She lurks after the sun has set, dark eyes twinkling in the night, as shiny as her pistol and bullets. Whenever she shows up, you know that somebody will die.

The Nightingale, they called her. A nightingale is known for its beautiful song, and when she arrives, there will be a loud bang, followed by countless screams. The symphony of death.

Nobody knows what she looks like, let alone her true name. But when she strikes, you will know that she was there.

   
     Tonight was no different. 17th May 1866 marked the tenth year anniversary of Lord Adolphus Curran's tenure as the Prime Minister of England, and it would soon be his last.

The Prime Minister's residence, Wainsborough Hall was bathed in light despite it being in the dead of the night, and the gleeful sound of laughter and giggles could be heard from yards away if it were not drowned out by the music of the orchestra. People danced as if there was no tomorrow and drank as if the wine barrel had no bottom. That night, they lived like immortals, as if they were endless.

     Clinking wine glasses, swishing silks and the scent of cigars permeated the room, mephitic and pungent, intermingled with the fragrant, musky scent of La Mer Eau de Cologne, the most in-fashion perfume of the summer. Famed for its sweet, elegant and calming scent, Eau de Cologne de la Mer boasted notes of white musk, jasmine and bluebells, and while the scent itself was fine, when everyone in the room is wearing the same perfume, it does become a bit too overpowering. Perhaps, it was a good thing. This way, no one would notice the sulfuric stench of gunpowder.

    The Nightingale made her way into the ballroom, her deep red silk gown as sumptuous as any other lady in the room. Money was not an issue for her-- her benefactor had an endless supply of it, like a water spring that would never run out.

Her smile would enthral anyone, and no one would suspect that she was not one of them. She had mastered it all, the low-lidded gaze and polite smile that only showed her top teeth, with a posture that could only be described as exemplary. The Nightingale had learnt from the very best.

    She leaned against the wall beside the refreshment table, her dark eyes skimming the crowds of people for her target tonight as she swirled the half-drunken champagne in her glass, watching as the tiny bubbles rose to the top and burst.

        "I've never seen you around here before," she heard a voice say from behind her, and she swiftly turned around, a friendly expression plastered on her face.

These days, modesty was in, and even a smidge of rouge was deemed sinful. And speaking to a man unchaperoned? How scandalous! But those rules are reserved for the common folk. Not the high-bred ruling class that frequented Wainsborough Hall. Here, the worst insult you could give someone is to call them a prude.

    "Is that so?" she chuckled softly. "Understandable, since I haven't been to these functions in quite a while."

    "And why is that?" he asked.

    "Well, my family was on the brink of destitution and we simply could not afford to live in London anymore. Luckily, our fortunes are restored now. Unluckily, my best years were spent in the countryside and I have no prospects to my name," she told him, her tone genuine as if it were her life story, not something that she came up with in the heat of the moment.

    "What a shame," the man said, "For I would love to have met you earlier. What is it that they call you, miss?"

    "Claire," she answered, "They call me Claire. And what do they call you, good sir?"

The man smiled as he took hold of her wrist, his calloused fingers brushing along her arm as he did. He plucked the champagne glass away from her fingers, and gently, he brought her gloved hand to his lips, giving her the tenderest kiss. "They call me Ivar, miss."

And with that, he downed the remaining champagne, his lips touching the part where her lips had been.

    "Well, Ivar, I told you my story. It is your turn to tell me yours," she insisted. "It is only fair."

Ivar laughed as he set the champagne glass back on the refreshment table. "What is it about me that you wish to know, Miss Claire? I wish I had something remarkable to tell, but I don't."

    "Then tell me about your eyes," she contended. "Surely, a man with golden eyes will have a remarkable tale to tell."

    "Golden eyes?" he repeated, his tone almost mocking. "Perhaps it is the lights that are turning it gold, or you simply had too much to drink, Miss Claire."

She paused for a moment and glanced at him, this time taking a closer look. His eyes were indeed gold, bright and luminous even, and they seemed.. almost inhuman. She knew better than to poke a hornet's nest, so she decided to laugh it off.

    "You should've owned up to it," she retorted. "Then you'll have something remarkable to talk about. Believe me, everyone here will worship you."

    "Perhaps I should," Ivar said in response. "No one likes a bore, do they?"

She took a moment before answering, "Here? I suppose not. Here, it is all about attention. Who has the tallest hairdo? Who is the most beautiful debutante of the season? Who can put the most olives in their mouth? Who can attract the most attention? Here, people thrive on attention, Ivar. People like us are bystanders, destined to watch in silence."

    "And do you hate it? Being invisible?"

    "Being the life of the party is not for everyone," she chuckled. "Sometimes, it is better to lurk in the darkness, where no one can see you. Everyone dreams of the glittering, golden glory, but they forget that it is when everyone is asleep and it is dark that you finally find true peace."

Ivar did not respond, and he took another glass of champagne, gulping down half of it. "Fascinating indeed," he murmured.

