1712, le Prince Manor, Fiorio

    Desolation would be the best word to describe the state of le Prince Manor. Once, this manor housed magnificence of the greatest sort, but now, only the ghost of it remains.

The wallpapers were chipping away, and the marble tiles were cracked and all scratched up. Except for the polished wooden table and chairs where Marguerite sat, the sitting room was bare and empty.

A spread of tea and cakes were placed on the table. The crumbly madeleines were put on the finest porcelain, and the piping hot tea had been poured into fine china cups. Despite the seemingly impressive spread, the cost for the entire table of food amounted to less than five silvers. Marguerite knew that her guest could never tell the difference between cheap tea and expensive tea, nor even recognize the types of pastries that she served.

    There was a brief knock on the door, and Aspen abruptly stood up to receive it.

    "She has arrived, miss," she whispered to Marguerite. Her lips curled into a sly smirk as she nodded, gesturing for Aspen to allow her guest inside.

The guest hesitantly stepped into the sitting room, her eyes wandering around warily. She had donned a dull, conspicuous grey gown and hid her hair underneath a bonnet, making her look no different than the maids that roamed the streets of Kestramore City.

    "I knew that you would come, Miss Finley," Marguerite said smilingly. "Come, take a seat."

Eleanora carefully sat down, her hands clutching her rotund stomach. A cup of tea filled to the brim had been placed before her, but she made no attempt to pick it up.

    "What do you want from me?" she asked brusquely, wanting to appear tough and intimidating. A shame, truly, for Eleanora did not have a single mean bone in her body.

    "A compromise," Marguerite proposed. "Since you do not bother with pleasantries, allow me to dive right in. Miss Finley, I know your secret."

If Marguerite hated Catarina, then no words could describe her pure, unbridled rage for Eleanora. This girl who grew up in the slums had risen so high, and if no one stopped her, then she would one day become the Queen of Ravaeryn.

If Marguerite saw Catarina as a lowly, minor noble, then Eleanora was nothing more than the dirt on the bottom of her shoe.

    "That child in your stomach is not the Prince's," Marguerite stated. "I wonder who the father is. Could it be the Grand Duke of Devereaux?"

Eleanora's face became ghostly pale. "No. It is not him."

    "Who, then? My maid tells me that she saw you going into his chambers at night. What were you both doing in there? Reading bedtime stories?" Marguerite taunted.

    "Nicholas is not the father," Eleanora cried, almost exasperatedly.

In the heat of the moment, she had revealed the most dangerous thing-- her feelings.

    "You love him, do you not?" Marguerite cooed. "Oh, darling Eleanora, I wonder what would happen to both you and the Grand Duke if the parentage of this bastard were to be revealed."

    "I already told you that he is not the father!"

Marguerite grinned. "When everyone finds out about your nightly activity with the Grand Duke, no one will believe a single word that comes out of your pretty little mouth."

Eleanora's lips trembled as she glared at Marguerite, who seemed to be relishing in her suffering.

    "What will you do then, Marguerite? Tell everyone? So that once I am dead, you can have the Prince all to yourself?" she hissed.

Marguerite shook her head. "I am not as cruel as you think I am. I invited you here so that we can come to a compromise."

    "A compromise?"

    "I shall keep your secret, only if you agree to do something for me."

Eleanora's eyes lit up with hope. "What is it?"

    "I want you to kill Catarina de Fontaine."

The room was instantly flooded with deafening silence, and Eleanora could hear nothing but her own erratic heartbeat.

    "Are you insane? I would never do that!" she cried as she abruptly stood up from the table, ready to walk out.

    "Oh, but you will," Marguerite chuckled. "You have no choice but to kill her. If you don't, I will destroy you and the Grand Duke. Wouldn't you rather save three lives instead of one? Logically, isn't it quite a bargain?"

Eleanora felt her knees weaken, and a sob escaped her lips. "She is my only friend. I cannot do it. I cannot do it."

    "I'll let you choose, Eleanora. You, your child and your lover, or your pitiful friend?"

Through her glassy view, she saw Marguerite retrieving a small earthenware jar from a box that had been sitting underneath the table. Even though she did not utter it, it was clear that she had already made a decision.

    "Here," Marguerite said, handing over the jar. "I hope you choose well, because if you not, the consequences will be deadly."

1712, De Fontaine Manor, Lorewell

    "Miss, you have a guest," Rosie's voice rang, awakening Catarina from her afternoon slumber.

    "Who is it?" she mumbled groggily as she rubbed her eyes.

    "It is Miss Eleanora Finley."

No one in the manor had anticipated a guest, let alone Eleanora, whose name had become taboo in this household.

     Nonetheless, the servants of the manor ushered her inside from the harsh summer downpour and into the warm sitting room, where they served her the finest white tea and a variety of delicate and tasteful pastries.

Eleanora had dressed nicely today, befitting the image of a prince's future consort, but even the finest of silks could not hide her crippling fear. Tucked underneath her hands was a dark cardboard box, and she clung to it so tightly as if she were afraid that someone would take it and look at what was inside.

    When Catarina walked into the room, Eleanora shot up from her seat, her lips tightly pursed and eyes alert, like a child that had done a mistake.

