In May 1859, Cap­tain Leopold McClin­tock­’s search expe­di­tion, trapped for eight months by ice in Bel­lot Strait, final­ly sees an end to the harsh win­ter. With the return of the sun, McClin­tock­’s crew strug­gles with frost­bite and scurvy as they pre­pare to sled south along King William Land, led by Lieu­tenant Hob­son. Local Esquimaux recount a chill­ing tale of a group of thir­ty starved white men, believed to be the last rem­nants of Sir John Franklin’s ill-fat­ed expe­di­tion to dis­cov­er the North­west Pas­sage, which has been lost since July 1845, with no sign of its crew ever being found.

Hint­ing at more grue­some dis­cov­er­ies, the Esquimaux detail inci­dents of can­ni­bal­ism, includ­ing dis­mem­bered bod­ies at camp­sites and ghast­ly accounts of boots filled with human flesh. In one dis­turb­ing vignette, Hob­son con­tem­plates his own fate as he real­izes the extremes to which des­per­a­tion can dri­ve a man.

Upon reach­ing an area the Euro­peans called Cape Felix, Hob­son dis­cov­ers rem­nants of a once-occu­pied camp, includ­ing tents fur­nished with bearskins and valu­able equip­ment like­ly left behind in haste. This was not mere­ly a last refuge but appears to have once served as a sci­en­tif­ic obser­va­to­ry, sug­gest­ing the crew’s swift aban­don­ment was root­ed in dire cir­cum­stances. Con­tin­u­ing south­ward, Hob­son stum­bles upon a cairn con­tain­ing the only known com­mu­ni­ca­tion from Franklin’s expe­di­tion — a pair of notes writ­ten on Admi­ral­ty notepa­per.

The first note show­cas­es the expedition’s ini­tial con­fi­dence, indi­cat­ing they had win­tered in 1846–1847 at Beechey Island and were led by Franklin. How­ev­er, a sec­ond, more omi­nous note reveals the trag­ic real­i­ty: by April 1848, after endur­ing two harsh win­ters, Franklin’s expe­di­tion had been aban­doned, result­ing in wide­spread death with­in the crew. It men­tions Franklin’s death in June 1847 and indi­cates that the expe­di­tion had seen the demise of nine offi­cers and fif­teen men. Lieu­tenant Gra­ham Gore is acknowl­edged to have per­ished before any over­land escape was attempt­ed, leav­ing the fate of the oth­ers uncer­tain, with his­to­ry engulf­ing them as the unfor­giv­ing sea does to those it claims.

In Los Ange­les, on April 7, 1952, Addie and Max share a cap­ti­vat­ing day in each oth­er’s com­pa­ny, a day that begins with an unfore­seen encounter out­side the Wilshire and unwinds into a string of shared moments from tea shops to art muse­ums. The nar­ra­tive reveals it is not actu­al­ly Addie’s birth­day, despite her claim­ing it is, a lie she tells Max to see his reac­tion and per­haps to break the monot­o­ny of her exis­tence. Their day pro­longs into the evening at the Roo­sevelt, where they enjoy mar­ti­nis and Cham­pagne, under the guise of cel­e­brat­ing Addie’s fab­ri­cat­ed birth­day.

Addie feels a cer­tain enchant­ment in Max’s presence—a sculp­tor of means with a pen­chant for fine arts, unlike the finan­cial­ly strug­gling artists she’s known. How­ev­er, their inti­mate moment is inter­rupt­ed by Luc, an impec­ca­bly dressed fig­ure from Addie’s past, whose arrival prompts Max to depart under a mys­te­ri­ous com­pul­sion. Luc, with a hint of pos­ses­sive­ness, fills the void left by Max, tak­ing Addie to the Cica­da Club, a vibrant venue alive with music and allure.

Here, they expe­ri­ence a tense yet inti­mate moment, danc­ing closely—closer than they have ever been—amidst the back­drop of Sina­tra’s melodies. Despite their his­to­ry of dis­tance, their dance morphs into a intense close­ness that reveals deep­er desires and shared inti­ma­cy. Luc kiss­es Addie with a cau­tious yet pro­found long­ing, unlike any kiss she has encoun­tered before, echo­ing his unique con­nec­tion and under­stand­ing of her.

