It was almost noon when Giselle finally awoke.  She felt groggy, her eyelids heavy, and she rubbed them together, trying to chase away the sleepiness that clouded her vision. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and gazed lazily around the room.

     "Ah," she murmured, yawning. "I forgot I was in London."

Giselle stretched herself languidly, and climbed out of bed. After making sure that she was properly dressed, she headed over to the windowsill, and drew the curtains closed. The sunlight that was filtering through the window seemed rather pale, but not unpleasant.

She glanced at the pouch of money on the table. Perhaps it was time to take up on Icarus' suggestion.

And so, after a meal of tea and crumpets, she embarked down the cobblestone street, breathing in the crisp, cold air. It had snowed the previous day, though not to the point where the city would be blanketed in white. Instead, it just accumulated on the ground as a dirty grey sludge, serving no purpose but to make the roads more slippery, and to make people's lives all the more miserable.

Giselle tugged tightly on the coat she wore, trying not to let any of the cold air in. She would have to stock up on more clothing, perhaps even a pair of gloves. Winter was coming soon, and the days would only grow shorter, if not colder.

She thought of her dingy bedroom back in the palace. She had yet to spend a winter in the Palace of Daínn, but she could hardly imagine that it would be pleasant. Perhaps a thick, fleece blanket. Yes, that sounded nice.

         Having lived in London her entire life, Giselle knew exactly where to go. She often passed by the golden windows of Madame Winthrop's Linens and Silks Boudoir and admired the intricately embroidered silk pillows, though she never really had time, nor the resources to actually purchase one.

And besides, Madame Winthrop's Linens and Silks Boudoir happened to be dangerously close to the Kindred Hearts Orphanage, way too close for comfort.

Giselle found herself staring at the familiar building, the same orphanage that she had lived in for the first ten years of her life, with its large, arched steel gate, its colour a dull grey, as grey and desolate as the building that lay a few feet away from it.

      There was nothing comforting nor remotely kind about the Kindred Hearts Orphanage. The exteriors were dull, the food was dull, and the children's clothes were dull. Their lives were dull. Giselle remembered little of her time under those roofs, and she could only surmise it as a blur of grey.

    And yet, as if she were possessed, Giselle found herself walking towards that very building,   despite the protests of her common sense.

At the counter sat a plump, middle-aged woman with greasy hair and lips, her eyes glued onto the pages of the latest erotic novel to hit the town of London.

     "Excuse me," Giselle called out, clearing her throat.

The woman did not respond, but her cheeks definitely turned a shade brighter.

     "Excuse me, mam!" she repeated, her tone rising an octave.

The woman sputtered with shock, and she hurriedly dropped the book onto the floor, kicking it under the counter with her foot.

     "Can I help you?" she said exasperatedly, her tone one of utter annoyance.

      "I need to see the directory of this orphanage," Giselle answered simply.

The woman's thin brows jumped in intrigue. "And why would you want to see that? I could hardly think of a reason why someone would be interested in that."

Revealing her true identity would have sorted this out, but Giselle knew better than that. After all, Madame Beckett, the director of the orphanage had assumed her to be dead tens of years ago. Telling the truth would only bring trouble.

       "You are too loud," she said, her tone low. "And I don't like to be questioned."

She reached into the pouch, and pulled out a single golden coin, then slammed it onto the counter.

The woman immediately reached out and grabbed it greedily, looking down at it curiously. Giselle could not help but laugh.

       "It's real gold, dummy. And worth about one month of your salary."

The woman stared blankly back at her. "Down the hallway, to your left. You can find them on the shelves beside the window."

     "Thank you," Giselle said curtly as she walked past the woman, then strode towards the direction indicated by her finger. "And I hope you enjoy the novel."

And as the woman had said, she would find a tall, blackwood bookshelf by the window. She had recalled seeing it before when she was much, much younger, but she never really questioned what the books were.

Each directory recorded ten years, and so far there were seven directories on the shelf. She was born in 1842, so she reached for the thick tome that was inscribed with 1840-1850.

Giselle never put much thought into her heritage, or who her parents were. Willoughby often told her that she was likely the child of a street harlot who unfortunately survived the rounds of concoctions of angelica and tansy.

    She swallowed thickly, then flipped the pages. There were not that many additions in 1842. Perhaps not many parents lost their lives, or none of them wanted to give up their children. It made seeing her own name more disheartening.

