The information that she managed to squeeze out of Aldous seemed to be fruitful enough, though rather vague. No particular names or locations, essentially nothing that she could search up on. In the end, Giselle realised that she discovered nothing at all, except for the bit about Icarus' supposed brother.

It was odd to think that Icarus had a brother, since in Giselle's head, he was this immortal being that had always existed, that was never born nor conceived, so to think that he had blood kin was rather disconcerting.

She made her way back to the library, her head hung low. The first rays of sunlight were starting to peek through, and Giselle's eyelids were becoming heavier and heavier. Her little quest had been all for naught, and all she wished for was a moment of sleep.

Alas, Icarus had asked her to find a list of books and tomes the night prior, a task that she had not completed.

Sighing, she reached into her pocket and fished out a crumpled piece of paper. After futilely attempting to smooth it out, she read out the books on the list.

"The New Atlantis, Francis Bacon," she murmured under her breath as she looked up from the list and towards the rows upon rows of shelves.

Letting out a low groan, she stuffed the list back into her pocket before venturing into the labyrinth that was Icarus' library. The scent of old parchment and dust filled her senses, and the air was cold and austere. Not a single sound could be heard, other than her own soft breaths.

But then, there was a faint squeak, followed by the sound of scurrying feet. Her eyes widened when she saw a small animal scampering away from a vacant shelf, its tiny paws making contact with the wooden surface. Giselle did not want to hurt the poor mouse, but she could not let it be either. So, she quickly snatched a broom that had been leaning against one of the shelves, and decided to shoo the mouse away.

"Get out," she commanded sharply, now breaking into a jog as she attempted to chase after the mouse. "This is not your place. Go away."

As if toying with her, the mouse seemed to circle around the place, making her look like an absolute fool, futilely running around in circles.

"Ah, that's it," she muttered. "When I get you, I'll give you to Missus Harris, and you don't want to know what she will do to you."

The mouse suddenly veered off its original course, venturing deeper into the labyrinthine library, as if it had understood her threats. This section of the library was so deep, that even Giselle herself had never been there before. The books on the shelves were positively ancient and caked in centuries worth of dust, and she was certain that if she as much as lay a finger on them, they would simply crumble apart.

The atmosphere felt different here. The air was heavy, almost vaguely melancholic. Her dark eyes darted around, searching wildly for that wretched mouse, but instead, she found herself staring at a lone frame hanging on the wall. It was covered by a white sheet, which, unlike everything else in the room, was not covered in dust.

Intrigued, she slowly made her way closer, and both hesitantly and curiously, grabbed a fistful of the white sheet, then pulled it away.

Hidden underneath the white sheet was a painting, a portrait, to be exact. Around the corners of the painting, the varnish seemed to be cracked and flaking away, though the middle was mostly intact, albeit cloudy and obscure, almost indiscernible.

Still, Giselle could still make out the subject of the ancient portrait, tucked away in this drafty room. It was of a young woman, who seemed to be not much older than herself. Her hair was a bright, fiery red, still very much visible despite the yellowed varnish, and her dress was a sumptuous deep blue, embroidered with what seemed to be silver thread. From the garments she wore, to the jewels that adorned her fingers and neck, Giselle could certainly tell that she was a highborn lady, but that mattered little to her.

It was her face that struck Giselle, to the point where she was rendered speechless. Her eyes, so vividly green, seemed to bore into Giselle's soul, as if they were tearing holes in her flesh. Her lips, pale red and shaped like a rosebud, looked as if they would open at any moment and speak to her. It unnerved her, to the point where she felt as if she could not breathe.

Giselle knew that she had never seen this woman before, she was very sure of that, so why did seeing this portrait affect her so badly? Even her head was beginning to spin, and she felt bile rise up her throat.

Unable to take it anymore, Giselle reached down for the cloth, wanting to cover the painting once more.

"Giselle?" a familiar voice rang, causing her to drop the cloth in shock.

She turned around, eyes wide as if she had just been caught red-handed. "Your Grace! Ah- I- I was just chasing after a mouse! It was a shock, you see, since I had never seen mice around here before and-"

"I know," Icarus chuckled, his head slightly tilted to the side. "I heard you. Though, I'd say that you were too kind to the mouse. You spoke to it as if it were a friend of yours."

"Did I?" Giselle laughed, finally calming down. Icarus smiled in return, before suddenly freezing, as his eyes stared past her.

His smiling lips became rigid, and his eyes widened as if he had just seen a ghost, his laughter dying in his throat. Giselle had never seen him like this before, and it terrified her.

