So this chapter has been a long time coming, and I have to devote the entirety of it to my dear and lovely friend, Remember, for always encouraging me even when I didn't want to write and taking the time to read through passages when I was sick of looking at the same paragraph 50 times. She is 95% the reason I continued this story again, and while the 5% reasoning serves an important purpose because it represents my inspiration for this story that nagged me in the middle of the night and all day for months, Remember made this update possible. I don't think I would be sitting here right now clicking submit without your support! If any readers are left, I am terribly sorry for my laziness, but always feel free to leave your thoughts as a review if this story is still of interest. Enjoy!

"She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died" - Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti

July 13, 1665
Mid-Summer
London, England

I never knew how tragic love could be. Love does dangerous things, for it put me on its treacherous path without my permission. It awakens your worst fears and quakes your trust. It creates worries so frightening they consume every bit of sleep you yearn for in night's deafening silence. And when love's madness finally tires you into a light slumber out of a thousand sleepless nights to come, nightmares of tragedy and loss plague your heart until you awake screaming for a lover not yet lost. I never knew it would be my greatest hope and my greatest destruction. Love is beautiful. Love is vile. Love is death in its darkest, truest form.

Adela…

A voice, so quiet she could have mistaken it for the whistling of the night wind battling oncoming dawn, called out to her in the shadows. Adela couldn't discern the direction the wind carried it from, but its disconcerting whisper echoed out into the grounds far beyond the limits of her home. The moist dew blanketing the well-manicured garden of the Reneau estate tickled her feet as she walked across the lawn. She had no recollection of how she got here in these late hours; the sun's rays had yet to lighten the earth and she should very well be tucked away in the warmth of her bed.

What she did know, however, was she was burdened with an unwavering sense of purpose to keep moving.

Her feet never matched the distant will to stop in the back of her mind, so she refrained from fighting against its pull. Normally, evenings in France would be filled with the sounds of animals taking their rounds about the edge of the forest with a backdrop of cricket noise creating a calming harmony before sunrise. What unsettled Adela, despite her explainable urge to walk aimlessly in the dark, was how silent it was on this particular night. It was as if the mist had stifled all activity, scaring the most fearless of creatures into timidity.

Her feet continued to softly pat against the grass, carrying her into the dense woods that framed her parents' estate. The eerie fog she'd originally seen coating the ground started to swirl about the hem of her nightdress once she reached the precipice of the garden. She suddenly found herself scarcely able to breathe as it thickened, the desperate pounding in her chest confirming fear's sticky poison constricting her beating heart.

When the forest's shadow finally stretched over her, blocking out any remaining moonlight that previously guided her, she walked blindly. There was an immense pressure on her feet that forced her unknowingly into the darkness. Fear dripped from her heart and crept into her entire body now, alerting her mind to the imminent danger of this force. It was becoming even more difficult to catch her breath the longer she walked, the pressure turning into a weight against her back, as if a person had been following her the entire time and steered her fate push after push.

Don't fight it, the voice hissed behind her.

She could hear it carrying itself with the wind, neither welcoming nor malicious this time, beckoning her to come closer. Fallen twigs she snapped beneath her bare feet scratched at her delicate skin, her toes so accustomed to the comfort of slippers that the forest floor proved hazardous. Her eyes detected a faint beam of light where a portion of the woods ended, a light that was more apparent the closer she moved toward it. The whispers grew louder, one voice growing into many, chanting in a language she couldn't comprehend.

For a brief second, she glanced backward at the distance she had crossed, nothing more than a pit of black chasing at her heels. She worried whether she would find her way back in bed before the denizens of her home awoke, whether she would be missing when dawn broke. The force pressed her onwards, and she resumed walking even closer to the light.

When at last she could see again, Adela faced an interesting structure she could not recall from her wanderings as a child. A hedge maze sat in the clearing, its shrubbery easily thrice her height and ominous with its wild, untamed branches jutting outwards. It was obvious it hadn't been maintained for decades. She wondered how something manmade had gotten here and what caused it to be left abandoned and unkempt for so long.

That very maze was the being calling out to her, she understood with fear. It compelled her toward its malevolent entrance, whispers curling around her body like a vice grip and choking the air from her lungs. As her feet brought her closer to the structure, she felt a strange wetness working its way down the front of her gown. Her shaking hand pressed two open wounds that lay above her breast, revealing skin stained the color of crimson. Despite its warmth, every passing second left her body feeling cold to the touch.

