The Zeitgeist of
Andolina Foucault

A domineeringly tall, stocky figure in a burgundy robe slowly entered his atelier, a bedroom with a desk at the opposite end. A slight wheeze was on his breath as he sat down and opened a sealed letter in his large hands. He pulled out the contents therein, and slowly chronicled through the obscure scientific findings relayed to him by a close colleague. The man retrieved a blank piece of parchment paper and began to write a short thank-you. He signed the letter "Samuel J. Claus", folded it in thirds, and placed it in a return envelope.

Samuel reached inside a nearby desk drawer and retrieved one of three rings, and dropped a bit of hot wax upon the envelope. He meekly flattened the wax with the ring, forming a red seal of him and his daughter. As he signed the front of the envelope with some far-away location in the foreign land of Dresden, the man pushed his wire-framed glasses further up his nose. He struggled to stand up, coughed, and yawned loudly as he left the bedroom and headed downstairs, letter in hand.

Stroking his puffy, silver beard, Mr. Claus looked out of the living room window onto the streets. "'Tis a miserable day in this town... as always.", he remarked, as the unseasonably late rain continued it's fourth hour of incessantly drizzling whatever persons were so unfortunate as to be outside. The man painfully cracked his back and walked over to a nightstand, where his daughter had placed a plate of cookies, brownies, cakes, and other confections so generously gifted by an associate of his.

Claus took the plate and shuffled over to a recliner, where a newspaper had already been placed upon it's seat. He picked up the broadsheet and inspected it. The words "The Vastille Review" were emblazoned on top, followed by a number of articles written by old friends of his. He seemed to worry a little as he eyed through the headline article, which was another scathing expose about the reigning Lord of this land. "Pfeh... I told that woman to not be so... candid with her opinions... about the local government...", Claus weakly mused to himself, as he sat down on the chair.

The chair creaked as Samuel let it take his weight. The pain of hundreds of years of charitable work dulled as the padding of the seat cushioned his aching back. His stamina waning, he took a cookie from the assortment on his lap, and slowly bit into it. A subtle hint of almond gave way to sugar and chocolate as he chewed the cookie. As he began to relax, the front door to Mr. Claus's apartment opened, filling the room with the sound of rain. A fairly petite figure entered the living room and loudly slammed the door behind her, prompting Claus to turn his head.

The man saw a girl with long, auburn hair drop a deflated sack on the ground. She looked rather short, or at least she did compared to her father. She removed a reddish-pink raincoat from her body, and inelegantly hung it up on a coat rack behind her. "Father, the orphanage from down the lane was... quite pleased with our gifts.", she reported, taking off her boots. Claus placed the plate of confections on the seat next to him, and stood up to greet her, newspaper in his hands.

"Thank you again, Audrey.", he said to the girl, trying to bend down in order to embrace her. He immediately shot straight up, his head almost making contact with the ceiling. Audrey immediately stepped back and winced. "Oh my word.... That's.... well, that's the least I can do.", her father admitted, coughing slightly. His daughter looked rather concerned for him, as he rubbed his spine. Samuel cleared his throat and, in a raspy voice, announced, "Audrey... this year's ride... I might need you to come along with me."

Audrey nervously looked about the room, like a cornered animal looking for an escape route. "R-r-really? So, so soon?", she stuttered out, her still-gloved hands tapping against each other. "For what reason?" "It's, er.... well. It's nothing.", Samuel decreed, trying to maintain a facade of strength for Audrey. "I saw... a doctor from Oberhausen. He did a house call.", her father admits. "I didn't want you to worry, but I did it while you were away."

Audrey's timid expression quickly melts away, turning into a slight bit of anger as she glared at Claus crossly. "What was the malady?", she asked her father. He hesitated, responding solemnly, "It appears... I... have been diagnosed with... pneumonia." Audrey put her hands to her face and gasped. "And only... a short ten days away from Rosamesse.", he continued, his voice growing weary. "Now, as you know---" "Rosemasse will have to be postponed, I suppose.", his daughter presumed.

