Charles inhaled the cigar smoke wafting towards him. A warm ecstasy spread through him. Slowly, his eyes turned upwards—towards the ceiling.

"That one…" Jacquet commented.

Whether he was asking or deducing, Charles couldn't tell.

There, right above him, holding the chandelier aloft was a pair of antlers attached to an enormous head.

"The biggest beast to have ever been spotted in the wilds. And I…"

He exhaled a cloud of smoke and watched as it floated up.

"…hunted it."

Charles felt shivers on his fingers.

Those words were full of an indescribable faith. It sounded as if they were meant to be, as if there couldn't possibly be another way between a man and a beast.

"Rosary. That's its name."

The ashy black antlers of the white beast had ridges across its entire surface. They were sharp and sturdy. If they were to fall, the chandelier would come down, and the pair of men would be dead.

"I spent a year searching for it…"

Jacquet's glazed eyes could almost see the moment he fired the gun. The smell of the gunpowder stayed longer in the air that day.

It stood a living thing. It fell a carcass.

"It cried in pain…"

It hadn't died in one shot. Even though its heart had been pierced through, it stayed alive.

"…like every other beast."

It was bleeding out, he remembered that.

"It was the only hunt that left a mark on me."

He rolled up his sleeve, flashing a gnarly, twisted scar underneath the cloth.

"Its offspring, it was hiding nearby."

The smoke swirled about, obfuscating his senses.

"It took me by surprise, tore through my muscles."

He held up that hand and brought it next to his face.

"These two fingers, they don't respond."

He tried to curl his fingers, spread them, and close his fist. But the ring and little finger refused to answer his commands.

"When the offspring is threatened, the parent rampages. And painfully I learned, the sentimentalities flow in the other direction too."

As casually as he lit it, the cigar was dunked in the empty glass on the coffee table.

"I retain those sentimentalities, as any good son should. Otherwise, I wouldn't demand your presence in my house."

He stood up and gestured for Charles to follow.

As he did so, the camera panned down. Another beast with white fur and black antlers entered the frame.

It was sealed underneath the glass coffee table, made to face its mother attached to the ceiling.

Effectively, they were in the same space but not on the same plane.

"If it weren't for my father, I wouldn't be half the man I am today."

Jacquet fixed his cuffs while leading Charles through a maze of passages lined with walls full of unusual portraits—mostly spectacled dogs clad in suits, clawing at their fourth eyes.

He stopped at a door surrounded by ivory carvings.

"May I enter?" Jacquet whispered after knocking on the door once.

No reply came. He entered regardless.

It was a spacious room with light curtains swelling and ebbing in the wind.

"He sleeps here."

Jacquet walked towards the bed in the centre of the room. Upon it lay an old gentleman.

"Anselme de Roschillian," Jacquet whispered, looming over his father's unconscious visage. "Once strong, he spends his days suffering sickness."

He looked at his wristwatch,

"He doesn't have much left. Time, I mean."

At that moment, another person entered the room.

"Hello, Mother."

It was Jacquet and Marianne's mother, Lucienne de Roschillian.

She looked two decades younger than her bedridden husband, but her beliefs remained two decades older.

"You have brought in questionable company," she remarked, looking at Charles.

Played by Margaux Delcour, she came off as an odd little woman, shrewd and cunning in her ways.

She wore the clothes of the nobility, and the bun of her hair was weighted down by a gold ornament.

"He is an artist who came to answer our announcements, not my friend. You know very well that I keep immaculate company."

Without a word, the woman dragged herself to the centre and sat on a chair by the bed.

"Certain things cannot be changed," Jacquet continued. "Death is one of them."

He walked up to the desk by the wall and made a record of his visit in the open entry book.

"It's a chronic disease, hereditary apparently. Hyburnation, it is called. Not hibernation, mind you."

After writing the time, he signed his name and closed the book.

"It burns away the life of the one affected, while they sleep for far longer hours. Essentially, it's hibernation which kills you."

He glanced out the window, observing Marianne.

"He does wake up," Lucienne said to herself.

"Begging for painkillers," retorted Jacquet.

He held his hands behind his back and contemplatively stared at his old man.

"The lord of the house—a great painter in the past—has fallen ill."

He said it matter-of-factly, as if he were stating what the room thought and not what he thought.

"The painkillers…" He rattled a square glass jar full of tablets at Charles. "They have no effect. His body has grown accustomed to them."

Frustrated and breathing slightly heavily, Lucienne slapped the bed. "Finish it already."

Her disgruntled face advocated her disgust for someone of Charles's class.

"We require a painting."

"Not any painting!" barked his mother.

"Not. Any. Painting."

He glared at her through his clenched teeth and turned back to his guest.

"We need a portrait so divine it could recall a particularly fond memory of his."

And the memory would kill the pain.

"It isn't the most reliable solution, but it is the last one. The doctors agree."

Jacquet observed Charles once more, his piercing gaze stuck to the bag hanging from his shoulder.

"Before we resume our talks, I must ask: Do you draw well?"

Charles opened his mouth for the first time in front of the lady of the house.

"I don't."

Before the information could seep into Lucienne's tired brain, Charles continued.

"I am a photographer."

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