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Hi folks, Billy Hindle here, the voice of Alice Dyer in The Magnus Protocol. Today I just wanted to take some time to run you through some of the exciting Magnus merchandise, as well as affiliate links, a brand new way to support the show. You can find affiliate links in the description of all new episodes. If you are based in the UK, be sure to check out Phantom Peak, a unique, immersive, open world adventure in London. Use the link in the show notes or code RUSTY to get 15% off tickets.
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Hey everyone, it's Anusha Battersby here. Today, we are bringing you the very first episode of a brand new show launched on the RQ Network –
Remnants, which is created by Ira Major, the talented creator of multiple amazing shows, including Spirit Box Radio and Not Quite Dead. Remnants is a thrilling dark fantasy audio drama, releasing weekly, and each new episode brings a new mystery and a new terrible choice. When we die, the remnants of us are left behind. Follow the apprentice as he sorts through these remnants, to determine if they should be discarded or reshelved. But...
But he has no criteria to make this choice. You can listen to more episodes of this series by searching for Remnants and Audio Drama wherever you listen to your podcasts, by clicking the link in the show notes below, or, for more information, visit hangingslothstudios.com forward slash remnants or rustyquill.com. Have fun and enjoy the episode. Look alive, would you? Huh? Didn't you hear the bell?
Oh, right. Course. Sorry, sir. Sir? Make haste. I'd move your head if I were you. What? A box? Your powers of observation astound. Aren't you going to look at it? Yeah, that would make sense, wouldn't it? I should hope so. Um, no label, no name, nothing. Just return stamped on the side. Well, sir?
Aren't you going to process it? The box, sir? Yes. Oh, I... I suppose so, sir. Very good. Yeah, how exactly do you... What do you normally do with boxes, dear apprentice? Open them, sir. It's a teacup. A porcelain teacup. Glad it didn't break when it fell. Of course it didn't. All right. Well? Well, sir? Aren't you going to process it? Oh, yeah, of course. Just...
What do I need to do to process it? You have to read it. Read it? Yes. But it's a cap, sir. Indeed. But if you don't read it, how will you know how to process it? I don't know, sir, but I can't just... Oh, sir? Oh, you've... Sir? Oh, where did he go? Right, wonderful. Now I just need to figure out how to read a teacup. Okay, let's have a look. Just an ordinary teacup.
Floral pattern around the side. It's well used. The inside is all stained, only I don't think it's stained by tea. There's... I think it's paint. The residue of paint. Yeah, it's sort of chalky on the nose. Interesting. But it's a pretty nice teacup. On the bottom, Royal Dalton. Oh. Well, that's the only writing on it, so I wonder if I'm supposed to find a place on one of the shelves for it to go? Look for a sign. Look for a sign. Look for a sign.
Oh! Big gold arrow on the floor. Processing this way. How helpful. This place is huge. Another sign. Processing. A little girl watches children playing on the beach. She wants to join them, but she won't. She never does. She's just old enough now to notice that the other children laugh at her. And she doesn't like it. Instead, she sits with her father. He paints them. Faceless renderings. Barely more than stick figures. He will sell the paintings in town tomorrow for two centimes. Purveyors will haggle down the price.
Painted by my daughter, Celine, her father will say. Celine can yet barely hold a paintbrush, but her father smears oil colours on her stubby fingers, gums it into strands of her half-matted hair. See how she will dance for you, he says. Celine spins in her worn leather shoes. Patrons clap. They throw a centime or two to the cobbles at her feet. Two summers later, her father leans on his crutch. He tells those who ask him that he lost his leg on the Marne, Jude Land, Vildunne.
He is grubby and red-faced from the brandy he drinks from a small flask, which never seems to empty. "This is my trade," he tells Celine as he paints wobbly figures. "I was once a great painter, but they broke my hands, you see," he tells her. She takes his hand. His fingers are twice as big as hers, his skin rough and loose around his bones. In her grip, he trembles, and he pats the lap of his still-there leg. "Come tell me what you see." Celine looks across the meadow they are sitting in.