Claus's large and work-hardened hands slammed against a nearby table as the man shouted his disapproval rather loudly. Audrey's back hit against the door of the apartment. "If the children are let down, then their hope will dissolve.", he fruitlessly explained to the girl, and continued, "The children of this country are our future!" Audrey's face betrayed her growing fright, as she stumbled out, "I-I... I meant only until you're b-better!"

Claus stared down his daughter with an incredibly stern expression. "Listen, Audrey...", he uttered, trying to collect his frazzled thoughts. "There are... many things I've... grown to accept from you. But..." His voice grew louder as memories of the past haunted him. "But... but... the one thing I will not tolerate, under no circumstances, is a willingness to abdicate your duties as a Claus!", Samuel exclaimed. Audrey recalled an oath of charity she had once taken, as her father admitted, "You're... you're the only one I have left."

Claus's bit of outrage was tempered as he went into a coughing fit. His hands shook, and the broadsheet in his hands fell onto the floor. Audrey immediately rushed to her father's aid, grabbing his arm desperately. "Father, you are unwell. Please... If you succumb now, you'll never make it to the next Rosamesse!", his daughter urged. Claus continued to spew centuries-old mucus from his lungs as he banged on his chest. As his coughing fit died down, he solemnly remarked, "I do not... intend to."

As Samuel slowly recovered, he bent down and picked up the newspaper off the floor, which was now just a tad damp. "There's one other thing troubling me right now, however.", he confessed, as his eyes glanced column after column of scarcely-legal political critique. Audrey looked at her father with a hint of consternation. "...You may as well tell me about it.", she offered, arms folded and a dismissive air about her.

"It's that rambunctious Mrs. Foucault...", Claus admitted, as his eyes stopped on a particularly defaming accusation. "She keeps defiling Robespierre's name, as if... as if she enjoys being an upstart.", he realized, before turning the paper around and pointing at a particular article for Audrey to see. The girl began to read the newspaper, her face turning red. "She... uh, oh my....", she stammered out in surprise. Claus cleared his throat. "She claimed the local Seminary is a... a cover for a brothel!", he shouted out.

"It's not... I'm not saying Andolina's heart isn't... isn't in the right place...", Samuel confessed, as Audrey continued to read through a rather detailed list of accusations levied against an institution she's yet to hear of. "...but, I mean... Robespierre is not someone to be trifled with. He could easily have her taken away for such words!" He turned the newspaper around and looked at the leader. "Thank the gods she uses a pen name. Archimedes R. Samael...", he read off, followed by a rather nervous chuckling.

"If such words are forbidden...", Audrey wondered, "...perhaps we shouldn't be reading them, then?" Samuel sighed as he recalled an old memory from a gentler time. "It's... well... I feel... I don't know what it is, but... Andolina, she... she reminds me of a... a daughter I never had, of sorts.", he tried to explain. Audrey looked a little confused, and possibly also jealous. "She... she's someone that could have been your sister.", he confessed, before bending down to Audrey's height and hugging her.

"Right now, you are the most precious person to me.", Claus whispered into her ear. He felt Audrey relax, and withdrew slightly. "If it wasn't for... these troubling circumstances, then perhaps I would not have to conscript you to... help out in these troubling times.", he apologized. Audrey sighed and smiled at her father, who stared back at her, concerned. "I fear for your future, as well.", Samuel admitted, referring back to the accusations in the newspaper. "The last thing I'd want for you... is to see you indoctrinated into that accursed Seminary."

"Heavens, no... Perish the thought!", Audrey responded, her head shaking. Samuel grew increasingly forelorn as he recalled a bitter memory. "It's all about these... 'Crown Maidens', as the scholars call them.", Samuel explained, his hand spinning around. "Women haunted by apparitions induced by opiates, one could only assume.", he ranted. Audrey meekly raised her hand. "B-But, supposedly... they've disproven such explanations for such things!", she reminded her father.

"Indeed.", Claus facetiously admitted, as he lowered his hand. "And, if word travels quickly of our... relation to the Vastille Review....", he forewarned, his voice growing deep and wary. "Then we could very well find ourselves in a situation... a situation where we would no longer be able to remain safely in this humble town." "Silence the thought!", his daughter interjected, as her hands gestured about. "We'd have to move out of Chauvigny. Though, I hear Oberhausen is a beautiful place to live...", she remarked.