Their pas­sion trans­ports them from the dance floor to the soli­tude of a hotel room, where the inten­si­ty of their con­nec­tion esca­lates. Luc’s kiss­es evolve from cau­tious to fer­vent, unlock­ing emo­tions that are raw and over­pow­er­ing. Unlike any oth­er, Luc’s touch and kiss con­vey a deep sig­nif­i­cance, res­onat­ing with Addie’s soul, illus­trat­ing a con­nec­tion that tran­scends the ordi­nary into realms of deep emo­tion­al entan­gle­ment and poten­tial under­stand­ing.

In the heart of Lon­don, Eng­land, on March 26, 1827, Addie LaRue finds solace and reflec­tion with­in the grand walls of the Nation­al Gallery. With­in this tem­ple of art, six pieces res­onate deeply with her, each car­ry­ing a frag­ment of her being, mir­ror­ing her exis­tence back to the world. Yet, amidst the eter­nal whis­per of mar­ble and can­vas, she remains a spec­tral pres­ence, invis­i­ble yet indeli­bly imprint­ed upon the art that sur­rounds her.

As clos­ing time nears, Addie lingers before a poignant por­trait, a dia­logue of reflec­tion and anonymi­ty cap­tur­ing her atten­tion until she’s star­tled by the unex­pect­ed pres­ence of Luc, the enig­mat­ic enti­ty inter­twined with her fate. Unin­vit­ed, he appears, pierc­ing the soli­tude with his mock­ing pres­ence and spark­ing a con­fronta­tion laden with ten­sion and rev­e­la­tion. Luc, embody­ing both tor­men­tor and com­pan­ion, insid­i­ous­ly reminds Addie of her incon­se­quence, yet she defies him with the fierce­ness of her spir­it, her essence inter­twined with the works of art that defy his claim over her.

Their exchange, charged with the elec­tric­i­ty of cen­turies-old dynam­ics, veers abrupt­ly into dark­ness as Luc trans­ports Addie to a somber scene – Lud­wig van Beethoven’s last moments. With­in this inti­mate cham­ber of despair, the mae­stro bar­gains against the immutable cur­ren­cy of time, plead­ing for more, only to face Luc’s mer­ci­less ver­dict. The encounter expos­es the raw, pri­mal forces at play; Luc, in his true form, claims Beethoven’s soul, leav­ing a chill­ing void where once there was genius, now extin­guished.

This har­row­ing spec­ta­cle forces Addie to con­front the ter­ri­fy­ing depth of Luc’s pow­er, reveal­ing him as an enti­ty beyond com­pre­hen­sion, cloaked in dark­ness yet capa­ble of cru­el pre­ci­sion. As Luc’s mon­strous form recedes, reveal­ing once again the man she knows, Addie grap­ples with the fear and fas­ci­na­tion that binds them. Luc’s final taunt leaves her tum­bling into the abyss, a poignant reminder of their unset­tling par­i­ty and the dark dance they share, per­pet­u­al­ly inter­twined by curse and defi­ance. Amidst the back­drop of artis­tic immor­tal­i­ty and the ephemer­al nature of human life, their tan­gled saga con­tin­ues to unfold, a tes­ta­ment to the endur­ing strug­gle between the desire for recog­ni­tion and the stark real­i­ty of obliv­ion.

In the bustling heart of New York City on March 18, 2014, a rev­e­la­tion unfolds in the midst of an ordi­nary day. Hen­ry, cap­tured by a sud­den epiphany, finds the pieces of a puz­zle falling into place. The mem­o­ry of Bea’s quest for a new the­sis, a minor detail in a tumul­tuous peri­od, resur­faces with clar­i­ty. It is Addie, the girl depict­ed in var­i­ous pieces of art, who accom­pa­nies him, her expres­sion one of unfet­tered delight as they nav­i­gate the streets towards the High Line.

