'THE NIGHTINGALE STRIKES AGAIN!'

'PRIME MINISTER ASSASSINATED IN WAINSBOROUGH HALL!'

'ADOLPHUS CURRAN DEAD AT 54: WHO WILL REPLACE HIM?'

'TENSION ARISES BETWEEN THE BLUE FACTION AND THE GREEN FACTION FOLLOWING THE DEATH OF THE PRIME MINISTER'

'WILLIAM WILLOUGHBY: POSSIBLE SUCCESSOR?'

    At dawn, the newspaper printers had gotten to work, each writing a story more scathing than the other. In the rush to be the first newspaper to publish about the Prime Minister's death, they had become clumsy, and the papers were haphazardly cut, with splatters of ink here and there.

But a simple statement would not sell well, so they added on a bit of spice, a bit of flavour. Adolphus Curran assassinated in his own home? Bland. Adolphus Curran's wife hired The Nightingale to assassinate him after discovering his adultery? Bestseller.

In the pursuit of profit, the truth was lost, and none benefitted from this more than Giselle herself. As everyone started to turn around and accuse each other, they had forgotten about the assassin herself.

    That morning, London was in an uproar. Thousands of people filled the streets, each holding a newspaper of some sort. The Beholder, The London Mail, The Verdurous, The Azure Times, they were all the same. Written by somebody paid by somebody and sold to somebody who did not know better.

Supporters of the Green Faction stood on top of the buildings, waving flags of emerald, proudly proclaiming the innocence of their leaders, while supporters of the Blue Faction pointed their fingers at them, calling them murderers. Each used their own form of rhetoric, some using magniloquence that sounded good to the ears, but ultimately incomprehensible, while some used excessive heroics, aiming at the listener's emotions. The rhetorics were different, but the goal was the same-- to attract the most supporters.

Giselle did not care. She did not want to care. Nor did she want to stop and listen.

    As the world around her turned into shambles, with people screaming and shouting until their lungs burst, she walked on calmly, a paper bag filled with warm sugar doughnuts in hand. It was an odd feeling, to see the aftermath of her actions and a certain someone's decisions. But the deed is done, and today was her holiday.

So she calmly walked along the street, spectating the most glorious of debacles and witnessing the most vulgar and crudest of insults being hurled in broad daylight.

    Her peace, however, was short-lived. Just as she was about to stroll into a boutique, she was pulled aside by a tall, burly lad whom she recognised as Derrick Thornby, the henchman of her master.

    "Your father wishes to see you now, miss," Thornby told her.

Giselle rolled her eyes. "He is not my father," she retorted.

    "In all legality, he is," he hurled back, looking incredibly proud of himself for being able to do so.

    "Legality?" Giselle laughed. "Now where did you learn that term, dear Thornby? Were you gifted a dictionary for Christmas?"

Thornby looked away, his round face flushed with embarrassment. "He wishes to see you now at his residence. You better go now, miss."

    "Oh, precious Thornby," she sighed as she reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a handful of coins. "Take this and go buy anything you'd like. And here, take these doughnuts too."

In an instant, Thornby's grey eyes lit up. "Are you sure, miss? The master never gives me this much money."

    "He changed his mind," Giselle lied. "A few days ago, he said to me, Giselle, that Thornby lad has been doing his job so well lately. I'm giving you these five pounds, and I want you to hand them to him the next you see him."

    "But master said nothing about the money when I saw him earlier. He could have just given it himself, couldn't he?" Thornby murmured.

    "You know how he is," Giselle said. "He will never tell you that he is fond of you. Now, run along."

       As Thornby gleefully walked off, coins in hand, Giselle could only look on sadly. Everything that she had fed to this boy was pure lies, mere inventions created to satiate his poor little heart. Their master never viewed Thornby as anything but a tool, a pawn to be used in his twisted game of chess. He was lucky to even be seen as a human being.

The thing was, Giselle knew that the same went for her. An instrument, a device that acted on the order of others. The only difference was that she was far more valuable, and far more difficult to replace.

    Sighing, she slipped on her hat and made her way down the street to Stowe Hall, where her master lived.

Giselle had walked past these wrought iron gates countless times in her life, to the point where she could recognise each crack and crevice of the gargoyle statues that stood just beside the gates.

