It was a cold night. Freezing, almost. Barlowe anxiously paced around in front of the stables, waiting for the stable boy to bring out his steed. He was displeased that he had to ride all the way to the village to meet his coachman, but he was in no position to complain.

Barlowe waited, rolling his eyes every now and then at the boy's tardiness, all while covering his nose with his hand. Aristocrats like Barlowe never had the misfortune of smelling horse dung in their entire lives. His nostrils burned, irritated by the smell.

    At last, after what felt like hours, the boy emerged, holding the reins of a tall, black stallion. "Sorry for taking so long, sir," 'Jasper' said, bowing his head low. "This is Hades. He will bring you to the village."

Barlowe's lips curled in satisfaction. Hades was a fine horse indeed, with shiny ebony fur and a sleek mane. A ride befitting someone like him.

       "Very good," he remarked, his tone somewhat muffled, since his nose was still covered by his hand. "And I am to meet the coachman at the village, correct? How do I know if it's him?"

       "There aren't that many carriages in Waterdown. Mister Smith will be waiting near the apothecary. And to get to Waterdown, simply follow the yellow markers I've placed on the trees. They all lead back to the village."

Barlowe briskly nodded, not bothering to look at 'Jasper' as he mounted the horse, nose still covered. "I will repay you for your efforts, of course. Once I am in France, I shall send someone over with a cheque for ten thousand pounds. I am a man of my word, so you needn't worry."

         "I will be very grateful, sir. And I wish--"

Atticus did not even get the chance to finish his sentence before Barlowe sped off, leaving his words hanging in mid-air. His amiable, gentle expression vanished, replaced by a blank, almost sombre look.

         "Hell will gain a new inhabitant tonight," he remarked coldly as he made his way back into the stables. There was no need for him to be on the lookout since he knew that Giselle was more than capable of finishing Barlowe off. And though it did sound enticing, Atticus had no desire to witness the sight of Barlowe's slashed throat and spilt guts.

     It was a dark night, and the yellow markers that the stable boy had set up were barely illuminated by the moon. At least the boy had the sense to choose a bright colour, Barlowe thought. Had he chosen blue or green, it would have been quite troublesome.

Poor boy. James, Jamie, Jasper, or whatever his name was, had done so much to assist him in these past few days. Secured him a carriage, provided him with a steed, and even marked out the path for him, all for Barlowe to lie to his face.

He had no intention of giving Jasper those ten thousand pounds. From the very beginning, he never planned to. Once he was safe in France, he would be joined by his family, and he was never turning back. Everything in England would be lost and forgotten once he was safe on the land across the sea, including his promise to the poor stable boy.

Barlowe chuckled at the thought. That silly blond boy tying up pieces of cloth on the trees, thinking that it would get him ten thousand pounds. Did he really think money comes that easily? Someone so desperate for easy money like Jasper deserved to be lied to, Barlowe thought.

     But after a while, Barlowe started to feel the seeds of unease sprout within him. The path was so long, so twisted, and it seemed to go on forever. It did not feel this way the last time. As he rode along the path, he tried to ignore the fear slowly creeping up his spine. It was irrational. Perhaps he was simply tired. It is late in the night, after all.

However, soon, Barlowe rode past the final yellow marker, and the village was still nowhere in sight. No village, no houses, no voices, no light. It was just him there, and the neighing horse. The winds swirled around him, creating an eerie howl that sounded almost like whistling.

Barlowe jerked on the horse's reins. "That damned boy lied to me!" he snapped, looking around wildly. His eyes did not fail him-- he truly was in the middle of nowhere, where there were only trees and bushes. There was not even a single house in sight.

His heart sank further and further down as he continued on. What was going on? Where was the carriage? Barlowe cursed loudly again as he continued onward, his hands clenched tight around the reigns. He could feel the panic welling up inside of him. Something was terribly wrong.

