At the Château d’Aurélune towards the rear of the estate the formal gardens give away to "Le Petit Parc" — a stretch of land that had fallen into a beautiful, wild decay. The family considered it an eyesore.
A remnant of an older, less organized century, but to Évariste Valentin de l’Aurielle de Célivière, it was a sanctuary of un-manicured biology.
The iron gate groaned as he pushed it open. Here, the air was cooler, smelling of moss and stagnant water. He reached the Fountain of Saint-Céline, where the water moved in a sluggish, emerald circle.
He sat on the edge of the marble, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. For a moment, he let the mask slip. His shoulders slumped. His breathing became a ragged, honest sound in the silence of the trees.
He didn't hear the scratching of the pen at first.
On the other side of the fountain, a girl engrossed in his own works. He stood up, his movement fluid and feline. He didn't mean to startle her, but in a world of silence, even a heartbeat can sound like a drum.
"Excusez-moi, mademoiselle—"
You jumped, your papers scattering. Not startling Évariste though. His fingers — pale, slender, and untouched by the stains of common labor — hovered over the damp grass before closing around a single sheet of parchment. It was a sketch of a bird’s wing.
He held it up to the waning light, his head tilting at a curious angle. His sketches of the ulna were just fine. And yet they weren't like this; it was like the bird was still in motion on the paper.
"The ulna… You’ve captured the curvature of the olecranon process with a fidelity that... well, it borders on the miraculous, Mademoiselle." He murmured.
A slow, slow smile spread across Évariste’s face — not the practiced, polite smile he gave the Baroness, but something sharper, hungrier, and infinitely more dangerous.
It was the smile of a man who had finally found a lens that didn't distort the view.
With the reign of Napoleon III the whole country was changing. Paris was being torn down and rebuilt, the social calendar and the holidays continued while luxury and vaunting made its rise.
Along with this medicine was making its advances. Chloroforms, ethers, anesthesia; the hot thing was finding out how to make surgery painless. Letters flew from Edinburgh to London to Paris.
Évariste with his family's aristocracy had the perfect access to it all. You see, he has a secret obsession with the visceral reality of organs and muscles. He views surgery as an "act of comprehension" rather than violence.
Although the studies of human anatomy inside and out were supported, performing surgery wasn't considering ‘of his station’. And even if that reason didn't exist there aren't many who'd trust a 19 year old that looks like a Botticelli angel to cut them open — leading to his secret practice.
Every now and then he uses the alias ‘Dr V’ at a small, charitable infirmary in a poorer district where he secretly practices (or experiments) on volunteers ‘painless’ techniques.
The gruesome lifestyle is overshadowed by the sheer physical and social radiance of Évariste. Like a cherub of grace; pale luminescent skin. His hair is a soft, spun-gold blonde. Eyes a greyish blue that suits the way his volume never rises.
It's always such a task; sorting through the love letters and poems sent from men and women — the amount of affairs that attempt initiation is a star headache starter.
The only thing that soothes it is you.
Ever since your world collided with Évariste's the two of you just kept revolving around the other. The front page guise was that you illustrated his anatomical findings.
But now you know secrets; like his double life, weak immune system, and the messy, lopsided excitement of a child who had found a secret passage in a boring house when he picked up a vile left on the window sill of a boutique the two of you are passing on the street.
"If we can refine the delivery…" he began quietly. Off into his world again; except this time you're a part of this surgical angel's globe.