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"Slow down, Madam. Let me help you over the threshold."
"Oh, thank you, child."
"You're welcome... In my opinion, you really should hire someone to look after the two of you."
"My last child passed away five hundred and fifty years ago, and Nicolas's last child died five hundred and thirty years ago. Since then, we haven't lived with anyone else."
"Uh, you mean—"
"Ah, Nicolas and I have divorced... probably dozens of times. I can't remember the exact number. We each had our own children, but in the end, they all died."
The worldview of an Immortal is simply incomprehensible to the average person. Ares fell silent for a moment, deciding not to judge the Flamels' unique views on marriage for the time being.
"Well—anyway, showing up unannounced is always a bit rude, so I prepared a small gift for you."
Calming his thoughts, Ares smiled gently. He pulled a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky, its neck tied with a red ribbon, from his robes and handed it to Madam Flamel. "I wish you a long li—cough, I mean, good health."
"What a lovely child!"
When you've lived long enough, things like pleasantries and strict etiquette lose their meaning.
The elderly Madam Flamel didn't stand on ceremony. She raised a trembling hand and patted Ares on the temple with a beaming smile. "Put it in the liquor cabinet for me, will you, my boy? As you can see, walking is a bit of a burden for me—"
"Of course, it's no trouble at all."
"Good—ah, there's a pot of bean soup simmering in the kitchen... I apologize, child, our breakfast needs a little more time."
"I'm actually quite good at cooking, Madam. Shall I help?"
"Cooking is the only thing that still brings me joy, child. Don't deprive me of my only pleasure... You've come from a long way away. Find a place to sit and rest... or feel free to look around the house. There's nothing here you can't see."
With that, Nicolas Flamel's wife—Perenelle Flamel—shuffled back into the kitchen with her trembling gait, returned to the stove, and devoted her attention to seasoning her pot of bean soup.
A long life had shaped Madam Flamel's perspective on the world and people in a way others could hardly imagine. Although she had only met Ares ten minutes ago, she chatted intimately with him as if he were a familiar nephew, completely unguarded.
Ares stood there for a few seconds, suppressing the ripples in his soul caused by his first-ever conversation with an Immortal...
He took a few steps, placed the whiskey on the wine rack in the living room, and then looked around, observing this small, first-floor cottage steeped in peace and tranquility with curiosity.
To be honest, the most distinctive feature of the house where the Flamels lived in seclusion was that it was—completely unremarkable.
It wasn't like a typical wizarding home with self-scrubbing dishes in the kitchen or self-knitting sweaters on the sofa. Nor was it like a Muggle home with a television, piano, or electric fans in the living room.
Of course, the house did have a few wizarding characteristics.
Looking around, Ares didn't find a single electrical wire or bright incandescent bulb. The dim, warm light inside came from a brass chandelier hanging low from the ceiling.
Mr. Flamel was not home.
Ares had confirmed this before he even stepped into the house.
But he couldn't very well go into the kitchen and ask the busy Madam Flamel where her husband had gone—that would be rude.
Besides, if she said they had divorced again... that would be a bit awkward.
However, regardless of why Nicolas wasn't there, he obviously lived here—Ares's unique magical sight, which could penetrate obstacles, told him that much.
There was a long, narrow passageway between the living room and the backyard. In the passageway stood an old-fashioned reddish-brown pendulum clock, oozing with history. The clock stood against the wall, ticking away at a locked door embedded in the opposite wall.
"Madam, may I visit the basement?"
Ares turned his head to look at Madam Flamel in the kitchen.
He didn't try to hide his intentions; with an elder like this, it was better to be frank.
"Go ahead, child. I told you, there's nothing in this house you can't see."
Madam Flamel focused on seasoning the soup without looking back. "But I forgot where I put the key to that door. You can just unlock it; I'm sure that's not difficult for you."
The corner of Ares's mouth twitched, and he followed her advice.
The paint-peeling red door wasn't hard to open. Ares didn't even need to use magic; with a forceful twist, the rusty internal lock snapped. Ares pushed the door open, and the slightly musty air from the entrance drifted out.
The first thing that caught Ares's eye wasn't a flight of stairs leading underground. Perhaps to accommodate their failing legs, Flamel had built the passage as a gentle ramp. Lighting the ramp was a kerosene lamp hanging behind the door at the entrance.
Ares took down the oil lamp, its glass cover stained with light black soot. The wick flickered, and the figures in the small picture frames hanging on both sides of the ramp seemed to cast dissatisfied glances at Ares.
This is amazing.
As Ares strolled down, thoughts surfaced in his mind as he looked at the figures on the wall.
Ares felt it was amazing not because the photos had any extraordinary magic or unique alchemical design.
They were just ordinary wizarding photographs. What wasn't ordinary were the people in them.
Almost from the moment wizards began mastering moving photography, every wizard who had left a significant mark on the history of magic was on this photo wall.
The first photo was of the first leadership team of the International Confederation of Wizards when it was established in 1673. Those legendary wizards were gathered around Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel. From the photo, it wasn't hard to see the respect those wizards held for the couple.
After that, almost every leader of the International Confederation of Wizards, every Minister for Magic of France, every Headmaster of Beauxbatons Academy since its founding... scholars who had been knowledgeable in the history of magic for centuries...
The two sides of this ramp were practically an exhibition of photos of every truly famous wizard in the magical world over the last few hundred years... It was "A History of Magic" on a whole different level!
Moreover, Ares could tell that these wizards had actively come to ask Flamel for a photo, not the other way around.
Ares lost track of time, watching with relish... He knew very well that nowhere else in the world could you read such an interesting history of magic except here!
From the distant Middle Ages to the modern era, Ares held the kerosene lamp and watched with great interest. Before he knew it, he had reached the bottom of the ramp.
Ares saw the last photo at the end of the passage. When the person in the photo came into view, Ares's brow instantly furrowed—
"Do you want to continue looking, or fill your stomach first, child?"
Madam Flamel was standing at the top of the ramp at some point, gazing down at Ares kindly.