"Oberhausen's Lord isn't exactly an accommodating individual.", Samuel sternly replied, recalling on his experiences. "Jean-Jeaques Saurel is a... highly prolific investment banker, tied up in contracts with other lords. And, of course, known to be loyal to most of Rosalia's Lords." He sighed in despair and began to walk towards his recliner. "Hmm...", Audrey thought, following her father before asking, "Then, what of Dresden?" Claus pondered to himself for a moment. "Dresden... Dresden..."

"By jove, ol' Berthold!", the aging man exclaimed, raising his finger in the air. "Surely he can offer us some sort of political sanctuary, if it came to that!" Audrey looked blankly at Claus. "I mean, he is Andolina's father, after all, though....", Samuel lamented, "his advanced age leads us to assume he may not be holding his Lordship for very long." Audrey nodded in understanding, adding, "I've heard that he's confined to his estate now... but, we should consider this an option, should things change."

The recliner creaked as Claus laid down in it. "Hmm, well...", he explained, as he reached over to the seat he placed the plate of confections upon. "Back in the day, he used to be a close associate of Robespierre, but... I've heard that something unfortunate happened between the two of them." He inserted a brownie into his mouth and chewed it vigorously. "He's also... not as prolific as he once was, but...", he continued, trailing off. "But, if we have no choice, then we have to consider his natural sense of empathy as a valued asset in times of need."

Claus shook his head, spewing crumbs of brownie about as he said, "But... we can discuss this after Rosamesse preparations." He swallowed and continued, "For you see, my beloved Audrey, you shall go on your first ride.", he declared. Her eyes flared up with wonder as she imagined touring all of Chauvigny. "I will mentor you, guide you, and teach you everything I know... so that, one day, you too may take on the role of 'Santa Claus, the Charitable'."

"That sounds... incredibly scintillating!", Audrey exclaimed. "But... how long do we have left for you to teach me?", she inquired. "It will take some time, but I don't expect miracles for this first journey.", he warned her. "Just remember to take it slow, and to also... not neglect your appetite." He grabbed another cookie off of the plate resting on his lap. "I bring a... small bag of confections to keep my stomach satisfied through the night.", Samuel stated, laughing as he took a bite out of the cookie.

---

Theodore Rancourt stared impatiently at the scrawny-bearded, overly-dressed, tan-skinned Dubalian man in front of him. His rather spiffy red suit, complete with a golden collar, buttons, and borders, gave off an air of upper-class opulence. In contrast, his beard was short and frizzy, and his face was rather haggard. His suit sleeves barely reached the elbows of his freakishly long arms. If it wasn't for his oddly conflicted appearance, Theodore would have assumed he was an emissary of some kind.

The shopkeep winced as the man shook a rather precious-looking glass elephant in his hands. "Just... Just gimme it fer... how... how 'bout you come down ten, and...", the haggler said, as he almost lost his balance. Theodore grabbed the stranger by his shoulder before he could collide with a large and impressively expensive display of imported dinnerware. "Look, er...", he stumbled, as he tried to remember the epithet this unusually dandy foreigner had somehow assigned himself. "Pierre, was it?", he asked.

His client, if you could call him that, burped loudly in response, and Theodore stepped back just a pace. "I know you Dubalian lot prefer to go through this... this whole system of haggling and bartering, but...", he tried to politely explain, as he grabbed at the ornament still clutched in Pierre's hands and pried it from his fingers. As Pierre blindly groped for the glass elephant, Theodore lost his patience, and shouted, "I can't just... shave ten whole ril off of something that's only fifteen!" "But, I'm tellin 'ya.... she's beautiful, an....", Pierre talked over the shopkeep, before shouting, "What?!"

Theodore, unfazed by Pierre's lack of awareness, pointed to a wallet half-jammed in his coat pocket. "Look, I saw those other bills in your wallet.", he accused the foreigner. He caught a whiff of something oddly fragrant, and began to sniff the man. "You also smell of wine.", he accused, now glaring at the wine-bibber with utter contempt. Pierre responded with a similarly cross look. "I'm... I'm sorry, but that piece... it's not worth fifteen, no matter hhhow much you wanna mark it up!", he shouted, pointing just to the right of the shopkeep.