Given name: Giselle
Date of birth: 12th December 1842
Age: Two days
Eye colour: Black
Hair colour: Dark brown
Mother: Rosalind Arundel
Father: Unknown

Notes: Was handed over to the matron by a servant of the Arundel family. Birth mother wishes to permanently relinquish parentage rights.

Giselle felt her fingers spasm. Rosalind Arundel. She had heard of that name before. Lady Rosalind Arundel, daughter of the Marquis of Connaught, now the wife of Baron de Vere. And, her mother.

Reading that name again felt odd to her. She had a mother, who was alive and well? It almost felt unbelievable to her. 

There was no questioning it. Giselle had to see her. She wanted to see her. She wanted to ask Rosalind why she was given away. She wanted to ask if for even a moment, was she ever loved. In the span of that one day that she spent with her mother, was she ever cooed and caressed with love?

But the day was already coming to an end. It would be improper to come over to somebody's home so late in the day. And so, after tearing off that particular page, Giselle slid the book back in its place, then walked out of the orphanage, the place that she had grown up in, and had no intention of ever returning to.

She would end up finding Icarus by the balcony when she returned, almost as if he had been waiting for her. He stared at her expectantly, pressuring her to say something.

      "Your Grace," she said breathlessly as she slid off her leather gloves. "You're back."

       "And so are you, thankfully. I thought that you had no intention of returning."

Giselle flashed him an awkward grin. "London is very invigorating. I've forgotten how much I've missed it."

He said nothing as he took a step towards her, and very suddenly, pulled out the piece of paper that had been bugging out of her breast pocket.

      "Now, what is this?"

Giselle's blood instantaneously ran cold, until she realised that it was just a flyer that was given to her by a little schoolgirl with pigtails.

      "Ah, that," she chuckled. "Some school kids will be performing Hamlet tomorrow afternoon, and I was thinking of going. Can I, Your Grace?"

Icarus glanced down at the crudely drawn poster in his hand, before handing it back to Giselle. "Do as you wish."

     "Thank you, Your Grace," she grinned. "Ahem, did you have a pleasant day too? Was it fun, speaking to the man on the one-pound note?"

He looked back at her, his eyes dull, seemingly no longer having the patience to deal with her antics.

        "No," he answered simply as he turned around and walked closer to the balcony, sitting down on the stone balustrade overlooking the bustling streets below.

        "Your Grace! What if you fall down? Come back here!" Giselle shrieked, tugging onto his arm.

A chuckle escaped his lips. "I can't die even if I wanted to, Giselle. A fall like this wouldn't leave a scratch on me."

Giselle peered over the balcony. Sure, Icarus would be left unharmed, but if she were to fall, she would be turned into a pile of splayed limbs in an instant. She shuddered.

       "Icarus was just as cocky as you are. With his wings of wax, he flew too close to the sun. And he perished."

He could not help but laugh. "How ironic. But Giselle, I have no wings, and there is no sun."

He leaned forward, staring at the bustling street below, his palms resting against the cool stone balustrade, his legs dangling freely over the edge.

      "Look, isn't it so fascinating?" he turned around, a rare smile plastered on his lips.

It was not much, but it was such a human gesture, to the point where Giselle forgot that he was a hundreds-year-old vampire.

      "Quite. It does look quite fun. People are shopping for Christmas, aren't they?"

       "It is that time of the year," he chuckled. "Looking at them makes me feel both happy and sad."

Giselle frowned. "Sad? Why?"

       "I've witnessed over three hundred Christmases now. The scene in front of you, in a hundred years or so, nothing will remain. Not that little Pomeranian puppy, not that little girl with pigtails. Nothing.

Everything is so.. fleeting. It happens so fast. I feel like if I do as much blink, the world will have changed overnight. Perhaps, one day, I shall awake and find you as a granny with greying hair."

       "And you will remain the same."

      "And I will remain the same. These buildings will rot and deteriorate, those trees will shrivel up and die, those people will be reduced to dust, and I will remain the same. Everyone dies, even you, Giselle."

At that final sentence, his face twisted, as if he had just swallowed something bitter. "But that will not happen anytime soon. I am sure of that."

Giselle did not reply, and instead leaned against the balcony, peering down below. No other words were uttered, and the silence was so palpable that it became unbearable. But they would remain like that until the late hours of the night, in complete silence.

