"Forchevelle," Beth repeated slowly, letting the name roll over her tongue like a foreign phrase she wasn't quite sure how to pronounce. "Are you… French?"
Lenored glanced sideways at her as they walked, the corners of his mouth lifting in that sly, charming way of his. The sunlight danced in his sea-violet eyes.
"My mother is," he said. "So is my stepfather. I have two mothers—one stepmother, one mother. My father lives in New York. At one point, I had three mothers."
Beth blinked. "Three?"
He grinned fully now, clearly delighted at her confusion.
"I was in London for sixth form," he explained. "On the register, it was a bit of a… puzzle. My stepmother—she pays the bills, signs the school forms. My mother—she travels in silk scarves and cigarette smoke, from Cannes to Rome, like a drifting painting. And then there was the servant. She's from the countryside—terribly backwards, wears felt hats and always smells like pears. She was the only one who ever came to the parent-teacher meetings."
Beth laughed, eyes wide. "You brought the servant?"
"She volunteered," he said with a shrug, though the glint in his eye said otherwise. "She just nodded at everything the teachers said, even when they asked if I had trouble focusing or if I had 'issues with structure.'"
Beth covered her mouth with her hand. "What did the teachers think?"
"Oh, they were bewildered," Lenored said, nearly breathless with his own amusement. "One tried to speak to my actual mother once. But my mother decided to reply in Latin. Just Latin. Quoted Cicero. The teacher fled."
Beth burst into laughter.
"And one poor soul tried to call my stepmother," Lenored continued with mock solemnity, "but she never picks up unknown numbers. Or known ones."
"Wasn't that a bit cruel?"
"Oh, terribly," he said cheerfully. "But school was boring. Bureaucracy is meant to be confused. It's practically a public service."
Beth shook her head, still laughing, her sides aching. "You're absolutely mad."
"I prefer enigmatic." He tilted his chin in mock pride. "Though I have been called worse by my algebra teacher."
They climbed until the wind grew bold, tousling Beth's hair and catching the hem of Amanda's borrowed cloak as if trying to lift her off the cliff edge. The view was staggering—below them, the world dipped into a sea of jagged peaks and scattered fishing cabins, the water gleaming like glass etched with the sky.
Lenored stopped abruptly near the edge and spun around. "Here," he said, and without warning, tossed something toward her.
Beth barely caught it—it was a compact silver camera, a slightly scratched Canon IXUS, the kind that felt satisfyingly weighty in the hand. She stared at it, then up at him.
"You want me to take your picture?" she asked.
Lenored nodded solemnly, already shrugging the velvet coat off his shoulders to let it ripple behind him in the wind. "If I ever vanish dramatically, I want people to remember I was aesthetic."
Beth laughed, raising the camera to her eye. "Alright, Lord Byron. Smile—or don't. I assume brooding is more your brand."
He gave her a faint smirk, hair whipping into his face, and turned slightly so the light caught in his impossible eyes. The cloak flared behind him, and for a second, he looked completely unreal—like something conjured, not born.
She clicked.
Then, in a blink, he stepped forward and gently reached for the camera.
"Now you," he said, already angling the lens toward her.
Beth blinked. "Wait—what? No, I didn't agree to—"
"Turnabout," Lenored said lightly, "is only unfair if I don't get a chance to make you look like a tragic heroine."
She laughed and raised a hand. "Hey! This is a violation of public right!"
"The public," he said, snapping one shot, "has no right when the light is this good."
Beth gave an exaggerated groan and tried to cover her face, laughing so hard her voice bounced off the cliffs.
"You're terrible," she said, cheeks flushed.
"I prefer committed," Lenored replied, taking another shot before lowering the camera. He looked at her, serious now, not in the way that made her shy, but in the way that made her feel… seen.
"Besides," he said softly, "if I'm going to remember this day, I want proof that you were here."
Beth stood frozen for a moment. The wind pulled at her scarf. The sea breathed far below.
And for the first time, she didn't want to run away from how fast her heart was beating.
The sun, as if reluctant to let the day end, hovered just above the horizon—suspended in that strange northern twilight where night never truly arrives. Everything was bathed in molten gold. The fjord below glistened like a living mirror, and the mountains stood still as sentinels in a dream.
Beth and Lenored sat side by side on the cliff's edge, legs dangling over the ancient stone. The air was crisp, tinged with salt and pine, yet soft—gentler, somehow, with the hush of the world around them. Amanda's cloak was wrapped around Beth like a secret, and Lenored's shoulder brushed hers in a way that felt unintentional and also very much not.
For a long while, they said nothing. They didn't need to.
Then Lenored turned, slow and quiet. His gaze found hers.
His hand lifted—black glove now removed, fingertips cool as they gently brushed a strand of windblown hair from her cheek. His palm rested there, cradling the curve of her face. His thumb lightly traced her cheekbone, and Beth's breath caught.
There was a look in his eyes—deep, searching, full of something she didn't know how to name but understood instantly. Something tender. Something terrifying. Something that felt like it belonged in books that ended in heartbreak.
