Poisons! Glamour! Music!
Chapter Two of Episode Two. After the jump.
Also a music video, because I feel like it.
2- Nightshade
Ozanne Langton sat in her wicker chair, legs tucked under her delicate body. The greenhouse of Knightsbridge Hall surrounded her with layers of exotic foliage.
Beside her, her friend Adele caressed a plant with gloved fingers. Adele was strikingly elegant, even in her green gardening dress, with her flame-red hair pinned up like a crown.
“Nightshade,” said Adele, “I make an extract from the leaves that puts people to sleep. I'm working on the dosage. At the moment I've just created one standard dosage, which makes a large man woozy but would knock you out cold.”
“Sounds dreadful,” Ozanne flinched away from the plant.
“If I made a dose for someone your husband's size, and you got it... That would be dreadful,” said Adele. “It's a delicate art.”
Drew Langton was a huge man, with the shoulders of a farm laborer and the strength of an ox.
To knock him out, Adele thought, you would need a solution with one hundred and fifty percent strength. But the solution was delivered through gas masks, making it difficult to change the doses of nightshade extract. And difficult to ensure that it wouldn't be used on someone smaller.
Adele's gloved hands combed the nightshade plant, delicately avoiding the young leaves. Her sliver gardening shears sought out the mature leaves, culling them with silent precision.
“It's a lovely greenhouse,” Ozanne flipped her pale hair to the side, scanning the plants, “I can barely keep roses from dying, and you have a whole rainforest!”
“I should grow papayas,” Adele said, “For the sake of experiment, if nothing else.”
“But you didn't end up growing mangoes, did you?”
“Eh, mangoes,” Adele waved the idea away with the shears, “I'm going to order papayas tomorrow, get them started.”
Ozanne uncurled herself from her chair to watch her friend work.
The Thai chilis sat in china pots along a table, out of the direct sun. Ripe, red peppers glistened in bunches beneath the leaves. Such little things, holding so much power. Adele strode over to them, moving among the plants with silent, towering majesty. Her beauty stole attention even from the orchids.
“Another experiment in delicate balances,” said Adele, “The ghost pepper is hotter. My mother taught me to use that one, but Sinclair suggested these as a less dangerous alternative. The ghost pepper solution caused some unfortunate effects.”
She plucked three peppers and set them on a silver tray, returning to set them down on the table. A song started in her head, En passant par la Lorraine, avec mes sabots...
“Your mother was always so kind,” said Ozanne, resting her hand on Adele's arm.
Adele didn't brush the hand away.
May, 1928- Diane Roueche sits at the piano, playing En passant par la Lorraine while her daughter Adele and little Ozanne play with their dolls. Adele's brother, Lucian, reads in the corner. Adele props up a postcard she found, of an English castle called Blenheim Palace. It is the setting of all their games. She and Ozanne dress their dolls in sequins and satin, little copies of Diane's dresses. Diane is tall, with copper hair and kohl-rimmed eyes. The three of them- Diane, Adele, Lucian- are the last of the Roueches, Adele has a best friend in Ozanne, the air is warm, life is good.
“Diane would be happy that we found each other again,” Adele said, “Remember when we lived on the Rue de Richeleu, and you would come over after school-”
“Just watching her do her makeup,” Ozanne finished, “And her closet. Such glamour!”
“We had too much fun with her lipstick. And that kohl eye pencil.”
“Oh, goodness!” Ozanne laughed, high and pealing, “I looked like a raccoon!”
Adele plucked four more peppers and removed her gloves.
“I can't wait to have a daughter of my own, playing dress-up. We could raid each others closets for large furs and excessive sparkles,”said Ozanne.
“I can't see myself as a mother,” Adele picked up the shears, abruptly, then set them down.
Diane always used to say, “When you're a mother, you'll understand.” But Adele didn't want to. The Roueches would die with her. She didn't want to know chidbirth, sleeplessness, sacrifice, and tantrums for the sake of a little dress-up.
“Oh, don't be silly. The war is over, we should all rebuild,” said Ozanne. “We can do everything together now, like we used to.”
Adele smiled, glowing like marble statue in the tinted light of the greenhouse. Ozanne smiled up at her.
“Let the men squabble about politics,” said Adele, “We'll always have each other.”
The memories of those days had a bad aftertaste. They hadn't known what the future would bring, how the war would ravage their country, how many would die.