Had she been bleeding all this time?

Her gown was now matching her wound in hue. The wetness of the fabric clung to her skin and transformed the dress into a visual masterpiece of sickening macabre. She blinked a couple times in shock, mind humming as if it needed to work twice as hard to keep her conscious. Adela's mouth suddenly parted, wanting to let out a scream or plea for assistance, but her futile scream was stifled and lost in the thick of the fog. Her feet, finally tired of their trek, fell out from under her, the damp ground welcoming her impact when she couldn't find the strength to correct herself.

I know what you are, Adela…

The voice was more of a growl than a whisper, and Adela stared into the mist for a fleeting moment in search of it as her vision began to blacken, making out the outline of a tall, menacing figure on the horizon before the world swallowed her whole.

I know what you will become.

"Adela? Adela can you hear me?!" A voice in the distance shouted her name, this one much more feminine and shrill than the commanding menace that filled her dreamscape. The voice continued to yell for her, closing the distance and sounding less muffled in her ears. They seemed distressed or concerned, or both. She could hear herself groaning in response to the voice, the best she could do when she realized she couldn't find the strength to use her own. "God, someone find Monsieur Reneau! Her bed is completely soaked in sweat. I think she's running a fever! What are you standing around for? Get me a damp cloth! Go! Get out!" Adela recognized the voice as Mallorie's, and she was finally able to open her eyes to take in the spectacle.

One of the several maids employed in her home ran into the room with a small bowl and handed it off to Mallorie, exiting when her friend expressed thanks and motioned her hand to the door.

"Mallorie?" Adela weakly uttered, voice cracking from how parched her throat was. She managed to swallow a couple times. "What's happening?"

Mallorie looked positively relieved to find Adela awake. She pressed a hand to her shoulder when she tried to sit up, imploring her to lay back down. The damp cloth Mallorie requested was wringed out and set on top of Adela's brow, forcing out an unexpected sigh from her as the coolness offset her hot skin.

"I woke this morning to the sound of you screaming in your sleep," she began. "I tried waking you up but nothing was working. You had sweat through your nightgown and your skin was so hot, I panicked. Everything seemed perfectly fine before we went to bed last night. I was—" Mallorie looked down, ashamed. "I was afraid when you left the box last night and took long to come back that you had met the same fate as Blanche."

The look of alarm on Adela's face kept Mallorie from saying more. She resumed soaking a separate cloth in the bowl of water and dabbed the sweat from her friend's neck.

"I didn't, Mal. I swear." The measure of sincerity in her voice permitted Mallorie to look up. Truth was evident on her serious face. "You have to believe me—"

Before they could discuss the matter further, Grégoire Reneau burst through the door without knocking, startling both girls enough that Adela shot up into a seated position, aware of her immodesty.

"Good God," her father muttered, mouth slackening enough that his tobacco pipe fell out and landed on Adela's bedroom floor. "Are you alright, my bonbon? Should I send for a physician?" He sat at the edge of her bed and squeezed her clammy hands, moving to touch her flushed cheek.

She managed a smile and laid her hand on his.

"I am fine, Papa. I had a nightmare that made me a little peaked, that's all. I shall be down soon to take coffee with Mallorie."

Doubt was evident in both Mallorie and Grégoire's faces, but Adela would not have it. She couldn't bear the thought of being bedridden and left to the wolves of the French court tossing rumors around of licentiousness. She would bite back the nausea in her stomach and the remnant dizziness of her dream for now. Mallorie rushed to her side when she tried rising from the bed, but Adela waved her away in confidence she could walk. Though her balance was somewhat off kilter, she managed to cross the room in search of an appropriate gown.

"Papa, please send for a maid to draw me a bath. I will be down shortly."

"As you wish, bonbon. Call for me if you don't feel well enough and I will find a physician." He rose from her bed, almost hesitant and fearful to leave his daughter's side. Pressing an affectionate kiss to her cheek, he exited the room.

A few maids came in moments after to fill her tub with warm water, leaving Mallorie and Adela to fill the empty opportunities of conversation and rid the oppressing silence. Mallorie kept a hand over her eyes as Adela undressed and sank into the steaming water. With her fever dissipating, the heat did wonders to ease her tense muscles. She rolled her head back against the edge of the tub, staring at Mallorie a long second before she spoke.

