Scenes from the House
Step behind the façade.
Read selected scenes from La Maison Edward—moments of loyalty, ambition, intimacy and collapse that reveal what the House asks of the people inside it.
LA MAISON EDWARD
CHAPTER III — “THE RED OF CINEMA”
SOFIA
Extract from the novel
She breathed in and the door opened. The cold outside was electric, charged—the air you breathe when too many people are waiting for the same thing in the same place. She stepped down without hesitation.
The cane, the heels, the black dress. Silence lasted exactly one second—the time it took the crowd to recognise her.
Then everything exploded.
Cameras firing in bursts, her name called from behind the barriers, ours too. Rosie did not stop or slow down. She simply moved forwards, her cane tapping the carpet. Noa stepped out behind her. A few cameras swung towards him, then returned to Rosie. He placed a hand at the small of her back and they moved on together.
Then Zaïre.
She put one foot on the carpet and the movement was immediate—a collective rearrangement, people changing position, phones rising. She let the seconds accumulate, the fabric of her dress catch the flashes and her high cheekbones cut through the cold December light. Then she turned towards the photographers with that precision of hers—not a full smile, only what was needed.
Three seconds.
She began walking again. Amar got out before me, collar raised. A woman in the crowd was screaming his name with an insistence that made me wonder whether she genuinely knew him or was shouting because everyone else was. Someone was shouting my name too.
A girl behind the barriers, perhaps twenty, held her phone at arm’s length. I stopped, automatic smile—she took the picture before I was even still and disappeared into her screen. A photographer waved at me from the press side. I stepped forwards, the flash went off three times. He was already looking at his pictures.
Further along, a few signs rose above the heads. JUSTICE FOR ASHLEY. WHAT HAPPENED AT KING EDWARD? Another, written in red marker, asked simply: WHERE IS CARMEN? The people holding them were not shouting our names. They stood straight, signs raised; they had not come to admire us. It was not only me. Everyone wanted to know. Me, just a little more.
Saul Varela was waiting in front of the glass entrance. The director was in his fifties, with grey hair swept back and a burgundy velvet jacket he wore as though everybody else had been underdressed on purpose. He took Rosie by the shoulders. They spoke quietly for a moment, and she smiled—the real smile. A publicist came to Zaïre with a tablet. She scanned the screen, listened, then nodded. Two journalists waited nearby.
One of them moved towards Rosie with a microphone. She turned towards his voice and gave him two polished answers in that smooth tone of hers. Amar had moved slightly apart. He was looking at the people behind the barriers, not the photographers, not Varela, not us—the ones waiting in the cold with the hostile signs.
That was when I saw him.
Théodore stood on the other side of the entrance, apart from everyone, his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. He was looking neither at the photographers nor at the crowd. Not even at Rosie, though it was her night. He was looking at me. For the first time since leaving the van, I forgot to arrange my face.
Our eyes met. I smiled at him. Something in his expression loosened, and he gave me one back. Just a little. I went over. The photographers continued calling behind me, but their voices lost their shape with every step. By the time I reached him, I could hear only the crowd and the river somewhere beyond it.
—You came, I said.
—You sound surprised.
—You were angry.
—I still know how to drive when I am angry.
I smiled despite myself. His eyes moved over my face, checking something he did not ask about.
—Glad to see you, I said.
This time, his smile reached a little further.
—You too.
Noa approached us and held out his hand.
—We were beginning to enjoy the absence of supervision.
Théodore took it.
—Then I arrived at the right time. Did I miss anything? he asked.
Noa glanced briefly towards the journalists, then at me.
—Nothing that should be discussed beside twenty microphones.
Amar had approached without my hearing him. The change in Théodore was slight. His shoulders settled; one hand came out of his coat pocket. I held my breath. The wrong place to settle anything.
Perhaps the only possible one.
Amar stopped a few feet from us. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The photographers kept shouting behind us, impatient for faces that would turn in their direction.
Théodore looked at him, then held out his hand.
Amar’s eyes dropped to it. Surprise crossed his face and disappeared almost immediately. He took it.
What began as a formal handshake lasted a second too long. Théodore’s grip tightened; Amar’s did the same. Then Amar brought his free hand to Théodore’s shoulder and left it there briefly.
No apology. No explanation.
They released each other. Amar looked at him once more before turning back towards the carpet.
—That’s new, I murmured.
Théodore sighed.
—You were right, he said simply.
—As always.
His gaze dropped to my hand. I was still gripping my phone too tightly, the black screen pressed into my palm. Théodore knew me too well.
—Who’s Reid? he asked.
In the distance, Zaïre was waving both arms at us.
—An answer, I hope.
—Théodore! Olga Rose cried.
Behind the barriers, the crowd had grown. The shouting now mingled with the slogans, the names hurled like accusations.
Ashley.
Carmen.
King Edward.
A sign rose higher than the rest—WHO PROTECTED THEM?—before disappearing behind a row of phones. We lined up in front of the glass entrance. Noa took his place first. Rosie followed, arranging her dress. Zaïre slipped in beside Amar. Théodore came to stand next to me. The photographer moved closer. I could still feel the warmth of the phone in my palm.
Ashley had been thirteen.
Carmen was not yet called Carmen.
And we were beautiful.
—Smile! the photographer ordered.
I looked up. The flash struck me.
When I opened my eyes, the world was red.
LA MAISON EDWARD
CHAPTER I — “ASHLEY BECKERMAN”
AMAR
Extract from the novel
We stayed like that for a moment: four hands around one small body that had asked for none of this.
