Prologue
It was happening again.
The servants scuttled back and forth, too panicked to think much further than their own hands and disheveled enough to make the scene appear almost comical. They perspired, they trembled, and – when there was a moment – they cried out to each other in distress. Icy winds appeared to blow from nowhere, carrying through the halls the chilling sound of tormented shrieks and wails. Up and down the servants carted medicine and blankets, buckets for the stomach that would not hold what it was given, and even more medicine.
Her room was a breeding ground for distress. The hot smell of vomit pierced the senses, making the servants retch, and the sight of her only brought tears to their eyes – so young and so fragile, her body contorted into vile poses of agony. Her countenance, which was usually as lovely as that of a doll or painting, had grown to become more ashen than cinders. Thick bruises of exhaustion marked her eyes, salty and bloodshot, and sweat coated her like a second skin. Already, two hours had passed. Sometimes, she would have collapsed into unconsciousness by then; other times, however, the scene would continue until the morning's sun peered through the windows of the chateau.
"C'est pénible, mère!*" she wailed, clutching the air in search of her mother's hand. "Mère… Père…"
Another scream, but no mother or father reached to comfort her – as though it were not enough to suffer so wretchedly, as she did. There was only a stranger – a man whose eyes were as green as limes and his flesh as pale as bones – who took and cocooned her teeny fists in his palms. With lips both benevolent and doting, the man kissed her clammy fingers and stroked away the strands of mahogany hair upon her forehead.
"I know it is, my lady," he whispered, though his voice was drowned out by the mingling sounds of her shrieks and retches. "I know it is. But the night will come to an end."
Indeed, it would. It always did – but there was no promise that she would see the morning. There never was.
And so the servants continued to rush up and down, back and forth; her shrill cries continued to rattle the mansion; and he, the stranger so fond and patient, remained by her side.
"C'est pénible, mère!" – It is painful, mother.