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“Hurry up, Marcine! The Archon is around the corner, and you still haven’t lifted a single finger to fix this mess you call a workplace!”
As always, Celine’s voice arrived five full seconds before she did. And when she finally swept into the studio, halting in the center of the room, Marcine saw it at once—how strained and undone her boss appeared, like a ribbon pulled far past its limit.
Anyone might have assumed that after receiving hundreds of noble families and public figures each day at Marcotte Studio: Paintings and Portraits, a head manager like Celine would eventually lose her voice. Yet, against Marcine’s inner hopes—and perhaps against the limits of nature—the woman only reached new and impressive decibels every time she spoke.
“Ugh! You already know she’s terribly busy with the preparations for her hundredth anniversary, so be quick and precise, otherwise I’ll—”
Marcine quietly drifted away from her boss’s commotion, letting her gaze travel around the studio as she remained seated at her desk.
Was it truly as chaotic as Celine claimed?
Before her lay the carefully arranged set for the portrait: a tall mahogany stool, extravagantly carved with golden and blue-tinted details, surrounded by rainbow roses freshly cut that morning. Behind them, a cascade of fine fabrics in shifting shades of blue caught the sunlight, casting a soft, almost mystical glow over the scene.
Her own desk held nothing but her supplies and her canvas. So…
“This way, please, Lady Furina.”
At last, Marcine released a silent breath.
Celine’s frantic tirade came to an instant halt as Remy’s voice—the overworked secretary—floated in through the open door. And with nothing more than a sharp glare that carried an entire speech’s worth of subtext, Celine’s entire posture transformed: from a hostile general to a sycophant eager to welcome her distinguished guest.
“Thank you! Oh, wow! Look at that! That’s definitely what I’d call a dramatic scene fit for an Archon! Hahaha!”
Fontaine’s Archon, Lady Furina, made her brilliant entrance into the studio.
Marcine had seen her countless times before—every Fontainian had. Yet standing this close, and having granted the freedom to study each detail, something shifted. Something in the Archon’s very air was quietly, undeniably… off.
“Oh! Lady Furina! How gracious of you! Of course, we had to prepare only the very best for our dearest Archon!” Celine chirped. “Just so you know, we cut these flowers this very morning, so their scent is still wonderfully perennial!”
“Is that so? They are lovely… Though I must admit, lake light lilies have always been my personal favorite.” The white-haired Archon spoke with a gloved hand lightly covering her mouth, her gaze wandering across the room as if searching for something that wasn’t there.
Marcine shot her boss a lightning-quick told you so look, while Celine blanched, as if a ghost had brushed past her.
“Oh—my deepest apologies, Lady Archon! I—ah! I did send Remy to get lilies for you, but you know how it is, hahaha! Apparently you just can’t trust people these days! Haha! Well! No more delays—I’m sure you’re terribly busy, so I’ll leave you with my most capable employee. Marcine! Make us proud. If you’ll excuse me!”
And with her metaphorical tail tucked neatly between her legs, Celine vanished, leaving the bewildered Archon in her care.
Marcine rolled her eyes—familiar with her boss’s dramatics—before finally speaking.
“Sorry about that, Lady Furina. My boss can be a little… intense sometimes. Please feel free to sit however you’re most comfortable. I’ll begin as soon as you’re ready.”
The Archon recovered her composure with practiced ease, offering a soft smile before turning toward the mirror behind the door. Yet she adjusted herself with a hesitance unusual for someone so accustomed to stages and spotlights.
After several long minutes, with everything prepared, Marcine glanced toward her subject—still fussing with the fall of her sleeves, the angle of her chin.
And suddenly, the reason behind Lady Furina’s strangeness clicked into place.
“Are you perhaps nervous, my lady?”
Marcine had never been one to bite her tongue, even at her young age. But seeing how quickly the Archon’s shoulders stiffened, she wondered if she had finally spoken out of turn.
Lady Furina turned to her with a smooth, practiced grace—like someone completing the final step of a waltz—and offered a serene smile.
“Ahaha, an Archon never feels nervous, dear Marcine. But I must admit, it feels rather… unusual to have only one person’s full attention on me, instead of the masses I’ve grown accustomed to.”