It is high summer and they have come out to the countryside beyond St. Cyr-sur-Mer. Her father says they have come to escape the heat but it feels just as hot to Celine out in the fields only there is even less to do here than in town. Last night they slept in the tumble-down cottage and Celine lay awake listening to the trills of crickets and the low crackling of toads. There is a hot sweet stink of cow dung on the breeze wafting from the farmland beyond the meadow's edge. A farmer turns a brown corner of field with a teller made of bright new metal that flashes in the early sunlight of the morning.
Selene's father takes a swig from his brandy. Selene lifts a paintbrush from the porcelain teacup by her father's feet to her tongue to lick off the excess water before she dips it in the paint. She swirls golden yellows into muted browns and swirls of grey. An hour later, when she turns the canvas to her father, it holds a shoddy portrait. His eyes glisten. My sweet, you see me, he tells her. He kisses her hair. Sweet girl, but this will never sell.
Celine has grown tall and willowy. She walks with her hands behind her back. She keeps her head down, her red hair hidden under a beige scarf. She left her father sleeping at his pitch, paintings tied to the railings with yarn and string. She walks half a step behind a woman with a large perambulator. The baby inside is flossing, emitting loud squawks every few seconds. The woman pushing the pram is a governess. Her clothes are neat, black, plain, expensive but warm.
Selene can see bending on the hem of the skirt and dotted lines down the jacket's centre back where the seams have been let out a little. Town is busy. There is activity on the hills outside the main part of town, at the remains of a Roman villa. For months, the wealthier Saint Syrians have been torn between complaining about the dust and disruption and being excited about the knowledgeable and important men it's been bringing into town.
The researchers set up long tables on top of the ruins, preserving mosaics and pottery, and hundreds of other artifacts. Selene hopes that the crowds will mean more people will buy hers and her father's paintings. No longer a ham-fisted toddler masquerading as a prodigy, Selene has long overtaken her father's creative pace. She has learned how to perfectly mimic his style, style he once passed off as Selene's anyway, and has been developing it into something better and more refined, incorporating more figures into the landscapes, thinking more carefully of composition.
They are selling more paintings, and though her father is pleased, Selene senses something uneasy in him about them, where once he complimented her skills, he has become increasingly critical. His own hands are becoming unsteady. A week ago, he threatened to tear Selene's paintings to shreds and start selling broken crockery from the old villa like everyone else, as they seem to be doing so much better than they are. It's not true, though, and Selene knows it. The crockery paddlers are an oversaturated market. Erza and her father's paintings are selling the best they've ever sold, but still, it is barely enough for them to live.
Selene thinks it's a wonder the researchers have any artefacts left to study at all, given the amount she's seen being sold on the town streets. Except she'd do for a fact that most of the crockery shards being sold there weren't legitimate. That didn't really matter though, in Selene's opinion. The people buying the shards weren't experts or even particularly interested in the Romans at all. They just wanted a little piece of the story to take home with them, so it didn't really matter if it was real, so long as they believed it was.
In fact, Selim thought, it was probably better to sell these people fakes than the genuine article anyway. What good would a real bit of Roman pottery do sitting in the cabinet of some lady forgotten behind this week's fresh flowers? The governess stops to soothe the bussing baby in its huge, ornate pram.
Selene pads forwards and with a deft swish of the scalpel she uses to sharpen her pencils, severs the cords holding the governess's pocket in place. Selene slips the pocket into the folds of her dress and crosses the street, adding up towards the hills. Once she's left her sufficiently behind, Selene settles behind a large rock and empties the contents of the governess's pocket onto the floor between her shoes.
A silver rattle, a small sewing kit, an assortment of buttons and a tiny coin purse. A few francs rattle inside. It's not much, but it's enough to buy bread for Selina and her father, and perhaps something sweet too. It's not a sensible use of money, but there will be more pockets to steal, and her father has seemed so tired for weeks. She takes the coins and the rattle, and leaves the rest in the dirt, and runs back into town. As Selina is at the bakery, she notices a crowd is gathering near the town hall. Something to do with the villa, she supposes.