"I didn't do it," she repeated from earlier. "I would have blood in my bed and on my skirts as evidence of intimacy from the night before, and I don't. Don't you trust me, Mallorie?" Adela begged. "I am doing everything to keep this courtship from ruining what little reputation I have left. I expect you'd defend me. You're my friend," her voice quivered. Mallorie stared back at her, features softening a little at the word "friend". She walked over to the tub and crouched down, clasping Adela's hand in both of hers.

"Of course I believe you," she smiled, though behind the façade of confidence Adela could detect a dread unfamiliar to the kind of behavior Mallorie usually exhibits. "I was worried, that's all. You've heard Blanche's condition is worsening. I wouldn't want you to end up the same. Now," she paused, rising from her perch beside the tub and looking for a sheet to hand to her friend. "Let's go enjoy our day before my visit is over. I'm dying for coffee."

Conversation during the midday meal was even more rambunctious than their first meal the previous morning. Perhaps Adela was likely mistaking it for the guests hastening their leave from the two-day celebration, but it seemed several nobles were eager to converse with those around them, as if lifelong friendships had formed overnight.

With Mallorie's generous help, Adela was able to walk in a normal manner down the winding flights of stairs in her home. She found it a little easier to breathe once she reached the bottom, though anxieties about the gossip that has and probably will transpire made her stomach clench in the worst ways. Knowing this wouldn't last forever and she would at last have the entire manor to herself and her family again come this evening, she kept her breathing in line with her steps, face smoothing into a look of disinterest as they took their seats at the table.

She wondered when her father would announce her engagement and prayed none of it would occur while she was trying to keep down the food Mallorie would force her to consume. He had resumed puffing from his tobacco pipe he had clenched in his teeth earlier, cheeks rosy as he let out a loud chortle after one of his business partners told a joke that caused the leftmost end of the table to erupt in laughter. He was positively beaming at his daughter when she sat down, but made no note of asking after her health, knowing what a stir it would cause if he confirmed she did not feel well.

As Adela turned her head about the room to take in the remaining guests, she noticed every so often the heads of women would turn her way. Their stares never morphed into a cordial smile or nod of respect. They remained suspicious, quizzical and almost condemnatory in how they'd do a double take, surprised she had managed to leave the confines of her room after her supposed night of passion. Adela could almost feel the weight of their accusations bearing into her back. She tried everything to keep herself from blushing of mortification.

But what did she have to be embarrassed about? The rumors were false, after all.

"Did you hear about the elder Reneau daughter?" One of the ladies seated a couple heads away from her whispered, taking great care not to mention her name directly to lessen the risk of Adela overhearing. "Apparently, she had a little rendezvous with Count Dracul in one of the estate's carriages after the masque last night. I heard he ravished her senseless. Béatrix listened in on her getting sick in her bedroom early this morning. I knew it wouldn't take long for one of the biggest flirts in court to open her legs for somebody. Blanche couldn't walk for days after he had his fill of her," she snickered. "I heard the Count keeps a running record of all of the women he's bedded in this little book he keeps on his person at all times," a lady farther down the table chirped. "Of course it would take the most ravenous man in Europe to break that girl's spirit." She suddenly silenced herself when she witnessed Adela's intense glower at her comment. However outrageous and untrue the words were, she couldn't prevent the sting of fresh tears swimming in her eyes. She was horrified at the boldness of these women and the rumors they whipped at her.

"Everyone's looking at me," Adela whispered into Mallorie's ear. She was thankful of how loud the men were talking because it drowned out every intonation of her speech. A vast majority of them seemed unaffected by Adela's presence, thankfully. Traces of their conversation relayed topics such as the formation of hunting parties, political games and swapping stories of recent liaisons, both excellent and horrific. Only a few male eyes flashed in her direction in contrast to what felt like a hundred female ones scrutinizing her every movement.

Near the end of the table, much to her surprise, sat Christoph Fortescue, whose dark eyes lingered on Adela for quite some time now. His direct stare moved from curious to one of interest when he observed how distressed she was. Adela wondered if Christophe knew his gaze reached a new level of inappropriate behavior now that she was betrothed to another. Her mouth drew into a thin line at the thought of his forwardness and she looked down, pretending the matter never occurred.

