A/N: Though the PotO/Beauty and the Beast tale won the vote of what I should post next in a new story, a few wanted this one, so I thought I would go ahead and give you the short prologue (so everyone 'wins.' :)). This is a story based on requests from a few of my readers for a blend of PotO & Man in the Iron Mask. As is always the case with these blends I write, it will strongly resemble Alexandre Dumas's classic at times (especially those versions of the movie), at other times PotO, (or as much as I can make it fit for this time period), but PotO always will be the strong foundation of the tale, and at times it will veer into my own ideas. Don't look for exact matches to either story. :) (Much like I've done with Come to Me and A Path Darkly Taken…)

Except for originals, the characters are not my own (pity) only borrowed for the purpose of devising a (hopefully) intriguing and romantic tale… Rating will eventually evolve to an M. This early, I'm going with a T.

And so, without further ado, I give to you the first of the tale to- Prison of the Masque…


Prologue

Paris

17th century

.

The shadows whispered the hope of safety, though there was nowhere truly safe.

A small beacon of light seemed helpful, insignificant at a glance, but it could also become a snare, a herald's cry that led to certain death. The present danger, a sole candle that burned down to a puddle of beeswax on a nearby table. Too bright, too perilous, its flicker could easily be spotted from outside the window on such a dark, moonless night.

Nowhere within this fortress did a safe room exist absent of rectangular openings carved high in the thick stone. Closed chambers provided no exits and certain peril from members of the court or guards always placed somewhere nearby. Known and unknown foes who acted as spies, familiar and unfamiliar, or those with a misplaced loyalty speaking of things they should not say, much less know.

Always there were spies; no one could be trusted.

This small antechamber buried in the east wing was at least forgotten, she hoped, by all but one; at least that is what she'd been told. Absent of the flickering candle and its exposing pool of light, the blackness would be absolute, safe. Yet she could not risk a stumble or fall should the cry for her aid issue forth.

The young woman sat straight-backed and motionless in a dusty chair, staring through dim shadows at the closed door. At any moment she expected it to burst open and soldiers with rapiers to stream inside.

The distant sound of boots struck the flagstones, coming closer. Her fingers moved from traveling along the beads of a wooden rosary to grip the handle of the dagger concealed beneath her black skirts.

She waited and prayed and died a little inside at what should befall her if this hiding place were discovered.

The door swung open suddenly and she tensed, watching as a tall man in uniform entered, only to quietly close the heavy door behind him.

She gasped in relief upon recognizing his visage and released her hold on the dagger.

"Where -"

His whisper came abrupt, halted as if he could not finish the difficult thought, but she understood. She motioned with her head to that area of the room and the wicker basket that sat isolated on the ground near the wall. He moved toward it and looked down into its interior. Though surely he could not see well in such dimly lit surroundings, he winced, as if pained, but made no move to act.

"She is well?" he managed.

"When I left her, she was sleeping," the woman allowed the forbidden information. "You cannot mean to go see her –"

"I know my duty, woman," he clipped tersely and sent a sharp look her way. "Nor is yours to upbraid me. You have been informed of what is expected?"

"Oui. I know my place, monsieur."

"Then we must make haste. Arrangements have been made. I will accompany you as far as the south gate where a hay cart will be waiting. From there, you must travel alone. Hide yourself well until you leave the city. The driver has been informed of your destination. You are never to speak of this to anyone. You are never to return to Paris. To do so would be to invite your death. Do you understand?" He paused briefly in his terse instruction, awaiting her nod. "Should you be discovered, I cannot help you. Should the truth be revealed, all heads will roll."

She shivered at his ominous words given both in concern and as a warning.

"Oui," she said simply, for there was nothing else she could say. She had been given a second chance at life, and she was grateful to her mistress for it. She would never do anything that could alter her new set of circumstances, even if it did mean leaving all she knew and loved behind. "I understand."

"Come then. Make haste and remain behind me."

He lifted the basket by its handles. A soft cry, like music, issued from within.

"You must keep him quiet!" the soldier insisted, thrusting the basket back at her, clearly at a loss with how to calm a troubled infant.

"There, there," she whispered, jiggling the basket against her. "Hush now..."

She succeeded in her efforts, the child's weak cry causing her breasts to grow heavy with the milk he would soon need. With the milk her own son, much wanted but dead at birth, would never suckle.

And this poor lad…

Unwanted and unloved, a child of privilege that should never have been born. Should his presence be uncovered, it could lead to the division and destruction of an entire kingdom.

And indeed, there would be many who would seek his death.

*x*x*

Six years later

.

The scant flame of a clay lamp remained the sole source of light within the humble miller's cottage. It flickered on a plank table, as weak and wan as the woman who lay on a small cot nearby. Her husband, also advanced in years, knelt at her bedside and silently beseeched divine mercy. Within one arm she cradled their newly born daughter, the first and last time she would hold the swaddled infant to her heart.

"Promise me," she said, her voice a mere thread, absent of its usual strength, "you will raise her in Christ's love. Do not resent her for my passing…swear to me always to care for her. Swear it by the Virgin and by the blood of our fathers. Swear it, Gustave!"

"Yes, yes my dear," he reassured, trying to calm her and mask the telltale wobble in his voice. He clutched her free, limp hand and desperately brought and held it to his lips. "You mustn't speak so. You will rally from this as you do all else and regain your strength. You will live to see to the girl's needs, Sofia."

Yet the villainy of blood he could not stop. It slowly seeped from beneath her hips and pooled upon the worn and rumpled sheet, proving his encouragement to be a lie.

"Teach her letters…and numbers," she went on, paying no heed to his feeble assurance and speaking with a determination to say what she must while she yet could. "Teach her as you taught me… Train her well. And when the time comes to find her a husband," she struggled to say the last, "do not judge by the size of his purse or the breadth of his power… but by the bounty of his heart…as we, ourselves, were fortunate to know."

Tears leaked from his eyes, but he clenched his jaw and gave a curt nod then immediately shook his head, wishing to renounce this horrendous moment.

"How…how do you expect me to go on living a life without you in it?" he rasped. "You cannot mean to leave me, mon amour...you cannot! Do you remember what you promised when I left my service to the king and became a simple miller? That henceforth, we should walk through all our days together, never again to be alone."

She managed a weary smile. "You'll not be alone. You have each other."

She inhaled sharply, her damp face twisted in anguish. Her dark eyes fluttered in the vacant breath that teetered between the narrow precipice of life and death as she struggled to hold on. Yet fall into its black abyss she would, and well they both knew it. For whatever brief time Providence would yet grant them, they held fast to one another and to crumbling dreams, while reliving through bittersweet tears the fondest of their memories...

The night was silent, the city that lay spread without deep in slumber. But inside the small dwelling, an agonized bout of weeping came sudden and sharp, continuing until near the break of dawn.

The child's hungry cry broke her father from his numbed state of mind. He struggled to rouse himself to tend her, to find a goat that could be bartered for or a wet nurse in need of coin. And then…then he must return to bury his wife.

Limbs heavy with grief, he took the wee girl into empty arms and looked into her trusting eyes...

This innocent babe…

Desired and adored, a child of poverty and a miracle long coveted. Her presence had been dreamed for, a ray of light in a barren darkness that offered promise to a couple who'd endured more than a decade burdened with the blight of childlessness …

And indeed, she was his sole comfort in a world turned suddenly dark.

*x*x*


A/N: Hope you enjoyed this short premise. Next up - more of The Inferno of Angels... :)