The baker eyes Selim with doubt as she approaches the counter and chooses a large round loaf and a small almond pastry, which, to the baker's surprise, she pays for in advance. She walks out with the goods under her arm. The crowd is still there. They've gathered around the edge of the market, as though some fancy new stall has set up in the hour or so since Selim was last there. But as Selim passes them, she realises that their tone is all wrong. They're whispering fast. Some women are crying, anchorsheaves held over downturned mouths.
Selene wanders over, and as she does, curiously, the crowd begins to part, many of the onlookers giving Selene strange and doleful looks. When finally she reaches the fence, where her father has tied up her paintings to sell them, she sees him. He's sat on the overturned crate he always sits on when he's selling their wares, but his posture is tumbledown like an old cottage, like the beams have rotten and the stones have fallen in on themselves. His eyes are staring at Selene, but he's looking through her. At some scene, Selene knows only the dead can see.
When she takes his leathery hand between her own, the bread and pastry dropped and forgotten several feet behind her, her father's skin is beginning to cool. She thinks how strange that is on such a warm day. She realises she'd never noticed before just how warm people are, how cold it is possible for them to become. Celine sways her weight from hip to hip, making a show of tapping her finger on her bottom lip, feigning consideration. A young British military officer examines the painting she has had the hotel's butler display on a small chaise.
It's fairly small. A real collector would know that Monet usually worked out a much grander scale than this. The young man, Jules, whose hotel room Celine is standing in, is very pretty and fancies himself an art enthusiast, but he incorrectly identified three paintings at the Louvre, so even if he is a true enthusiast, he's not a particularly knowledgeable one. Jules plays equal regard to Celine and her painting. And Monsieur Fovre has authenticity yet, Jules says in broken French.
Selene nods. He looks at her for a long moment, eyes flitting back and forth between each of hers, and then leans in close to the canvas, inspecting the outsized brush marks. Monet has a particular method of getting his paint from his brush, Selene has learned. In her first few attempts at this haystack, layered under the final image, which Jules has his nose just inches from now, looked evocative of Monet's work, but could not have passed for it even to a passing admirer. She'd returned to his display a dozen times and stood as close to the works as she was allowed, trying to work out what it was exactly that she was missing.
"'Something to do with the underpainting,' she thought, and then the method of application was wrong. "'Monsieur Fovere will accept sterling, yeah?' asked Jules. "'Celine's heart clenched. "'No, I prefer in francs.' Jules frowned. "'My uncle told me to use Fovere because he's very reasonable about foreign currencies.' "'Celine fidgeted. She can't take the whole payment in sterling. "'It would involve going to a bank and explaining how she came by this money.'
Nobody knows her in Paris well enough to vouch for her, and though she can pass as a shop's assistant to foolish Englishmen, any Frenchman with an eye would recognise the pattern in her spot for what she was, someone attempting to appear to come from money when she did not. Please, I'm trying to show initiative. I'm only monitoring for her as assistant shop girl, but I want to be a real art dealer like him. I want to prove to him I'm capable, you see. Jules sighs. We're due to head across France. I'd rather keep a hold of my francs. Who knows what we need to pick up on the way.
Silly nods, hoping that biting her lip makes her look sympathetic. British soldiers have been passing through the capital all summer. In June, she overheard old men in cafes complaining about it. "'We'll never go to war with the Germans,' they said. "'Our memory is too long. Too much blood was spilled on French soil in the Great War,' they said. Others disagreed. By July, there were heated arguments in every bar and cafe. "'It's our duty to go to war with the Germans,' cried the young. "'You don't remember what we lost?' raved the old.'
Now, in September, there is war, but it still doesn't feel like it. The wealthy British officers, like Jules, seem to treat the start of their journey as an holiday. Celine wonders if perhaps all men treat war like this, even when it's a proper war. Perhaps it's because they are young and they are men, and so they've had the world handed to them, so they don't know how to be afraid when it might be taken away. Celine, who grew up with nothing but the clothes on her back, glances at the paintings, then at Jules.