Her voice was gentle, steady, as she settled delicately onto the stool.
“Oh, that’s quite understandable, Lady Furina. In that case, just imagine I’m one of your friends at a tea party—just without the food and all that,” Marcine replied, lifting her brush, ready to begin.
“One of my friends…” the Archon echoed, the words soft—almost unintended.
Then, with theatrical brightness, “Ahaha, yes! You’re a genius, Marcine! Let us begin.”
Marcine couldn’t help a small thought: sometimes Celine, an ordinary citizen, spoke with more volume than Fontaine’s highest authority.
And in that quiet, suspended moment, Marcine understood.
Lady Furina’s gentle voice and fragile air weren’t the result of mere nerves. They were the outward ripples of something much deeper.
Loneliness.
You don’t need to raise your voice to be noticed—
not when you spend your life utterly alone.
“As you wish, Lady Furina. Oh, and just so you know—I did know you preferred lilies. Guess who didn’t…”
. . . . . . . . . .
“Lady Furina! What a pleasure to have you here once again!” exclaimed an elated Marcine, opening her arms to greet an equally enthusiastic Furina.
“Oh, Marcine! Thank you so much for receiving me again! Look at those curls—how pretty! —they make your beautiful pink hair look like soft cotton candy! A new style?” the Archon replied sweetly, looking at her companion—their bond somewhere between acquaintance and friend, somewhere warm in the middle.
To any ordinary citizen, the Archon’s bright expression would have seemed purely joyful, the delight of seeing a familiar face after some time. But to Marcine—whose age had sharpened her intuition rather than dulling it—there was a glimmer of melancholy beneath Furina’s eyes, a fleeting shadow that appeared each time their gazes met.
So, with the practiced tact of someone who knew how to soothe an immortal’s private aches, she changed the subject.
“Oh hahaha, this is the new fashion trend these days, you know! My daughter made sure I didn’t miss it. Speaking of which, she should be arriving soon—she’ll be the one painting your portrait today. She’s a genius! I’m certain you two will love her new technique.” Marcine paused, then added, “Oh, but… where is your companion? I was told to estimate the price for a double portrait…”
At the mention of him, Furina immediately stiffened.
“Oh, him… haha, he said he’d be here around—”
The delicate chime of the reception bell suddenly announced the arrival of the man in question.
“My apologies, Lady Furina, Madame Marcine. Today’s final trial took longer than anticipated. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long,” announced the smooth baritone voice of the Chief Justice.
“No worries at all, Monsieur Neuvillette—we were simply catching up,” Marcine replied kindly.
And then, as if following a silent cue, an oddly palpable stillness settled into the room.
Behind her glasses, Marcine couldn’t help but notice how awkwardly shy the two looked standing side by side—as though they had not worked together for more than fifty years.
“Well then,” she offered gently, “how about we begin positioning you both within the scene?”
Furina straightened at once, remembering herself.
“Excellent suggestion, Marcine! Now, monsieur, there’s no need to feel nervous. Madame Marcine and her team are true experts in their craft! She’s the one who painted that older portrait of me you seem to admire from time to time.”
“I assure you, Lady Furina, I am quite at ease. How you have come to such a conclusion eludes me,” he replied, releasing a faint, restrained sigh as he followed her into the studio.
“Oh, Marcine! You remembered!” exclaimed Furina when the three of them reached the set.
There—exactly where it had been fifty years earlier—stood the same familiar scene, but with two striking changes. Instead of one stool, there were now two, identical, carved from fine mahogany. And this time, both were surrounded by thousands of freshly cut lakelight lilies.
“But of course, my lady. How could I forget they were your favorites?” Marcine replied, watching fondly as Furina crouched with childlike delight to lift a flower and breathe in its scent.
Silently, Neuvillette joined her in the center of the room, taking his place on the stool beside hers. He stole a discreet glance at the Archon, as though studying her with quiet consideration—arriving at conclusions of his own.
Yet despite sitting only a few feet apart, the distance between them felt greater than during their trials, when they faced one another from their respective thrones.
Before Marcine could comment on it, however, the studio door flew open.