"And yet you clearly have enough money to pay me with!", Theodore shouted in return. Pierre stepped back and gestured with his arms. "Fine! I'll go... elsewhere!", he shouted, before making a rude gesture most people in Chauvigny wouldn't know of. He turned away from the shopkeep and headed towards the door. "You Dubalian men are certainly a rude bunch!", he mused. "And... rrRosalians, aye... scam artists, the lot!", Pierre retorted, nearly touching the ceiling as he raised his finger into the air.

"You're damn lucky that you're the brother of Jonathan, otherwise I'd be calling the authorities on you!", the shopkeeper threatened. Pierre paused and turned around, as Theodore continued to taunt. "You're nothing but a local drunk who thinks he's hot shit because he happens to live with the Irvings!", he shouted, rubbing his chin smugly as Pierre glared at him. "Yes, indeed... you lowly Dubalian men are so pathetic that your household has a...", he started off again, stopping as he uncontrollably smirked to himself. "A... A... A matriarch!"

"Oh, Ihh... forgot!", Pierre said as sarcastically as his accent and inebriation would allow, his anger turning to bemusement. "Rosalian men hhhave never experienced the scorn of a proper Long-Armed woman!", he shouted, his arms flying into the air, rapping against the glass of a firmly-secured display case for some fancy tea set. "M..maybe if the women of Rosalia were as tough... as... those in my country, you'd be... singing a different tune!"

Theodore's face scrunched up like a paper ball, as he reached behind him for a brass paperweight at his desk. He threw it at Pierre as retaliation, as he shouted, "Get the fuck out of my shop, 'ya lazy drunk!" The blunt weapon struck Pierre on his elbow, leaving a bruise in exchange for the damage to Theodore's pride. The foreigner winced, cradling his flesh as he moaned in pain. "Yer' a pathetic excuse for a proper man!", Theodore continued, as Pierre stumbled to the door and pushed it open. "That's right! Go and get that taken care of, now!"

The doors to the Vastille Home & Variety Shoppe violently opened as Pierre stumbled out onto the concrete, nearly bumping into another drunkard. He stood up as best as he could and continued to stumble down something his brother called "Orvet Avenue". It was bustling with all manner of people Pierre would describe as "mundane-looking", if not outright "boring", compared to that which the man had encountered in the Haelands. There were no many-armed men to irk him, nor many-armed women... or scarcely any women, to Pierre's chagrin.

Pierre bumbled into a businessman, brushing against his simple black surcoat and his neatly pocketed frills. The man kept his stance and sneered at Pierre, smelling the pungent, overpowering odor of alcohol and cologne stuck to his hair and clothes. He pushed Pierre away, inadvertently toward another cleanly-cropped, bearded man sitting at a table. As this man thumbed through the day's stock quotes, he looked up for the briefest moment and glimpsed the oncoming brute quickly approaching him.

As he lifted his hand to try and stop the drunkard, the daytrader's cigar haphazardly fell out of his mouth. It bounced off of his beard, and onto Pierre's, singing it a little before it landed on the table. The daytrader sneered at Pierre and put the cigar back into his mouth. Pierre stepped backwards and nearly tripped over another drunkard, who looked rather cross and threw his bottle at him, narrowly missing and landing on some stonemason's head. Pierre continued to stumble down the avenue as the stonemason grabbed the drunkard by the neck and decked him.

Pierre's usual place of living for the past ten years had been in a far-off slum, rather south of Chauvigny and deep within Dubalia. For him, anywhere else was a far better place, or maybe that was the wine talking. He continued to meander down the road as he collided directly into a petite woman with a curvaceous figure and large bosom that he had scarcely noticed. As they made contact, they bounced back like two billiard balls, and almost fell over.

