However, all good things must eventually come to an end. It was how things were, and how things would always be.

       The serenity and ease that Giselle had long dreamt of, and had barely tasted, was all crashing down on her. The news came to her on a particularly grey afternoon, when Icarus had asked her to give Missus Harris a list of things to purchase.

     "Forty whole pheasants? Thirty pounds of venison? Eight pounds of barley?" Giselle read out loud as she skimmed through the list. "What will we need this for, Your Grace? Ten pounds of apples and pears, respectively? That sounds like an obscene amount, to be frank. Do you plan on making fruit compote for the upcoming winter?"

Icarus let out a low chuckle. "No. I actually plan to host a meeting here with all the ministers of the court. There will be around seventy of them, if we count their servants as well. Do you think it'll be enough, Giselle?"

    "I am not certain. I have never hosted a banquet before," she said, frowning as she read the list again. "But since you said that all the ministers of the court will be here, does that include Ebenezer Barlowe?"

   "Well, yes," he answered, his eyes flickering towards Giselle with interest. "Say, Giselle, since you used to live in London, you must've seen him before, at least once. London is Barlowe's stronghold."

Oh, yes she had. In fact, she knew him very, very well. But Giselle could not tell Icarus that, and instead, she found herself staring at him blankly, the words that she wanted to utter dead in her throat.

1850, London

    "Don't touch me!" Lydia screeched, her voice coming out in raggedy gasps. "Please stop, I beg of you. I'm begging you, my Lord!"

     "Silence, you little whore!" the man hissed, and a resounding slap followed soon after.

     Giselle's heart pounded in her chest, the sound of each beat a deafening echo in the confined space of the closet. Her breaths were shallow, and she tried to stifle the sobs that threatened to betray her presence.
      Giselle had little idea of what was unfolding only a few feet away from her. This particular closet was almost airtight, leaving no gaps for her to peek through. Inside the closet, it was dark and stuffy, and Giselle felt suffocated. The only thing she could hear were the bloodcurdling shouts and screams from outside, muffled by her own pounding heart.

But she knew the man. She had met him before. His name? Ebenezer Barlowe, the Green Faction's darling leader.

Another slap. Lydia screamed again.

     "There is no need for you to resist, sweet girl. All I want is for you to feel good. Let us make this easier for both of us, hm?" Barlowe cooed as he grabbed Lydia's jaw, clamping it shut. His voice, loud and crude, had been long engraved in Giselle's brain, and even without seeing his face, she knew who he was.

Like most of his kind, in order to consolidate his reputation as a philanthropist who gave back to the people, Ebenezer Barlowe had become the patron of The Kindred Hearts Orphanage, the one Giselle and Lydia had been living in. And Frances. And Charlotte, too.

      She often saw Barlowe in Madame Beckett's office, but being a child, Giselle thought nothing of it. So, when Martha, the eldest girl at the orphanage, left with Barlowe one night and never came back, she did not suspect a thing.

After all, wasn't Barlowe a good man? In order to fill the seats at his public speeches, he would bring over the children of the orphanage, and in exchange, they would get beef stew for dinner instead of pottage.

Giselle remembered his speeches very well. Barlowe would go up on the stage and talk about moral virtues and the importance of preserving good values. He would emphasize the absolute importance of gratitude and humility, and how it was essential in maintaining a 'god-fearing, virtuous society.'

    "Distinguished ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests of high regard," he would say.

      "I find myself amidst this most illustrious assembly, graced by the presence of individuals of such eminent standing. Allow me to express my profound gratitude for the privilege of addressing this esteemed gathering.

Another slap. "Why are you being so difficult? I said don't move!"

As the custodian of your collective aspirations, I proffer a solemn commitment to champion the cause of the underprivileged among us. It is with profound conviction that I shall strive to be the harbinger of hope for those who find themselves in the throes of poverty's plight.

     "Don't touch me!" Lydia's voice resounded, this time much weaker, much more desperate. "Please, please don't do this!"

"However, I must beseech your indulgence, dear friends, as I submit that this endeavour requires a collective thrust. It is in this hallowed union of purpose that we shall steer this vision to fruition. Permit me to humbly solicit your trust and patronage, for it is with your imprimatur that we shall sow the seeds of change."