    "Miss Finley," Catarina greeted coolly as she sat down, and Eleanora shakily followed suit. "So, what brings you here?"

Eleanora averted her view, unable to look into Catarina's dark stormy gaze. "I will enter confinement soon, so I wished to see you before then. After this, it will be very difficult for me to see you."

    Catarina chuckled nonchalantly. "Of course. After you give birth, you will become this kingdom's Crown Princess. I imagine that you will be very busy indeed."

    "Are you not mad at me?" Eleanora stammered. "I thought that you would hate me, after what had happened."

    "Surprisingly no. Nor do I hate you. I feel nothing at all, Miss Finley."

Eleanora inhaled sharply upon hearing those cold words. If Catarina had said that she hated her, it would have hurt far less. Instead, she felt nothing, which in other words, meant that she could not care less about Eleanora.

    "I've brought this for you," Eleanora said, placing the heavy cardboard box on the table. "It is a woven silk scarf from Phoenicia. It is red in colour, which reminded me of you."

Catarina glanced at the box halfheartedly, then nodded. "You couldn't have been more generous. I offer you my thanks."

    Eleanora smiled thinly. "I must take my leave now, Catarina, as it will be nighttime soon. I hope that you like the scarf."

    "I will. Thank you for visiting me here, Nora."

Upon hearing that one word, 'Nora', she was instantly transported back to the time at the palace, where Catarina had treated her ever so kindly, as if they had been friends since infancy.

    Catarina's eyes had softened, her gaze warm, and her lips were curved into a smile.

Eleanora felt sick to the stomach. "If so, then I shall come and see you again. Till then, goodbye."

She abruptly stood up, bid her farewells, and rushed out, walking past the servants who had been eavesdropping by the door.

    "So soon, my lady?" the carriage driver said as Eleanora burst into the coach, tears streaming down her cheeks.

    "Take me away. You might as well take me to hell, for my hands are stained with the blood of my only friend."

    Nighttime. The sky was pitch black, like a pot of velvety ink. The moon, the ever serene and glorious moon was absent, as if the darkness had swallowed it whole, and it took the stars along with it. In the ether distance, the barking of the dogs and the buzzing cicadas could be heard, breaking the silence of an otherwise soundless and dead night.

    In a room only sparsely lit by a small flickering candlelight, she stood before the bronze mirror, her long dark curls sprawling down her back like a velvet cape. She glanced at the dark cardboard box that lay untouched on the nightstand, its seal still perfectly intact.

Surely, Eleanora would not have bad intentions toward her?

Catarina did not think much before picking up the box and placing it on her vanity table. With the help of a darning needle, she pried away the seal and took off the box's lid. Just as she had been told, inside the box was a neatly folded scarf-- an intricately woven silk scarf at that.

    Despite her fatigue, Catarina still had an eye for finery. She carefully lifted the scarf, and in doing so, the scarf unfurled, casting a thick wave of dust into the air.

The dust filled the air like billows of white smoke, assaulting her senses and entering her throat. Catarina coughed as she tried to brush the dust away, though she did not think much about it.

    The scarf felt so soft in her hands, as if it were woven with rainwater, and the fabric was cool to the touch. Motifs of the sun and periwinkles were embroidered with golden thread, and delightful tassels of freshwater pearls and tigers eye dangled on one end of the scarf.

Without a single suspicious thought crossing her mind, she wrapped the scarf around her neck. The deep burgundy scarf contrasted beautifully with her creamy complexion and dark hair, and Catarina was certain that it would be a magnificent addition to her already magnificent wardrobe.

Satisfied, she took it off and began to fold it. As she bent down to open a drawer, she noticed the odd metallic taste lingering in her mouth, and her philtrum felt oddly wet.

    With trembling fingers, she reached to touch her face. When she pulled it back, there, dripping down her fingers was red.

She gasped in alarm as she tried to staunch it with the sleeve of her nightgown, but more and more blood seemed to flow out, like a never-ending fountain.

    "Rosie," she croaked weakly, hoping that her trusty maid was close enough to hear her. Unfortunately for her, Rosie was down in the kitchens, engaged in a conversation with the new stable lad.

There was no one in that part of the manor, and her pleas, her calls, went unheard.

Catarina felt her knees weaken, and she barely managed to brace herself as she collapsed onto the carpeted floor. Her temples were shooting with pain, as if white-hot knives were being driven into her skull, and soon, she felt the familiar metallic taste rise up her throat.

    A mouthful of blood sprayed through her lips, painting the white vanity table red. As she lay still on the carpeted floor, her heart beating in her ears, her mind began to wander elsewhere.

The scent of rain. Golden brown hair. Light amber eyes. The squelching of mud underneath her feet.

    "Wait for me, I will come to you."

    "Where are you now?" Catarina murmured.

    "Tomorrow, the first thing in the morning, I will ask your father for your hand in marriage, and then I shall tell the Queen that I have made up my mind. You are the only one for me, Catarina, and I, I love you..."

    "You lied."

As the candlelight slowly flickered away, so did the wisps of Catarina's life. The room was flooded with everlasting darkness, an eternity of gloom, and the stench of death began seeping through. Death's cold, bony grasp trailed up her ribcage, brushing ever so softly against her neck.

    Doom was no longer impending. It was certain.