A pause in a cross­walk, prompt­ed by Hen­ry’s real­iza­tion, marks a moment of con­nec­tion. “It was you,” he declares, to which Addie responds with a radi­ant smile, affirm­ing her iden­ti­ty as the muse behind the cre­ations. Their brief inter­rup­tion by the hus­tle of city life does lit­tle to damp­en the unfold­ing rev­e­la­tion. As they ascend the iron stair­case, the con­ver­sa­tion deep­ens. Addie recounts her unknow­ing par­tic­i­pa­tion in the cre­ation of anoth­er art­work, her pres­ence cap­tured by an artist while she sat on a beach, obliv­i­ous to the out­come of his endeav­or.

Hen­ry grap­ples with the com­plex­i­ty of Addie’s existence—a being who leaves no phys­i­cal mark nor retains mem­o­ries in the minds of oth­ers, yet pro­found­ly impacts the realm of art. Art, to Addie, rep­re­sents the realm of ideas, unbound­ed and resilient, flour­ish­ing in defi­ance of her curse. She admits to the lim­i­ta­tions her curse impos­es on her—her inabil­i­ty to inter­act with con­ven­tion­al means of cre­ation and memory—yet she cher­ish­es the free­dom found with­in artis­tic expres­sion.

The dia­logue momen­tar­i­ly shifts to the con­straints of her curse, specif­i­cal­ly the inabil­i­ty to be cap­tured by pho­tographs or film, cast­ing a shad­ow over the con­ver­sa­tion. How­ev­er, Addie’s resilience shines through as she, with a mix­ture of defi­ance and joy, embraces the lim­i­ta­tions and focus­es on the spaces where her influ­ence can still be felt. Her sto­ry, shared with Hen­ry, is one of resilience and the immutable pow­er of art to tran­scend the phys­i­cal and the tem­po­ral, cap­tur­ing the essence of an eter­nal muse nav­i­gat­ing the com­plex­i­ties of exis­tence and per­cep­tion.

In 18th cen­tu­ry Paris, Addie engages in a bold act of inde­pen­dence by sit­ting alone in the Tui­leries, draw­ing atten­tion and indulging in the free­dom it rep­re­sents despite soci­etal norms. Her inten­tion is to encounter Madame Geof­frin, a well-known salon­nière, to secure an invi­ta­tion to her salon. Addie strate­gi­cal­ly orches­trates a meet-cute by bump­ing into Geof­frin and drop­ping her book, “Pen­sées Philosophiques” by Diderot, spark­ing a con­ver­sa­tion that show­cas­es Addie’s wit and intel­lect. Claim­ing to be Marie Chris­tine La Tré­moille, she impress­es Geof­frin and receives an invi­ta­tion to the salon, a gath­er­ing of intel­lec­tu­als and artists, under the guise of being from a noble fam­i­ly.

Inside Geof­frin’s salon, Addie nav­i­gates the social land­scape, engag­ing with guests and enjoy­ing the exchange of ideas, rev­el­ing in the envi­ron­ment where women can par­tic­i­pate in intel­lec­tu­al dis­course. How­ev­er, her enjoy­ment is short-lived as Luc, a sin­is­ter fig­ure from her past, arrives and accus­es her of being a thief and swindler, wear­ing one of Geof­frin’s gowns as proof. The accu­sa­tion turns the salon against her, trans­form­ing her strate­gic entrance into a hasty retreat, illus­trat­ing Addie’s pre­car­i­ous sit­u­a­tion as a woman seek­ing auton­o­my and intel­lec­tu­al ful­fill­ment in a soci­ety that scru­ti­nizes and lim­its her every move.

This chap­ter high­lights the con­straints placed on women in the 18th cen­tu­ry, with Addie’s actions chal­leng­ing soci­etal norms and seek­ing spaces where she can express her intel­lec­tu­al curios­i­ty and desire for free­dom, despite the risks involved. The appear­ance of Luc intro­duces a per­son­al adver­sary, com­pli­cat­ing Addie’s quest for inde­pen­dence and intel­lec­tu­al engage­ment.