The biscuits on her plate stayed untouched as she braved a third glance about the dining party, realizing a certain count was absent.

Mallorie, on the contrary, appeared in the throes of savoring her coffee, content enough that she never noticed the heads turning her friend's way.

"What are you talking ab—" Though her response was delayed, Mallorie paused when she took a peek in the other direction. "Oh." She lowered her cup to its saucer and raised her nose a little higher in the air. Her stare was penetrating when she turned her head to the gossipmongers. "I think it's polite when people only speak of truths and allow rumors to disappear into the air like smoke." She added a few splashes of cream into her coffee and stirred daintily. "Gossip makes the complexion ugly, I heard," Mallorie sniffed, her voice purposefully loud at the latter statement. Eager listeners immediately turned the other way and yanked out their pocket mirrors, fearing a new imperfection would appear on their painted faces.

Mallorie's attempt at defending Adela lightened the atmosphere tenfold. Her friend grabbed her hand under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. Though she wasn't one for being brazen, Mallorie was quite loyal to her friends, which gave her enough courage to stick up for them in times of peril. She was grateful for Mallorie's defense and couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the ladies' reactions.

"I think that'll keep their mouths shut for now," Adela teased.

But the pair couldn't indulge in their fun of watching these women struggle to find a different topic of conversation to discuss, because a strange kind of silence fell over the ladies. Adela's back was turned to the entranceway of the dining hall, though she knew when all eyes that were once locked on her switched to the person behind her, rumors would spread worse than wildfire.

Adela didn't think her stomach could feel any worse than it already did.

One look at him as he took a seat directly in front of her brought back the kiss they had shared the evening prior. She could still feel the faint brush of his mouth against her own, the intoxicating pull of his hands securing her body in his delicious grip. Combined with her nausea, she almost rendered herself faint from the thought of their romantic exchange. After Adela succumbed to her moment of weakness at the masque play, she remembered pulling away from the Count's embrace, utterly shocked and filled with a multitude of emotions she hadn't yet come to accept. She remembered running from the shadowed box out of fear of what had just transpired, leaving the Count just as suddenly as she had when she ran from his proposal. Staring at that same man now, with his unspoken superiority and arrogance expressed in his smug countenance, Adela secretly hoped he would not be presumptuous today. What she did seek was formality and gentlemanly concern, because being seated at this table was starting to feel like a meal of shame rather than a comfortable chat with guests in her home. She could feel his eyes on her, the intensity of his study of her condition was making her face heat up very quickly.

"Are you well, Lady Reneau?" the Count inquired, the small inflection of worry in his voice enough to make her meet his gaze.

"Yes. I am well, Count Dracul. Thank you for your concern."

Their simple exchange caused even the least curious ears to perk up.

"You look ill, my lady," Christophe interjected at the chance, failing to mirror the Count's famous smirk when he saw the Romanian stiffen at the interruption. "May I escort you to the parlor for more comfortable seating?" His request was ill-timed and bold, and the Count plus a number of guests noticed.

Adela didn't have an opportunity to respond, for Count Dracul already had a quick comment in mind for the nobleman.

"It is not your place to suggest that, sir." His voice was all ice. The laughter coming from Grégoire Reneau's end of the table died down. Adela's father studied her tense features regarding the impending quarrel between her betrothed and the man who failed to charm his way into becoming her betrothed.

"A lady in distress must be assisted by anyone who is willing to help," Christophe declared in his defense, eyes narrowing in the Count's direction. "Even other gentlemen should assist if another lady is not present for support."

"A lady in distress is helped only if she permits assistance," Count Dracul countered. "Lady Reneau made no acknowledgement of such." His eyes momentarily flashed to Adela, the Count's cold visage melting away into wariness. She was certain he knew she wasn't well, but she could see his open desire to defend her honor against the onslaught of these unforgiving aristocrats. "I believe you mentioned only a gentleman should help if a lady is not present. If you look about the room, Monsieur Fortescue, you can see there are a dozen ladies seated, if not more." The tilt at the corner of his lips displayed the Count's victory over Christophe's failed logic. He continued. "Lady Reneau's friend. Mallorie, is it?" Count Dracul asked. The sound of Mallorie's name uttered from the man's mouth caused her to fumble with her cup, spilling a good helping of its contents all over the saucer and onto the cloth of the table. She never dared to look up but nodded to confirm his inquiry. "I am sure she would be kind enough to escort Adela to a more comfortable setting and away from the nonsense of this company."

