When I was a small girl... my mother used to set me on her lap, her knitting set to the side and her soft hands stoking my hair, as tears fell from my eyes, "Don't cry..." she would tell me, "Everything will be fine. It always works out in the end." It was beautiful... but it was a lie.

The cold winter air bit my face, turning my porcelain skin to an icy pink on my cheeks and nose, as I stepped from the opera house and out onto the street. I hurriedly looked around for a horse drawn taxi but found nothing but the normal carriages littering the street. Sighing, I gathered up my skirts and crossed the street quickly, headed for the coast and my father's house, my voice as sore as my head. The opera director's voice still rang through my mind:

"No Christina! It's too sharp!... hold your posture! Deeper! Softer! Louder!" I shook my head to clear the memories and began up the steps leading to an enormous oak door, my heels clicking on the brick stairway. It was not as if I were not a skilled performer, for if I was not, there would be no part for me.

I pulled out a golden key from the many folds of my dress and inserted it into the door, pushing it open gently. I shook off my red cape, which fell down to my ankles and hung it on a coat stand by the door, looking around my house.

Straight ahead of me was a waiting area, fit with a table, bouquets of flowers sitting upon it, and elegant chairs. To the left was the entry to the kitchen and a staircase that led to the second floor. To the right was the entry to a sitting room. The house was themed in white and brown, elegantly set and displayed our wealth handsomely.

I crossed into the kitchen and was surprised to find it empty. Anabelle was always there when I returned home.

"Hmmm." I muttered. My words echoed through the house and it was then that I realized the manor was eerily quiet. I set my tea preparations back on the counter and strolled quickly into the living room, my footsteps ringing through the house.

"Papa?" I called and stuck my head inside the doorway. "Father? Anabelle? James?" I called out. I knew that only two of them were staying with us for the weekend... usually that was the time that the servants went home... but where were they? For the first time in weeks I forgot about my opera performance approaching rapidly, men, and social galas and focused all my attention on the present.

"Father?" I cried endlessly, beginning to panic, running through the house. Someone should have answered by then... "Papa?" I rushed into my father's room... what I saw made me stop in my tracks!

The room was in shambles. My father's blankets and his side table were knocked onto the floor. Glass from a lamp littered the wooden ground and the furniture was thrown over. Tiny holes littered the wall and tore at the chairs. My mind raced as I stepped further in. A rotting smell filled the room and I covered my nose and mouth, stepping forward to investigate. I lightly touched the bedspread and almost fainted as I noticed the crimson liquid soaking it, coming off onto my fingers... blood... no doubt my father's...

Carefully, I lifted the sheets off the floor and set them on the bed. Finding nothing I turned around... I screamed and clutched at the Rosary around my neck, closing my eyes...

When I finally opened them, I was horrified at what I saw.

James, our butler, lay dead on the floor, a trail of blood smeared down the wall and ending by his head. Directly in the center of his forehead was a bullet hole, spilling blood down his face like a crimson mask. His gray eyes stared, empty into mine as I backed away, my hand over my mouth... bile rising in my throat. I rushed out of the room, finding myself with an incredible need to bathe. Sweat beaded down my face from my black, spiral curled hair that fell down to my mid back.

My soft blue eyes reflected fear that I had never felt before. I sank to the floor and buried my head in my hands, sobs racking my body.

"Where's my father?" I whispered through tears to myself. Struggling to take hold of the situation, I stood, and ventured into my father's room again.

I averted my eyes away from the body on the floor, searching desperately for any clue that would lead to my father.

I searched the bed and the floors and found nothing. Slowly, scanning the ground for anything I could, I crossed the room and went to the lavatory.

"Oh... God..." I said and turned away from the doorstep... away from Anabelle, the servant's, body... she had been shot too. Tears gathered in my eyes again but I brushed them away.

"This is no time to cry, Christina." I scolded myself and began pacing. "It doesn't make sense..." I said out loud... "my father is much too old to put up as much of a fight as this... let alone he's ill... no, someone else fought with them. Not Anabelle... it must have been James." I forced myself to look back into the corner into James's face. Yes, there was a hardly formed bruise under his eye. I looked into his hand and saw that he was clutching something. I forced myself to reach down and pry his cold rubbery hand open, looking away and gagging, revealing a necklace. The medallion was round and engraved upon it was a ship. I took in a sharp intake of breath.

"Pirates..." I whispered.