Pierre stood as straight as he could and stared at the escort's face, noting her curled blonde hair and heavy make-up. She was a bit shorter than him, but not by much. She smelled "nice", for lack of a better term - if he wasn't drunk, he might have even called it lavender. The stumbling, long-armed man had it in his mind that Chauvigny's women preferred the exoticism of Dubalian men. The escort, on the other hand, recognized Pierre as looking quite similar to a certain man who lived a short walk down Rocaille Lane.

"Oh, such... wide reach you have...", she moaned, as Pierre's gangly arms almost instinctively tried to wrap around her, bumping against her waist. She smelled the scent of fine wine on his person, and noted the wallet half-dangling out of his coat pocket. "My my... you long-armed men are... so tan...", she pretended to admire, giggling in a rather practiced manner. "Oh, uhhh, well...", Pierre stammered out, as the escort smiled at him, just a pinch. "And hardy drinkers, too.", she observed.

"Ech!", Pierre yelped out, growing concerned at the sudden attention that had befell him. Despite fancying himself as a ladies' man, his actual encounters in the bedroom were few and far between. He tried to regain his composure, and mumbled out, "Hhhow... could you tell?! I thhhought I had used... enough cologne..." The strumpet pointed to a slightly-reddened splotch upon the gold bordering of Pierre's coat, and in her most intimate voice, said, "Oh my, you haven't noticed the splotch of fresh riesling on your coat, have you?"

Pierre looked down at his jacket and began to stutter. "I, uh, er.... I guess... I must hhhave spilled a little...", he said, before belching directly into the woman's face. He looked down at his coat, lost his balance, and almost fell down. The escort quickly grabbed his shoulder, and began to blot out the wet spot on Pierre's coat with a handkerchief. She began to think about how easy it was to quickly tease noblemen, especially when they were drunk, and started moving her hand down, far down past anywhere wine could have possibly spilled.

"Oh my... you need to properly dry yourself, before you go out gallavanting, dear...", the escort reminded him, as her handkerchief began pressing below Pierre's belt. "Th-thhhanks, yes!", Pierre shouted in surprise, shuttering. "T-Thanks! Yes! Yes, of course, I shhhould... definitely do that." He paused, stuck on some question, as Sophia checked for the tell-tale sign of an aroused customer before standing back up. Pierre immediately realized something, and asked, "Hey, uh... er... what's yer... yer name?"

The escort smirked in an incredibly rehearsed way before stating, "Oh, it's just... Sophia." She began to rub Pierre's shoulder in the same way a loving girlfriend might. "Would you... like to continue on drinking? I... I know a... few places...", she offered, trailing off in her usual sing-song manner. "Shhhhure.", the overdressed mark slurred out in response. "It couldn't hurt." Sophia pointed in the direction of a nearby pub, moved her arm off of him, and ushered Pierre down the street.

An intense feeling of pain pierced Pierre's thick armor of intoxication, as a familiar, firm slap met with his cheek. An ever more familiar, firm voice shouted, in the loudest tones a woman could muster, "Just what on earth do you think you are doing?!" Pierre rubbed his cheek, still not entirely able to recognize who had just attacked him. Sophia blinked, dumbfounded, as she turned around to see a woman half a foot taller than her scolding Pierre. She immediately recognized his assailant as one Andolina Foucault-Irving.

The matriarch of the Irving household had a face red with anger, which contrasted well with her dark-blue, notched, single-breasted suit and matching pants. Her long brown hair slid off of her shoulders and onto Pierre. "Just what on earth do you think you're doing!", Andolina shouted at him. If he wasn't drunk, he might have felt the spit landing on his face, or recognized the person who had just hit him. "E-Errr...", Sophia tried to interrupt, in a rather ordinary tone of voice.

"How dare you?", Andolina accused, as she turned her head towards Sophia and glared at her with a flustered, reddened face. She approached Sophia, who felt intimidated by her height. "You know that he's a gullible oaf!", she continued, as Sophia wondered what kind of relationship the Irving man had with his wife. She meekly put away her handkerchief as Andolina stared her down. "I've seen you before, loitering on my property!", she continued to accost.