“I’m so, so sorry! Dearest Archon, Chief Justice—Mom!” Genevieve exclaimed breathlessly, bowing repeatedly. “The queue at the art store was enormous! And I absolutely couldn’t leave without a few supplies.”
“Right on time, Gigi. I was just setting them into place. Now that the expert is here, I’ll prepare some tea,” Marcine replied warmly, trusting her daughter to handle the task as she stepped out of the room.
Genevieve hurried to arrange her materials at the desk, her hands trembling just slightly.
Unlike her mother, the idea of painting such emblematic figures made her a bit nervous.
She took a deep breath, blinked slowly, and finally addressed her distinguished clients.
“Alright! My name is Genevieve, and I’ll be the delighted one to make your portrait today!” she introduced hastily, glancing between the two hydro authorities. “Now then… could you please stand —uh just a little closer?”
. . . . . . . . . .
Mahogany stools? Check.
Lakelight lilies? Check.
Layered fabric backdrop? Check.
Abundant natural light source? Check.
Functioning daguerreotype? … Hm. Perhaps I should review it once again, just in case.
After all, for a perfectionist like him, not a single detail could be allowed to slip by.
And maybe—just maybe—if I’m lucky enough, Lady Furina will finally notice all of my efforts.
Peering through the device’s lens and confirming that everything was indeed in order, Jules finally crossed off the last item on his mental list.
Hearing the sound of multiple footsteps and lively voices approaching the shop, he rushed out of the studio, eager to personally welcome his star clients at reception.
Now, it’s showtime.
“Well well well! If it isn’t our dearest aqua regina herself—what else could explain such commotion?” Jules announced flamboyantly as he opened the shop door.
“Ahaha, my, my, you flatter me. Nice to see you again, Jules! I’m eager to finally try this device every Fontainian is talking about!” replied an excited Furina, making her way into the cozy reception area.
“I’m confident you’ll find it marvelous, my lady! The daguerreotype is destined to be one of humanity’s greatest inventions!” Jules replied hastily, closing the door just as another guest arrived.
“Oh, definitely! You humans have such brilliant ideas! Don’t you think so too, my dear Chief Justice?” asked Furina, turning toward the newcomer.
“Indeed they do, Lady Furina,” Neuvillette answered briefly, offering something that resembled a faint polite smile.
Unaccustomed to being left out of a conversation, Jules promptly cleared his throat.
“In that case—Lady Furina, Monsieur—please, follow me.”
A few steps later, Neuvillette’s deep voice echoed softly through the room.
“Hm. Certain patterns do have a way of persisting. Would this arrangement now be considered a tradition?” he inquired, his calculating eyes already noting the familiar scene: the mahogany stools, the sea of blue hues.
“Oh my! You’re so right! I feel like I’ve traveled two hundred years into the past! Dear Genevieve did such a wonderful job back then, don’t you think?” the Archon replied, already settling gracefully onto her stool.
“Indeed, my lady. Her portrait still hangs among the other distinguished works in the palace exhibition hall,” the judge added, taking his place on his own stool beside her.
Sensing the conversation drifting away from his intention—yet again—the photographer stepped forward to reclaim control.
“Alright, now that you’re all set… let the magic begin! This will only take a few seconds.”
The hydro authorities ceased their chatting and posed.
Unfortunately for Jules, something in the machine refused to cooperate. The daguerreotype did not do its one job.
“Is it done, Jules? My smile is getting rather stiff already,” Furina asked, barely maintaining her pose.
“Just one moment, my lady—I believe I’ve found the issue.”
He hurriedly opened the device’s battery compartment only to discover, with a sinking feeling, that he had forgotten to place the massive batteries inside.
“My apologies—I’ll retrieve something from the storage room just behind this door. We’ll be ready to continue at once.”
After receiving an understanding nod from Lady Furina—and noticing a faintly amused expression on the ever-composed judge’s face—Jules rushed to the side room. In his haste, he didn’t fully close the door, which allowed him to overhear a fragment of the hushed conversation between Fontaine’s two leaders.
“Lady Furina,” Neuvillette began, “might you remind me why we are having our portrait taken here, when the same could have been done at the Palais without any inconvenience? You know well we could have had this… device brought to us with ease”
“But Monsieur! You answered yourself. Taking our portraits at Marcotte Studio is already a deeply rooted tradition.”