"'Well, I suppose I will take sterling,' she says. "'Pay with what francs you have, and I will take sterling for the rest,' Selene concludes with a nod. "'This way maybe she'll be able to spend money on a fancy dress, which will get her taken seriously in a bank. "'She'd been hoping to spend the money from this painting on renting somewhere to sleep instead of lurking around shopfronts and going home with strange men,' says Jules, with an indulgent smile. "'Well, you see, I only have five francs in my name.'
"'Perhaps I can pay some kind of premium for your trouble? "'I'm sure if I come by his office tomorrow and mention my uncle "'and your incredible work as an assistant—' "'Mr. Fovrit—' "'No, no,' said Selene, quickly. "'I understand. I will take payment however you can manage it. "'How about a twenty percent premium?' asked Jules, "'turning to the small writing desk in the corner of the hotel room. "'Will that impress your employer sufficiently?' "'Most definitely,' said Selene. "'She supposed she could take portions of the money to different banks. "'Maybe that would allow her to have the cash converted.'
Jules hands Celine a stack of banknotes. She folds them into her pocket. Thank you, sir, she says, with a little bow. Aren't you going to count it? Jules asks. A hot thrill runs down Celine's sternum. Of course she should have counted it. She smiles her most broad and beautiful smile. I trust you, she tells him. I'll be back in Paris in the spring, says Jules. Perhaps I might call on you then, at Mr Favreau's. That would be lovely, says Celine. She will likely have left Paris by then. What a delight, says Jules. Celine bows and leaves the hotel room.
As soon as the door closes behind her, a shudder racks her body. Her hands drop to her sides, balling into fists. She breathes shallow and hot, walking fast, her head down. She takes her coat from the cloakrooms, ignoring the maid's sneer at all the poorly executed seams. She pulls up her hood and slips her hand into her pocket to pull the edges of the notes Jules has given her. Selene buttons her dress, staring at the military dress coat hanging on the back of the chair opposite her. And it is a real Monet? Asks the man, smoking, naked, behind her.
Celine glances at the painting. "Oh yes," she says, with a small smile. "Almost as nice face as you," he says, in his German-accented French. Celine tries her best to smile. She finishes buttoning her dress. "Thank you for the wine," she says, and she begins to head for the door. When she reaches for the handle, the man grabs her wrist. Celine's heart thuds in her chest. "Fragile as a bird," he says, his fingers closing tighter. Celine tries to smile,
She closes her free hand around the keys in her pocket, nestled next to the money the Nazi officer has paid for her painting. I hope to see you flying about, little birdie, he says. He lets her go. Selene smiles, and a little laugh tumbles out of her. The officer has already turned his attention back to the paper he has propped against his bare thighs. Selene closes the door gently behind herself. She takes a long, slow breath, and hurries down the stairs. She leaves out the back door, in case anyone is awake, though it is just before dawn. They already think so, little of her.
Deligne heads home, head down, ignoring the whistles from the other German soldiers she passes. When she finally reaches her little flat, she closes the door softly, as gently as she can, and slowly sinks to the ground with her back against it. She buries her face against her knees. She has not cried for years, and for a moment she longs to. She aches for the prickle of fresh tears in her eyes, but none come. She gets up, dusts herself off, and sits at her easel. The piece she is working on is meant to be a Renoir, an early version of Le Bagenouce.
From Monsieur's workshop, rescued after his death. Céline practises saying the words in German under her breath. A priceless masterpiece. That would befit a man of status like you. Céline swirls the paint on her palette. From the workshop of Monsieur Renoir himself. It's a real treasure, almost lost to time. Such a thing deserves. Céline swipes a gently muddled shadow, the implication of a jaw, onto the face of the woman she had painted yesterday. Her cheeks are plump, blood red. The lines of her body are soft, like a cloud's.
She's fallen well-fed, and with every careful brushstroke, Céline is filled with more and more envy. It's a treasure. My old master, Monsieur Faufreux, was lucky to come across it. It's from Renoir's own workshop. It was not discovered until after his death. It's one of a kind, an early version of his famous piece, La Bagenuse. See how the shapes here are a little more refined, a little less organic than there? I see in her a self-consciousness, an insecurity. The love of the final piece here is overtaken by a certain kind of rage."