He thought of the stable boy, Jasper. Surely that boy hadn't tricked him? That silly, stupid-looking boy? Barlowe found it hard to believe, but now that he was stuck in the middle of nowhere, anything seemed plausible. No, perhaps it was the right direction, but he was too lazy to continue marking the trees, and hoped that Barlowe would somehow figure it out.

That must be it. It was the most believable explanation. Barlowe found it hard to believe that Jasper was capable of scheming and trickery. Not that he thought Jasper was so pure that he would never do such a thing, but rather his peasant brain did not have the capacity to create such an elaborate plan.

Barlowe kicked the sides of the horse, prepared to ride off when he heard a sudden gunshot piercing through the silence. He froze. Gunshots! Where was the shot coming from? Was the bullet meant for him?

He had no intention of waiting around to find out. But before he could leave, the horse beneath him reared upwards and nearly toppled him over onto the ground.

         "No… stop! You foolish beast, stop! I'm going to kill you if you don't obey!" he shouted angrily. "You better stay put until I tell you otherwise."

But Hades did not relent. The gunshot had scared him senseless, and Barlowe's shouts only worsened it.  The stallion whinnied loudly, bucking up and down repeatedly, trying to throw Barlowe off balance, but it was futile. The older man was determined not to lose his balance. He held firm to Hades' mane with both hands, clinging on tightly and desperately, but he could not keep that grip for longer than seconds at a time. At last, the horse managed to shake the reins out of his grasp, and Barlowe fell over backwards from the impact.

He slammed against a nearby tree, and groaned in pain when his ribs began to ache. Barlowe lifted himself up slowly, rubbing his chest, and saw, through blurry vision, that Hades was bolting away. He tried to chase after the animal but, despite his efforts, Hades was fast. Within moments, he was gone, and Barlowe was all alone.

       "Damned beast," he cursed under his breath. "I ought to have you skinned alive for this."

The wind whipped by, making him shiver uncontrollably, as he walked aimlessly on. His right arm throbbed painfully-- he had fallen on it when the horse flung him down. Barlowe suspected that some bones were dislocated, shattered even.

    And then, he heard it. It was so subtle at first, but then it grew louder, and louder. Ringing. Ringing. Like bells chiming. A light thud. Footsteps.

Another person.

The notion of another person being there in the woods with him should have brought relief to Barlowe. At least he was not alone. But Barlowe was no fool. This was a trap that he was entrenched in, and this person, whoever they may be, was the one who laid it.

With his other hand-- the good one, Barlowe retrieved a dagger from his waistcoat and turned around, prepared to fight to the death, when he saw the pale, unassuming face of Giselle Larkspur. His grip on the dagger weakened.

       "You are His Grace's maid," he said, drawing back the dagger. "What brings you here?"

Giselle did not say anything at first. She only stared at him, her dark curls billowing in the wind, her face blank. Eventually, she said, "You."

        "Me?" Barlowe guffawed. "Did His Grace ask you to bring me back? Is that it?"

His tone sounded hopeful. It was an unlikely possibility, but Barlowe welcomed it. Perhaps Icarus had changed his mind after all.

"No," Giselle replied coldly. "I came out here on my own accord. His Grace does not know that I am out here."

Barlowe raised his eyebrows sceptically, staring down at her. "So why are you here?"

         "To ask you something."

Giselle's tone was cold, and she stared straight at him, her dark eyes piercing into his soul. He had never really looked into her eyes before, since Giselle always lowered her head when he was over, but now that he did, those black orbs sent a chill down his spine.

      They were blank, empty, like a void. There was something about them that unsettled Barlowe, although he did not know what exactly it was that made him feel so uneasy about this young woman. She appeared so fragile, so frail-- like she would fall apart at any moment and become nothing but dust in the wind. And yet, there was a certain coldness to her, as if her heart was carved out of ice.

She took a step towards him. "My father asked me to take care of you. But before that, I have a question to ask. Do you remember Lydia?"