"L-Listen, miss...", Sophia tried to explain. "I... apologize if our behaviors in public have..." "That's not the point!", Andolina shouted, shaking her head in disapproval as she pointed her hand at Sophia repeatedly. "A woman shouldn't be trying to do such things in order to scrape out a quick buck.", she declared. Pierre recognized this tone of voice, and drunkenly whispered, "Oh... it's... M-Miss Foucault... I... I'm sorry, Sssshophia, I... I guess I have to go...", he apologetically remarked to the escort.

Andolina turned around and grabbed Pierre by the collar. "And you!", she screamed, as she lifted him off the ground slightly. "You were supposed to be out... fetching parchment!" She caught a whiff of Pierre's breath as she breathed in. "And... you smell like a brewery!", the matriarch disgustedly complained, before noting the wallet half-inserted into his coat pocket, which she took from him. She glanced into it's contents. "Where's the allowance I gave you for our paper, huh?!", she demanded.

Pierre fumbled around in his pocket as Sophia stared at him with disbelieving, widened eyes. His hands emerged with a roll of toilet paper, which he presented to Andolina. She, too, responded with a devil's glare from her bloodshot eyes. "Th... that's what... y-you wanted, rrright?", Pierre asked her. Andolina smacked the toilet paper out of his hand. "I said a roll of printing paper! This is toilet paper! What am I supposed to do with this, other than wipe my ass?", she complained.

Sophia grew rather angry as she put things together. "Y-You mean he's just a penniless bum!?", she asked Andolina, who turned and nodded. Sophia grit her teeth and slapped Pierre even harder than his apparent caretaker would. "And you thought I was going to pay your tab too, is that it?!", she accused, her scorn waxing as if Andolina's righteous fury was somehow contagious. "Nnnnn...no?", Pierre denied, providing the best defense someone of his caliber of inebriation could muster.

Andolina turned her attention to the escort and changed tact. "Look, you shouldn't be using your beauty to...", she tried to confide to Sophia, pausing to think of a polite word to use. "...attract men in such a way." Sophia blushed in turn, slightly taken aback at what she perceived as a compliment. "Do you really think I'm... beautiful?", she asked the imposing matriarch, whose compliment meant far more than the drunk Vastillian men she usually courted.

Andolina laughed in an unusually nervous manner. "Yes, well... just... try and realize that the more you try and, er... sell yourself in such a way... you might... you might not always find the clients you seek.", she replied rather obliquely. Sophia raised a finger towards the sky. "So you're saying... I should be more ambitious with myself!", she exclaimed. Pierre wondered if Andolina was just telling her to go find richer men than him to proposition.

Andolina put her hands on Sophia's shoulders, in the same way a mother might when talking with their daughter. "Yes... that's it! That's exactly right. Find yourself an education! Go out and... see the world!", she proclaimed, her hand waving towards the crowd of people trying to pay them no mind. Sophia's eyes widened as Andolina's words wormed their way into her mind. "Hmmmmm...", she vocalized. "You've given me quite a bit to think about!"

Sophia stepped back from Andolina, bowed, and turned to head off in the opposite direction. Andolina smiled and waved at the woman of whom she hoped would have a brighter future, as Pierre stumbled onto the ground. She turned and glared at him with an almost supernatural rage. "I... uh... I'm sssssorry...", her drunk brother-in-law slurred out in apology. Andolina pointed her finger at Pierre. "You are not a nobleman.", she stated in a matter-of-fact tone. "You are not a prince, you are not a duke, you are not an elite member of society."

"Hell, you don't even have a middle class wage.", she reminded Pierre, who could do nothing but whimper on the ground. "You work 25 hours a week changing the printing reels and taking out the garbage." She paused to glare at him some more. "In other words...", she said, before punching Pierre hard in his gut. Whatever spirits remained in his stomach came back up and onto the nearby pavement. He looked back at Andolina, and asked, "Wh-why'd ya do that... fer?"

"You have no real right to be dawdling around town drunk at one in the afternoon!", Andolina shouted, her voice impolitely loud as if to embarass him in public. She picked up the inebriate by the hair and dragged him down the street, his fancy coat picking up a streak of dust and dirt from the concrete. "Where are we... going... home?", Mahomet attempted to ask, as Andolina rounded the corner onto Rocaille Avenue. "We're going inside. You're taking a bath, and I'm putting a lock on the liquor cabinet.", she answered.

