---
Dawn seeped cold and grey through the leaded windows of Mireille's chamber. Margot, her brow furrowed with worry, tightened the laces of Mireille's sturdiest wool gown—a deep forest green colour.
"Mark my words, child," Margot muttered, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusted the high collar. "That man… that Ed—Edwin?"
"You mean Monsieur Edouard Halden?" Mireille asked.
Margot nodded grimly.
"What about him?"
"There's a darkness to him. Moves too quietly. Eyes that see too much—like a shadow that swallows the light." She fastened a simple jet brooch at Mireille's throat. "Inviting a wolf into the fold won't save the sheep, child. It only changes the butcher."
Mireille stared at her reflection in the tarnished mirror. The face that looked back was pale but set, the amber flecks in her eyes hard as topaz. She picked up the sleek, double-barreled pistol from her dressing table, and began to load it.
"Perhaps, Margot," Mireille said, her voice low and steady, "but today I shall discover if the wolf bites the hand that feeds him, or the fox snapping at my heels."
*And whether this gamble will save Eglantine, or bury it faster.*
She snapped the pistol's breech shut with a decisive click. "It is today I will know if I can trust him or not. His usefulness hinges on this morning." *I want to see how he handles the creditors before I officially marry him.*
A sharp rap echoed on the chamber door. Old Tomas stood there, his breath coming in short puffs. "My lady," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "He's here. Leclerc. And he brought... men."
The name dropped like a stone into the silent room. Leclerc. Not just a creditor, but a viper who operated in the twilight between commerce and cruelty. Reputation whispered he owned half the gambling dens in Villefort and collected debts with knuckle-dusters and quicklime.
"Where?" Mireille asked, her knuckles white on the pistol grip.
"Drawing room," Tomas wheezed. "Demands immediate audience. Says he won't be kept waiting, not by... beggars." The old man flinched at his own words.
Mireille straightened her spine, the pistol cool against her palm beneath the folds of her skirt. "Very well. Let us greet our... guest."
She left the room, Margot's anxious gaze burning into her back.
The long corridor felt like a tunnel leading to an executioner's block. Halfway down, another figure emerged from the gloom near the Blue Room. Edouard, dressed in dark, serviceable clothes that still managed to suggest a faded nobility, leaned against the wall. His face was carefully neutral, but his hazel eyes tracked her approach with unnerving focus. He straightened as she neared.
"My lady," he began, his voice a low murmur. "Tomas informed me—"
Mireille cut him off, not breaking stride. "Come with me." It wasn't a request. It was a command.
He nodded and fell into step beside her without hesitation, matching her pace. No questions. Only a watchful silence.
---
The drawing room.
Three men stood near the cold hearth. Two were bruisers, thick-necked and clad in coarse wool, hands resting near concealed weapons, eyes scanning the room with predatory disinterest. The third was Armand Leclerc.
He was not a large man, but he radiated a venomous energy. Dressed in a surprisingly fine, if slightly garish, bottle-green coat, he held a silver-topped cane he didn't need. His face was sharp, vulpine, dominated by cold, dark eyes that missed nothing. A thin smile played on his lips as Mireille entered, a smile that didn't reach those eyes.
"Lady Eglantine," Leclerc purred, his voice slick as oil. He made a mockery of a bow. "How... fortifying to see you in such robust health. Unlike your late father's finances." His gaze flickered dismissively over Edouard, then back to Mireille, lingering on the slight bulge in her skirt where the pistol lay hidden. "Charming. Bringing a toy to a grown-up discussion?"
"State your business, Monsieur Leclerc," Mireille said, her voice icy, refusing to be baited. She stopped several paces away. Edouard stood slightly behind and to her left.
"Business?" Leclerc chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Simple, my dear. The principal. Thirty thousand livres. Plus accrued interest. Due. Now." He tapped his cane lightly on the floor. "Your father's promises died with him. Mine, however, are very much alive. And I collect."
"We don't have thirty thousand livres," Mireille stated flatly. "You know the state of the estate."
"Ah, the state." Leclerc spread his hands. "Precisely. Land, timber, title... assets, my dear. Assets can be liquidated. Or," his smile turned predatory, "alternative arrangements can be made. Servitude has a certain... permanence." His gaze raked over her with chilling appraisal. "A pretty delicate face can clear a surprising amount of debt in the right establishments."
Mireille felt the cold fury rise, her finger tightening on the pistol's trigger beneath the fabric. Before she could speak, however, Edouard took a single, quiet step forward.
"Monsieur Leclerc," Edouard said, his voice calm. "Thirty thousand livres is indeed a significant sum. Especially for ventures that operate... outside the Emperor's gracious view."
Leclerc's reptilian smile froze. His eyes narrowed, sharpening on Edouard. "Do I know you, sir? You have the advantage of me."
"Edouard Halden," He replied, his gaze unwavering.
Leclerc's brow furrowed, then smoothed with dawning recognition. "Halden...?" He repeated the name slowly, like tasting spoiled wine.
"That name... it rings a bell. Disinherited, weren't you? Fallen far indeed to be skulking in borderland ruins."
The oily confidence returned, laced with contempt.
"And what would a disinherited nobleman know of my ventures, Monsieur Halden? The gutter teaches many things, but not the intricacies of commerce."