Celine throws her paint aside. She breathes heavily. She puts her face in her hands. She does not cry. Celine tucks a short strand of hair behind her ear, rearranging a bag of oranges slung over her shoulder. The scabs on her scalp have long healed, but sometimes when she combs her hair, the teeth meet the scars there and make her shudder. The day the Germans were forced out of the city was a day of celebration until it wasn't. Until they grabbed at Celine and cut her hair with shears, tore her dresses and threw her into the mud.
Her hair would have grown to her shoulders by now if she had let it, but instead she keeps it cropped short, a little higher than her jaw. It makes her look bold and chic, this flash of neat blonde waves. She likes to dress all in one colour. This is a statement too. She has become a go-to seller for the wealthy Italian enthusiast of French paintings. She is known to be able to make almost anything happen for her clients, and none of them will talk about how much she costs to make it happen.
At home, her son, six years old, is spread out on a large rug, drawing in a sketchbook. "Mama!" he cries when she walks in. His grin is filled with half-grown teeth. The older he gets, the more he looks like his father, who was shot against a wall in Paris the night before VE Day by a man from the French Resistance. Benoit was born six months later. Benoit shows Celine his drawing.
There's you, he says, pointing at a sausage-shaped figure with a yellow scribble at the top, two dots for eyes and a sideways parenthesis for a smile. Here's me, he says, waiting at a dark-haired circle with stick arms and legs pointing out at the sides. Where are my arms and legs, you silly cabbage, she says, lifting him up onto her hip. Benoit giggles, and Celine promises herself she will never, ever tell him who his father is.
Selene laughs indulgently at a joke she didn't listen to. Across the ballroom, her eyes catch a young man leaning against the back of a chair. Though his coat and tail are well tailored, there's something amiss with him. His posture is off, his hips swung casually. It reminds Selene of her paintings. "'Ah, I see you've spotted young Perry,' says Selene's acquaintance, whose name she cannot be bothered to remember. "'You know him?' says Selene."
"'You don't?' says her friend. "'Goodness, that doesn't happen often. "'I'm being gauche, calling him Perry. "'He's the Lord de Perrier. "'I'm surprised you don't know him. "'His wife is a Parisian like you.' "'I see,' says Céline, hiding her bristle with a smile. "'A shame we have not yet been acquainted. "'Would you like me to introduce you?'
That would be a delight, says Celine. The boy holds Celine's gaze as she makes her way around the dancers in the centre of the room. He is a boy, too. At least 15 years Celine's junior. She prides herself on her looks and is certain nobody in the room would know that, however. Celine's friends make their introductions. I've heard of you, says de Perrier, in French that is accented but smooth. You're the French art dealer that everyone's been raving about. Guilty, says Celine. She sips her champagne. I love your work, says de Perrier.
Celine smiles, frowning. I'm a middleman, really, she says. Says the Perrier, with a smile. He looks at Celine's hands. Of course, he says, with a wink. Celine laughs. I'm sure I don't know what you mean, she says. The Perrier smiles again. He grabs another flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray. He stands up straight, and it's as though he's assuming a new skin. His boyish grin is softer and more dignified. Celine cannot help but smile back.
Monet and Renoir, the masters would quake in their boots, de Perrier mutters. Hours later, Céline is pressed up against the wall in her hallway, de Perrier's nose on her throat. His hands on her bare shoulders are not a gentleman's hands. They're rough and scarred, but his touch is gentle. He pulls Céline's dress up around her hips and kisses his way down to meet his fingers. They lie on the rug in Céline's living room afterwards, smoking. De Perrier never took his trousers the whole way off. Céline's dress is crumpled, but likewise still covering her.
Deperrier is staring at Selene's latest piece. "'Where did you learn to paint like that?' "'My father hated portraits,' said Selene. "'That's not an answer,' said Deperrier. "'How did a beggar become a lord?' said Selene. Deperrier grinned. "'I was never a beggar.' "'What then, a thief?' Deperrier shakes his head. "'Are you a thief?' he asks. Selene thinks on this a moment. She shakes her head. Deperrier runs his hand over his face. "'Do you ever wish they knew it was yours?'