New York City, March 13, 2014, unfolds a chance encounter between Addie and Hen­ry out­side his book­store as it clos­es. As they meet, Addie anx­ious­ly antic­i­pates Hen­ry’s reac­tion, fear­ing the per­sis­tent curse that makes her for­got­ten by every­one she meets. To her sur­prise, Hen­ry rec­og­nizes her, mark­ing a sig­nif­i­cant devi­a­tion from the iso­la­tion she’s endured for cen­turies. Their inter­ac­tion shifts from awk­ward silence to an uncer­tain famil­iar­i­ty, with Addie cap­ti­vat­ed by Hen­ry’s pres­ence despite the dif­fer­ences from some­one else she’s com­par­ing him to.

They pro­ceed to a near­by cof­fee shop, where Addie faces the prac­ti­cal lim­i­ta­tions imposed by her curse – the lack of mon­ey for two drinks. Their con­ver­sa­tion is a dance of curios­i­ty and with­held truths, with Addie adopt­ing the name “Eve” for the encounter. Hen­ry’s inter­est and ques­tions sug­gest a rare con­ti­nu­ity in her world of eter­nal anonymi­ty. Their con­ver­sa­tion touch­es upon past mis­deeds, such as Addie’s attempt­ed theft, and the mun­dane aspects of life, like work and fam­i­ly, but there’s an under­ly­ing cur­rent of mys­tery regard­ing their abil­i­ty to remem­ber each oth­er.

The dia­logue sub­tly explores themes of iden­ti­ty, mem­o­ry, and the human desire for con­nec­tion. Addie’s inter­nal strug­gle with her curse is jux­ta­posed with Hen­ry’s sim­ple act of kind­ness and recog­ni­tion, cre­at­ing a poignant moment of con­nec­tion that defies her usu­al expe­ri­ence of for­get­ful­ness. The chap­ter hints at deep­er sto­ries behind both char­ac­ters, leav­ing the read­er curi­ous about the nature of Addie’s curse and Hen­ry’s sur­pris­ing abil­i­ty to remem­ber her. Their inter­ac­tion in the cof­fee shop, filled with prob­ing ques­tions and shared moments, builds a foun­da­tion for a rela­tion­ship that promis­es to chal­lenge the bounds of Addie’s curse.

In Vil­lon-sur-Sarthe, France, on July 29, 1714, Ade­line expe­ri­ences a pro­found and unset­tling encounter deep in the heart of the woods. Under the cov­er of night, the qui­et sur­round­ings of Vil­lon-sur-Sarthe come alive with mys­te­ri­ous laugh­ter, lead­ing Ade­line to come face-to-face with a super­nat­ur­al pres­ence that defies her under­stand­ing. Mis­tak­ing it ini­tial­ly for a divin­i­ty she should avoid, she quick­ly real­izes that this enti­ty might be the answer to her des­per­ate pleas for a dif­fer­ent fate than the one laid out for her by soci­ety and her own cir­cum­stances.

The enti­ty, emerg­ing as both a seduc­tive and omi­nous fig­ure, first appears to Ade­line as a voice that sur­rounds her, offer­ing cryp­tic choic­es that blur the lines between dev­il, dark­ness, mon­ster, and god. As Ade­line strug­gles to define what stands before her, the shad­ows coa­lesce into a man’s shape, bear­ing an uncan­ny resem­blance to the ide­al fig­ure she has long envi­sioned. This shad­ow-man, with his emer­ald eyes and allur­ing demeanor, tempts Ade­line with the pos­si­bil­i­ty of alter­ing her des­tined path, thus engag­ing her in a dan­ger­ous dia­logue about the cost of her desires.

Ade­line’s plea is sim­ple yet pro­found: she wish­es to escape the con­fine­ments of her pre­or­dained life, yearn­ing not for mar­riage or belong­ing but for true freedom—to live as she choos­es, unbound by the soci­etal expec­ta­tions that teth­er her. Her ambi­tion is vast, a life of lim­it­less time and pos­si­bil­i­ties, unteth­ered from the nat­ur­al order of things. Yet, this shad­ow, embody­ing both promise and dark­ness, rejects her offer, stat­ing that her desire for an infi­nite life, for free­dom with­out bound­aries, is a price too grand, a deal with­out end.