"Awww.... no more... wwwine for m-me...", Mahomet clumsily reacted, before belching more miasma from his stomach. "You drank the bottle that was gifted to me and Jonathan for our wedding!", Andolina replied in anger, as she pushed aside the gate to a modest-looking, azure-colored three-story townhome. She struggled to pull Pierre up, so he could climb up the stairs to it's stained wooden door. As she reached the top step, the door opened to reveal a tan man in a brown sweatervest and a white shirt whose sleeves were as long as his arms.

"Zzzzopir!", Pierre drunkenly exclaimed to his brother. He failed to notice the scowl upon his face. "Hhhow are you...", he trailed off, as he stumbled up the steps behind his sister-in-law. "Nobody calls me that anymore, Pierre!", the irate Dubalian man replied. Andolina looked behind her towards Pierre, then back at her husband, as she pulled the drunkard through the door. "Ach... don't tell me you're still using your Dubalian names!", she despaired as she closed the door behind the two with her foot.

Sophia, whom had been so recently torn from a prospect, pondered her life choices. At the age of 17, she assumed schooling was out of her reach. She sighed in frustration, contemplating if she should attempt another pass. She looked around the avenue, noticing few clients of her caliber. Near them, a broadsheet affixed to the window of a nearby bookshop caught her eye. She crossed the bustling avenue and read the display, upon which was emblazoned:

---

The drunkard who calls himself Pierre firmly planted his head against Andolina's dining room table. He moaned in pain as a terrific hangover set in. Andolina stared at him angrily as Jonathan swiftly searched through the cupboard for a number of spices, which he clutched in his hand. "Let's see... tobasco, ginger, some garlic...", he whispered, as he slammed a handful of vials onto the countertop, and then turned around and opened the icebox. "...and some milk. Yes, yes, I think that's how Mother Zarina did it...", he figured, as he grabbed a bowl and began mixing.

Pierre tried to lay back at his seat, only for the light of the setting sun to pierce the kitchen window. He winced from the strong light and clutched his forehead. Andolina walked away from the wine-bibber, her heeled boots echoing against the kitchen tile. She looked at her husband with serious intent, as he vigorously stirred the mixture in the bowl. "Look, I understand that your brother means a lot to you...", she interrupted, "...but he promised he'd go sober, and... and well, look at him! Again!"

"I don't know what drives him, to be honest.", Jonathan admitted, as his mixture began to emulsify. "Of course, now I'm afraid that if we let him go, this city would chew him up and spit him out." He was interrupted by the sound of his brother grumbling to himself. Andolina's head snapped in the direction of the dining table. "Yes, are you listening now?", she crossly inquired, as she stepped over to her brother-in-law. She leaned down to his level and asked, "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Pierre turned the other way, and frowned in embarrassment. "I just... I just don't know?!", he questioned, as he buried his face in his hands. "Drinking is pretty much the only thing that I relate to... I mean, I'm all alone and in a new... well, a whole new world for that matter." He looked up towards his sister-in-law and leered at her. "Let me just have some respite now and again...", he whimpered, as Jonathan picked up the bowl and sniffed the foul slurry within, before mixing in some more garlic.

"Pierre, this isn't a little respite now and again.", Jonathan admonished, as his brother moaned a little at the sound of his assigned name. He turned his head towards Pierre and looked at him sternly. "Every time you go out drinking, you don't stop until your body makes you stop.", he argued. Andolina sighed in turn. "Look, if you keep on like this, you'll end up on the streets.", she cautioned. "We can't have you bringing trouble back into our household. And... I don't particularly like the fact that you use my name as a way to flaunt yourself."

Pierre rubbed his forehead and moaned again, as Jonathan gave the bowl another sniff, and then slowly walked over to the dining table. Pierre looked at his brother contritely. "L-Look, I get it, yeesh. I'll stop drinking.", he promised, pausing as his two caretakers glared at him in disbelief. "For real, this time." The woman of the house smiled and replied, "Of course you will." Pierre wondered what she meant. "Because tomorrow, we're going to have you working a shift and a half.", she declared.