    "Forgive me. Now, I am being the bore," she sighed.

    "I do not mind," he tittered. "Let us be boring together, then. Dance with me, Claire."

His hand was extended out to her, and the only thing left to do was for her to take it. Deep down, she wanted to. She wanted to know more about this enigmatic man, this 'Ivar', whose eyes were gold and skin as pale as the moon. But she could not.

    "I cannot," she whispered hastily. "My brother is calling out for me."

Ivar's eyes lit up. "Your brother?"

    "Yes. Look, he's over there! I believe it is an urgent matter, so I must leave now," she said exasperatedly.

    "I do not see him-"

    "It was nice meeting you, Ivar. I hope to see you again!" she exclaimed out loud as she took off, disappearing into the crowd.

It was a lie, of course. Despite how amusing it was, meeting him again could possibly risk her identity, so no, she did not want to see him again.

As she dove into the crowd, she felt her hand being forcefully tugged, dragging her away from the crowd and into a secluded corner of the ballroom.

    "What were you thinking, Giselle?" the golden-haired hissed as he let go of her wrist. "We came here with a mission, and there you went, frolicking with a man!"

Giselle cradled her sore wrist in her lap, her dark eyes staring at the man with hatred. "Can you blame me for wanting to want a bit of fun, Atticus?"

    "You care more about fun? If Curran lives through the night, then tomorrow, both of us will lose our heads. We both know how severe he can be when it comes to failure," Atticus retorted.

Enraged, Giselle roughly pushed Atticus away, causing him to stagger backwards, before wiping her hands on her skirt. "Very well. Let us go kill him, then. Let us get the job done with."

    Even before they step foot at Wainsborough Hall that night, Atticus had chosen the spot from where the bullet would be fired, as well as their escape route and three other routes in case the first one was blocked. That was how they carried out their missions, and how Giselle managed not to get caught after all this time. Everyone thought that The Nightingale acted alone, and they could not be more wrong.

There they were, standing behind the thick curtains, sweating profusely as they held their breath. They were lucky that no people went up to the second floor, since the ballroom was where the fun was at.

Giselle reached into her reticule and pulled out a small dagger, then tore a small slit in the curtain fabric, allowing her to see what was going on in the ballroom.

    "This celebration doubles as the debut of Curran's daughter, Cecilia, into society," Atticus remarked. "Hence, all of this."

    "I see," Giselle said nonchalantly.

Atticus turned to glance at Giselle, whose face was illuminated by a strip of light from the slit in the curtain. "Are you mad at me?"

    "No," she answered simply, her tone still dismissive.

    "You are," Atticus said softly. "Forgive me. I did not mean to explode on you. I was afraid that the plan would not work, and you know how hard it was to map out this estate-"

    "And my task is easy? Perhaps to you, it is. Just pull the trigger, hm?" she interjected harshly.

That managed to silence Atticus. That was how Atticus was, calm, calculated, and at times, heartless. The missions given to them were like mere chores that had to be dealt with, as if they did not involve actual, living human beings.

    Downstairs, in the ballroom, she watched through the tiny slit as Adolphus Curran stood in the centre of the room, his smile as bright as day as he linked his hands with his daughter, Cecilia.

    "Ladies and gentlemen, I present you my daughter, Lady Cecilia Curran," Adolphus exclaimed, and almost immediately, all Giselle could hear were gasps of awe and cheers.

And these were not done to curry favour with her father, since this Cecilia Curran was indeed a great beauty. Her delicate face was framed by her dark brown curls, which brought out the pale green of her eyes, the same eyes as her father's. That night, Cecilia had donned a gown of white muslin, just like one of the heroines in those romance novels, just waiting for a dashing duke to come forward asking for her hand in marriage.

Adolphus looked so proud, as if he were certain that his daughter would be the loveliest debutante of the season, unbeaten by anyone. And as the cheers of the crowd grew, so did Cecilia's smile. Giselle knew that the memories of this night would remain in Cecilia's head for the rest of her life, for better or worst.

    "Do it now, Giselle," Atticus's voice rang.

    "Now? But he's-"

    "Now, Giselle," he said firmly as he thrust the pistol into her hands, the cold metal stinging her skin. "If we miss this opportunity, then everything will be ruined."

    "Atticus, please-"

    "Our lives rest in your hands now, Giselle."

Giselle felt tears welling up in her eyes as she slipped on her black veil, and then she pushed the curtains away, the gun firm in her grip.

The laughter of Adolphus Curran filled her ears, and beside him stood his daughter, beaming as she held his arm tightly.

    "Now, Giselle!" Atticus shouted.

In a heartbeat, the cheers of joy turned into cries and shrieks of pure horror. The most haunting was that of Cecilia Curran as she held onto her father's limp body, his brain splattered onto her face. It was one of sheer anguish and terror, one that could not be described simply with words.

That night, the symphony of death was played, its haunting tune echoing throughout the night, and tomorrow, the world will know that The Nightingale had struck again.