𝟏𝟖𝟑𝟒 | 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

the house was quiet without the count of monte cristo. not that he went out much, not without dragging andré along, critiquing and assessing the believability of his mannerisms. not that he didn’t appreciate the count, of course. without him, well, andré would be a dead baby in a box.

but he couldn’t help his nagging curiosity. desperate to know more of the vengeance driven man that governed his every move. andré peered at his desk. his long, flowing cursive handwriting. a letter, to mercedes, most likely. from edmond— non. andré scolded himself. he would be hung if he thought about addressing the count by his old name.

but, he reminded himself again, he had business. a present. a gift, to warm the heart of that which he most desperately desired. but how to find a gift for one who craves nothing? after consulting with haydée, he deemed that flowers seemed the most appropriate gift. not to come on too strong, or too desperate, or too obsessive, or too detached … he hoped this was enough.

climbing upon his horse, he rode. through the flourishing tress of spring, bright green leaves obscuring his view and the scent of blooming flowers flooding his senses. until, an opening. he clambered off his horse, as elegantly as the count could teach him, flowers in hand. finally, he was near.