The sun had only begun to rise. It was a new day, a fresh start. Giselle should have felt happy-- she had gotten rid of the one person she resented for all those years, and yet, she did not feel even the slightest glimmer of joy in her heart. She felt like a void; empty.

She stared down at the strips of yellow cloth that Atticus had used to mark the path that ultimately led Barlowe to his demise. She had collected them all from start to finish, piled them up, and lit them on fire.

     The flames danced in the breeze, casting grotesque shapes and shadows over her face. Nothing about this was beautiful. Giselle did not feel that sense of poetic justice flow through her veins as she shot Barlowe in between the eyes, she did feel relief, but mostly, she felt disgusted at herself.

She could have made it short and quick. She could have simply shot him and ended it the moment he fell off that horse. But no, she decided to toy with him, feeding him false hopes and lies. She led him to believe that he would somehow live. She made him hobble away with that bloody stump of an arm and watched as he fearfully hid behind that tree, muffling his mouth so that not even his breathing could be heard.

It was ironic for her to sympathize with Barlowe, who had certainly not shown anyone mercy in his six decades of life. Lydia's death was a testament to that.

Giselle often prided herself on how efficient she was. Her shots almost always killed on impact. That way, her missions would be completed; Willoughby would be satisfied, and her targets would not have to suffer unnecessarily. Last night's mission was no different. Willoughby had ordered her to carry out the assassination of Ebenezer Barlowe, and she obliged.

It was like clockwork. Another target, another mission completed. One shot, and it was over. But that night, in the woods, it was as if she was possessed. She wanted to see him suffer. She wanted to see him in pain. His writhes, his groans, all brought a smile to her lips.

That night, in the woods, she was no different than Barlowe.  A killer, just like him, a murderer to the bone. No remorse. No humanity. No feelings of pity, guilt, or compassion. Just rage and hatred that filled her every cell.

It disgusted her. She was disgusted with herself.

She looked down. The strips of yellow cloth had already been reduced to ash. She stood up, stomping on the remaining embers, then made the long trek back to the palace, pistol safely tucked inside her coat.

       The sun was barely out when she finally entered the palace compound, painting the skies orange and violet. It was a beautiful sight, like in one of those Renaissance paintings hung on the walls of the mansions of the aristocrats.

But Giselle rarely admired beautiful things nowadays. It was not that she was not enthralled by them, no, rather she believed she did not deserve them. She was a mere killer at her core, a destroyer, one that reaps away human life, so how could she stand there and look up at the sky? How could she even raise her head and look up at the heavens, with so much blood on her hands?

  And so, she lowered her head, making her way back into the palace. Fatigue was indeed creeping up on her, and she swayed slightly with every step that she took.

What she did not realize was that her movements were not unnoticed. From the very moment she stepped into the palace grounds, a pair of dark red eyes were trained on her, watching her every step. Taking note of how worn her shoes were, how her skirt was inches deep in mud. How her pale knuckles were bruised. How her neck and arms were stained, splattered by red, red blood.

---

Within days of Barlowe's 'disappearance', Willoughby was chosen as the new prime minister through a vote in parliament, in which the council was torn in half-- a vast majority supported Willoughby, while some others voiced their support for Lord Kingsley.

However, ultimately, it was Willoughby who won, and flags of green were erected all across London, and his very first act as the prime minister was to commission a portrait of himself.

       Icarus did not seem too happy -- he had been hoping that Barlowe's downfall would allow his dear Blue Faction to rise again in power, but as news of Willoughby being elected reached Westmorland, all he could do was mutter in bitter disappointment. He knew that he could easily bribe the other ministers into voting for Kingsley, but he had chosen against it. Not that he was above it, no, but rather, he would like to see how it would play out naturally, and only then would he intervene.

Atticus, however, seemed quite happy about this arrangement, to no one's surprise. As soon as he heard the news, he searched for Giselle, and upon finding her, wordlessly hugged her.

       "Father has won," he whispered in her ear. "It is now his time to rule."

Giselle did not return his embrace immediately, and only gave him a soft pat on the back. "How did you know?"

        "He sent me a letter. There's one for you too," he said, pulling away from her, though his eyes were still trained on hers. "Congratulations, our little nightingale. It is your keen eyes that made us able to achieve this victory."

        "I was simply doing what was asked of me," she replied curtly, looking away.

       "Not many could have done what you did. You are special. Irreplaceable. I cannot even begin to describe how valuable you are to our cause, dear nightingale."

Giselle took a step back, feeling her heart sink. "You could train someone to become an assassin. I was trained too. It is doable."

