I hadn't seen her in weeks, at least not in any real sense. Her side of the bed was always cold when I woke up in the mornings, her spot by the hearth empty when I returned from work at dusk. My wife, always chasing the next story, the next lead, her passion for her work as a Black reporter taking her to places I couldn't always follow. Not that I was complaining—she was making a name for herself, breaking through walls most people thought impossible, especially for someone of her skin.
I remember the whispers when I first married her, not just because she was a reporter, but because she was Black. Some people couldn't quite understand why I'd fall for her, or why I wouldn't mind the stares or the occasional insult. But what those people didn't know was that she was everything—clever, fierce, and someone who could challenge me in ways no one else ever could. And I didn't care about what the world thought. She was mine, and that was all that mattered.
Work as a carpenter and trader kept me busy enough. I made most of the money for us, but it didn't bother me. In fact, I was proud of the balance we'd found, even if it meant only seeing her a few nights a week. The days passed easier when I focused on work, knowing that at least I'd catch a glimpse of her every now and then.
But now… now she was gone, and the only thing I had left was the journal she'd kept hidden. My chest tightened thinking about what I'd read, about Lady Evelyn Beauclair, and about the men who seemed to vanish after their dinners with her. My wife had been onto something, something dangerous, and I wasn't sure if I was too late to save her.
I ran through the cobbled streets of the neighborhood, the uneven stones of a typical British state back in the day—rows of tightly packed houses, chimneys puffing smoke, and narrow alleys where children played. There was a chill in the air, and the mist clung to the ground, adding to my growing sense of dread.
I knocked on the door of a familiar house, the one belonging to my friend, Thomas. His wife opened it, her face weary from the early hour.
"Morning," I said, a bit too rushed. "Is Thomas in?"
She sighed. "Still out cold from last night's drinking, I'm afraid."
"Shite," I muttered under my breath, running a hand through my hair.
She raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I said quickly, forcing a smile. "Thanks."
I turned and left before she could ask more questions. There was no time for that. I walked faster, passing the market stalls as they opened for the morning, my mind racing with thoughts of Amelia. Where could she be? She didn't have many friends in town—none, really. The way people looked at us, at her, made it hard for her to connect with anyone.
I found a stool in the village square, worn smooth from years of use, and sat down heavily. My head dropped into my hands. The only clue I had was the name from her journal. **Lady Evelyn Beauclair**. I knew that name. Everyone did. The Beauclairs were untouchable. Their mansion sat up on the hill, towering over the town like a fortress. People talked about them in hushed tones, but no one ever did anything to stir up trouble. Not me, not anyone. I kept my head down, did my work, and stayed out of it. But now, it was different. I had no choice.
"I need to find her," I whispered to myself.
I stood up and flagged down a donkey rider passing through the square. "Take me to Montclare," I said, naming the area where most of the upper class lived. The part of the village with the finest houses, French-style facades, and wide cobblestone streets lined with flower pots. He nodded and helped me up. The ride was short but felt like forever.
When we arrived, I leapt off the donkey and ran straight to the house of **Jean-Marie Lefevre**, a man I knew well—one of the few who could afford a horse in this town. I stumbled, nearly falling as I reached the door, but caught myself just in time. I banged on the door with both fists, not caring about being polite.
It swung open, revealing Jean-Marie, a chubby man with a red face, dressed in a loose shirt and trousers. His expression was annoyed until he saw me.
"Ah, mon ami!" he exclaimed, arms wide for a hug. I shoved him back gently, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
"I don't have time," I said, breathless. "Amelia's gone. I need your help."
He rubbed his chin, his expression growing serious. "What can I do?"
"I need to get to the Beauclairs' mansion. Now."
Jean-Marie's face paled. "No, no, no. I want nothing to do with them." He waved his hands, backing away. "You should go to la police—let them deal with this."
"La police?" I frowned. "You mean the constables?"
He switched to English. "Yes, yes, the constables. Let them handle it."
I sighed. "Thanks a lot," I muttered, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I turned to leave.
"Wait!" Jean-Marie called after me. "I can give you a ride to the constables' station."
I paused, considering. He was right, after all. But this wasn't something I could leave in their hands. Amelia's life might depend on me finding her first.
"Fine," I said, turning back. "Take me there."
It took what felt like forever for Jean-Marie to get his horse out of the stable, my foot tapping impatiently against the cobblestones. Finally, we were off, the rhythm of the horse's hooves almost calming my racing mind. Almost.
"Uhm, Henry," Jean-Marie broke the silence after a few minutes.
"Yes?" I responded, still deep in thought.
"Are you and Amelia... are things alright between you two?" His tone was casual, but something about the question rubbed me the wrong way.
"We're fine," I replied, sharper than I meant to.
Jean-Marie hesitated, then added, "It's just... you know, there've been stories. Women leaving their husbands for greener pastures, running off when things get tough."
My fists clenched, and I could feel my face flush with anger. "What exactly are you implying, Jean?"
"Nothing, nothing," he said quickly, realizing he'd crossed a line. "I forget you found her journal. My brain—" He tapped the side of his head. "Not so good sometimes."