—Gently, she murmured.
—I know how to lay my daughter in her cot.
—You’re shaking.
I stopped.
She said nothing else.
Together, we lowered Imani towards the cot. Her back touched the mattress. Her arms flew open, then dropped to either side of her body.
I kept my hand on her stomach.
Aanya kept hers beside Imani’s head.
We waited.
One breath.
Then another.
Imani did not wake.
I slowly removed my hand.
Aanya tucked the blanket beneath her arms. She smoothed it twice, then remained bent over the cot.
—You were shaking that night too, she said.
I went still.
My attention slipped to the scar showing above the neck of her T-shirt. She pulled the fabric up at once.
Not to hide the mark.
To stop me looking at it.
—Don’t talk about that, I said.
—We never talk about it.
—It’s better that way.
Aanya stayed beside the cot.
—I don’t remember all of it, she admitted.
I stared at Imani.
—I know.
—You can’t know, Amar.
Streetlight came through the curtains and laid a pale line across her legs.
—I barely remember them, she continued. Voices. A hand. The smell of the place. After that, it all runs together.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the cot.
—Aanya.
—I remember you.
I looked up.
She was still watching the baby.
—You were there when I started coming back to myself. You were holding me, but you didn’t know how. You were afraid you would hurt me.
Her voice did not change.
—You kept telling me it was over.
I did not remember speaking.
I remembered the tiles.
The sound of my breathing.
The first boy’s throat beneath my forearm.
The second trying to crawl away.
For years, that was all the aftermath had been: two bodies that did not move, and Aanya barely moving more than they did.
—You weren’t the same afterwards, she said.
I stepped away from the cot; two strides took me to the window.
I pressed one hand to the cold glass.
—For weeks, you slept outside my door. You checked the locks before I went to bed and again afterwards. You rang whenever I left the house. If I took five minutes too long to answer, you came looking for me.
—You weren’t in any state to—
—I know what state I was in.
Her voice had hardened; I fell silent.
—You kept your hands in your pockets, she continued. Even at the table. You couldn’t bear anyone touching you without warning.
I looked down at the hand resting against the glass.
—It took you months to become… some version of yourself again.
She moved closer to the cot.
—You were awful sometimes. You tried to control everything. Me most of all.
—I was trying to protect you.
—I know.
It no longer sounded like an accusation.
—But even after you killed those people, you weren’t like this.
My fingers tightened against the glass; Aanya did not soften the sentence.
At last, I turned round.
—You don’t know what that feels like.
—No. I know what it did to you.
She moved away from the cot and took a few steps towards me.
—After that, you never disappeared. You didn’t sleep, but you were there.
She stopped.
—Now you’re here without being here.
I had no answer.
Aanya searched my face for something. For the first time since she had entered the room, she looked genuinely lost.
—I don’t understand, she admitted.
Her voice dropped.
—I know you didn’t kill her. I’ve known it since day one. But something happened in there.
She did not even say the Dome.
—Everyone knows something happened.
—You know what it was.
She shook her head slowly.
—After that night, you were afraid of yourself.
Her gaze fell to my hands.
—Now it looks as though you’re afraid of everyone.
Aanya did not move.
—I can’t tell you, I said.
—I know.
She did not ask why, or who, or what.
Her hand found my wrist.
Her fingers closed around it without pressure, at the exact point where my pulse was racing.
—You don’t have to tell me everything tonight.
I looked at her.
—I don’t even know who you could tell, she added.
She released my wrist.
Her palm settled against my cheek. Her thumb wiped away what remained beneath my eye.
Then she rose slightly onto her toes and pressed her lips to my temple.
A quick kiss.
—You’ll talk when you’re ready, she murmured.
She stepped back.
—I’ll always be here for you.
I lowered my head.
—Even when I’m unbearable?
—Especially when you’re unbearable.
This time I really laughed.
Not for long.
LA MAISON EDWARD
CHAPTER II — “THE FEUDAL GARDEN”
NOA
Extract from the novel
"When she finally started walking, her boots sank into the mud. We followed. Beneath our feet, the park, tamed in the French manner, slid towards something more English.
—You’re saying a member of the Board killed Ashley in the middle of the gala? she said at last.
She shook her head slowly.
—No. That isn’t possible.
—So it’s easier to believe I did it? he replied.
—That isn’t what I said, she snapped.
—Then what are you saying?
—Not there. Not in front of everyone, she said.
—That is how she died. I’m telling you what I saw, Amar said.
I followed her gaze towards the Dome.
—The guests, the waiters, the musicians, the cameras in the corridors… and no one saw him? she added. No one can corroborate it?
Amar lowered his head.
—The entire Board was there, I added. All of us too.
He did not answer.
—Did you watch it happen? I asked.
He ignored me again.
—If you saw it, why didn’t you say anything before? Zaïre insisted.
His lips parted.
—Because…
The word barely left him. He swallowed, but the rest did not come.
There it was.
The Dome rose between the Gothic façades, a sphere of glass and gilded steel. The panes gave an illusion of transparency. I saw again the orchestra continuing to play while Ashley Beckerman died inside. Beside me, Amar’s face had gone still. His eyes followed something behind the glass that was no longer there. His jaw moved once before the words came.
—I have my sister and my daughter at home… I wasn’t trying to kill Carmen. I tried to save her.
The anger had left his face. The fear that remained was harder to look at."