Born to a life of privilege in the glory days of 18th-century Versailles, Duchesse Eleonore de Vigneron finds her world quickly turned into one of bitterness and loss during the Reign Of Terror. Charming, vengeful, and immortal, she leads an extraor...
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"War and marriage and childbirth had passed over her without touching any deep chord within her, and she was unchanged." ― Margaret Mitchell, Gone With The Wind
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08 auguste 1862 Baton Rouge, Louisiana
The screams of women consumed by the violence of despair seem to echo the cries of the men fighting Death on the battlefield. It is always the same sound, lost souls praying for mercy from a God who never promises an answer. It is a battle that is hard-fought and rarely won.
At the first echo, Eleni's heart flutters a mile a minute. The cry unmasks the sense of dread that hangs eternally in the Louisiana air that summer. Eleni does not suffer with her emotions the way some do, medicating with alcohol and laudanum, but the cruelty of war is undeniable. Each day, the bright red-orange sun rises and sets on a world needing compassion but giving none.
"Madame Eleonore, come quick! There's trouble in the stables."
Eleni practically jumps when she sees Cecile, a pretty maid not much older than her own twenty-four years. Cecile's smooth almond complexion, bright blue eyes, and unmistakable French accent remind Eleni of the home she'd left behind.
The mournful tones of evening are nothing new to Eleni, but they cut her to the quick. The panic, the commotion, and even the sound of hushed French-speaking voices all remind her that the years go by but little changes. Much like the Versailles of her girlhood, Baton Rouge is now a place heavy with blood, smoke, and tears.
"What has happened, Cecile? Is someone hurt?" Her feet throw her out of bed and into embroidered slippers, trying to move faster than the cumbersome fabric of her gown will allow.
Love and blood, the wounds are always the same.
Eleni's thoughts swirl as her feet begin to lift her in their rapid but graceful way. She runs to the well-worn mahogany dresser, dismayed to find her treasured dagger missing from underneath a pile of unmentionables. It is one of the pieces of home that rarely leaves her side, always kept in the one place almost guaranteed to be private.