     The next day, by the time the sun had barely risen, Giselle was already perched on the edge of her bed, freshly bathed, her hair still dripping wet.

The little cosmetics and perfumes she owned were strewn all over the bedsheets, and beside them was a neatly pressed dress, long and dark blue in colour. With a comb, she attempted to brush out the tangles in her curly hair, trying to tame the flyaway strands into some sort of order. Giselle sighed, reaching for the bottle of rosemary oil.

    There was no questioning it. She had to look nice today. Impeccable, impressionable. She hoped that her mother, this Lady Rosalind de Vere would not be too shocked by her sudden appearance. She put her hair into a fancy updo, while leaving some stray curls to frame her face. She wondered if Lady Rosalind had the same curls as she did.

    After patting a few dots of rouge onto her lips and cheeks, Giselle set off.

It was a bright and sunny morning, a rare occurrence in the dreary early winter weather. The sky appeared blue instead of grey for once, and it did not feel as cold as it did yesterday. Giselle took it as a good sign, that everything would run smoothly that day.

It did not take her long to find the residence of Baron de Vere.  It was rather easy to spot; a large grandiose mansion with large ornately carved pillars in the front, and a water fountain was erected in the courtyard, made with what looked like white marble, but the water was grey and murky, and it had certainly seen better days.

Giselle approached the front door with trepidation. She felt her heart beating loudly in her chest, far faster than it had ever done before.

She swallowed hard, and gently rapped the brass knocker, signalling her presence to the occupants within.

During her time in London, she had been briefed about all the noble and aristocratic families in England by Atticus, and the de Vere family was no different. However, as opposed to the other families, whose stories spanned chapters or even volumes, the de Vere family was only a single line, unimportant and irrelevant.

     "They were quite wealthy, back in the day. Wealthy enough to buy them a title. But hundreds of years down the line, their wealth has run out, and all that's left is an empty, useless title.

         The current Baron de Vere is unambitious, not that much of a businessman, and the furthest thing from calculating. Some might call him kind, but if you ask me, he is simply weak. Nothing remarkable about his sons too."

Atticus's words rang in her head as she stared at the door, willing it to open. Her curiosity was killing her, almost eating her alive. She had heard of all these things about her mother's husband, her supposed half-brothers, but nothing about the person who mattered the most. Her mother.

At last, the door swung open, revealing a wrinkly old woman in a maid's clothing. Her back was round and bent, her eyes a pale milky blue. She did not seem too kind either, as she was already prepared to kick Giselle off of the property until she saw her face.

      "Hello, ma'am. I am here to see the Baroness. Is she home?" she asked politely, hoping that her tone was amiable enough.

The old woman's dull eyes seemed to scan her entire figure, before she eventually nodded.

    "Yes, she is home. Wait here, I will inform her that you are here."

She then proceeded to disappear behind the closed oak doors. After waiting for a moment or two, she returned, this time, her face a little more stern, a new strand of grey hair lining her tight bun.

    "Come in. You are expected in the drawing room."

Taking a deep breath, she entered the home.

It was dark inside, lit only by candles flickering away, flickering as if a draft had swept through the room and extinguished them. The house felt more like a convent, rather than the residence of a noble family.

    The elderly servant led her across the hall and down the staircase.  She paused outside the drawing-room door, listening carefully to make sure the room was quiet, before opening it slightly and gesturing to Giselle to walk ahead into the room.

The room itself was very simple. The tall windows were open, allowing sunlight to stream inside, and causing the white curtains to billow gently.  The walls were painted a soft yellow colour, and the carpet underneath her feet was a dull grey colour, though Giselle suspected that it was definitely a different colour back in its prime.

But Giselle could not care less about that. The only thing she could think about was the woman seated on the couch, her dark hair and pitch-black eyes a testament to Giselle's own.

      Her mother. She was dressed in a plain yet elegant dress, which was embroidered with silver thread along the collar, hemline and wrists.  Her hair, dark and curly, was gathered into an elegant bun at the top of her head, the hairpins holding it together. She wore a small silver bracelet on her wrist, and Giselle noticed how the delicate silver chain seemed almost fragile under the light.

Giselle was quiet, not a single word escaping her trembling lips. This was it, the moment that she had been waiting for. The moment that she had always dreamt of. She had hoped that this woman would come up and hug her, rain her cheeks with kisses, and tell her how much she missed her. But it never came.