Then, in a much softer voice—so soft Jules couldn’t quite make it out—she added,
“Besides… it wouldn’t hurt you to take part in these small human customs… don’t you think?”
Batteries in hand, Jules stepped out of the small room, determined to finally end this fruitless evening.
“Alright, now we’re ready. Hold your poses—yes, just like that!
3… 2… 1… shoot!”
A blinding white flash burst from the machine, nearly dazzling the blue-clad pair.
“Ah! Sweet cakes!” yelped the white-haired lady, hurriedly covering her eyes with her hands.
“Are you alright, Lady Furina?” Neuvillette asked, leaning slightly toward her, attempting to gauge her vision.
Come on, come on… Jules thought, shaking the photograph as fast as his hands allowed.
Have these two always been this social when they’re not in court?
At last—after the Archon had recovered her sight and lowered her hands—the photograph revealed itself.
“Oh my! Look at that—you look astoundingly divine, my lady!” Jules declared cleverly, hoping to capture her attention.
“Really? I must take a peek!” the Archon replied eagerly, unaware of the judge still leaning close to her with a puzzled expression.
Gotcha, Jules thought smugly, shooting a glance at Neuvillette to signal his small triumph.
But to his surprise, the judge wasn’t looking at him.
He wasn’t even looking at the Archon walking past him to reach Jules.
His eyes were closed—nostrils subtly flared—as if he had just caught the scent of the world’s most exquisite fragrance.
Jules, stunned by the rare sight of an expression on the judge’s otherwise unreadable face—something other than irritation—did not notice that the Archon had already taken the photograph from his hands and carried it back toward Neuvillette.
“Neuvillette! Look at this! It’s amazing—it only took like eight minutes!” she exclaimed, pushing the picture right up to the judge’s nose
And just like that, the conversation veered into its own current once more.
At this point, Jules lost any remaining desire to steer it.
Sometimes, the wisest thing one can do is stop swimming against the current in pursuit of a wish—
especially when that wish already has the current on its side.
. . . . . . . . . .
“No way! Come on, Galanopoulo, be serious. Are you really taking Lady Furina’s and Monsieur Neuvillette’s portraits today?” exclaimed an overly excited Gagnepetit.
“I swear to Lady Furina herself! They’ll be here any minute for their classic portrait—and for the Lady’s upcoming opera posters,” replied the pink-haired man.
“Oh, I can’t believe I’m going to miss it,” she lamented, only to perk up with renewed urgency. “By the love of all the Archons, Poulo, you must be my eyes and ears! I know men aren’t always made for gossip, but you have to pay attention and tell me everything. They’re the juiciest story in the whole Court these days—have you noticed?”
“Of course I will, my love. What sort of reporter would I be if I didn’t?” he answered, slipping easily past her accusations.
“That’s what I like to hear. Now then—are you sure you can look after little Lottie for a few hours while I work? Especially now that you’ve told me who’s arriving soon?” she asked, suddenly serious.
Oh oh, they remembered me, thought a very small, very hidden pink-haired girl who had been tucked behind her favorite hiding spot for the last five minutes.
“Oh, she behaves wonderfully. And she’s taken quite a liking to photography. Who knows? Maybe watching her father work with Fontaine’s rulers will inspire her to take my place someday,” he replied, reassuring his wife—who finally left after exchanging quick goodbyes.
“Alright, Lottie, wherever you are, it’s time to—”
But unfortunately for the young father, that was precisely the moment when the two most important figures in the nation stepped elegantly into the studio.
“Greetings, gentleman! Your dearest Archon and Chief Justice have arrived!” declared Lady Furina, sweeping into the room like a gust of bright silk, with the judge’s tall presence following close behind.
Oh! They’re even bluish in person, Charlotte thought, eyes wide as coins.
“Lady Furina! Monsieur Neuvillette! Of course—you are always welcome here! Right this way, please. As you can see, with the new expansions we now have two to three sets ready for different shoots, so we can take both your portraits in the same session,” said Galanopoulo, presenting the studio with a proud sweep of his arm.
