The Posion Of Nightshade

Prologue

A snow infested street, lit by the faint, flickering glow of a streetlight. The sky a sapphire dripping with tar.

A shadow appears on the edge of the street. Quickly. Quickly. Shallow footprints in the fresh white snow appear and seem to vanish, while a barely illuminated figure appears for a second under the icicle covered streetlight. A long, evergreen cloak is wrapped around the person, the hood drawn, making no indicator as to the features of the person. They shiver, holding closely to them a bundle of ashen colored blankets.

Suddenly, they stop. Glancing towards a building on the left, a faint sign can be seen. In a bold print 'Miss Lanie's Orphanage' was displayed in a light, peeling yellow paint. The person veered towards it, hopping over the black wrought iron fence with ease. Looking side to side, they dared not make a sound. Not yet. Taking in a deep breath, they tensed into a coiled position. Like a spring that was pushed together but suddenly released, they leapt onto the porch, dodging the many cement steps below. Gently setting the bundle down, they pushed aside the blankets. There, lay a sleeping newborn. A slight glimmer could be faintly seen, hidden by the many folds within the cloth. A locket. That was all that could be left for the baby. Containing sobs, they tucked the blankets over the baby again, to fend the chill of winter's bite. Standing, they pressed the oily, marble looking doorbell. Then ran. Ran as fast as their feet could fly, and were soon nothing more than a wisp of a forgotten memory.

Meanwhile, the faint click of heels against wooden tiles sounded from within the broad white door. A screeching sound resounded as it slid open. An orange dewy light poured out of the doorway, along with a middle-aged woman. Her tan heels clicked against the cement porch as hands beginning to wrinkle from time reached for the small bundle. Lifting it up, she gently unwraveled the blankets from the child. The woman brushed her hands over the now shivering, exposed body of an infant, snow already beginning to gently encase it. And she felt, rather than saw, a chain, loosely, and continuously wound around her neck. Looking closely through spectacled eyes, she saw it was a rose shaped locket. Slightly fumbling, her fingers undid the clasp. Inside, engraved as if the metal itself had curled around it, was a single name.

Amiere