"Your Grace?" Giselle stammered as Icarus suddenly walked up to her, until he was mere inches away from her. Then, he bent down, picking up the white cloth that lay by her feet.

It was only after the painting was covered that Icarus seemed to calm down, though a semblance of melancholy seemed to linger in his deep red eyes.

"Actually, I had wanted to tell you something," he said finally, straightening up. "Pack up your clothes for three days or so. We will be heading off to London."

It had been quite a while since Giselle last stepped foot in London, not since she entered the confines of the Palace of Daínn. Without even realising it, five months had passed, and now winter had arrived.

The sky in London was grey, with tufts of fluffy snow drifting aimlessly in the air. The streets were deserted, except for those few beggars and rowdy kids that roamed freely and unhindered, seemingly unaffected by the harsh weather.

Giselle peered out of the carriage window, taking in the cold, crisp winter air, the tip of her nose growing increasingly redder and redder as she did so. Above her, the snowflakes were falling freely, and as the rays of sunlight hit them, they seemed to sparkle like tiny crystals. It was a sight that Giselle always adored, ever since she was a very young child.

Without a single thought in her head, she opened her mouth and stretched out her tongue, attempting to catch one of the snowflakes, but before she could, she felt herself being pulled back into the carriage by the collar of her dress, and she turned around to see the judgemental eyes of Icarus.

"Just what do you think you are doing?" he admonished. "Are you trying to get yourself sick?"

"No.. I just thought that it'd be a fun thing to do. Haven't you ever tried to catch a snowflake with your tongue, Your Grace?" Giselle questioned, her brows raised quizzically.

"No," he said resolutely. "And I don't plan to, ever."

Giselle grumbled at this response, before turning around and facing forward again. She sighed contently, enjoying the feeling of the fresh breeze brushing her cheeks and running through with her long dark locks as the carriage sped through the streets of London.

"By the way, Your Grace, why are we going to London?" she asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "Is there anything going on?"

"Nothing remarkable, Giselle. I am only here to meet up with a few friends of mine," Icarus replied curtly.

"Friends?" she chuckled. "Who are your friends? Tutankhamun? Edward the Third?"

Icarus could not help but roll his eyes. "Very funny, Giselle. I am sorry to disappoint you, but these friends of mine aren't that old. Well, one of them is, I suppose."

Giselle wanted to name yet another historical figure, but she managed to stop herself. She swallowed hard, then asked, "Who is it, Your Grace?"

"Have you ever heard of Ephraim Le Roux?" Icarus spoke.

She was quiet for a while, her eyebrows pressed into a deep frown. "That's.. that's the old man on the one-pound note, right?"

"Well, to me, he is more than a mere face on a note. He is one of the finest statesmen I know, perhaps on par with Adolphus Curran," he sighed.

"Wait, didn't he die like a hundred years ago? How is he-"

"I turned him, yes. Those whom I deem brilliant, I will not let perish easily. Le Roux is one of them."

"Those you deem brilliant?" Giselle chuckled. "Well then, would you turn me into one of your kind?"

Her words sounded innocent, almost childlike, but her eyes seemed to bore into him, curious as to what he would say, and for the first time in hundreds of years, Icarus found himself speechless. The answer he was looking for was a firm 'No', but he did not have the heart to say it to her face.

As the carriage galloped past the main street and into the residential area, the sound of vendors and hawkers ceased, and the rough, bumpy roads were replaced with much smoother ones. The silence was almost unbearable, so Giselle cleared her throat and forced herself to smile.

"Forget about that," she laughed dryly. "What was I thinking, I'm not good at anything that I do. Why would you have any reason to turn me?"

As soon as she said that, the carriage came to an abrupt halt, almost sending Giselle tumbling back into her seat. She could feel Icarus's concerned eyes on her, but she refused to acknowledge it. Instead, she looked outside the carriage window, where just a few feet from her, was a grand, sprawling manor.

Its countenance, adorned with intricately carved stone façades and soaring turrets, loomed with an air of aristocratic dignity absent from the surrounding houses. The stone walls were enshrouded in verdant tendrils of ivy and moss, and the gardens, meticulously curated in sprawling splendour, unfurled in a symphony of colours-a vibrant tapestry of neatly manicured lawns, labyrinthine topiaries, and fragrant blossoms. The exterior was nothing short of magnificent, and Giselle could only imagine how grand it must be on the inside.

"Oh, I've passed by this manor countless times before when I was younger. I always thought that it was such a sight to behold, though I never got to know who the owner was... Ah, imagine living here!" Giselle said wistfully, her face pressed against the glass, oblivious to the fact that Icarus had already gotten out of the carriage.