   "That's it, you are getting on my nerves," Barlowe spat, and the only thing that Giselle could hear after that were rustling fabrics, followed by Lydia's muffled cries.

In conclusion, I extend my most profound gratitude for gracing this occasion with your esteemed presence. Let your ballot not merely reflect a mandate for me, but rather, an acknowledgement of the symphony of possibilities that our unity can orchestrate. Together, let us forge a community that thrives in the embrace of compassion, resplendent with the ardour of progress.

Thank you, and may our collective endeavours resonate in the annals of prosperity."

His words were big. They made him sound smart. The people who listened to him thought that he was smart. They thought that he was a champion for the poor. A saviour of sorts. But was he, truly?

     And then, Lydia made a deep, guttural sound that Giselle had never heard her make before. Her breath hitched, her cries stopped, and it almost sounded as if her throat was full of water.

Giselle held her breath, waiting. The rustling stopped, and all was silent once more. Barlowe's laughter rang throughout the room.

     "My, what a feisty one you are. I hope that the rest of your companions aren't as insolent as you are. Although, it was quite fun, I must admit."

Lydia has yet to say anything. Giselle's heart sank.

The sound of footsteps on the carpeted floor. The door clicking open. Barlowe's joyful humming. The rustle of fabrics. But she did not hear Lydia's voice.

     "Simon!" Barlowe called out, his voice echoing through the narrow corridors.

Rapid footsteps. "You called, my lord?"

Barlowe scoffed. "Get rid of her. Or do with her as you please. Once you are done, throw her into the well along with the others."

     "Certainly, my lord," Simon squeaked, his voice even smaller than that of a rat. Giselle could hardly hear him.

     "Ah, also, there is no need to give the orphanage any allowance for this month. What was that old hag Beckett thinking, sending over this wild animal?" Barlowe laughed, loud enough to send goosebumps across Giselle's skin.

And with that, they departed the room. Giselle could tell, by the sound of their receding footsteps, and how Simon's groans and laboured breathing slowly faded away. She did not need to look to know what, or who he was carrying.

Lydia was gone. Gone. And yet, the monster, no, the demon who took her, still wandered free, preaching about humility in town halls. No one ever brought up Lydia's disappearance, and soon, it was as if she had never existed.

     "Giselle?"

     "Giselle, are you alright?"

She jolted awake, her heart leaping into her throat. She glanced at Icarus, her eyes wide with trepidation.

       "Forgive me, Your Grace. I got a bit lost in my thoughts," she lied, forcing herself to smile and put on a cheerful expression.

Icarus raised an eyebrow, but did not pursue it any further. "Well then, what do you think about Ebenezer Barlowe?"

        "I think that I might've been to one of his public speeches before as a child, but since we moved to the countryside when I was very young, I don't remember much."

        "So you have no opinion on him?"

        "None at all, no," she murmured. She wanted nothing more than to leave this entire conversation behind, but then, it struck her. This was, without a doubt, the most opportune moment for her to bring up her master, and with her not-so-glib tongue, put him in Icarus' good graces.

      "Oh, but I do hear a lot of good things about William Willoughby," she suddenly said.

      "Willoughby? What sort of things, Giselle?"

Her throat felt dry, as if she had swallowed a mouthful of sand.
      "Umm, people say that he is very humble, you see. I heard that he wore the same hat for over twenty years, not bothering to change it even once. They say that he would rather donate that money to the poor."

      "Oh? What else have you heard?"

      "He also adopted the street urchins of London, clothed and fed them. I hear that they call him Father now. Isn't that the testament of a good man? One who helps those less fortunate than him."

Icarus scoffed at her words. "And where did you hear this?"

      "Everyone knows that Willoughby is a good man," Giselle shrugged.

       "It seems that you view him very highly."

Giselle swallowed the lump in her throat as the sour taste of bile began to rise. Good man, my foot. She forced herself to smile, then prepared to spit out more lies.

       "How can I not? He truly intends to help, to pave the way for a better future," she retorted. Ah, great. Now she sounded like one of the Green Faction's mindless followers.

She glanced at Icarus, only to see that he was already staring at her. "Has it dawned on you, Giselle, that that is exactly what he wants you to think?"

There was disappointment in his tone. He looked away. "And here I thought that you were bright."