They love your work, Céline. They hang it in their homes, pay thousands for it, but they don't know you made it. Doesn't that hurt? Céline does not know how to answer this. When she wakes in the morning, de Perrier is gone, not leaving even a note. For some reason, this, of all things, makes Céline's eyes think. She touches her most recent painting. Céline sees de Perrier three times over the next years. Once, he stays three days, meets Benoit.
Celine is horrified to think that if Diperrier were just a couple of years younger, he and her son would make fast friends. Not that she wanted Benoit to keep such a man for company. Since that first night, he has not mentioned her paintings again. She has heard a few rumours about him, about what he may be doing with his time. Each time she feels she may be getting closer to the truth, it makes her shudder. He's a nobody boy, that's what she likes about him. They can be real with each other without needing to speak the truth. Fuck the truth, it has offered Celine nothing.
Reality is all about believing. The truth has nothing to do with reality. To Céline's clients, those paintings are real Monet's and Renoir's. To Benoit, his father really was René Favreux, even though he had been killed by German soldiers two years before Benoit was conceived. Céline and Diperiome meet for the last time in Valencia, in the height of summer. The little house where he is staying stinks of oranges. It seems to be all he eats. His hands are often sticky with them. There is something off about him, something strange and hurried.
He seems older now, old the way Celine has begun to feel. When they sleep together it is hurried, frenetic, and it makes her worry. "'Perry,' she says to him, as they lie in his bed afterwards. De Perrier runs his hands over his face. Celine touches his spine and thinks back to that conversation on the rug many years ago, the night they met. "'The paintings are not mine,' she answers. "'If they were, nobody would love them.' De Perrier turns to Celine, his expression filled with disgust.
In silence, he dresses and leaves her in the house. Celine stays there all day, all night, all the next day and night too. She wanders around the little house that stinks of oranges. Now hollowed-out husks sit mouldering on the counters. There are no clean linens in the cupboards, no clothes in any of the wardrobes. The drawers and cupboards in the kitchen are all empty, except for a single teacup. It looks almost exactly like the one her father used to use to wet his paintbrushes. She thinks of him sharpening the bristles on his tongue.
Selene takes out the teacup and weighs it in her hands. She squeezes several oranges into it, mashing their flesh with a fork, licking the juice that spills down her wrists. As night begins to fall, Selene stands in the small courtyard at the back of the house, listening to the creak of nearby crickets. She sips the juice. It tastes odd, too sweet. There's something metallic about it. She hears something, a sound, in the house. She strains her ears, but all is quiet again.
Selene takes a few steps back towards the door. Perry, she calls, but this is not his name, nor is the Perrier. Do you want to talk, she calls. There is a crack of cold pain on the back of Selene's head. Her vision flashes white. She hears the teacup shatter on the tile floor and feels her balance failing. She looks out across the ocean of Saint-Cyr-sur-Mer. She will not play with the other children, but they do not like her. So, what do you think?
Shelve or discard. What do you even mean? Are you asking for a more precise definition or an outline of the task? Yes. That is not an appropriate answer to my question. Well, okay. What's the criteria I'm using to make this decision? You will need criteria to pass judgement. Yes. I see. I didn't think of that. We shall try again. What? When? When I have your criteria.
For now, go to sleep. Remnants is an audio drama created, written, performed and produced by A-Ware Major. Published under a Creative Commons non-commercial 4.0 attribution license. To support the show and get early access to new episodes, go to patreon.com forward slash hangingslothstudios. You can leave a one-off tip at ko-fi.com forward slash hangingsloths and find out more at hangingslothstudios.com forward slash remnants.
To listen to more of Remnants and check out their other content, please search Remnants and Audio Drama wherever you get your podcasts, or click the link in the description of this episode. And as always, you can visit RustyQuill.com for more information. You can find the creator behind Remnants on Twitter, at Hanging Sloths, or on their website, Hangingslothstudios.com. Thanks for listening.