Anger passed over Christophe's face like a wave. He started to push his chair away from the table, prepared to stand his ground and fight the Count on the matter further. He opened his mouth to lash the Romanian with another comment.

Adela's desperation was so evident that one wide-eyed look at her father made him cough loudly for attention and rise from the table.

"Gentleman, my daughter is in mint health and only tired from celebrating her brother's happiness for the past two days. It is rude for any of you to think otherwise of her condition." Grégoire turned his head to Mallorie. "Mallorie will remain seated until she finishes her meal. Count, if you will be so kind as to escort my daughter to wherever she wishes," he nodded, gesturing with his hand toward Adela. Count Dracul bowed his head to acknowledge the request and rose from his seat.

She didn't know whether to be relieved she was escaping the humiliation of her accusers or anxious at the possibility she could be entering the trap of a new rumor. Up until this point, she hadn't entertained the idea of if it was feasible to get out of her seat and walk the distance to any other room in her home. But when the Count's hand moved into her line of vision, a comforting and frightening sight all in one, she accepted the best she could do was try to prove everyone wrong.
"When you are ready, my lady." Adela glanced at his face questionably, the first smile she managed today tugging her lips upright. There was no haughtiness in his features as she laid her palm in his, only warm sincerity, and she allowed him to bring her to her feet and steer her toward the stairs.

He didn't have to ask her where she would like to go, for Adela led the way through the little tugs she made against his fingers. She took comfort in the cool grip of his hand, yet a kind of apprehension filled the pit of uneasiness in her stomach. What would become of her reputation with all of the unsettling rumors she heard today? What would her mother and father think in their decision to allow Count Dracul to ask for her hand in marriage? Would they disband the courtship? Would she never find a husband who would be willing to marry a woman with the stigma of coquetry burned onto her forehead?

The Count sensed her troubled disposition the moment they had finished climbing the stairs and turned the corner down a hallway Adela knew would eventually lead to Jacqueline's quarters.

"Is it safe for me to ask if you regret our encounter from the masque?" He pressed, observing the extra stumble here and there in Adela's step. His hand moved to the small of her back to accommodate for her lack of balance.

Adela swallowed uneasily, the temporary banishment of her nausea coming back with a vengeance. She didn't answer his question at first. Staring at the floor was more of an appealing option than throwing whatever she accomplished eating back up on his jacket.

"I suppose I should take that as a no," he said quietly.

"Yes," Adela managed. She shook her head, laughing a little in spite of how much she was cursing the evils of her stomach right now. "I mean, no, I don't regret our encounter."

"Good," the Count chuckled in return. Their walking momentarily ceased as he came to a halt in the middle of hallway, only a couple steps from Adela's destination. Her legs had grown unreasonably wobbly from their overexertion, but appearing weak is the last thing she wanted to give the impression of toward her future husband. He took her hand, much like he had in the gardens the previous day, but with a different purpose in mind. "I am aware courtships are of public nature in your country and many others. Displaying our promise to each other through tokens to solidify our relationship should be done in the presence of witnesses. But," he reached into the pocket of his jacket, withdrawing a small velvet box, "given the circumstances of our situation in addition to it being customary for a nobleman to gift a garter to his lady, which I deem a very intimate sort of token, I wanted this to be done in the privacy of only you and I." The Count inched open the box, revealing a burgundy garter woven of lace and silk. Adela imagined her flushed cheeks rivaled that color in every way.

"It's beautiful," she marveled, not knowing any other words appropriate to say.

He was right. This exchange was far too intimate for Adela to ever handle in a mass of people like the French court.

"May I?" The Count nodded his head in reference to her leg, requesting permission to fasten the delicate token.

Her face was hot from mortification at the idea of lifting her skirts for him, all forwardness and past flirtation habits forgotten as he dropped to his knee in front of her. Hands slightly trembling, Adela pulled at the bottom of her dress, her skirts sliding up past her knee to reveal the soft, creamy skin of her thigh. Their eyes locked when he looped the garter over her left foot, his hand holding her leg in place as the other smoothed over her ankle, sending delightful chills up Adela's spine and a familiar heat stirring between her legs. He tortured her by slowly dragging the lace up her leg, letting his fingers dance along her skin which left an unfulfilled hunger behind. When his token of devotion reached the middle of her thigh, he hovered over that tender area where the garter sat, as if toying with the idea of exploring other appealing options he could do to her.