Barlowe swallowed the lump in his throat, his hand now shaking as he desperately held onto the dagger. "I do not know any Lydias. And what do you mean by 'father'? Who is your father?"

         "You do not remember Lydia?" she continued, ignoring his question. "Then what about Frances? Or Charlotte, perhaps?"

         "I do not know any of them!  Who are these people? What is this all about?" Barlowe cried impatiently, growing annoyed. "Who do you work for?!"

Giselle shook her head. "As expected. High and mighty Lord Ebenezer Barlowe does not remember the names of the girls that he had raped and tortured. No, not girls. Children."

She reached into her coat, pulling out a pistol and aiming it straight at Barlowe's forehead. "One last chance. Do you remember Georgina Beckett?"

Barlowe felt a cold rush of fear run down his spine as he watched her finger curl around the trigger, her face still blank and empty as ever. Georgina Beckett, of course he knew her. Madame Beckett, the headmistress of Kindred Hearts Orphanage, who willingly sent over the little girls under her care to Barlowe in exchange for money. Madame Beckett, who never questioned when the girls never came back, and were never seen again.

      "Who are you?"  he muttered, his heart pounding wildly against his ribcage. He felt the blood drain from his face.

Giselle smiled maliciously. "Distinguished ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests of high regard," she said mockingly. "I find myself in the presence of an utmost vile creature, whose very existence pollutes the earth that God had created. Shall I kill you, and rid earth of this stench and evil?"

       "You witch! Tell me, who is your master?! You are not simply Icarus's maid, you serve someone else! Tell me this instant! Who sent you?!" he shouted, his voice as loud and booming as it always was, but his face was pale and contorted, his legs trembling. "Tell me, you whore!"

She did not answer, and she only stared at him with those same dead eyes, her smile growing larger and larger. It aggravated him. Who was she? How did she know what he had done? How did she know those names? Unless...

        "You.. you're one of the children from the orphanage, aren't you?" he asked, his tone now softened. Threats would not work against this girl, so Barlowe did what he did best, persuasion. "Listen, I... I was a different person back then. I had made mistakes, plenty of them, and I now realize what I did was very wrong. I am a sinner, Giselle. You are correct, I am vile, and I am an evil creature that pollutes this world. But I am only human, Giselle. Every human makes mistakes. Would you not give me the opportunity to repent, Giselle? Will you deny this old man the chance to repent?"

There was silence for several moments, and he hoped that perhaps he had won. But he soon realized that he had lost. There was still no reaction from her. He knew that he needed to speak more to break her, to make her show emotion, to change her mind, but Barlowe realised it might be too late. A low, guttural laugh escaped from Giselle's throat, and she looked at him as if he had gone mad.

      "That might have worked had your crimes been petty theft, but murder? You genuinely thought that you could sweet talk your way out of this?" she taunted.

Realizing that it had not worked, Barlowe's mask of penitence slipped, showing his true nature.

       "What do you want? Money? I can give you money, as much as you want! Do you want me to kneel? You want me to kiss your feet?"  he screamed. "I swear upon my life that I will give you anything and everything you want. Just name it!"

       "Oh, but Lord Barlowe, there is only one thing that I want. If you give it to me, then consider all your sins absolved. Oh, maybe not all. You have too many sins. Perhaps a portion of it," she said sweetly.

       "What is it? What is it, Giselle? I shall give it to you, gladly, in exchange for your forgiveness."

Giselle smiled, her grip tightening around the pistol. "I want you to die."

     He did not hesitate this time. Instead of begging or pleading, Barlowe immediately plunged both of his hands, injured and uninjured, into the pocket of his jacket, searching frantically for any weapons he might have concealed there. He felt the cold hilt of the dagger brush against his clammy skin, and he grabbed onto it, prepared to plunge it into Giselle's neck.

He raised the dagger high, his eyes aimed at her face, her stupid, smug smile. How he wished that he could strangle her to death, like he did to so many girls from the orphanage. But before he could bring the dagger down, there was a loud gunshot, and the dagger fell down to the forest floor with a dull clang.