"Also, Your Grace, don't you think that-" Giselle yelped in surprise as Icarus suddenly appeared outside her window, tapping on the glass while looking mildly annoyed.

"Come outside," he said before turning around and walking towards the manor. Giselle's eyes widened with delight as she quickly pushed the door open, snatched her knapsack, and then rushed to catch up with Icarus.

"Your Grace," she huffed, now out of breath. "Are.. are we staying here?"

"Yes," Icarus replied simply. Giselle had hoped that he would say something more, but he did not.

"Well, do you know who owns this place, Your Grace?"

At this, Icarus looked at her as if she had just said something strange. "I own this place, Giselle. Whenever I come down to London, this is where I stay."

"Ah, of course you'd own a place like this," Giselle muttered under her breath as they walked through the threshold, her eyes gleaming as she took in the opulent sights surrounding her. It was far grander, and much less austere than the Palace of Daínn, and indeed, much more human.

"You seem very excited," Icarus remarked, frowning. "Didn't you also live in London, Giselle?"

In an instant, Giselle felt her enthusiasm die down. "I did, Your Grace."

"Where exactly, Giselle? Perhaps we can pay your dear uncle a visit?" he suggested, almost mischievously. Giselle felt her heart drop.

"No, no need for that, Your Grace," she rebuked gently. "Believe me, I have no desire to meet that family either. Besides, it might just take my uncle a while to forgive me for running away, anyway."

There was an awkward pause between them for a moment, as both of them tried their best to ignore each other's gaze. Eventually, Giselle decided to break the silence.

"So.. um... Your Grace?" she began cautiously, "When are you going to meet up with Rue, Le Roi? La Roy? The old man on the coin, I mean?"

"Le Roux. I plan to head off now, actually. We are only here to drop off our things and refresh for a bit."

Giselle nodded quietly. "Ah, I see."

Sensing the fatigue in her eyes, Icarus smiled. "You don't have to come if you don't want to. You may rest here, in any room of your liking. Or you can take a stroll on the streets. I trust that Missus Harris has handed over your salary for last month, correct?"

"Yes.. but is it truly fine if I don't come along? Why did you bring me to London in the first place, if you don't need me here?"

Icarus was quiet. His gaze was dark, emotionless even, but his mouth quirked ever so slightly. When he finally broke the silence,his voice was dim, barely audible.

"Because I wanted to, Giselle."

Giselle had found Icarus' behaviour odd, concerning even. His words were sweet to hear, but she could not tell what exactly was going on in his head.

He brought her here, just because he wanted to? Or was that just another way of saying that he did not trust her enough to leave her alone in Westmorland?

Had he already suspected her wiles and deceit, all so soon? That cannot be the case. Giselle had been careful. She made sure no one followed her. She never did anything that would raise any eyebrows. She was cautious, and she was thorough, so what was it that led to this?

Even more disconcerting, he dragged her all the way to London, only to exclude her from his meeting with this so-called statesman of the century. What were they discussing? Something that he did not want her privy to?

She had considered following after Icarus' carriage, but in the end, she decided against it. Powerful men were master puppeteers, the head that dictated the hands and feet. Willoughby had her and Atticus. Who knows what this Le Roux has in store.

She stared at the bag of coins in her palm. The gold coins glinted dimly, illuminated by the pale fire. Perhaps, she should take Icarus' suggestion. A stroll on the street while actually having money to buy something nice did not sound too awful.

Icarus had left after dusk, leaving Giselle alone in that empty manor. She had chosen a bedroom with a large window that overlooked the garden below, overlooking the vast expanse of greenery. The bed was covered in silk sheets, and the pillows were freshly stuffed with goose feathers. It was a stark contrast from the scratchy sheets she had back in the palace, and as soon as she laid her head down, sleep overcame her in an instant.

It was not a deep, dreamless sleep that she had hoped for. Instead, it was filled with dreams, full of familiar faces , and yet, it was as if she had never seen them before.

Cloaked in silence was the night, the sky as black as ink, without a single star in sight. Even the moon was gone, as if it had been swallowed whole by the darkness of the night.

It was chilly, not cold enough to the point where she needed a coat, but cold enough for the tip of her nose to grow red. She had little choice though, as she trudged down the corridor, tugging on the brocade sleeves of her dress for the slightest bit of warmth.

The Queen was not a pleasant mistress to serve, she had concluded.

She paused for a moment, setting the bucket of warm water that she had been carrying down on the floor. The girl let out a sigh, then stared at the red lines that marred her palms with resentment.

"For how much longer must I do this..." she groaned. "Am I even supposed to do this? Do I tell Father?"