Breath hitched in her throat, she closed her eyes at the sensations he was rousing in her. Before he could progress their moment of amour any further, he rose to his full height and pressed his mouth to her feverish cheek. Her lips immediately ached for his, but now was not the time for romantic conquests. They were not here to steal away from ill company to embrace. Adela was not well, physically and emotionally, and the Count was merely doing his duty at her father's request.
After several long moments of silence, the Count asked, "Are you certain you are well enough to be walking about?"

"I am, monsieur. I think we should be worrying more for our reputations than my health," she quipped, but the underlying seriousness in her expression caused the Count to nod in consent at her request. "Now," she continued. "If you will allow me, I would like to visit my sister to see if she would venture out for an afternoon ride with me."

"You are horse riding this afternoon?" Count Dracul attempted to conceal his alarm. The naturally smooth and unaffected demeanor Adela normally received in response to her boldness and neglect of the consequences was not present. Given her weaker condition this morning, she agreed that riding seemed to be an outrageous activity. But the urge to prove a point to everyone who said a word against her today and the days prior nagged at her. She couldn't ignore this opportunity, and bringing her sister and Mallorie along, if her friend was up for the challenge, would prove to be a safer option than leaving by herself.
Adela tried to stand straighter in front of this handsome enigma of a man towering over her, donning a smile a little too wide to be taken seriously.

"Yes, I am. Surely taking a ride in a carriage around the estate wouldn't be as liberating. Don't you agree, Count?"

"No, it would not," he conceded, alarm turning severe as her intentions sunk in. "I cannot say anything to stop you?"

"I'm afraid not." She tried to mirror his surly look with her own, abruptly recalling the comments concerning Blanche that have been floating around for two days now. "I recognize your concern for my health, but nothing you say can alter my decision. I'm beginning to think the rumors you may have heard are poisoning your mind just as much as the rest of my family's guests. After all, I'm sure you are aware you and I have not achieved the level of intimacy you shared with Blanche?"

The Count looked almost taken aback by Adela's claim, but his ability to remain composed even under harsh scrutiny conquered any obligation to react out of turn.

"Choose your words wisely, mademoiselle," the tone he elicited was more brusque than usual. "You are treading on dangerous grounds to make that claim. It appears your mind has been poisoned by those around you as well."

"I have every right to make that assumption when I am overhearing many people discuss that my betrothed is using his spare time to bed ladies in waiting, monsieur," she snapped. "Your reputation precedes you, if you aren't aware of that. France is the world's capital in debauchery and defamation, and you prance in here and try to scoop up all these women, promising them nights of pleasure and good company, expecting to leave this country without a scratch on your name?" Adela was fuming. Lightheadedness be damned, she wasn't leaving this spot until she said everything that was eating at her conscience for so long. "And to top it off, you stain my name alongside yours. I will be the first to admit my name isn't pristine, but not only did you cause such a stir by making people believe I am not fit for marriage, you also have everyone convinced I am not a maiden anymore!"

She felt as if she had been holding her breath the entire time, for once her rant ended, she released an enormous sigh that ruined any progress she made keeping her dizziness in check. The Count moved to steady her, but Adela waved him away before he could lay a hand on her back. She realized her ire might have been unwise considering how fragile her situation was. Almost expecting him to sever their courtship right there due to her outburst, Adela was shocked when he began to laugh.

"Oh, you foolish girl," he replied. "You have it all wrong. Never have you been more wrong." The Count muttered the latter statement as if it was meant for only himself to hear.

"What are you saying?"

"I am saying what you hear from those dimwitted and vain women are untrue. I was not responsible for Blanche's undoing."

Foolish indeed, Adela thought, when she looked at his face to find any truth in his statement. She wanted to believe him, but something was holding her back. Something she wasn't quite aware of at the present moment.

"Then who is the culprit?" It was the only question she could think of without passing blame onto any other party. The last thing she wanted to do was act like the women who pointed their fingers in every direction, including her.