Now she would never get that song out of her head. En passant par la Lorraine...
“I'm going back to Paris,” said Ozanne.
“What?” Adele whirled around, her almond eyes narrowing, “The Communists control the city, now. You can't go back!”
“I'm sorry,” Ozanne backed toward the nightshade bush, “I didn't mean for it to come out like that. But Drew told me, just in passing, that the Americans are bringing a man into Paris to find some of the missing from the war. He's from the CIA.”
“I can't believe Drew would tell you that sort of thing. Sinclair wouldn't divulge that sort of thing, even in passing.”
Adele set her jaw and smoothed her skirt.
“I'll be quite safe,” said Ozanne, “I'm going to plead with Mr. Clearwater- that's his name, the American- for some of the death records. They have all the Vichy death records. I just- just wanted to find what happened to my parents.”
Ozanne's lip trembled.
“Little Oz,” Adele hugged her with one slender arm, “Of course you do. I'm not trying to be mean, but you won't be safe ther. You haven't been back in a long time, they brought you to England as soon as the Vichy surrendered.”
Ozanne shuddered at the memory. Imprisonment with rough women, whores, female soldiers of the Reich. Her feet had been incessantly cold, and the food was deplorable.
“Is it changed much?” she asked.
“If Paris were a person,” said Adele, “She has some scars now, more lines on her face, and a sadder air. But more determination, I think. Less fire, more character.”
“I'll bring a bodyguard,” said Ozanne.
“That would be best. You didn't know the people I knew. I used to hang around Pigalle, when my mother sang in the lounges. All sorts of rough people would be there. Theives, pimps, the St. Cyrs' lackeys.”
“The St. Cyrs,” Ozanne breathed.
Yes, all the St. Cyrs, Adele thought. Now in their rightful places, dead and rotting.
“After I killed the St. Cyrs, the criminal underworld became insane. Now I hear the Italians control the crime, but Paris isn't like Hampshire,” She narrowed her eyes at Ozanne.
“When we were young, it seemed so safe,” Ozanne sighed, sinking back into her chair. “I suppose I was merely sheltered.”
Adele nodded.
October, 1932- Lucian is screaming at Diane, across the breakfast table. Why won't she tell them who their father is? Or is she such a whore that she doesn't know? Diane wipes away a single tear, tries to calm him, remind him that she has always taken care of them. One admirer gave her gold earrings, and she pawned them for Lucian's shoes. Another admirer got her a job singing, and that puts food on the table. Poisoning doesn't pay all the bills these days. Whore, says Lucian, whore whore whore. Adele shuts her eyes and sings inside her head, trying to drown it out.
January, 1938- Adele is tall now, like her mother. Her hair is true red, and she is already approaching Diane's legendary beauty. She has no patience with makeup, but is diligent at her music. Soon she will sing in the lounges of Paris too, she thinks, though she has no desire for the string of lovers that Diane enjoys. She picks out keys on the piano, absently, while Diane opens the mail. Diane drops the letter, all the color gone from her face. Adele looks up. Your brother's ship has gone down, Diane says, its just the two of us now.
June, 1940- Diane sings, under her breath, avec mes sabots, but no peasant girl is passing through Lorraine. The Germans are passing through Paris. The air is hot and smells of metal. Adele is fifteen, already beautiful, already adept at the ancient art of poisons, old enough to be afraid as the soldiers march past, but not too old to grip Diane's hand. Diane squeezes back.
“Paris is much abused,” Adele said.
She'd forgotten what the point was, but a general statement made her look attentive.
“Don't say anything, about my trip,” said Ozanne, leaping up from the wicker chair again.
“All right,” said Adele, “But I'll worry myself sick until you get back. I thought I'd never see you again, when your parents went with the Vichy government. I won't lose you again.”
“I'll be all right,” Ozanne told her, “I will use every caution, and drop your name if necessary. But Clearwater, he's American, probably quite neutral about the whole thing. I just want papers, to know if they have graves.”
She toyed with the end of a creeping vine and sniffled.
Diane never had a grave, Adele thought. They probably dumped her in a pit somewhere, with the rest of the St. Cyrs' victims.
“Is there anyone in Paris you'd like me to visit, or look up for you?” Ozanne's bounce came back, “I could at least bring you gossip, if not a pastry.”