Pierre's eyes darted open. "What?!", he exclaimed, skeptically. "The devil finds work for idle hands, as they say.", Andolina proffered, folding her arms. "Maybe, if we give you more to do around here, you'll be less tempted to go out and cavort.", she mused. "The reels need to be constantly changed, the windows need to be wiped, and I already have enough on my plate raising Elizabeth." "I guess that's one way to keep him sober...", Jonathan interjected, as he slid past Andolina and placed his hangover cure on the table in front of Pierre.

"Here. You'll need this, brother.", Jonathan offered. Pierre blinked, sniffed the bizarre concoction, and consumed it all in a single gulp. He began to cough and sputter at the exotic mix of flavors Jonathan had provided for him. "Eechkh!", he exclaimed. "Heh... that's one of our old caretakers' recipes.", Jonathan remarked. "I remember it... because she insisted I have a copy, just in case." He chuckled as he saw Pierre continue to gag on it. "It's fitting... A hangover cure tasting like utter shit...", he remarked.

"Speaking of Elizabeth...", Andolina remembered, as she walked out of the dining room and towards the next room, to check up on the strange creature which had served as their daughter. Andolina seemed happy that the vaguely human, almost bug-like infant was still asleep. Her inflated cheeks made her mouth resemble an "A", and her vertically-oriented eyelids bordered freakishly dilated red pupils. The babe was sleeping, something she did for fourteen hours at a time before awaking in the middle of the night.

"Such a cruel fate it is...", Andolina mused, her finger on her chin. "Perhaps it's the curse of the Rose, for opposing the Lords... that I was given a child that will never blossom into a woman." Jonathan oversaw her from the kitchen entrance, overhearing Andolina's whispers. She wiped away a single tear from her face, and turned to face her husband. "So... Jonathan, Rosamesse is a short ten days away.", she uttered. Her husband approached Andolina and responded, "Yeah, sounds about right..."

"Though, supposedly the idiot that runs Chauvigny wants an entire week of being told he's right, now.", Jonathan demurred. "R-'Rose Week', I think he's calling it?" "What difference does it make anymore?", Andolina questioned, her voice loaded with despair. "The entire town sings his praises year round. We've had a rough year because of his negative take on... our particular publication." Jonathan nodded in agreement. "It's not even that I'm directly opposing the Seminary at this point. I'm just recommending other plausible career paths for young women.", she stated.

Jonathan snickered to himself, rubbed his chin, and mused, "Maybe we can exploit this whole 'Rose Week' thing." Andolina turned her head towards her husband. "What do you propose?", she inquired. "Well, I can't imagine most people are too fond of changing the Rosamesse traditions...", he explained. He thought to himself for a few moments. "Maybe we could do a satire. 'The Ten Days of Rose Week', where we'd run an editorial or a cartoon each day detailing every little thing our Lord deigns to have."

Andolina's face betrayed a little smirk, and she said, "He'll want eight of everything, in that case. He'll try to get the most out of each day." "Yeah. And if we just change the name to an anagram or something, everyone'll still get the joke, too.", Jonathan imagined. "T-That's it!", Andolina exclaimed, before quickly turning around to make sure Elizabeth was unroused. "We can... definitely raise our exposure with a satire piece.", she whispered, as she examined the caterpillar-like babe swaddled in a green blanket.

Andolina's expression became more dour, as Jonathan looked on at their child. "S-Sorry...", the publisher apologized. "Just have a bit of... well, as always, I'm concerned for Elizabeth." Her husband said nothing and nodded along in agreement. "I worry about her condition, and I do love her dearly... it's just...", she said, her voice trailing off for a few seconds. "Some days I find myself wishing that she hadn't been born the way she was. Do you... do you think it might've had anything to do with... well..."

Mrs. Irving paused for a moment, thinking of a polite word to say. "Could it have been... our... backgrounds?", she euphemistically wondered. Her husband bent down and admired his daughter, and shook his head. "Not at all, dearie.", he said, as Elizabeth burped in her sleep. She returned to a peaceful snore. "That's just something the doctor... made up.", her husband continued. Andolina placed her hand on Jonathan's shoulder.