Carrying water for the Queen's bath had always been the responsibility of the maids, never the lady-in-waiting, but the naïve, oblivious young woman, carefully sheltered by her dear parents, did not know better.

It confused her, to be frank. All her life, she had never done as little as tidying up her own bed in the mornings, and now, in this dreary palace, she was being worked like a mad horse.

"Mm.. I want to go home," she moaned as she squatted down beside the full bucket, staring at the soft ripples on the surface, dreading the moment when she had to pick it up again. "I hate it here."

"That makes the two of us," a voice said, as footsteps slowly approached her, and stopped just a few feet away.

Her eyes widened, and she swiftly turned around, both curious and terrified. Behind her, stood a man that she had never encountered before, staring down at her with a soft smirk on his lips.

He was, without a single doubt, beautiful. He was tall, taller than any man she had ever met, and certainly taller than the Queen's dear beloved son, Cyril.

His hair was jet black, curling slightly upwards at the ends. He was dressed simply, in a plain white shirt and breeches with no embellishments whatsoever. Yet, there was a sort of elegance about him, and he was far more princely than Cyril could ever dream of being.

What enchanted her the most were his eyes, they were such a bright, shocking shade of blue, like a deep, rich, sumptuous velvet. She often heard of people likening blue eyes to the wide open seas, but she had never seen the ocean before. However, she could imagine that it would look just like that.

"Miss..?" he said, raising a brow. It was only then that she realised that she had been staring blankly at him for the past few moments, and her face instantly flushed red. "You must be new around here."

"Ah-- yes," she stammered, snapping her eyes away, unwilling to look at him for even another second. "I am the Queen's new lady-in-waiting."

"Mm.. And what is your name?"

"I am Rosamund FitzAlan," she replied simply. "And you?"

"My name is Icarus."

Cressida raised a brow. "Icarus? Like the boy who flew too close to the sun? That Icarus?"

He shrugged. "Yes, Miss FitzAlan. That Icarus."

"Oh my, your parents surely have questionable tastes when it comes to naming children. What a bad omen."

A small, barely noticeable smile spread across his lips. "Although, to be fair, it was not my mother, nor my father who had named me."

"Who, then? Your aunt? She must hate you very much then," she said as she stood up, smoothing the creases on her skirt as she did.

For a brief second, resentment flashed in his eyes. "No. It was my stepmother, the Queen."

Rosamund blinked a few times, as she processed those words and thoughts in her head. She had known about the king's many mistresses, although she had never bothered asking questions. The Queen never seemed to care much either, except for one particular bastard son, who she cursed at every opportunity that she got.

"Oh-- then, you must be--" Rosamund gasped, her hands flying over her mouth.

The Whore of Westmorland's bastard. Everyone in the palace had heard of it at some point, no matter what their station or position was. Even stable hands would curiously talk about the King's bastard, who was sent off to Westmorland to spare him from the wrath of the Queen.

Alternatively, there were tales of how the King constructed a palace deep within the forests of Westmorland for Lady Sophia, his mistress and true love to reside in and raise their child, away from the scrutiny of the nobles and the Queen's burning hate.

It was a famous tale in the capital city of London, and now that she had seen Icarus, the infamous bastard son in the flesh, she knew why the Queen despised him so. This was a child born out of wedlock, a bastard.

And yet, this bastard appeared more regal and princely than her own son could ever be.

"I see that you have heard quite a few things about me," he said, frowning. "I wonder what they might be."

"Nothing that you haven't heard before," she replied as she cleared her throat. "Will you stay here for long, Your Grace?"

There was a look of amusement in his eyes. "What a quick change in demeanour," he chuckled. "You didn't strike me as a flatterer, Miss FitzAlan."

"You are still a son of the king, legitimate or not. I figure that you are deserving of some respect."

His smile widened. "I am flattered that you find me worthy of a greeting."

"I think it will be a pity if we do not get acquainted," she smiled, extending her hand towards him. "Perhaps we could introduce ourselves? Properly, this time."

A strange look crossed his face for a second, his gaze flicking downwards to the hand, and back up again.

"Alright, I shall indulge you," he said after a moment's pause. He took her hand with a smile. "I am Icarus of House Severin, bastard son, not quite a prince."

She smirked. "And I am Rosamund, once a coddled only child, now a servant at your stepmother's bidding. Pleasant, isn't it?"

"Quite." His tone was light, and slowly, he began to unravel his fingers from hers.

However, he did not release her hand. Instead of letting go completely, he clasped onto her hand tightly, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss upon her knuckles. "Thank you for your warm welcome, Miss FitzAlan. And I hope to see you often, as I don't plan to leave for a very long time."