“Oh, the pastries,” Adele squeezed the air, as if an ethereal pastry eluded her.
“Anyone I should look for?” said Ozanne.
“No. I'm married now, old things are best left forgotten.”
“Oh!” Ozanne covered her mouth, “You and those scandalous conquests you left behind! Tell me something juicy.”
“You have to remember, I was an agent back then. You wouldn't want to know those people, or go to those places, or see the things I saw.”
“Scandal!” Ozanne clapped her hands.
Adele laughed,
“Stop it! Some things are best forgotten. I couldn't have known how people would turn on me. Though I did have the honor of being the most dangerous woman in Paris, and I won't apologize for it.”
She struck a pose with one hand on her hip.
Those old days, she thought, when the headiness of revenge and her own reputation dominated her thoughts. Striking such poses for an audience. Wearing the little military hats and slim skirts that were the fashion back then. Back when she was dangerous.
“Of course, we all have to settle down someday,” Adele gathered the chilis and nightshade, “If they have postcards of the graveyard at Montmarte, I'd like one of those.”
September, 1946- Adele stands in the graveyard at Montmarte, in front of a stranger's tomb. A pretty tomb, one Diane would have liked. Adele places a bouquet of Diane's favorite roses- pink with a red center- on the tomb. Rain splatters against the gravestones, sitting like diamonds on the rose petals. She doesn't know if its rain or tears soaking her face. She is the last of the Roueche family. Vengeance has been served, Leon St Cyr is dead, and now she has only emptiness.
The last sound Diane ever made was the bump, bump, bump of her high-heeled shoes going down the stairs when Guzman and Leon St Cyr dragged her body out. St Cyr never tried to clean up the blood, just left it there for Adele. She hopes that Diane can see her, and knows that Adele is a poisoner and a singer and the toast of Paris. Diane would be proud. Adele tries to sing a song, the song about Lorraine, one Diane would have liked.
The words won't come out. Adele will never sing it again.
“Adele? Are you all right?” Ozanne closed in.
“I'm fine. Just thinking,” Adele smiled, with the ease of long practice, making her face a mask of contentment and joy. An instant later, it became genuine. Life was good again,
“You're staying for dinner, I hope. Sinclair will be home any minute.”
***To be continued***
Here's your music!
Also a music video, because I feel like it.
2- Nightshade
Ozanne Langton sat in her wicker chair, legs tucked under her delicate body. The greenhouse of Knightsbridge Hall surrounded her with layers of exotic foliage.
Beside her, her friend Adele caressed a plant with gloved fingers. Adele was strikingly elegant, even in her green gardening dress, with her flame-red hair pinned up like a crown.
“Nightshade,” said Adele, “I make an extract from the leaves that puts people to sleep. I'm working on the dosage. At the moment I've just created one standard dosage, which makes a large man woozy but would knock you out cold.”
“Sounds dreadful,” Ozanne flinched away from the plant.
“If I made a dose for someone your husband's size, and you got it... That would be dreadful,” said Adele. “It's a delicate art.”
Drew Langton was a huge man, with the shoulders of a farm laborer and the strength of an ox.
To knock him out, Adele thought, you would need a solution with one hundred and fifty percent strength. But the solution was delivered through gas masks, making it difficult to change the doses of nightshade extract. And difficult to ensure that it wouldn't be used on someone smaller.
Adele's gloved hands combed the nightshade plant, delicately avoiding the young leaves. Her sliver gardening shears sought out the mature leaves, culling them with silent precision.
“It's a lovely greenhouse,” Ozanne flipped her pale hair to the side, scanning the plants, “I can barely keep roses from dying, and you have a whole rainforest!”
“I should grow papayas,” Adele said, “For the sake of experiment, if nothing else.”
“But you didn't end up growing mangoes, did you?”
“Eh, mangoes,” Adele waved the idea away with the shears, “I'm going to order papayas tomorrow, get them started.”
Ozanne uncurled herself from her chair to watch her friend work.
The Thai chilis sat in china pots along a table, out of the direct sun. Ripe, red peppers glistened in bunches beneath the leaves. Such little things, holding so much power. Adele strode over to them, moving among the plants with silent, towering majesty. Her beauty stole attention even from the orchids.
“Another experiment in delicate balances,” said Adele, “The ghost pepper is hotter. My mother taught me to use that one, but Sinclair suggested these as a less dangerous alternative. The ghost pepper solution caused some unfortunate effects.”