“Ahhhh! What a pleasant surprise! Truly an extra slice of joy,” the Archon sang out, settling gracefully on the ever-present mahogany stool.
“Indeed so, Lady Furina. My commendations to you and your family, Monsieur Galanopoulo. Yours is a legacy built upon generations of devoted effort,” agreed the judge, taking his place with composed elegance.
Wooaah… Sitting there surrounded by flowers makes them look exactly like the royals from the story Mom told me last night, Charlotte whispered to herself.
Then the judge’s gaze shifted—directly toward her hiding place.
His eyes seemed to cut through the air like a blade of cold water, pinning her where she crouched. A shiver rushed up her back.
“Eh, Neuvillette? Focus! You’ll end up cross-eyed in the photo, hahaha!” laughed Furina, pulling his attention immediately—and saving Charlotte’s short life.
Poof. That was close, she thought, deciding then and there that every future thought would stay safely inside her head.
Time stretched like taffy for the little girl—twenty minutes, maybe more—until at last the first portraits were finished. Lady Furina disappeared behind a door to change into her next costume.
Charlotte kept her eyes on the judge, just in case he spotted her again. But he didn’t.
His gaze followed the Archon until the very moment she vanished.
Only then did he seem to return to himself and, unfortunately for Charlotte, he seemed to remember the earlier incident perfectly.
“So, Monsieur Galanopoulo, how are your wife and daughter? I’m surprised I haven’t seen them helping you today.”
“Oh, they are perfectly well! Thank you for asking. Gagnepetit was here an hour ago—she wanted to stay and say hello, but she had some errands. And as for my daughter…”
Before her father could expose her entirely, Lady Furina reappeared, as if summoned by Charlotte’s desperation.
And what an entrance she made.
Exactly like the fairy queen from my book, Charlotte gasped inwardly.
Draped in shimmering fabric, adorned with light, she no longer looked like Fontaine’s Archon—
but like a deity a child could only dream into existence.
“I’m not sure what happened, but my wardrobe assistant sent me the wrong costume for today’s shoot. I hope this still works for the session,” she said, cheeks tinged with fluster under the dual scrutiny of the two men—though she had no idea how differently they were perceiving her.
“Oh, that’s perfect, Lady Furina! If anything, this costume will enhance the meaning of the poster. As you can see here, we placed—” began the photographer, diving into his artistic explanation.
But Charlotte was watching someone else.
She watched the judge.
For someone usually pale as moonlight, she never imagined he could turn such a vivid shade of red.
Oh no! Is the judge sick? Why did he cover half his face? Is he going to faint!? she fretted silently.
At last—after another ten-minute eternity—the second session ended.
“Wait just a moment! I’m going to get an envelope to keep your pictures safe,” her father said, vanishing behind a door.
Relieved, Charlotte began to crawl out of her hiding place—her little legs tingling from being cramped so long—when movement caught her eye.
A hushed conversation was happening.
She froze, curious, and stayed just a moment longer. What she saw next would stay in her memory forever.
The stoic, unshakable judge of Fontaine lowered himself onto one knee…
took the Archon’s hand with a reverence few mortals ever witnessed…
and pressed the softest, most delicate kiss onto her skin.
With the flowered set behind them, the moment outshone every photograph her father had captured today.
Recovering from her awe, Charlotte finally slipped out of her hiding spot—missing entirely the way the lady in white softly snatched her hand away, cheeks aflame, muttering a flustered excuse as she fled to change again.
A few minutes later, when only her parents and she remained in the studio, and she could stand at last and stretch her tired legs, she couldn’t help but laugh mischievously when she heard her mother say:
“What!? How come you didn’t see anything?!”
. . . . . . . . . .
“Oh no… this is not going to work.”
Charlotte exclaimed in dismay as she took in the pitiful lighting of the set. “Seriously, is this weather ever going to change? It’s been raining cats and dogs for ages.”
Although her swift rise as a journalist for the Steambird had turned the family business into more of a side job than her main occupation, Charlotte remained determined to preserve the quality her ancestors had worked so hard to achieve. And so, she would have to get creative to salvage this important session, even if the weather refused to cooperate.
Well… I guess I’ll have to use artificial lighting and pray my shooting skills perform a miracle, she thought, quietly dragging a few lamps toward the familiar set.