I let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing my temples. "It's fine," I muttered. We rode in silence the rest of the way.
As we approached the constables' station, the buildings around us grew larger, more polished. The station itself was a cluster of wooden structures, better maintained than most of the town. Unlike other places, this one wasn't covered in dust, and the cobblestones out front were smooth from constant sweeping. But the beauty of the building didn't mask the corruption I knew lurked within. The taxes they bled from the townspeople, the favors they accepted from the wealthy—they were part of the system that made men like me feel powerless.
I climbed off Jean-Marie's horse, giving him a nod. "Thanks. I'll take it from here."
He tipped his hat, but before he left, he called out, "Don't forget to tell me how it goes, eh?"
With a half-hearted wave, I made my way toward the main entrance. Inside, the smell of tobacco hit me first. Around me, constables lounged about, some smoking pipes, others harassing the few people unlucky enough to be brought in for petty crimes. Their uniforms were slightly worn but neat, with the dark jackets buttoned up and hats perched on their heads, though some were askew. The men themselves looked far from disciplined. One was slouched in a chair, his boots propped up on a desk, while another barked at a young lad he'd dragged in by the scruff of his neck.
I wasn't watching where I was going, and I slammed into the reporting slab, startling a constable who sat behind it, gnawing on a piece of expensive meat. He was bigger than Jean-Marie, with greasy fingers and an annoyed expression.
"What're you looking at?" he barked, his mouth still full.
"Sorry," I muttered. "I need to report a missing person."
His chewing slowed. "Who?"
"My wife," I answered.
He glanced up at me, eyes narrowing. "Her name?"
"Amelia Hargrave."
He grunted, pushing his bulk off the stool. "Follow me."
I trailed him down a narrow hallway and into a room where another man sat at a desk, sketching away with a charcoal pencil. The artist looked up from his paper and groaned.
"Another one?" he muttered. "Alright, let's get this over with." He extended a hand to me. "I'm the one who'll help find her. Just need some details."
I shook his hand and sat down. "She's about 5'7," I began, my voice steady. "Late twenties. Dark brown eyes, small nose with a bit of a hook at the tip. She has a birthmark behind her left ear."
The artist nodded as his hand flew across the paper, creating swift strokes that began to resemble her face. I continued, describing her dark, tightly coiled hair, often tied up, and the dresses she liked to wear, simple but elegant, with a beret perched on her head most days.
As I spoke, I thought about how a portrait would've been easier, but cameras were a luxury, reserved for the rich. I'd heard about them, the expensive contraptions that could capture a person's likeness in an instant. But someone like me couldn't afford such a thing. So we had to rely on sketches, hoping the artist's talent could bring Amelia to life on paper.
"Where's she from?" the artist asked, barely glancing up as he sketched.
"She's..." I hesitated. I knew what he was really asking. I swallowed hard. "She's not from here."
"Okay, but where? What's her state?"
"She has..." I hesitated again. "A skin condition."
The constable, who had been standing in the corner, looked at me with suspicion. He didn't need me to say it. They all knew. But I couldn't bring myself to admit it—not in this room, where I could feel the judgment closing in.
The artist paused, his hand hovering over the page. "Anything else we should know?"
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out Amelia's journal. I opened it to the page with Lady Evelyn's name, the words that made my heart pound faster with every glance. I pointed at the entry. "I think this woman, Evelyn Beauclair, has something to do with it. My wife was looking into her."
The constable's eyes flicked to the journal. "I'll need to keep this," he said, reaching for it.
I hesitated, clutching the journal tighter. It was Amelia's, her thoughts, her secrets. But if it would help find her...
"Alright," I said, handing it over.
He took it and grunted. "Drop five gold coins at the counter on your way out."
I stood up, my legs shaky. As I walked out of the room, I glanced back and watched as the constable casually tore the paper with Amelia's sketch into pieces. My heart stopped.
"Merde," he cursed, tossing the scraps into the bin.
"Hey!" I shouted, storming back into the room. "What the hell are you doing?"
The fat constable didn't even look up. "Shut it, or you'll be the next one in the cell."
"It's because she's Black, isn't it?" I yelled, my voice trembling with rage.
"I said shut it."
I couldn't stop myself. I lunged forward, landing a punch square on the constable's jaw. Chaos erupted as the other constables swarmed me, dragging me to the ground and slamming me into the cold stone floor.
Hours later, I found myself locked in a filthy cell, my head throbbing. I leaned against the damp wall, banging my head softly against it, lost in the whirlwind of anger and fear. What if they were right? What if Amelia had already...
"Henry!" A voice jolted me out of my thoughts.
"Jean-Marie?" I croaked.
"I paid your fine. You'll be out soon."
I sighed in relief, leaning my head against the bars. "Thank you."
"Don't worry, we'll find her," Jean-Marie said. "You'll be free soon."
"Henry!!"
I heard my name again, and this time it wasn't Jean. It was her. My wife, holding the bars of the cell.
"Ann!" I shouted, rushing to her. We embraced as best we could through the iron bars.
"How did you get here ?"
"It's a long story," I said, feeling the weight lift off my chest. "But what happened to you? What happened last night?"