He leaned in—closer, closer, and her heart thundered in her ears.
But just before the kiss, his breath brushing her lips, Lenored stopped.
Something flickered across his face. A soft, regretful pause. The echo of a rule. A memory.
He lingered there, close enough for her to feel the tremor of restraint in his stillness.
Then, softly—barely above the wind—he whispered, "You're too important to ruin with impulse."
Beth didn't move. Didn't pull away. She just looked at him, wide-eyed, flushed, her breath still caught somewhere between hope and ache.
The moment passed like the sun slipping behind a cloud. And yet… it didn't vanish.
They sat there as the golden hour stretched into golden eternity, their hands almost touching between them.
And though nothing had happened—nothing—everything had changed.
When Beth crested the last hill and saw the warm orange glow of Grandma Sophie's house waiting below—its windows golden against the darkening fjord—her stomach twisted.
Amanda's back.
The walk down was slow, her legs tired but her nerves worse. She could already feel Amanda's eyes on her. Amanda knew everything. Or worse—suspected everything.
Sure enough, when Beth opened the front door, trying to slip in quietly, Amanda was waiting on the old sofa, arms crossed, boots still on, hair slightly windblown. A single eyebrow arched the moment Beth stepped inside.
"You're late," Amanda said coolly. "I left this house ten hours ago thinking I was the one stretching time. Turns out I came back before you."
Beth pulled off the borrowed cloak, folded it carefully over her arm, and tried to smile like it was all nothing. "I… went for a walk."
Amanda didn't blink. "In my cloak. In my scarf. In makeup. Don't play dumb."
Beth flushed, guilt blooming red across her cheeks. She dropped her gaze to the floorboards. "I just— I didn't think you'd let me go if I told you the truth."
Amanda unfolded her arms slowly. "Which is?"
Beth hesitated. Then, quietly:
"I went to meet someone. Lenored Forchevelle."
There was a beat of silence. Amanda's jaw tightened slightly. "The masked one? The boy from the hotel?"
Beth glanced up, her voice firmer than she expected. "Yes. But he wasn't masked today. And he's not what you think."
Amanda stared at her, expression unreadable. "I hope not."
Beth stepped forward. "He's strange, but not in a bad way. I mean, yes, he wears ermine and quotes Cicero, but… he listens. He's kind. And funny. And he didn't—he could've kissed me, but he didn't."
Amanda's expression shifted—just slightly. "He almost kissed you?"
Beth nodded. "But he stopped. He said I was too important to ruin with impulse."
Amanda studied her sister for a long moment. "And you trust him?"
Beth's answer came without hesitation. "Yes."
Amanda let out a slow breath, then stood. "Next time? Just tell me. I'm your sister, not your warden."
Beth looked up, surprised.
Amanda softened—just a little. "Also… if you're going to keep borrowing my cloak, at least brush out the hem. You've dragged half of Reine back in with you."
Beth laughed, relief spilling out of her all at once.
From the kitchen, Christ's voice called absently with the swelling music of Troy, "Wait—what about a kiss?"
Amanda and Beth answered in unison.
"None of your business!"
Amanda, as usual, had overestimated her ability to "just take a quick walk." Somewhere around hour three, she'd wandered into a little bakery with whitewashed walls, braided loaves in the window, and the smell of cardamom and almond lingering like perfume.
She was halfway through ordering a cinnamon roll the size of her head when she caught sight of them: those two girls. The same ones from the sleek black BMW. One had dark brown hair, sunglasses now tucked onto her head, hazel eyes lined with an expert flick of eyeliner. The other—honey-blonde, seafoam eyes, sweater tied effortlessly around her shoulders—was holding a pink leash in each hand, each one attached to a prancing, ridiculously pampered Pekingese.
Amanda stared. Then, because she had never once in her life minded the risk of being intrusive, she smiled broadly and slid in beside them at the café window table.
"Oh my God," she said cheerfully, pointing. "Are those… named after old movie stars?"
The honey-blonde girl grinned. "Correct. This one's James Dean," she said, lifting the smallest dog like a prized handbag. "Marlon Brando is the little gremlin, and Clarke Gable is the moody one. I'm Barbara, by the way. Bar, if you're lazy."
"Valentina," said the other girl with a soft nod. "Or Val. Either way, it'll end up on a runway captioned wrong."
Amanda introduced herself easily, already reaching for the roll the barista had dropped at her table. "And you two are tourists? Or celebrities?"
Bar raised a brow. "A bit of both, depending on who's asking."
"I knew I'd seen you before," Amanda said. "You were with those boys. One of them—black mask, tall, pale. He looked like he belonged in a vampire franchise."
"Leon," Bar said simply.
Amanda's eyes widened. "Wait. Leon Troy? As in Call Me 'Goodbye' Leon Troy?"
Bar nodded with a small, wry smile. "Yep. That's the one."
"And you're…?"
"His girlfriend," Bar said smoothly, unbothered.