I reign in the mare we are riding. She obeys promptly without me having to say anything. Normally when I ride her, I don't use a full bridle and tack, other than a blanket. She trusts me and I trust her. She's coal black with white stockings and a white star, with a pronounced Arabian descent. She is very, very beautiful, but no one but me can usually ride her. She simply doesn't let them.

"Wow!" Annabelle exclaims. "I did not know about this path in the woods."

"Ah, there are many such paths in these woods, and many are forgotten. I found this one when I was young, as I had little else to do besides explore."

"So you are the one the tales of the Ghostly Skeleton Rider of the Woods are based on!"

"I would not know. I had little outside contact when I was young besides Grandpapa's servants, the newspaper, and books in the library. I have garnered more contact with the world since Grandpapa died. Have you ever been to Paris, Anabelle?"

"No, sir. Come inside, you have to meet mama and papa."

Does she not worry about getting into trouble for talking to a stranger and, even worse, bringing one home? Particularly one that looks like me? I help her down off the mare I call Nightstar. She runs off towards the house. Before going inside, she turns around.

"Sir, are you not coming?"

"Very well," I reply. "If you wish."

I start walking nervously towards her house. I have seen this house many times before, but have never come this close. I am very nervous. I do not want little Annabelle to get into trouble because of me.

"Mama! Papa! I have someone I want you to meet," she shouts.

Someone with a low, manly voice replies, "Who else is out there?"
"I am Aria Guirre," I return.

"Come in, come in," he says. "Do not be afraid."

"Please, sit down," says the burly, mustached man.

"I can stay for only just a bit, really," I announce. "I have brought your little Annabelle back home. Somehow she ended up at my estate. But do not get mad at her, she harmed nothing and no one. I will be on my way now."

"Who is it?" An awfully familiar voice asks. Is it—can it be…?

"Thank you for your time, Mr. …?"

"Leon," he returns. "Frederic Leon."

"Any relation to Christoph Leon?" I ask.

"Yes. He's our eldest child."

"Odd. He doesn't look like you…"

"Listen—do not tell him what I tell you. His mother died in childbirth. She was not married, but she was my sister. Since I did not wish for him to be sent to an orphanage, we took him in and raised him as our own. At least I did, because she died before we (my wife and I) were married (but living together). So he does not know."

"Ah, I see."

"Well then. Au revoir."

"Hope to see you again," I say.

"Me, too."