you should perhaps refresh your rusted dance skills."

Adeláire blinked briefly and crossed her arms again.  "Arno is hurt. He can’t possibly...", she started to protest.

"You're supposed to dance with him, my dearie, not challenge him to duel." Verne laughed briefly and LaHache gave a big grin.

Arno simply put his empty cup on the table.  "When will this ball take place?"

Verne smiled softly.  "You have three days to get fit again. Do you think you can do that?" Before Arno could answer, Verne shot again. "Really... can do!" Arno closed his mouth, which had already been opened, for a brief moment of reflection.

His gaze slid briefly to Adeláire before he lowered him to the table. His left hand groped his right side, where strong bandages still secured the wound and seam. Finally, he raised his head to Verne.  "We need to go. No matter how. We've lost enough time because of me." He smiled somewhat mischievously. "And a little dancing in a circle, I will manage somehow. Even if it looks anything but elegant."

Verne grinned briefly.  "You could be sent to the ball in rags, and you would still turn the head of all the women in the house. So do not worry." LaHache laughed at the comment and Verne didn’t seem to leave the grin any more.

Adeláire could feel, as once more the blush crawled up her neck again, while Arno smiled over, disarmingly, at his friend.

"Let me guess, you probably have a suitable outfit for me, right?"

"But, of course, even quite à la hauteur de la mode[3] my friend." This made Verne laugh and induced Arno to massage his neck mischievously.

"Why is that just giving me greater concerns than the dancing?"

Adeláire enjoyed the loosened spirits of the four men and watched, like a silent shadow from behind the table, as they mutually threw effronteries at each other. Even between LaHache and Arno, it seemed as if nothing ever had happened. Should the serious injury really have helped to make this team get even closer? If it were so, she was grateful, that it all still had a meaning.

When, finally, Arno's face began to grow paler, she shooed the three brothers energetically out of the room. Which resulted in Arno then immediately slumping exhausted onto his bed. A faint groan made him once again embrace his right side, prompting Adeláire to examine the bandages. She crouched down in front of him and carefully felt the seam as he gently caught one of her hands. Inquiring, she raised her eyes and smirked at his mischievous smile.

"Did you have that dress from… that time, when you were in the cafe?"

Adeláire laughed softly and gave a playful expression.  "No, I'm sorry. It somehow fell victim to a strange… accident."

The remark conjured one of those boyish, charming smiles around his mouth.  "Pity. It was really… charming."

What, as a reply, elicited her a cheeky smirk and made her green eyes flash.  "Only the dress...?"

She could still feel his reflecting smile in the kiss, which he gave her as an answer to her question.







[1] Franz. for „Shut up“
[2] Franz. for „From me as well“
[3] Franz. for „at the height of fashion“

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