In a figurative way, there was a light to Dureau's eyes that seemed to rise as he stopped to talk to Jack, then vanish just as quickly as her card was in his hand.

The disheveled ermine looked almost queasy a moment, but the emotion was fleeting. He flipped and twiddled the card a couple times, belatedly reading it, as if filling for a momentary lack of verbal response with a nonverbal fidget. He then just... nodded, smiled to her, and, in gentle agreement, echoed, "Right."



It was really finally over. Life could return to some sort of normality. Ships would be allowed to leave harbor again. Jack and her party could return to South Island at long last, and get on with their world-protecting business. Even Ivan could set sail for freedom once more. Deverell would face the courts for his actions, with Dureau at his side, for better or worse. And Dureau...




***



Dureau walked along the wet, cold, stoney covered path that cut its way between piles of slush. Another cloudy, snowy day; typical. The clicks of his boots echoed crisply on their slow walk to the tower. Its thick, echoing walls and winding stairs were usually a comfort for the senses in their familiarity, as was his droll little chamber at the top, with its knick-knacks, curios, books, and records.

He hung his hat and cape on the rack and wandered aimlessly into the room. They were black instead of red. A few meandering seconds of staring brought his eyes onto the painting of his family. His breathing stopped for a few seconds; silent as the grave, he strode to the linen closet, rummaged, produced an old, musty bedsheet, and carefully draped it over the the portrait's top corners.

He didn't much care for that picture anymore since Deverell's execution.

A shiver climbed up his spine. Whether it was the cold or simply the thoughts of yesterday's burial fresh in his mind, he accordingly went about starting a fire in the hearth, chucking a couple logs in with some kindling, crouching, lighting a long-stemmed match... It wasn't long before the first flames licked upward.

He stood once more, but paused. Something on the floor drew his eyes, and soon, he seated himself there on the carpet in front of the growing fire. He pulled his gloves off and slowly, delicately lifted something from between the rug's fibers.

There between his index and thumb hung a single, long, golden hair.

He wrapped it around his finger a few times and watched it reflect and glow in the light.



Cape Norden didn't have intercontinental telephone service.