    And she abhorred this place. If she could, she would have burnt it down the second she had a chance. Upon stepping inside, she was greeted by the keeper of the house, Missus Margaret, who kept everything in Stowe Hall spick and span.

    "Good day, Miss Fitzwilliam," she greeted, her eyes scanning Giselle from head to toe, silently noting every lock of hair out of place and every crease in her dress. "The lord is waiting for you in his study."

    "Of course. Thank you, missus," Giselle briskly replied as she made her way up the stairs. For someone managing such a large estate, Missus Margaret surely had a lot of energy left in her. Granted, it was not her hands that did all the cleaning.

She walked up to the study and knocked loudly. A voice from inside answered her, "Come in!"

Taking in a deep sigh, she twisted the doorknob and walked in. Sitting with his feet propped up on the study desk was Lord William Willoughby, one of the leading candidates to become the new Prime Minister, and Giselle's benefactor. A burning cigar was tucked between his thin lips, causing wisps of smoke to cloud up into the air.

    "Ah, my little nightingale," he exclaimed once he noticed her. "As expected of you, nothing less than flawless!"

Giselle bowed her head slightly. "Thank you, sir."

    "Sir?" Willoughby gasped. "How long has it been, sixteen, seventeen years since I took you in, and you still call me sir?"

    "Forgive me. I meant to say, thank you, father," she said through gritted teeth.

Willoughby smiled as he threw his cigar into the ashtray and took his feet down before sitting straight in his armchair. "You see, child, I plan to reinvent my political image. Shall I assume a fatherly image? After all, fathers are the head of the family. Would that not persuade the people to put their trust in me?"  

    "Excellent idea, father," she replied briefly.

    "I believe my strategy is better than Ebenezer's," Willoughby continued on. "He wishes to be a hero, the defender of all the good English people. But don't all politicians do that?"

Giselle decided to entertain him. "And I believe that the people love you more than Ebenezer. If they had to choose, they will choose you for sure."

    "No," he uttered, his cheerful expression now downcast. "They did not choose me. They chose Ebenezer. In Parliament today, they decided that Curran's successor shall be Ebenezer. And I cannot protest either, child, for we are both under the same faction, the same green umbrella."

    "Shall I..." Giselle trailed off, but Willoughby knew what she meant. He brushed her off, shaking his head tiredly.

    "No, no," he groaned. "It'll be too obvious, as no one will benefit more from his death than I do. Do not worry, I do have a task for you, but it is not assassinating Ebenezer."

Giselle's eyes lit up. "Then, whatever shall it be, father?"

Willoughby's face darkened as he slumped in his seat, wracking his mind for the right words. "Child, I am certain that you have heard tales of the immortal creature that secretly rules England, do you not?"

    "As a child, yes," she asserted. "But it's all a bunch of poppycock, is it not?"

    "That is what they want you to believe," he said as he reached for another cigar and lit it up. "We made up lies and spread them ourselves. But we know the truth. He ruled England through Adolphus Curran, and now he shall rule through Ebenezer Barlowe. My question is, why hasn't he chosen me? What is it that I lack? Haven't I maintained a good façade?"

    "What is he? This... creature?" Giselle questioned.

Willoughby tapped the cigar by the ashtray, causing the ash to crumble away like dust. "He is a vampire, and he controls each and every one of us with the promise of immortality. That creature, he loved Curran, to the point where he wished to turn Curran into one of his kind. That is why Curran had to die that very night, child. Or else, he never will."

    "Then, shall I destroy him? If he is the true ruler of England, then how shall you reign supreme?"

    "No, do not destroy him," he said, chuckling. "I have no intention of ever going against him. All I want is to become like him. Wouldn't that be great? I will live forever, child, and I will rule forever!"

Giselle felt her heart sink. "You wish to become.. a vampire?"

    "Yes, child, and you will aid me with that. You will infiltrate his palace and listen to every word that he says, and you will repeat the same words to me. You will find out who is in his inner circle, how they live, and how they source their food. If he likes you, then whisper in his ears, child. Tell him to turn me into one of his kind."

Giselle shook her head, unable to believe her ears. "But how? I only know how to kill, not how to persuade."

    "You will manage," Willoughby said with a smile. "After all, are you not the legendary nightingale?"