When gentle, idealistic Frenchwoman Violette Marnier finds herself on the wrong side of a fierce English Queen, she understands her fate is no longer her own. Her crime one of love, or something like it, her only consolation lies in hidden messages...
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27 September 1571 London, England
"She craves the darkness, because there, her heart lies. To truly belong to the darkness, she must become a creature of the night---of blood, of death, of madness."
Violette slams the cover of the manuscript shut, her hand shaking with each movement. It is only a book, one of the scandalous and gothic-toned romances that ladies of any quality are forbidden from reading. Violette has not been a lady of quality for some time now, and one of a delicate nature at that. These days, it doesn't take much to frighten her.
The words are haunting, but it is the bold black ink that underlines the words that strikes fear through her heart as swiftly as a dagger. She knows the more she reads, the more passages she will find, marked as if they were made for her. Harmless and forbidden scandal means so much more when underlined in black ink.
Each one is a message. Each one brings her natural skittishness and distress closer to despair.
"I am not a creature of the night. I do not welcome blood or death. I must shelter myself from madness. Stories keep my mind from the darkness." Violette speaks the words aloud, whispered, as any sound resonates in the cold and empty room. The softness of her own voice brings her peace.
There is only a small cot for a bed, a nightstand and basin without a looking-glass to see her own face, and a table that also functions as a writing desk.
The most appreciated kindness anyone had shown her in over one hundred and sixty-two days is the gift of a hard wooden chair. The stool she occupied most hours lacked a cushion, as such comfort was deemed extravagant and sinful. After the first two months of sitting, her bones began to ache and her once lovely taupe and pink gown hung from her frame. The promising curves of youth had faded into the mournful muted tones of middle age, a lifetime of changing seasons illustrated in a half year.
Every day, Violette takes care to brush and powder her hair, a labour of love. Even though she cannot see herself, she knows it keeps her dignified, what little claim she has left to that word. The fragile pink tea roses that adorned her hair in Spring have become amber around the edges, dry and brittle as the paper of some of the cheap manuscripts brought to her under the cloak of darkness.
They are a luxury, she knows, a solace in her hours of waiting. Violette reminds herself endlessly to be grateful for the care others show her. Instead, she is a nervous bird, reading ominous phrases by candlelight.
Father Antoine brings them to her, the covers disguised as texts on faith and virtue. The English consider this the only proper reading for women, especially women in a state of disgrace as she is now. She wishes to comment that the English have a long history of making ladies of quality into symbols of disgrace, but she knows better. A Catholic priest, and a French one at that, is enough of a scandal.