“Okay! Now that everything is in place, I think I’ve still got a few minutes before the scheduled session,” she added after a quick glance at the clock on the wall, hurrying toward the nearest bathroom. With all this rain, I seriously need to pee.
But for all her haste, when she slipped back into the room, she found someone already there.
A solitary figure stood, silently contemplating a mahogany stool. Not the one positioned proudly at the center of the set, but the one shyly abandoned in a distant corner.
“M–Monsieur Neuvillette! I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to receive you properly,” Charlotte cried, distressed, rushing behind her camera.
“No need to apologize, Miss Charlotte. If anything, I should be the one apologizing for intruding. I… do not quite know what possessed me to do so,” replied the judge, his voice carrying a faint, inexplicable melancholy.
Misreading his posture as disappointment with the state of the set, Charlotte quickly added,
“No, in fact, we at the studio want to apologize for not being able to offer you the traditional setup. As you already know, the weather has been terrible since the day of the prophecy, and because of it, both gathering lakelight lilies and obtaining decent lighting has become nearly impossible.”
With his back still turned to her, Charlotte could not discern whether his silence meant agreement or displeasure. Fearing the latter, she continued,
“However, with the newest daguerreotype update that just came out, and this scenery we managed to recover from one of Lady Furina’s plays, with the right angle we can still get a very good result!”
And finally, as her last-ditch effort, she played her ace: comedy.
“As for the rain… perhaps a vigorous ‘Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, don’t cry!’ might do wonders, don’t you think?”
At that, she finally earned a reaction. The judge lifted his head just slightly, as though returning from some distant place where his thoughts had trapped him.
“There is no need to worry, Miss Charlotte. And… do forgive me for what I’m about to say, but the photograph’s outcome matters very little to me. I am merely fulfilling my duties”
And with nothing more to add, he moved to his position on the set with quiet precision, finally revealing his impassive expression to the young photographer.
“Very well then, sir. I’ll make sure we finish as soon as possible,” Charlotte replied, beginning the session.
Did I say something I wasn’t supposed to?
Why does it sound like the rain just grew even louder…?
. . . . . . . . . .
“Did you get all that?” Charlotte asked. “It’s very important that you remember everything. I’ll be here if you need help, of course, but I’ll also be working on an idea for my next article.”
“I think so, Miss Charlotte! I promise I won’t disappoint you!” replied Bastien, the young photography assistant soon to become the studio’s next head photographer.
It had already been a full year since the prophecy, though Charlotte still remembered the months that followed as vividly as if they had just passed.
Back then, the rains had refused to stop; for three relentless months the skies wept over Fontaine without rest.
Only when the storm finally broke did the nation regain its rhythm—
but by then, nearly half a year of work had piled up upon her shoulders.
Even now, one year later, she was still feeling the weight of that backlog.
Between her growing career at the Steambird and the ever-accumulating demands of the family studio, she had no choice but to hire a few art-loving amateurs and shape them into professionals who could one day cover for her without ever tarnishing her family’s name.
“Well then,” she continued, “our guests should arrive at any moment. I’ll be right behind you, monitoring everything from here.”
She tapped the polarized window of the small storage room behind her. “If something goes wrong, you can slip in and ask for help without them noticing.”
Hiding from the very same guests again… how nostalgic, Charlotte mused with a quiet laugh.
“Right… though, by the way, why do we even have that window?” Bastien asked. It had always puzzled him since his first day here, but between nerves and a lack of free time, he had forgotten to ask—until now.
“Oh, well I—”
Her answer was abruptly cut short by the sound of the reception door opening.
“Oh shoot! Bastien, hurry and receive them!”
Without looking back to confirm that his boss was safely hidden, Bastien rushed to the entrance—and was met with a familiar sight in the reception room.
“Lady Furina! It’s such an honor to finally have you here again!” he greeted enthusiastically, shaking her hands with excited energy. “It’s wonderful to meet you! My name is Bastien!”
“Oh! Hello to you too, Bastien! Lovely to meet you as well!” replied Furina, slightly startled by such warm reception—something she had not grown used to after that incident.
“And what a beautiful dress you’re wearing today! Absolutely perfect for the shoot!”