As the vil­lage search­es for Ade­line, the enti­ty reminds her of the lim­i­ta­tions of his will­ing­ness to bar­gain. He is not a mere wish-granter but a force beyond mor­tal under­stand­ing, one who deals in con­crete exchanges. Ade­line’s request, lack­ing a defin­i­tive end, does not fit his cri­te­ria for a fair trade. He leaves her with a stark real­iza­tion: not all desires can be ful­filled, not all pleas answered. Strick­en by his refusal, Ade­line con­fronts the har­row­ing truth that her wish for more—more life, more time, more autonomy—cannot be grant­ed in the terms she hopes. The chap­ter clos­es on a poignant note, with Ade­line grap­pling with the depth of her yearn­ing and the harsh acknowl­edg­ment of her lim­i­ta­tions, both human and divine.

The flesh of the ani­mals when killed is nev­er eat­en. Indeed, the Ana regard with abhor­rence the idea of mak­ing the car­cass of any liv­ing thing the nutri­ment of their bod­ies; and their food, arti­fi­cial­ly pre­pared, is not anal­o­gous to any­thing we use. I should class it rather among veg­eta­bles than meats. Many of their plants are com­posed of fari­na­ceous sub­stances easy of diges­tion, in which they con­trive to min­gle those min­er­al salts which are health­ful to the sys­tem, espe­cial­ly lime, but which in our apothe­cary vade-mecums would seem to have very indi­gestible names.

So dex­ter­ous have they become in these chem­i­cal prepa­ra­tions that they can com­mu­ni­cate to mass­es of the nutri­ment as pre­pared for the her­culean appetite of an Ana the taste and the sem­blance of what­ev­er pro­duc­tion of the upper world, ani­mal or veg­etable, he may desire. Even in the veg­etable king­dom their botanists pro­duce new vari­eties- some of them of great beau­ty- so far as beau­ty can be 41applied to plants in which colour is want­i­ng.

Tra­di­tions so dark­ly hint that the ances­tors of the Vril-ya being wis­er in all mechan­i­cal inven­tions than suit­ed to their social state of
prim­i­tive law­less­ness, destroyed them­selves by the effects of some ter­ri­ble explo­sive com­pound­ed by blind chance, that, with a unan­i­mous
rep­re­sen­ta­tion from the Col­lege of Sages, they for­bade the mak­ing of any com­pound in which the qual­i­ties of explo­sion could be found. At the same time, with a won­drous fatu­ity to which human rea­son is sub­ject­ed in all states of exis­tence, they con­tin­ued to store in their mag­a­zines of research the two com­po­nent parts of the dead­ly com­pound, say­ing philo­soph­i­cal­ly, “Knowl­edge is in itself a good, though it may be occa­sion­al­ly applied to evil.”

The same sage author­i­ties for­bid all attempts to con­struct any aer­i­al ves­sel; and, indeed, the super­sti­tious dread with which they regard the few bold spir­its that from time to time have sought to solve the mys­ter­ies of aer­i­al space suf­fices, with­out law, to pre­vent such inves­ti­ga­tions. But while these exper­i­ments are dis­con­tin­ued, lest they should result in the inven­tion of some new agent of destruc­tion that might per­chance anni­hi­late the species, the vivid imag­i­na­tion of the Vril-ya per­suades them that it is reserved for pos­ter­i­ty to become the Ariels of the air, and that, when the An has reached that phase of his des­tinies, the earth itself will become too small for his habi­ta­tion and his num­bers; he will nec­es­sar­i­ly dis­cov­er a mode, by mechan­i­cal con­trivances, for vis­it­ing wings of birds and plan­ets now only vis­i­ble to his won­der­ing igno­rance, and poor indeed will be his her­itage of Vril, if, even on his globe, mat­ter, the most oppo­site to the aër­i­al light­ness of ether, will not sup­ply him with the means to launch him­self into the ocean of space.