[h1]Auclairé[/h1]
[h2]Deparmon fo Aubre, Celemsville[/h2]

	The alarm buzzed shrilly and stirring in his bed Hox rose to silence it. Dawn had barely broken outside his window and the orange fingers of day break were just beginning to spread her hand out from beyond the horizon. For now though, the light was still cool. On the street outside the silver glow of florescence shone in the thin river-born mist that had spread into the city and obscured the world beyond his bedroom window. It had been cool, but not unpleasantly outside and as Hox threw the sheets off of him he realized how much cooler it had gotten. Naked, he shivered in the nonseasonal summer's chill and shuffled across the dimly lit bedroom floor to his wardrobe and began picking through his clothes. He was dressed in a minute, spurred on by the insistence of the chill air.

	Fully dressed, he moved on his heels to the bathroom and flicked on the light. A soft orange glow overtook the cool dark light that permeated the room and Hox leaned into his bathroom mirror. Looking back him was a broad-shouldered, square-shouldered young man. His dark brown hair curled every which way, made worse by his bed head. Most of it had been tamed by shaving it close along the side of head and making the sort of crown atop his head that had become fashionable. But after months of it being untended it had began to grow back out and was reclaiming its natural fullness. As he looked at his reflection he wondered briefly if he should get it all cut evenly, and let it grow back out naturally.

	But he dispensed with the notion as quickly as it had come, instead going about his normal routine. He turned the water on, and the chrome faucet poured out cool water. His kitchen counter though was without a bowl, in instead flowed back towards the well as if guided gently and gurgled down a seam-thin drain along the back. He sighed as he splashed the cold water against his face and washed away the sleep from his eyes. He looked back up at himself in his mirror, his green eyes looked back in a dull expression.

	Finally with a resigned expression he pulled on the mirror, opening his medicine cabinet and grabbed his brush and tamed his hair. Followed by his toothbrush and tooth paste.

	Hox's home was a three-floor townhouse in the middle of town, and as he brushed he strolled out onto the narrow terrace, entered through a door alongside his bed and looked down on the garden courtyard shared in common between he and his neighbors. He had inherited the home from his grandparents, his own parents who lived across town had no need for it, and the arrangement had begun with him renting it out from him. But as he begun his career and advanced through it he was able to negotiate with them for it to be moved into his name. It was not a direct transfer by any means, but to say he had inherited it was an easy way to describe it.

	The building was close to three-hundred years old, and parts of it were still surfaced it what had to be the original plaster. In his memory the terracotta shingles had been replaced once in his lifetime, if only after a sudden hailstorm. The windows and the terrace he leaned off of were framed in cast iron, painted a dark black, and in the case of the windows this cast-iron framework became a cage on the outside of the glass, on a warm day he could remove the windows entirely and not fear his home being invaded by the birds.

	The neighbor on the other side of the square inhabited a house very much like his own. And while theirs was painted a bright blue, his was a lemon's yellow. But both stood like towers alongside the third between them, his roof had been flattened and was like a small garden, the vines and ivy he grew on his rooftop patio trailing over the stone railing into the courtyard behind. He had no door opening into their courtyard and was not thought in the same way a neighbor but Nox or his neighbor opposite. From behind the ivory though was an old fading, chipped fresco of some country scene.

	Walking back inside, Nox walked back into his bathroom.

	Interior wise, the home was not far different from what it was outside. The walls were plastered over, the yellow turning into a soft metallic blue framed and bordered from the yellow with white door and window frames. The wood floors were old, and no matter how much wax was applied still retained the many decades, centuries, or scuffs and marks from furniture and foot. His bed was big enough for two, though he was the only one that lived there, and on the top floor he had only three rooms, his bed room and another room that would have been one had he had a guest, but was converted into a study. The furniture that filled any room had a flea market quality, old and aged with burnishing shades off from one another.

	Cleaned up he headed down stairs, running his hand along the smooth polish of the hand rail as he galloped down the rounding wooden stairwell to the bottom landing. The living room, a forest green of the spring afternoon variety lit up with morning light as the light switch was flicked and it came to light. The old wooden floors dark, moody, and cool under socked feet. The pale, off-white purple sofas and armchair covered in loose papers and magazines that had not found their way to the low coffee table. There was a card table under the stairs with the chairs pushed in, and a television set mounted to the wall opposite. A broad arched doorway opened into a dining room with much the same motif and around the corner the kitchen, its walls a flush rosy red.

	As he moved along, he picked up a remote from the counter and pressed a button. From the living room, out of site the TV turned on and the news went on to play. Providing a background noise as he went about preparing breakfast. Hanging on the wall over the kitchen racks of pans and implements hung off hooks, and he grabbed what he needed, turning on the gas stove and setting everything up. From a ceramic container he scooped out a slice of butter from the soft golden block there, and from a basket nearby an egg. He cracked several into the pan.