Despite the increasingly frequent sight of Fontaine’s star actress outside her iconic costume, her impeccable fashion sense never failed to dazzle her audience.
“Thank you so much! Chiori recommended it! You should definitely check out her new collection,” Furina chimed brightly.
“Although—by any chance, do you have somewhere I can leave my purse and jacket? I don’t think they’d look very elegant in the pictures.”
“Ah, of course! Right this way,” Bastien said, guiding her swiftly. “You can set your things down right he—Miss Furina?”
Furina had frozen in the doorway, her expression suspended between surprise and something deeper.
For there, as if untouched by the years, stood the two mahogany stools side by side—rooted in a radiant field of lakelight lilies. Layers of new silks and iridescent fabrics draped the scene, painted in a thousand shades of blue, all bathed in generous sunlight that was almost permanent now in Fontaine.
Understanding her astonishment, Bastien quickly added, “Oh? Didn’t you know, Miss Furina? Monsieur Neuvillette specifically requested this set for today’s session.”
But then, as if remembering something crucial, he blinked, startled.
“Holy blubberbeasts—that’s right! Miss Furina, where’s the Chief Justice? I thought you two were set to arrive together.”
Furina took a soft breath, touched a hand to her lips, and let out a small, private laugh.
“Of course he did… He should be here any moment! If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to freshen up for just a second.”
Still confused by her reaction, Bastien simply nodded and watched her glide toward the small bathroom.
Half a heartbeat later, the door to the studio opened again—and the sole ruler of Fontaine stepped in, as if awaiting an invisible cue. In his hands, he carried a small box of pastries.
“Good evening. I hope I have not kept you waiting.”
“Evening, Monsieur! Not at all. Miss Furina mentioned you’d be here any second. You can place your things just over here.”
So far, he’s doing great, Charlotte noted from behind the glass, watching Bastien exit to prepare tea as Neuvillette took a seat on one of the stools.
Then the bathroom door swung open, and Furina returned—eyes brighter, posture lighter. And upon seeing the newly arrived judge sitting alone, she moved toward him in quick, silent steps.
“Well, well… look who’s here,” she chimed playfully.
She leaned beside him and, like an affectionate cat, heartily but briefly nuzzled the tip of her pointed nose against his left cheek before taking her place on the stool next to him.
“Did you manage to get them?”
From behind the polarization, a flustered open-mouthed Charlotte watched the judge answer her softly, pointing at the pastries as though he had sensed her approaching long before she spoke—accustomed, it seemed, to such tender greetings.
Due to the judge’s position, watching them appear together in public had always turned into a quiet guessing game, a soft intrigue of whether their resumed but modest closeness was an unspoken truth or simply imagined.
Yet it seemed that such restraint belonged only to the Court, for once the doors closed, the truth seemed to move with far less hesitation.
“Order up!” Bastien announced, reentering with a steaming cup of sweet tea for the lady and a glass of clear water for the judge.
A few artistic adjustments later, the photoshoot began.
Unlike every year before, these photographs were not destined for palatial halls or public scrutiny.
They were a private request—from the subjects themselves.
And so their poses, their expressions, even the air between them felt far more natural, unrestrained, undeniably intimate.
By the final photograph, neither occupied their original positions.
Neuvillette now sat on the stool Furina had begun on, his torso angled halfway toward the camera, while she stood beside him, leaning in, having abandoned the second stool entirely. Both looking straight to the camera yet their faces were only centimeters apart.
“All right! One last time—one, two, and—”
At the final second, the judge turned his head toward her and whispered something—
something that made Furina let out a bubbling burst of laughter.
“—three!”
They tried to regain their composure in the split second after the flash, but the moment had already been immortalized.
“Dear Archons! This might be the best one yet! You have to see it!” Bastien exclaimed, thrilled.
And then, as if no longer capable of restraining himself, the judge leaned in and placed a firm, fleeting kiss on her cheek before rising to gather their things.
The white-haired woman, entirely unphased, simply giggled softly and hurried to admire the result—leaving poor Bastien temporarily frozen.
“Oh my! You really do have a wonderful eye and perfect timing, Bastien! These look incredible!”