He straightened his shoulders at her statement, unexpectedly on his guard at her query. "This is a dangerous world, Adela." The Count's use of her name caught her attention, and while normally she would correct him for his informality, she couldn't shake the feeling they were being watched. Any trace of teasing or good humor coming from him was gone. So Adela composed her ill behavior the best she could, the look on her face grave. "I think it's time you stop looking at the world as a game of chess and pay close attention to those around you. Even the greatest of friends wear masks. Adieu, mademoiselle. I must go." On that chilling note, he bestowed a brief second kiss on her cheek. She had been looking down in deep thought over his words and touched the part of her face where his lips had been only seconds before. When she turned around to say goodbye back, he was gone.

With the oncoming promise of a harsh winter in France, the country's autumn season was proving to be chillier than usual. The ladies' devantieres required an extra layer of skirts and fur lining in their jackets, leather gloves, boots and hats as the finishing toppers to shield their skin from the weather. Mallorie wasn't too keen on the prospect of horseback riding, as Adela had suspected. But Jackie's expertise on manipulation, the assurance of Adela's safety as well as the outside air proving beneficial for her health left Mallorie grumbling in accord.

Horseback riding was a pastime both Adela and Jacqueline have enjoyed since they were permitted to climb into a saddle. Their mother Evelien had always found it an unladylike activity, something too masculine for the ladies she had taken great pains to shape into immaculate Parisian beauties. But the Reneau daughters were not women of order. They seized adventure, lived in the thrill of opportunity and drank in any knowledge they could acquire. Jackie had been itching for a moment outdoors ever since Evelien doubled her tutors and weekly lessons, which is exactly why Adela new she would say yes to her request.

While the nausea and fever she had been exhibiting earlier were nearly gone, she still felt rather dizzy. But from the time Adela had been stumbling through the halls with her betrothed to the moment she mounted her steed, she was a master at hiding it. She took comfort in the relaxed state of her horse, Minuit, and how he happily nickered in response to her soft strokes on his mane. The cool breeze that grazed the planes of her cheeks felt wondrous compared to the stifling heat of her home. Recovery from whatever was ailing her seemed to be more imminent as they steered their horses away from the Reneau estate.

Jackie's jubilant smile grew even wider as she took in her newfound freedom, slapping a sulking Mallorie on the back much like her father does to his own friends when in good humor. "Cheer up, Mal! You should be having fun now that we're away from those stuffy women!" She abruptly kicked her heels and sped off along the tree line, her long skirts billowing back. "Hurry up, ladies! I'll be leaving you all in the dust!" she bellowed.

"I don't know why I agreed to this," Mallorie whispered to herself, loud enough for Adela to hear.

She simply laughed at the spectacle, shaking her head at Mallorie's misgivings and urged Minuit to speed into a gallop. The biting cold was a shock to her senses, stealing her breath and chilling the blood rushing at equal pace through her body. As exhilarating as the chase was, the further away her sister took her from familiar surroundings, the more she couldn't shake the feeling of danger on the horizon. She could still hear Mallorie's horse on her heels, she could see the glimmer of Jackie's pink riding habit, but her sense of touch was lessening. She found she was losing grip of the reins.

These woods that used to bring her such comfort in the summer days instead carried with them that eerie familiarity from the far reaches of her nightmare. They pursued her without moving, watched her, almost expecting her presence here at this exact moment.

"Hurry up everyone! You have to see what I just found!" Jackie shouted in the distance, delight teetering on the edge of her voice.

The thump thump thump of blood rushing through Adela's head became so loud that all she could hear was her frantic heartbeat. She had lost all feeling in her gloved fingers by now, body numbed from head to toe when Minuit slowed to a trot in a foreign clearing.

There it was, sitting in all its treacherous glory.

The maze.

Mallorie's horse reduced speed behind her, coming to a halt a few feet from Adela. But she wasn't aware of any of this. She couldn't hear Jackie's gasps of awe in front of her, or Mallorie's concerned comments from behind. All she saw was the maze, its twisted vines and towering hedges, and it was calling to her just as it had in her dream.

I know who you are, it hissed. You are mine.

A shrill scream pierced the veil of deafness in Adela's ears. She was slipping, falling from the saddle of Minuit and ready for the impact of the cool ground. The scream uncannily sounded like hers, she realized.

Darkness then welcomed her into its domain.