      "You must be Giselle," she said coldly, her voice almost laced with disgust. "I hoped that you would never find me. How long has it been, twenty, thirty years?"

    "I am twenty-four this year, ma'am," Giselle briskly answered, almost stunned by her coldness.

    "Hm," Lady de Vere murmured nonchalantly, and shifted in her chair, making herself more comfortable. "Well, Giselle, what brings you here? You must want something, don't you?"

    "I.. no.. I'm not asking for anything, ma'am," she replied, her voice so weak, barely a whisper. It was odd. Giselle was not one to be easily scared, but in the presence of Rosalind de Vere, she felt all her strength and wits being drained out of her body.

     "Don't lie to me," Lady de Vere said in a tone that was half stern and half mocking. "From the way that you are dressed, I can tell that you are not doing well. What are you, a maid? A common harlot? I can guess that life has not been very kind to you."

For some reason, her last words caused tears to rise in Giselle's eyes. She tried to blink them back, but the tears escaped from the corners of her eyes anyway. She turned her head, avoiding Lady de Vere's scrutinising gaze, so as to hide those traitorous tears.

      "I have several guesses as to why you're here.  The first has to be money, there's no questioning it. You must've been so glad to discover that your birth mother is a noblewoman, weren't you? You must've thought that all your fortunes would be restored, didn't you? Ah, you pitiful little fool!"

Her words were harsh. Harsher than Giselle thought her to be capable of. There was a fire burning inside her eyes that seemed to burn through Giselle's skin, as if it wanted to reduce her to nothing but dust.

Lady de Vere leaned forward, her face inches away from Giselle's. She held her breath as the older woman loomed over her, glaring daggers at her.

    "Or, you must be wondering. Why did I leave you there, in that filthy orphanage? Why did I never come back for you? Well, let me tell you something sweetheart, you are a bastard. You are a bastard, a scourge that I tried my hardest to erase. And you are my greatest shame.

Even now, twenty-four years later, you continue to haunt me. If my old nursemaid had just let me drown you in a bucket as soon as you were born, perhaps you wouldn't be here, and I could live in peace."

Giselle stayed silent. She remained frozen where she stood, unable to move, unable to utter a word. She could hear the venom and hate hidden in each word that came from her lips, and for a second, she wished that she had died that night, drowned in a shallow bucket of water.

     "And my father... what of my father?" she forced herself to ask.

Lady de Vere's lips twisted into a smile. Not a genuine one, and certainly not a kind one. It was cruel, almost mocking.

      "It does not matter. He's been dead for almost a year now," she spoke, her words dripping with resentment. "Although, if there was a person on this earth who had ever wanted you or loved you, it would have been him. He wanted to marry me so that you would not be a bastard, but my own father hadn't allowed it. Your father was barely a noble, without any titles to his name. So, I gave birth in secrecy, and told him that you were stillborn."

      "Why would you do that?"

      "Because I hated him. I hated him, and I loved him all at the same time. I wanted to be with him, but I could not. I resented the world, I resented him for being poor, and I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him gone, I wanted him to disappear into the earth. But he didn't. That bastard is far too smart for that. He moved up the ranks, he gained wealth and titles of his own, ones far greater than my father's and husband's combined. He married a woman more beautiful than me, and he gave her a life that I could only dream of. It could have been my life. It was supposed to be my life."

Her voice broke, and her eyes grew red. It was the first sign of weakness that she had shown this entire time.

      "And you look like him. You look just like him. You may have my colouring, but everything else you inherited from your father. Those thick brows, your eyes, your nose, your lips, they are all his. I hate that. And I hate you."

She stopped talking, her voice breaking once again. Her fingers were tightly gripping onto the armrests, until her knuckles became white, and her eyes became more and more bloodshot.

     "Leave," she said simply. "I never want to see you again."

There was no need for her to say it twice.

In the afternoon, it had started to snow again. The sky, previously a beautiful cornflower blue, had reverted back to its usual grey.

A sharp gust of wind swept past, blowing a flurry of snow against Giselle's coat, chilling her to the bone.

     "It's getting colder," she mumbled, rubbing her hands together, trying to ward off the chill, although even that proved impossible, since her gloves were thin and flimsy.

All around her, she could hear the lively chatter of people, beaming and smiling as they talked about the upcoming Christmas festivities, how they would bake all the different types of biscuits, how they would decorate the trees, and how their children would return back home for the holidays.