"More than you might think," Edouard replied smoothly, unfazed by the insult. He didn't move aggressively, didn't raise his voice. He simply... exuded a quiet, dangerous certainty.
"The tobacco route from the Southern Marches, for instance. Quite profitable, bypassing Imperial tariffs. Risky, though. Requires precise timing, reliable contacts at the border crossings... and silence."
Edouard's gaze held Leclerc's.
"Silence is fragile, wouldn't you agree? Especially when the Imperial Revenue Service develops a sudden, keen interest in a particular stretch of river near Villefort."
Leclerc's face lost its oily confidence. A flicker of genuine fear crossed his features. "You bluff."
Edouard reached slowly into the inner pocket of his coat. Leclerc's bruisers tensed, hands moving towards weapons.
Edouard ignored them, withdrawing not a weapon, but a small, smooth, unstamped coin – the ghost currency. He held it up, letting the weak light catch its blank, featureless surface. It was an object utterly devoid of origin, yet screaming of the shadow world.
"Do I?" Edouard asked softly, his voice dropping even lower. "This found its way to me. Along with certain... names. Dates. Landing schedules. Information that would make an Imperial Auditor salivate. Or," he tilted his head slightly, "it could be forgotten. Buried. Like a debt."
The silence in the room was absolute, thick enough to choke on. Leclerc stared at the ghost coin, then at Edouard's impassive face.
The blood had drained from his features.
"What," Leclerc rasped, the slickness gone from his voice, replaced by raw tension, "do you propose?"
"A renegotiation," Edouard stated. "The debt to Lady Eglantine is forgiven. Utterly. In return, she receives a ten percent share of the net profits from your... enterprises... for the next five years. Delivered quarterly, discreetly. Consider it an investment in continued silence and favorable winds for your shipments."
Leclerc looked like he'd swallowed poison. "Ten percent? Five years? Absurd!"
Edouard shrugged, a minute gesture. "Or, I could send a message today. To a certain Captain Reynaud, currently stationed rather bored at the Villefort garrison. I hear he's eager for promotion."
He pocketed the ghost coin.
"The choice is yours, Monsieur Leclerc. Debt forgiven and a profitable partnership... or ruin. And prison ships are notoriously poor for business."
Leclerc's knuckles were white on his cane. He looked from Edouard's unreadable face to Mireille's stony one, then to his own thugs, who suddenly seemed less imposing.
"Five years," Leclerc spat, the words tasting like ash. "Ten percent. Net. And absolute silence."
"Naturally," Edouard inclined his head. "Tomas will draw up the agreement immediately. You'll sign it before you leave these grounds." It wasn't a question.
Leclerc gave a curt, furious nod, unable to look at Mireille. He turned sharply and stalked towards the door, his thugs scrambling after him, their menace deflated. The drawing room door closed behind them with a thud that echoed in the sudden silence.
Mireille slowly released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She turned to look at Edouard. He stood calmly, watching the door where Leclerc had vanished, no trace of triumph on his face, only the cool assessment of a move completed.
"I didn't even need to point my pistol," she said, the words escaping her in a mixture of disbelief and dawning respect.
Edouard finally met her gaze. "Not everything is about pointing a gun at your opponent's head, my lady," he said quietly. "Sometimes, it's about knowing what they fear more than death. You have got to think in the way they would and use it against them. Leverage their own secrets, their own greed. That is a far more lasting victory."
He turned towards the door. "Shall we prepare for the other contract? I believe Tomas has the papers ready."
---
An hour later, in the austere study overlooking the frost-rimed gardens, Tomas laid a single sheet of parchment on the heavy oak desk. The marriage contract which outlined the six-month term, the separate chambers, the absence of expectation for affection or heirs, the mutual protection and sanctuary. Two lines awaited signatures.
Mireille dipped the quill in ink. Her hand was steady as she signed: *Mireille Eglantine*. She passed the quill to Edouard.
He took it. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second, his hazel eyes meeting hers across the desk. There was no pretense of romance in that look, only a grim acknowledgment of the pact they were sealing. Then, with a firm, deliberate stroke, he signed the name that bound him to her fate and her crumbling estate: *Edouard Halden*.
Tomas, as witness, added his shaky signature beneath theirs. The scratch of the quill was the only sound in the quiet room.
As the ink dried, Mireille studied the man who was now, legally, her husband. The question that had simmered since the drawing room confrontation could no longer be contained.
"How did you know?" she asked abruptly, her voice cutting through the stillness. "About Leclerc's smuggling? The routes, the schedules... that ghost coin? Who are you really?"
Edouard met her gaze, his expression unreadable. The lie came smoothly, a practiced blend of half-truth and plausible fiction. "Before my...," he began, his voice low and measured, " Well, actually, I served as an intermediary for certain trading consortiums. Men who moved goods between empires, often skirting Imperial tariffs. Leclerc was one of many operators we monitored. His routes, his contacts – they were part of my tradecraft."
He paused, letting the fabrication settle. "As for the coin? It's a token among those who operate in the margins. Proof of access, nothing more. When one loses a title, one learns to value different currencies."
He is lying, Mireille held his gaze, searching for cracks in the veneer. The story was plausible – the borderlands teemed with such shadow merchants. It explained his knowledge, his calm under threat, the ghost coin. It was a believable lie. For now, it sufficed.
"Different currencies indeed," she murmured, her tone unreadable. She didn't press further. The contract was signed.