“Thank you! Of course! I learned from the best!” he beamed, finally recovering. “Now then—if you’d like, you may wait right outside in our lounge. Once they’re printed, I’ll place them in an envelope so you can take them home.”
The moment the couple disappeared from view, Bastien rushed into the storage room.
“Boss, did you see—”
“Well done, Bastien! Truly, not only did you excel in every task but—”
“Boss.”
“—you remained perfectly professional even with Fontaine’s greatest gossip unfolding right before your—”
“BOSS.”
Charlotte blinked.
“…What?”
“I think I found the idea you were looking for. When she arrived, I stretched her hands and…”
He took a breath, then whispered:
“She had a ring on her finger.”
. . . . . . . . . .
“So, Bastian, do tell—how was your wedding?” asked Charlotte as she adjusted a stool, casting a knowing glance toward the head photographer behind the camera. The two of them waited for the final clients of the day.
“Breathtaking, Lottie. I would’ve never guessed Sumeru’s desert could look that beautiful at night. Juliette sends her greetings, by the way. She was sad you couldn’t join us,” replied the blond with an easy smile.
“I know! I would’ve loved to go! But it ended up colliding with the closing arguments of the case I was covering, and getting away became impossible,” sighed the pink-haired young woman. Then, brightening, she added, “But tell you what—what if you two join us for an exceptional dinner at Hotel Debort? Our treat! After all, we should also celebrate working side by side again.”
“You’re absolutely right! And with the same clients, no less! How long has it been? Six years?” mused Bastian, suddenly thoughtful. “Wait—did you say we? Are you talking about—?”
Before he could finish, the door swung open and a little girl with long white hair, with two very familiar blue strands, trotted inside. Her sweet giggles died the moment she realized she’d wandered into a new and unfamiliar room.
Biting back a laugh and immediately recognizing the toddler, Charlotte approached the suddenly frozen child.
“Well hello there, darling! Don’t tell me—you came in all by yourself?”
At the question, the little one lifted her gaze, her deep navy-blue tear eyes meeting Charlotte’s. With a mischievous smile, she shook her head.
Ah… you truly are the perfect little mirror of your fa— Charlotte began to think, just as the subject of that thought stepped in.
“Erin! How many times have I told you not to charge into rooms?” the judge scolded gently. “My apologies, Charlotte, Bastian—she seems to have picked up certain habits.” With practiced ease, he gathered his daughter into one arm. In response to her reprimand, the child only vigorously nuzzled her tiny nose against his cheek.
“Oh, I see exactly who she learned it from,” Charlotte teased softly, watching him turn his gaze toward the center of the room.
At last, the studio’s now-iconic set revealed its newest, permanent addition. The two mahogany stools—at least four centuries old, if Charlotte’s memory served—stood surrounded by fresh lakelight lilies and layers of blue fabrics. And between them, crafted with meticulous care, rested a tiny stool: a perfect miniature of the others, made for the little girl who now owned it.
“Greetings everyone! Sorry for the del—”
The familiar, bright voice was cut short as its owner also appeared in the doorway. Furina stood there, perfectly still, with small baby Ines half-asleep in her arms, her expression caught somewhere between surprise and nostalgia.
“Good evening, Furina! Is everything alright?” asked Charlotte, trying to decipher the reason behind her friend’s sudden stillness. After all this time… could it be that—
“…Are you nervous?”
At the question, the delicate temporal bubble Furina had slipped into finally burst. With a soft, wistful smile she answered, “Oh, it’s nothing. You just… reminded me of someone I met a very long time ago.”
My first real friend, she added silently to herself.
“Well now, enough greetings!” Bastien cut in with playful dramatics, taking pity on Furina’s tiny male copy nestled in the artist’s arms, whose eyelids drooped lower with every passing second, as if the dream-world were pulling him closer than the waking one. “Let’s hurry before the little one falls asleep!”
And so, the precious family made their way towards the set
The same set that waited for them like an old friend, quietly gathering the shapes of the people they had become.
After all, nothing in the room had truly changed:
the wooden stools, the soft lilies, the blue drifting like slow water…
And yet, standing there, they had.
For the world watches differently
through borrowed eyes…
seeing the moment their stories finally settle into one.