       Giselle had long known that she was definitely not the incarnation of Archimedes or the next Leonardo da Vinci, but Icarus' insulting comment hurt her more than she wanted to let on. Even though she had not meant the things that she said, his words stung nonetheless.

The day of the gathering arrived eventually, much to Giselle's disdain. The palace had never hosted a gathering of such scale before, since Icarus was known to be quite the recluse. But now, it seemed that things were beginning to change.

From the previous day, the cooks had barely left the kitchens, having spent all day and night plucking off pheasant feathers, kneading bread dough and peeling the apples.

   In the dining hall, servants bustled about, carrying platters and bowls of food. Braised pheasant, roasted pork, apple pies, loaves of freshly baked rye bread, cheeses, both hard and soft, and poached pears sat atop the long dining table, and the table groaned under its weight.

Giselle knew that Missus Harris must be cursing at her for not coming downstairs and lending a hand, but as Icarus' maid, she truly had no reason to, and she was not kind enough, or rather, spineless enough, to concern herself with the chores of others.

So instead, she loitered about in Icarus' study, occasionally asking him if he needed assistance, and even though he said that he did not, she made no move to leave. At last, Giselle found herself sitting by the window, watching as the carriages poured into the courtyard.

The sound of the carriage wheels rolling down the cobblestone streets and horse hooves trampling upon the stones was almost exciting, but when she recalled that these guests were all middle-aged, money-grubbing politicians who likely sweated a lot and had a faintly sour smell, her excitement faded almost immediately, as if it had never been there.

      "Ah, your dear beloved Willoughby is here," Icarus suddenly commented, making  Giselle nearly jump from her seat.

      "Your Grace! You startled me!" she gasped. "I thought that you were writing letters earlier."

     "As you can clearly see, I am done with that. Come, let us go and see our guests," he replied,  turning to look at her.  His gaze, which usually appeared icy cold and unreadable, looked warm and inviting today.

   Icarus walked past her, headed towards the door,  and Giselle hurried to catch up with him. Downstairs, the hall was bustling and filled with people, all laughing and talking amongst themselves. One man was proudly talking about his new waistcoat, sewn by the finest tailor in Milan, while another was waving his hand in front of a servant, futilely trying to elicit a response.

     "What a good lass," he chuckled along with his companion. "I wish my wife was even as half as obedient."

     "You should bring this one to the bedroom. What is she going to do? Scream?" his companion chuckled loudly. "Besides, I'm curious as to what it feels like to bed a vampire."

Icarus, who had been silently observing, could not hold back his tongue anymore. "Ah, Lord Wycliffe and Lord Pendleton, it's been quite a while."

As he began to descend the staircase, it was not just two men who went silent, the entire hall did. But Icarus did not mind them, or their attempts at greeting him and introducing themselves. Instead, he made his way towards those two men, whose deathly white pallor rivalled even Icarus himself.

       "I see that you have met Miss Mary Shaw. Like the rest of the damned ones, Miss Shaw has no free will and can only act upon the orders given to her. However, there are exceptions to the orders that she would accept, and if someone were to try and perform ungodly acts upon her, she would be temporarily freed from the bind, and ready for revenge," he explained, his voice cold and emotionless.
     "In her heyday, Miss Shaw had taken the lives of ten to twelve men in the span of a single month. If I remember correctly, it has been around two hundred years since Miss Shaw was bound, and I can only imagine how thirsty she must be."

Lord Pendleton looked visibly sickened,  his eyes wide. "A thousand pardons, Your Grace," he whispered. Lord Wycliffe followed suit, apologizing profusely under his breath.

    "I do not need your apologies. Come, my servants have prepared a feast to celebrate your arrival," he replied, ignoring the two men completely as he led the way into the dining room.

The ministers, around fifty in all, trailed behind him like a procession, to the point where Giselle had to push past them to catch up with Icarus.

      "Why are you walking so fast?" she huffed, out of breath.

He smirked. "Why are you walking so slow?"

Giselle cleared her throat. "What you did back there, that was something," she whispered. "It was fun to watch as their faces got so pale. Are they always so fearful, Your Grace?"

       "Somewhat," he muttered under his breath, his eyes snapping towards her. "You seem to be having more fun than I am."

This time, Giselle no longer lowered her voice. "It is always fun to see people being put in their places, Your Grace."