She plucked three peppers and set them on a silver tray, returning to set them down on the table. A song started in her head, En passant par la Lorraine, avec mes sabots...
“Your mother was always so kind,” said Ozanne, resting her hand on Adele's arm.
Adele didn't brush the hand away.
May, 1928- Diane Roueche sits at the piano, playing En passant par la Lorraine while her daughter Adele and little Ozanne play with their dolls. Adele's brother, Lucian, reads in the corner. Adele props up a postcard she found, of an English castle called Blenheim Palace. It is the setting of all their games. She and Ozanne dress their dolls in sequins and satin, little copies of Diane's dresses. Diane is tall, with copper hair and kohl-rimmed eyes. The three of them- Diane, Adele, Lucian- are the last of the Roueches, Adele has a best friend in Ozanne, the air is warm, life is good.
“Diane would be happy that we found each other again,” Adele said, “Remember when we lived on the Rue de Richeleu, and you would come over after school-”
“Just watching her do her makeup,” Ozanne finished, “And her closet. Such glamour!”
“We had too much fun with her lipstick. And that kohl eye pencil.”
“Oh, goodness!” Ozanne laughed, high and pealing, “I looked like a raccoon!”
Adele plucked four more peppers and removed her gloves.
“I can't wait to have a daughter of my own, playing dress-up. We could raid each others closets for large furs and excessive sparkles,”said Ozanne.
“I can't see myself as a mother,” Adele picked up the shears, abruptly, then set them down.
Diane always used to say, “When you're a mother, you'll understand.” But Adele didn't want to. The Roueches would die with her. She didn't want to know chidbirth, sleeplessness, sacrifice, and tantrums for the sake of a little dress-up.
“Oh, don't be silly. The war is over, we should all rebuild,” said Ozanne. “We can do everything together now, like we used to.”
Adele smiled, glowing like marble statue in the tinted light of the greenhouse. Ozanne smiled up at her.
“Let the men squabble about politics,” said Adele, “We'll always have each other.”
The memories of those days had a bad aftertaste. They hadn't known what the future would bring, how the war would ravage their country, how many would die.
Now she would never get that song out of her head. En passant par la Lorraine...
“I'm going back to Paris,” said Ozanne.
“What?” Adele whirled around, her almond eyes narrowing, “The Communists control the city, now. You can't go back!”
“I'm sorry,” Ozanne backed toward the nightshade bush, “I didn't mean for it to come out like that. But Drew told me, just in passing, that the Americans are bringing a man into Paris to find some of the missing from the war. He's from the CIA.”
“I can't believe Drew would tell you that sort of thing. Sinclair wouldn't divulge that sort of thing, even in passing.”
Adele set her jaw and smoothed her skirt.
“I'll be quite safe,” said Ozanne, “I'm going to plead with Mr. Clearwater- that's his name, the American- for some of the death records. They have all the Vichy death records. I just- just wanted to find what happened to my parents.”
Ozanne's lip trembled.
“Little Oz,” Adele hugged her with one slender arm, “Of course you do. I'm not trying to be mean, but you won't be safe ther. You haven't been back in a long time, they brought you to England as soon as the Vichy surrendered.”
Ozanne shuddered at the memory. Imprisonment with rough women, whores, female soldiers of the Reich. Her feet had been incessantly cold, and the food was deplorable.
“Is it changed much?” she asked.
“If Paris were a person,” said Adele, “She has some scars now, more lines on her face, and a sadder air. But more determination, I think. Less fire, more character.”
“I'll bring a bodyguard,” said Ozanne.
“That would be best. You didn't know the people I knew. I used to hang around Pigalle, when my mother sang in the lounges. All sorts of rough people would be there. Theives, pimps, the St. Cyrs' lackeys.”
“The St. Cyrs,” Ozanne breathed.
Yes, all the St. Cyrs, Adele thought. Now in their rightful places, dead and rotting.
“After I killed the St. Cyrs, the criminal underworld became insane. Now I hear the Italians control the crime, but Paris isn't like Hampshire,” She narrowed her eyes at Ozanne.
“When we were young, it seemed so safe,” Ozanne sighed, sinking back into her chair. “I suppose I was merely sheltered.”
Adele nodded.