Everyone had a joyous, vivid life of their own, and that only made Giselle feel even more miserable. She trudged down the street, dragging her heels against the cobblestone pavement, her boots squelching uncomfortably with every step she took.

She could not return to the manor just yet-- she could not bring herself to face Icarus. And so, she continued to walk around aimlessly, staring through the glass windows of the shops that lined the streets, imagining the warmth within without any intention of stepping inside.

      Soon, dusk came. The cold was almost unbearable at that point, and Giselle brought her knuckles up to her lips, blowing on them every now and then for the slightest semblance of warmth. It did not help much.

The shoppers had started to return home once the sun had set, and the once bustling street was now abandoned, save for the few shopkeepers who were sweeping their storefronts.

It was calm. It was quiet. Too quiet. Now, the loneliness that she had tried to keep at bay had started to seep in, and it had started to consume her. Giselle leaned against the wall, and allowed herself to slide down to the floor. Her face was pressed to her knees, and her hands rested above her head.

It was quiet. It was cold. It was dark.

Giselle felt a sob rise up her throat, and she could not hold back her tears any longer. All these years, she constantly told herself that her mother must have loved her, and that she had a good reason for abandoning her.

But to hear those harsh words escape Lady de Vere's mouth truly broke her delusions, and it made her realise that from the very beginning, she was alone.

      Her father, whose name she did not even know, was perhaps the only person in this world who loved her, and he was dead. She knew there was no way that Willoughby ever liked her, he only liked her usefulness, and Atticus was not any different.

She truly was, undoubtedly, alone.

Giselle shut her eyes, having lost the strength to even move. And then, she willed sleep to come. It was an incredibly foolish and dangerous act to sleep out here in the alley on a winter's night, but Giselle did not care anymore.

Just as her mind started to drift off, she felt her shoulders being roughly shook, and a voice screamed at her. She almost thought that she was dreaming.

      "Your Grace," she gasped. His face was mere inches away from her own, his eyes wide with concern and alarm.

       "You've been gone for hours! I thought that you'd been kidnapped or killed! Where have you been?" Icarus snapped, his grip on her shoulder tightening with each passing minute.

        "Taken away by bandits," she replied almost immediately, hoping to alleviate his anger, but Icarus was anything but amused.

        "What?!" he shouted, grabbing her by the chin so that she looked directly into his eyes.  "Where were you taken? Did they hurt you? Have they threatened you?"

It was only when she winced in pain that he realised that his grip was too strong. His gaze softened, and he let go of her chin.

      "Since when have you been so gullible?" she grumbled. "Don't worry, Your Grace. No one will ever bother to kidnap me."

Icarus frowned. "And how are you so sure of that?"

       "I don't think I am worth anything. It's not like they can claim ransom or anything."

       "You are worth something," Icarus said, beaming. "Your hair, your teeth, they would fetch quite a price in the black market."

Giselle's eyes widened with disbelief, and without thinking, she smacked Icarus in the chest, an act that she immediately regretted. It felt hard, like hitting a wall of stone, and she recoiled in pain.

      "That's what you get for trying to hurt your employer," Icarus chuckled, taking Giselle's throbbing hand into his own cool ones. "You're such a terrible maid. Whatever shall you even do?"

Giselle rolled her eyes as she slumped back against the wall. "I don't know. Maybe I'll sell my teeth for some money. And why are you here, anyway? You should be having dinner with George Washington or something."

       "Actually, you are correct. But not with George Washington. He has been dead for years now," he said a matter-of-factly. "However, my maid left the house so early in the morning without a word. Neither was she there at the play staging that she said she would attend. Naturally, I assumed that you were lying dead somewhere."

     "You were.. looking for me?" Giselle asked. "But.. why?"

Icarus did not answer as quickly as he did before. His eyes darted away, as if he was afraid of meeting hers.

     "It will be inconvenient if you died," he said eventually. "It is quite hard to find human servants, and I'd rather have you to do my bidding than the Damned Ones."

      "Is that so? Then, what about--"

      "It doesn't matter. Let us return now, it is getting colder and colder." He pulled Giselle up to her feet, his fingers encircled around her wrist.

      "You can't even feel the cold!" Giselle protested, but it was a playful one. Her previous grievances were gradually forgotten, and she found herself smiling.

      "I know," he replied softly. "I cannot feel the cold, but you can. So, now, let us go home."