VERSAILLES || h.s.

I N T E R L U D E

The screams rolled across the woods like thunder during a storm. His father's forge was nestled in the heart of the forest, and he was the only one there; it was Sunday, nobody would be working.

Only seven months prior, he had received the news his wife was with child. That very day, he had begun working on an ornate crib for the baby, using leftover metals, melted gold, and his mother's heirloom jewels; this child deserved the world, as did his wife. Lorenzo worked from dawn till dusk, moulding and welding the metals into a masterpiece fit for a king.

On the final night, he worked and worked, placing the final touches on the crib. He was carving the year of the child's birth into the leg of the crib when it began.

Screams. Horrible, terrible screams, ripping through the peaceful night like a blade through flesh. Lorenzo stumbled out of the shed and gazed around the trees around him. He saw the glow of fire in the distance, towards the village, the light appearing as a doorway to Hell itself.

He did not remember running, running as fast as his legs would take him. He did not remember screaming out his wife's name, nor cutting his arm on a sharp branch as he sprinted. He only remembered standing before the hellfire, unable to move as he watched the orange flames lick the midnight sky, the blaze taunting him as tongues of fire swirled like the Devil's dancers. The heat melted the snow from around the building, burning through the earth and filling the air with the smell of charred wood.

Around him, women and children screamed and sobbed, whilst men struggled with small buckets of water, trying to put out the conflagration, but to no avail. The villagers shouted in French and English alike as the structure groaned and creaked.

Lorenzo was tossed back into reality when an elderly woman clutched his arm and began yelling at him. It took him some time to truly understand her, but when he did, his heart all but stopped.
"Your wife!" she wailed. "Your father! Mother!"

He felt the blood in veins turn to ice as he recognised the sign that fell to the floor; Boulangerie Constantini.

His mother's bakery.

The family lived in the building, on the second storey.

The very same storey that was being swallowed by flames as choked screams rang out from within.

He felt tears stinging his eyes and despair tale over his senses as he listened to the wooden boards whine and fall, splintering as they reached the ground. The memory of him running into the burning building was a faded one, clouded by the vivid image of his mother and father lying dead where they once stood. The smoke had likely taken them.

Their eyes were glassy and glued to the ceiling, which was crumbling around their bodies. Lorenzo felt searing pain shoot through his chest, and, for a moment, thought the fire had touched him. But when he glanced down, his doublet was intact. No, that pain was of a heart breaking.

He looked away in agony, and his sight landed on something much worse. His wife sat hunched against the wall, a thin wet handkerchief pressed against her nose.
"Catherine!" he coughed, lunging towards her. Underfoot, the floorboards crackled and snapped, creating holes in the building.

He fell to his knees beside Catherine, whispering her name over and over, grasping her shoulders and shaking her gently, but she did not move. The smoke burned his eyes and throat, and his breathing grew laboured, yet he refused to leave her. Her chest rose and fell slowly, in shallow, weak movements. There was no way he could save her; the exits were either engulfed in fire or a fifteen-foot drop.