Rubbing his eyes gently, he let out a yawn, trying to shake off the last of his sleep before the day ahead caught up with him. He got up, slid his feet into his slippers, and headed straight for the bathroom, where he scrubbed himself clean from head to toe.
After his bath, he dressed in his usual clothes, straightening his coat and setting his top hat in place as he checked his reflection in the mirror. He tucked the address into his coat, eager to begin his search.
I'll head there today. Maybe if I actually land the job, it'll give me something to focus on while I dig into all this.
Straightening his bed, he lifted the edge of the mattress to check that his note was still there. Instead, he found a surprise waiting for him.
He searched everywhere, but the paper was nowhere to be found — and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead, chilling his skin as though the blood in his veins had frozen solid.
Racking his memory, he tried desperately to recall exactly where he'd left it, but to his growing frustration, nothing came.
How could I have lost something so important? They could figure me out because of this.
His thoughts jumped to his sister — she was the most likely one to have it. Without hesitation, he crossed the hall at a brisk pace toward Helena's room.
Knock knock.
"Who is it?"
"It's me — your brother."
Helena opened the door without a second's delay; one glance was all it took for her to read the strain written across her brother's face, the deep unease gripping him.
"Are you feeling sick again? Is it that mushroom you ate yesterday?"
He froze for a moment, caught off guard, before answering with a slow, measured breath.
"A little, yeah — that's why I came home without waiting for you yesterday, sorry about that. But that's not why I'm here. It's about the paper I had last night. Do you have it?"
At his words, the tension in Helena's face gave way to open curiosity, a sharp contrast to the obvious worry etched into her brother's. She opened her nightstand drawer and pulled out the page, dense with intricate Japanese characters; not understanding a single stroke of it, or the urgency behind her brother's question, she unfolded it right in front of him.
"What is this? Some kind of strange symbol system? A hidden code? Do you have a girlfriend?"
Gripped by a sharp jolt of nerves, Alphard found himself forced to improvise an excuse on the spot — something believable enough to put his sister's doubts to rest without leaving even the smallest crack of suspicion.
"No, I don't have a girlfriend. Those are just some random drawings I made up. Nothing more."
Unconvinced, Helena caught the truth anyway, reading it in the way her brother spoke, the small tells in his expressions and movements. That, and the way he hadn't quite stopped trembling, however subtly, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
Alphard tried to mask just how nervous and afraid he really was, and while he managed brief moments of calm that didn't look overly worried, it was clear he couldn't hide his feelings completely.
"I'm not hiding anything. Actually — it's a love letter. For the girl at the bakery."
Surprised, Helena couldn't help the wave of pure joy that swept over her at those words. For a long time now, she'd assumed he simply wasn't interested in that sort of thing — which made this all the more delightful to hear.
"Really? Then why the strange drawings?"
"It's a language I made up myself. A way to keep it just between me and myself, really — I was working out the letter this way before actually writing it out properly in Saint-Cyrois."
Her excitement, bright as it had been at first, didn't last long before caution crept back in. The warmth in her smile faded gradually, settling back into that same analytical seriousness, her eyes tracking Alphard's every movement with fresh suspicion.
"It's true the baker's girl lights up whenever she sees you. Still, I don't understand any of this — you'll have to teach me your made-up language, or I'm not giving this back."
"I really can't teach it to you — it's far too complicated. Please, just give the paper back now."
Ignoring his insistence entirely, Helena tucked the note into a small box she pulled from her wardrobe and locked it shut with a key from her nightstand.
With no other option left, Alphard grumbled his frustration and, in the end, agreed to teach her his invented language, sending Helena into a small fit of excitement. Still, she refused to hand the note back — not until she'd managed to decode it herself.
This is exhausting. I should just write another one. Still — it's not the worst idea, teaching this to someone, in case I ever actually need it.
Settling his top hat into place with a precise adjustment of the brim, he brushed off his lapels with two sharp pats, clearing away the last traces of dust. Standing tall, his elegance fully restored, he crossed out of the room.
Saying his goodbyes to his sister, Alphard left the house in search of the address tucked safely in his coat.
He set off toward the Moulin District with a feverish, purposeful stride, driven by a quiet urgency that gave him no rest.
As he left behind the tidy, sober streets of the Bercy District, the landscape began to shift around him. Stone façades gave way to narrower, chipped apartment buildings, their windows draped with sheets hung out to dry in the morning sun.
The smooth pavement gave way to uneven cobblestone, worn rough by the constant grind of heavy freight carriages. Alphard quickened his pace as he crossed the invisible line into Moulin — a tangle of dim alleyways, modest taverns, and workshops whose hammering nearly swallowed the sound of his own footsteps.
The distance between Bercy and Moulin seemed measured less in blocks than in the rhythm of the street itself. Around him, street vendors and cap-wearing laborers cleared a path as they called out, hawking their wares.
It wasn't so different from Bercy's main square, really — just noticeably rougher around the edges, less orderly. Humble, but not beaten down by poverty.
More than one curious glance landed on Alphard's top hat, but he didn't slow his pace, weaving around children playing in the road as he pushed deeper into the heart of Moulin.
Moulin wasn't without its own character. It carried an imperfect, warm charm that the bourgeoisie could never quite manage — a sobriety built from daily labor, where lace curtains still hung spotless in the windows despite the roughness of the street outside.
Stopping in front of a house, he didn't hesitate to approach an old man who looked friendly enough. He sat in a chair with one leg crossed over the other, holding the day's thick newspaper in both hands.
"Excuse me, sir — could you tell me where to find Rue Valrose?"
The old man shot him a quick sideways glance, narrowing his eyes and drawing his brows into an unmistakable scowl. He folded the newspaper he'd been holding without ever looking away.
"You shouldn't be here, you damn bourgeois."
At the old man's reaction, Alphard weighed for a moment whether to walk away or try to win him over. Still, part of him welcomed the chance to meet more people, to understand this world a little better, so as not to stand out so obviously.
"Sorry to bother you — I've only come here looking for work."
The old man let out a mocking scoff and stepped closer, his brow creased with irritation. He studied Alphard with sharp, furious eyes, caught somewhere between rage and pure disbelief at what he'd just heard.
"Damn it, don't play stupid with me. You're just here to collect, aren't you — same as every other one of you filthy bourgeois."
Under the weight of the old man's insults, Alphard felt the strain building, but not once did he feel the urge to walk away — if anything, the closer he stayed to the old man, the more he wanted to press on.
Be patient. There might be more to learn here.
Alphard opened his mouth to respond, but the old man cut him off, scanning him head to toe with sharp, probing eyes. Then, just as suddenly, every trace of anger vanished from his face, as if it had never been there at all, and he asked, with a note of indifference, what his name was.
"My name is Alphard Quinn Aurelius. Of the Quinn family."