         "We already have you," Atticus chuckled. "Why would we find another? I did not know that you wanted to be replaced."

         "Atticus, you said that after this is over, we would--"

Her words died in her throat when Atticus brought his hand to her face, tenderly stroking the delicate skin under her right eye. "You did a good job, nightingale. And before I forget, here is Father's letter for you."

Giselle looked down into her hands, where a small white envelope lay, sealed with red wax. This was expensive paper, the kind that did not crease even after being tossed around and handled for days.

        "Thank you," she murmured softly. "I will read it soon. I was asked by Missus Harris to pluck some flowers in the garden to put in the centerpiece for tonight's dinner."

Atticus simply nodded his head, not quite listening, and hardly caring. "Very well. Just make sure that you do read it later."

And with that, he left. She watched him as he disappeared into the stables, wondering whether the letter would make her feel better, or worse. Nothing Willoughby said ever made her feel remotely happy.

Giselle looked down at the letter once more before opening it up.

She did not want to read it. She wished that she could just toss it in the fireplace and run away, leaving everything behind. No more Willoughby, no more Atticus, no more Icarus, no more pistols, no more blood, no more murder.

Nothing, but a peaceful life. No need to kill anymore. No reason to hurt anyone else any further. Just peace.

She swallowed the lump in her throat as she unfolded the letter, and took a deep breath before she began to read.

My Dearest Nightingale,

If these words have found you, it is indeed true that I have ascended to the office of Prime Minister of England, although I have no doubt that Atticus has already conveyed this news to you.

Barlowe is gone from the face of this mortal world, and it is to you, my dearest nightingale, that I owe this deliverance. Or perhaps, should you express your gratitude to me, for providing you the means to avenge your cherished friend? In the depths of your heart, there must reside a glimmer of thankfulness, for without my intervention, your retribution would have remained but a dream, your vengeance forever out of reach.

Although, I must admit, with each passing day, you have proven yourself to be an invaluable asset to my cause. The vampire believes you to be incapable of malice, perceiving you as an angel. How astonished he would be to discover that his angel has been the very one to eavesdrop on his every word.

But I digress. You must be eager to know your next directive. It is simple; remain by Icarus’s side. I desire knowledge of all that transpires in Westmorland. He is the ruler, he is king, he reigns supreme, and to ensure our success, his favour is imperative. And you, my nightingale, shall aid me in this endeavour, as you always have.

Lord William Willoughby 

Prime Minister of England

--

Giselle soon made her way into the palace gardens, but no flowers were plucked. Instead, she only stood there, staring blankly at the bed of hyacinths and daisies. Above her, the sun was beginning to set. She felt sick.

Tossing the basket to the ground, Giselle gathered the hem of her skirt and made her way into the woods. Giselle did not know how to feel. Angry? Betrayed? Trapped?

Giselle wanted to scream, scream until her throat bled, until her lungs filled with blood, until her heartstrings snapped. Damn that Willoughby. She should have known. She was a fool to think that there would be a way out. As Atticus had so cruelly reminded her many times before, the only way out was death. She sat down on the forest floor, then pulled out the letter that had been tucked into her pocket, brutally ripping it into shreds. She wished that it was Willoughby's face that she was tearing into instead.

     As darkness fell, Giselle curled herself into a ball, and buried her nose into the grass as she silently cried, sobbing and screaming into the soft earth beneath her. It was all useless. All futile. At the end of the day, it was all she was-- a mere tool. An asset. She was not valued for who she was, her heart, her soul; but what she could do, her ability to kill. It was all she was, and it was all she would ever be.

A weapon. A tool.

A pawn in the great game of the aristocracy, and nothing more.

   The orange hues of sunset were quickly swallowed by the black sky, and the pale moon barely illuminated her surroundings. It was beginning to get cold, but Giselle did not care. She only sat there, in utter silence, not saying a single word. No one would come. There was no immediate mission to be carried out, so Atticus would not bother to come for her. He did not need her now. She could lay here for days, and no one would notice. Perhaps maybe Missus Harris, but that is because she needed her for something too.

Soon, it was midnight. The moon was high up in the sky, a perfect crescent. Giselle still had not moved, but she had stopped crying. Her cheeks were dry, albeit a bit sticky from where the tears had flowed.

   There was no sound of birdsong to break the stillness of the night, apart from the occasional rustle of branches as a gentle breeze drifted through them. Only the low growl of distant thunder interrupted the calm of the night air. Giselle took it as a sign to leave, but she was reluctant. She did not want to return to the confines of the palace, not yet.

