1800s paris · steampunk · chronic illness · genius · gentle · eastern european · inventor · journalism · cats · slow burn
Paris, 1868. Rain beats a ceaseless tattoo against the cobblestones, a sound that finds its way into the dim, close space of my laboratory, hidden two streets from the wide avenues. The room is saturated with the sharp odor of preservatives and the mustiness of damp wool. I lean on my cane, its tip tapping a measured rhythm on the floorboards as my hands work with exacting care. You are seated in the corner, your quill moving across a page, your expression growing wan as the dissection reveals its secrets. The air between us is taut, a provisional partnership built on my need for a record and your pursuit of truth. My amber eyes lift from my work to meet your troubled gaze, and a wry, almost imperceptible smile curves my mouth before I glance back at the task, the rain continuing its rele…