The house was larger than it appeared from the outside.
From the narrow alleyway, Maison Marielle looked like any other aged townhouse in Parris its red bricks chipped, ivy curling across the edges of its windows. But once inside, it was a different world entirely.
The main hallway opened into a broad, high-ceilinged interior filled with the soft gleam of golden light from antique sconces. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and beeswax, likely from the bakery below. A long staircase of dark oak curved gently upward, its railing polished smooth. The floor was covered with typical Perrsian rugs deep crimson and gold patterns that hinted at old wealth or cheerful taste.
Vincent's eyes darted about, his natural caution rising.
For a "cheap" room, the house was too fine, just that the flooring and ventilation was a drop.
Crystal vases lined the mantlepiece; framed oil paintings of Parrisian streets and faceless figures hung on the walls. Even the faint music of a slow waltz seemed designed to soften one's guard.
"Please, come upstairs," the woman said with an easy smile.
Her voice carried a lazy tone, the sort that lulled rather than invited suspicion. She moved with the gentleness of someone who had spent years getting what she wanted without needing to raise her voice.
Her clothes, however, spoke differently.
A loose silk robe hung off one shoulder, the fabric thin enough to reveal the outline of her figure beneath. Her hair was silver mixed with auburn and it fell over her collarbone in soft waves. As she walked ahead of them up the stairs, the robe swayed, the faint scent of rose perfume trailing behind her.
Vincent and Oscar exchanged a glance.
Oscar's face was calm, but there was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes. Vincent, ever the professional, gave a quiet throat clearing sound and focused his gaze on the stairs instead of their host.
At the top landing, the woman gestured toward a double-door room.
"This used to be my brother's," she said, pushing it open with a gentle nudge.
It was spacious—larger than either of them expected.
The ceiling arched high, framed by heavy beams, and sunlight spilled through two large windows that opened toward the street. A long velvet couch sat against one wall, and the bed massive, draped in silver gray sheets looked like something from a boutique hotel rather than a boarding room.
There were books stacked neatly on the desk, a small bar in the corner, even a gramophone by the window.
"Make yourselves at home," she said, smiling over her shoulder. "You'll find the bath just down the hall. Try to be quiet after ten my girls get up early to help with the shop."
As if on cue, two young women appeared from another hallway one carrying folded linens, the other holding a tray with water and glasses.
They looked to be in their early twenties, both dressed casually in soft blouses and skirts. The first had short blond hair and an eager expression; the other, with chestnut curls, seemed more composed but still smiled shyly.
"Boys, these are my co workers—Clara and Élise," the woman said, her tone filled with allureness. "They'll help you settle in."
"Bonjour!" Clara chirped, eyes glint as she reached to take Oscar's bag.
He quickly lifted it higher. "Ah, no it's fine, really," he said with a polite laugh. "I can handle it."
Élise, boldly, stepped forward to guide Vincent toward the bed. "You can place your coats here," she said, her accent delicate.
Vincent nodded, trying not to look as uneasy as he felt. "Merci."
The two brothers in arms were trained spies, hardened travelers and now were suddenly like awkward students visiting a stranger's home for the first time.
Clara brushed past Oscar as she arranged the linens, her arm barely grazing his. He stiffened instantly, stepping aside with an almost comical swiftness. "Ah sorry...desole."
She giggled. "So polite! aren't you."
Vincent shot him a warning glance from across the room to stay focused, but he himself wasn't any good as he was in worse shape than Oscar.
Oscar, forcing a tight smile, and tried to hold back his laughter while he muttered under his breath, "Trying to."
Marielle their host watched with faint amusement, her lips curling in a knowing smirk. "You'll get used to them. They like to make guests feel… comfortable."
That didn't make it easier.
By the time the girls finished arranging the room, Oscar's ears were a little tinged , and Vincent had found the farthest corner to stand in, pretending to inspect the old bookshelf.
When the women finally left, the sound of their soft laughter trailed down the hallway, leaving the two men standing in silence.
Vincent exhaled. "This… feels like a trap wrapped in lace."
Oscar sat down on the couch, rubbing the back of his neck. "If it is," he said quietly, "then it's the most comfortable one I've seen."
They both laughed not trying to make it loud while the ladies eavesdroped on their remarks as now it seems like they had lowered their guards around them or so they thought.