And so, she walked aimlessly through the narrow path in the woods, not caring about where it would lead her. When it rains, she would return to the palace, she told herself. But before it did, she would relish in this freedom of hers.

A giggle bubbled up her throat as the thought crossed her mind. Freedom? What freedom? She was not free. She would never be free.

Never in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined herself standing in the middle of the woods at midnight, laughing uncontrollably, completely lost in her thoughts, her body trembling with the effort. Her feet carried her onwards, taking her deeper and deeper into the woods. She did not remember which direction she had come from. Her thoughts and memories were jumbled now, and her surroundings had begun to blur.

She heard nothing but the sound of her heart beating in her ears, her head spinning from exhaustion and from shedding a tear too many. She did not even see the overgrown root outstretched under her foot.  One second, she was walking and the next, she found herself falling, the cold hard ground awaiting her. But before the impact came, she felt a strong hand clasp her wrist, pulling her back to her feet.

  She felt the coldness of the palm engulf her own, enveloping her as if they were two halves of one whole, completing each other.

Giselle looked up, finding a face that she had not seen in a while. Icarus. No, it was not that she did not see him, but she had forgotten when was the last time she had spoken to him, and if it was something meaningless like where his rolls of parchment were kept.

     "Your Grace," she gasped, shocked. "What are you doing here?"

Icarus looked down at her with contempt, his scarlet eyes narrowed. "What am I doing here? Shouldn't you be asking yourself that?"

Giselle did not have an answer to that. Aggravated, Icarus gripped her wrist tighter, forcing her to look up at him. "I have been looking for you this entire night, wondering if one of the Damned Ones managed to break free from my spell and drained you dry, if you have been attacked by one of my guests, if Missus Harris made you do harsh chores again, if you were sick, but here you are, walking around in the middle of the woods at midnight like an absolute madwoman!"

His grip was getting painful, his nails digging into her skin, but Giselle paid him no heed. She looked down, unable to say anything.

     "Answer me, Giselle!"

     "It has nothing to do with you," she said dismissively, still refusing to spare him a glance.

     "Nothing to do with me? Giselle, you are-"

     "A servant. I am your servant. A simple servant, who you can very easily replace. I am certain that there are hundreds of girls in the nearby villages who can arrange your books and clean your table as well as I do."

     "Giselle," Icarus reiterated. He looked tense, almost as if it had pained him to utter those words.  "You are important to me."

She raised her head to look at him, momentarily stunned. But as soon as the shock vanished, she was filled with annoyance instead. "Important? Is that why you ignored me for these past few weeks?"

       "No. I distanced myself from you, for both of our benefits. For yours and mine. For my own peace of mind."

Giselle rolled her eyes incredulously as she roughly snapped her hand away. She could feel the tears coming back, and Icarus's confrontation made it almost impossible for her to hold them back.

        "Giselle, I can tell something is burdening your mind. You must tell me, otherwise I cannot help you," Icarus began, softly this time. "Tell me, so that I can help you."

She shook her head, stubbornly looking away, desperately trying to hold the tears back. "Nothing?"

         "Nothing, Giselle? Then why are your eyes so red, hm?" he said. Icarus bent down a bit, so that he stood at her eye level, and he lifted a finger, gently brushing away the tears that accumulated at the corners of her eyes.

The feeling of his cold touch against her skin, was the final straw. A tear fell, and then another. And another.

          "Your Grace, how can you live for so many years?" she eventually said, her tone carrying a hint of mockery. "You've lived for hundreds of years, and yet, I am already tired of living itself. Every day, I beg for death."

Icarus did not immediately rush to comfort her with empty words, as Atticus would have. "Why do you say that?"

The words spilled right out. "I am not living for my own sake. I live only for others. I live to serve others. Nothing in my life is as I would have it. Nothing in my life is as I would choose. I am an instrument, a tool, a commodity, and people only require my presence when they need me. I am simply insignificant."

She shut her eyes, inhaling deeply. "My life is not moving forward. I am stuck here, awaiting for death, and it cannot come fast enough."

Icarus did not say anything, and Giselle did not expect him to. She took a step back, head lowered in disappointment, when she felt his strong arms wrap around her body.

They held her tightly in an embrace, allowing her shoulders to sag against his chest. She tried to push him away but he merely tightened his arms around her. Her breath hitched when his lips brushed against her forehead.

    "Death will not come for you, not for a very long time," he whispered quietly. "So, do not say those words ever again."

As she succumbed to his embrace, she wondered. She had read so many books, ones with all different kinds of endings. Their lives, were like books, ones that would inevitably end. And as the tears spilled down her cheeks, she wondered, how could this possibly end well?