	The pans, spatulas, and large spoons and ladles were not the only thing to hang from the walls, and under the cupboards next to the oven hung bundles of dried herbs he pulled apart with his fingers and tossed into the frying pan. Turning down the gas, he let the eggs simmer as he stepped aside to the fridge and took out sausage and threw them in with the eggs. Using the spatula he chopped them up on the spot, and tossed them in with the breakfast already there until they had cooked enough.

	All things cooked and lightly browned, he deposited the breakfast onto a plate and walked out into the living room, grabbing his cellphone next to where the remote was. Throwing aside loose sheets of paper he sat down, putting the plate onto the table and began to scroll through his messages. There was one in particular that caught his attention, it was from late last night. Probably when he was out on the track.

	“From: P. Cormoda

“Lisseur, we got a case into the office after you left. I'm too busy as it is, so I'm passing it off to you. I put it on your desk for when you come in. I don't know what you got going on still, or if you've handled the Amillo file. Last I checked the courts are still looking for the final documents on your part but it's otherwise wrapped up, unless the guy wants to appeal a noise offense.”

	Hox blinked down apathetically at him, but did not delete it like the rest. He marked it and left it as is. As he finished, he leaned back and caught up on the news.

	The sun was catching up as Nox stepped outside. On the doorstep he stopped to lean over and adjusted his boots around his culottes. He made last adjustments to his pants legs, pulling at them to make sure they felt smooth in the breeches. Satisfied he pulled close the black leather vest and made his way across the garden square.

	On the street side, his bike stood waiting. As he always had done he mounted it, and fired it up. The purr from the engine started loud, but tapering down assumed the tone of a purr. He walked it out onto the street, and drove off. The wheels bumped gently over cobblestones worn smooth by automobile and foot traffic. It carried him down the street as if being held over the shoulders of his father when he was young.

	Still early, the streets were quiet and still. Not many were out to begin their day, and the only others out stood at the side-walk, sweeping up dust and dirt from the sidewalk. Women were opening the windows, and putting on the sill or hanging from iron hooks potted plants. The range of colors of the home and storm fronts passed Hox as he drove past. Rosy reds, soft blues, cream beige and eggshell whites. The street would sometimes split, heading down narrow alleys sheltered by mason archways, the earliest signs of life manifesting in the opening of doors to let out cats, or for the first walks of the day for the dogs.

	As he drew closer to the city center, the residential rhythms ebbed. Though the warming morning air drew some from the second floor apartments who chose to eat a breakfast on the terraces and porches overhead many of the street level shops still stood empty. Though those that had become most essential, the doctors, hardware stores, and greengrocers were beginning to hum with the early life of day as their clerks and owners stepped in and threw on the light. The cafes and restaurants were by now well into preparing for the new day, and their sidewalks and porches cleaned the outside tables were mid-way through being set. The wide avenues and promenades that radiated out from the middle of the city were starting to hum with automotive traffic, and coming into this nexus Nox found himself opposite of the wide grass yard opposite of the city hall, the province's central offices off behind it with its triumphal columns and memorials rising up above the gently slopped rooftops and chimneys.

	And here was where he brought his commute to an end. He parked the bike to the side, and dismounted onto the side-walk. Unassuming and old, the law offices of Pierre Cormoda rose up. Here he was, at work.

	Stepping into the offices the musky smell of old pipe tobacco was the first sensation to hit the nose, the rustic smells intermingling with cheery to make something of a smell that was like whiskey. And the source of the continual refreshment of this essence was there in the lobby, addressing some matters for the morning with the secretary. At the sound of the door the fat, round faced, pipe-smoking gentlemen in the wide-brimmed hat and laced woolen vest turned to see Nox.

	“Ah, Noxua!” he called, “You get my message?” he asked, leaning against the secretary's desk.

	“I did.” Nox answered, “What's the details on the case?”

	“Oh, some woman came in the other day looking for legal counsel for her boyfriend. Apparently the police arrested him on charges of murder!”

	“Murder, isn't that something a little above my board?”

	Pierre Cormoda scoffed dismissively, “I think you deserve it this once. Besides, Antoine has his hands tied up with the robbery case and he started up on a few other civil cases.”

	“I see, but that's what we are, aren't we? Civil law, not criminal.” Nox pointed out as he walked further into the offices.

	“Usually, but I'm not particularly worried. It'll probably be an open and shut case, from the police reports the kid isn't exactly denying it.”

	“So why are we needed?” Nox asked.

	“To lighten the sentence, perhaps. Just because the police have him doesn't mean it's all over for him. See what you can do, why don't you?”

	“I will.” said Nox, headed up the stairs to his office.