October, 1932- Lucian is screaming at Diane, across the breakfast table. Why won't she tell them who their father is? Or is she such a whore that she doesn't know? Diane wipes away a single tear, tries to calm him, remind him that she has always taken care of them. One admirer gave her gold earrings, and she pawned them for Lucian's shoes. Another admirer got her a job singing, and that puts food on the table. Poisoning doesn't pay all the bills these days. Whore, says Lucian, whore whore whore. Adele shuts her eyes and sings inside her head, trying to drown it out.
January, 1938- Adele is tall now, like her mother. Her hair is true red, and she is already approaching Diane's legendary beauty. She has no patience with makeup, but is diligent at her music. Soon she will sing in the lounges of Paris too, she thinks, though she has no desire for the string of lovers that Diane enjoys. She picks out keys on the piano, absently, while Diane opens the mail. Diane drops the letter, all the color gone from her face. Adele looks up. Your brother's ship has gone down, Diane says, its just the two of us now.
June, 1940- Diane sings, under her breath, avec mes sabots, but no peasant girl is passing through Lorraine. The Germans are passing through Paris. The air is hot and smells of metal. Adele is fifteen, already beautiful, already adept at the ancient art of poisons, old enough to be afraid as the soldiers march past, but not too old to grip Diane's hand. Diane squeezes back.
“Paris is much abused,” Adele said.
She'd forgotten what the point was, but a general statement made her look attentive.
“Don't say anything, about my trip,” said Ozanne, leaping up from the wicker chair again.
“All right,” said Adele, “But I'll worry myself sick until you get back. I thought I'd never see you again, when your parents went with the Vichy government. I won't lose you again.”
“I'll be all right,” Ozanne told her, “I will use every caution, and drop your name if necessary. But Clearwater, he's American, probably quite neutral about the whole thing. I just want papers, to know if they have graves.”
She toyed with the end of a creeping vine and sniffled.
Diane never had a grave, Adele thought. They probably dumped her in a pit somewhere, with the rest of the St. Cyrs' victims.
“Is there anyone in Paris you'd like me to visit, or look up for you?” Ozanne's bounce came back, “I could at least bring you gossip, if not a pastry.”
“Oh, the pastries,” Adele squeezed the air, as if an ethereal pastry eluded her.
“Anyone I should look for?” said Ozanne.
“No. I'm married now, old things are best left forgotten.”
“Oh!” Ozanne covered her mouth, “You and those scandalous conquests you left behind! Tell me something juicy.”
“You have to remember, I was an agent back then. You wouldn't want to know those people, or go to those places, or see the things I saw.”
“Scandal!” Ozanne clapped her hands.
Adele laughed,
“Stop it! Some things are best forgotten. I couldn't have known how people would turn on me. Though I did have the honor of being the most dangerous woman in Paris, and I won't apologize for it.”
She struck a pose with one hand on her hip.
Those old days, she thought, when the headiness of revenge and her own reputation dominated her thoughts. Striking such poses for an audience. Wearing the little military hats and slim skirts that were the fashion back then. Back when she was dangerous.
“Of course, we all have to settle down someday,” Adele gathered the chilis and nightshade, “If they have postcards of the graveyard at Montmarte, I'd like one of those.”
September, 1946- Adele stands in the graveyard at Montmarte, in front of a stranger's tomb. A pretty tomb, one Diane would have liked. Adele places a bouquet of Diane's favorite roses- pink with a red center- on the tomb. Rain splatters against the gravestones, sitting like diamonds on the rose petals. She doesn't know if its rain or tears soaking her face. She is the last of the Roueche family. Vengeance has been served, Leon St Cyr is dead, and now she has only emptiness.
The last sound Diane ever made was the bump, bump, bump of her high-heeled shoes going down the stairs when Guzman and Leon St Cyr dragged her body out. St Cyr never tried to clean up the blood, just left it there for Adele. She hopes that Diane can see her, and knows that Adele is a poisoner and a singer and the toast of Paris. Diane would be proud. Adele tries to sing a song, the song about Lorraine, one Diane would have liked.
The words won't come out. Adele will never sing it again.
“Adele? Are you all right?” Ozanne closed in.
“I'm fine. Just thinking,” Adele smiled, with the ease of long practice, making her face a mask of contentment and joy. An instant later, it became genuine. Life was good again,
“You're staying for dinner, I hope. Sinclair will be home any minute.”
***To be continued***
Here's your music!
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