Barlowe was stunned at first. He felt no immediate pain. There was no blood rushing down his face, and yet, the pistol in her hand was flickering with gun smoke. Had she missed? Barlowe did not want to take any more chances, and bent down to pick up the dagger, prepared to finish the job.

His eyes were still on her, wary that she might make a move while he was distracted. He lowered his hand to pick up the dagger, but strangely, he could not feel his fingers. Giselle's smile widened.

Barlowe looked down, and screamed. Where his hand would have been was a bloody stump, his flesh reduced to flayed ribbons, splattered on the ground.  He tried to get up, but his knees buckled and he collapsed, staring down at himself dumbfounded as blood spurted out uncontrollably from his wound.

        The dagger lay discarded beside him, completely untouched, and blood pooled underneath him slowly forming a puddle underneath his broken body. Black specks slowly filled his vision-- he was getting quite sleepy.

         "I shall count to one hundred. If you manage to get out of my sight by then, I'll let you off," he heard Giselle's voice say.

Barlowe opened his eyes again, now more lucid. "You are lying," he spat, cradling his bloody stump.

         "Why do you think that I am lying? Just because you are a serial fraudster, does not mean that everyone else is," she chuckled. "Now, I shall count to one hundred, and if you manage to get out of my sight, I'll let you live. Oh, no, that would not be fun. Because you doubted me earlier, I am changing the rules. After I count to one hundred, I will go looking for you. If I cannot find you, then I will let you live. Deal?"

Barlowe looked up at her, his eyes bloodshot, in disbelief of just how far he had fallen. In an alternate time, he would have crushed her throat like he did to so many others, but now, he was at her mercy.

     "Deal," he muttered.

Giselle started counting. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven... seventeen... twenty-five.. forty-eight.. and Barlowe ran, albeit sluggishly. His entire body throbbed with pain, he could feel the tendrils of what was left of his hand sting as they moved in the wind, and he could have sworn that one of his ribs was shattered.

     "Fifty."

Barlowe moved as far as he could, tears running down his cheeks. His legs were screaming in pain as he stumbled over the roots on the ground, but he wasted no time in scrambling back up and continuing to run.

     "Sixty-eight."

Barlowe could no longer see clearly. His head was spinning like a top, and he wondered if there was even any blood left for him to lose. At this point, even if he managed to evade Giselle, he doubted he would live.

     "Eighty."

No, that did not matter. He would find a way. He has to live. Barlowe wanted to live. He wanted to live. He wanted to live.

     "Ninety-seven."

He would find a spot. He would wait until the next morning. Someone would find him. He would live. He would live. And once he was recovered, he would have Giselle strangled to death.

       "One hundred," Giselle's gleeful voice came. "Ready or not, here I come!"

Barlowe quickly hid behind a tree, covering his mouth with his still-intact hand to muffle his breathing. He would be safe. He was far from her now.  He was safe. The trees and bushes surrounding the clearing seemed to grow taller around him, protecting him like a wall. He could survive anything now. Anything. He would.

Barlowe closed his eyes briefly, allowing his mind to empty itself. He needed to stop thinking about anything other than surviving. His body hurts. Everything hurt. But it would be alright now. Barlowe stayed there, too afraid to even breathe, for what felt like hours.

He heard no footsteps. Perhaps she had gone down another path? Perhaps he had lost her... Barlowe could only hope for that. Slowly, cautiously, he removed his hand away from his mouth and took a shaky breath, trying to calm himself down. It was alright now; everything was alright.

He sighed in relief, slowly standing up, still cradling his bloody stump. He was safe now. Just as he was about to step away, he heard a giggle.

No.. no..  it could not be... Barlowe's blood ran cold, and the tears that had previously dried began to run again. He looked up.

Perched on the tree branch was Giselle, still flashing him that damned smile, her nimble fingers toying with the pistol.

"Found you."