Hey, thanks so much for all your support. Sorry I haven't been responding personally, but, again, if I had the time, I would. Please enjoy this chapter; it will probably something different than what you're expecting.

The Departure

My room is not safe anymore. Everyone finds me there to call me to do something I dread – doctor visits, recitals, dinners. I have taken to hiding in the many rooms, bringing my embroidery with me. I know this plan will not work forever, but it has gotten me out of many things so far.

There has been no news of revolts or murders, but there is a distinct tension that runs around in the mansion. Clara is edgy and pensive, not at all like herself, and so I hide myself away more and more. Once, I dare to sneak into the private library to embroider. I begin, but I am too distracted by the books. Trembling, I set the materials down, walk over, and pull a book off the shelf. I open it, sit down, and begin to read.

Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, for the husband is the head of the wife. Therefore as the husband is subject unto the Oligarchy, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing. Children, obey your parents: for this is right. That it may be well with thee, and thou mayest live long on the earth. Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart.

Quietly at first, then growing louder, I hear Clara's cries from above me. I shut my eyes tightly at first, then open them and begin to read further.

For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity. For I, the Oligarchy, know thee by name, and thou hast found grace in my sight. My presence shall go with thee. I will be gracious, and will shew mercy on whom I will shew mercy. Love me and serve me with all your heart and with all your mind. I shall rule over you. I am your rock and your fortress, your strength, in whom ye shall trust. Call upon me, who is worthy to be praised: so shall ye be saved from thine enemies.

After a short while, the sounds stop, and I am very still for a moment before returning to my book. Before I can read anything, however, I hear the unmistakable sounds of heavy footprints. Swallowing a squeal of fear, I shove the book back and hurry toward the door before I remember the embroidery materials sitting on the couch. My stomach heaves with terror, and I reach over to grab them, but the door opens, and Philippe enters, looking murderous. There is a moment of shocked silence.

"I am so sorry," I gasp. His face becomes unreadable instantly. "I am so sorry – I merely wanted a quiet place to work. It will not happen again – I am sorry."

He waves his hand and says, "What have you been working on?"

Hesitantly, I pick up the fabric and show him. He fingers it and says, "Very good. You have a gift. It seems you are in possession of many unknown talents." There is a tense silence. His brows are furrowed; he seems to be in deep thought. I am unsure if he wishes me to leave. When I take the embroidery in my fingers, he does not relinquish its hold, so I stand quietly. Finally, he seems to come to a decision and looks at me. There is a hard look in his eye. My stomach drops, and I wonder if I am to be punished for entering the library. He approaches. I back away.

"Yes," he says, more to himself than to me. "It is best – if he cannot, I will." Suddenly, he grabs my wrist and does not let go, even when I pull.

"What are you doing?" I ask quickly, my voice high. "S – stop!" He is reaching for the ties of my skirt. When I struggle, I receive a sharp slap, and I stumble to the couch from the blow. He has still not released my wrist. In those terrifying moments, I do not care. I do not care that I at the mercy of the most powerful man in the country. I do not care that I could (and probably will) be killed if I continue to struggle.

"Shut up, you stupid girl!" he snarls. "He cannot give you a child. I can. Our blood is the same. It will not matter. You should be thanking me! I am saving your life."

My hand falls on my embroidery materials, and I feel the hard, pointed needle. Without a second thought, I take it and pierce the soft skin that connects his thumb and index finger. He shrieks with pain and finally releases his grip. I dart through the door and do not stop until I am in my room, shivering and holding back sobs.

For two days I see no one. It is terrifying. I expect men to rush in and seize me any moment. I do not leave my room, afraid that I will see Philippe. The third day, I venture out to go to the piano, but, thankfully, see no one except a dumpy man in black, who is carrying polished candlesticks out of the room. That night, however, as I am readying myself for bed, the door opens. A look in the vanity mirror tells me it is Raoul. I turn and smile at him, but he does not return it. His face is twisted with an expression that speaks as if he had a knife twisting in his heart. I stand and approach him.

"Is something wro – ?" Before I can finish my question, a backhand sends me crashing to the floor, knocking over the vanity stool. I clutch my cheek and stare up at him, horrified. From my position on the floor, I can see Philippe in the doorframe, leaning on the doorjamb and looking very comfortable. Casually, he scratches his left hand, the one through which I stabbed the needle.

I try not to cry through it, but the strikes are painful, and I release an occasional whimper. Mostly I lie on the floor, closing my eyes and waiting for it to be over. When I open them, I look up to see Raoul crying, too, tears running silently down his cheeks. His face is turned away from the door. Our eyes meet, and he straightens with a shuddering gasp. They leave. When the pain eases to a harsh throbbing, my tears stop, and I crawl up into bed, crying out only once as my knee hits the bed frame.

It is hard to move from the bed the next day. I ache all over, and bruises have spread everywhere. I do not venture far and return to my room soon to fall back into the warm, comfortable sheets. The pain has lessened a great deal the second day, and I find Clara sitting in a parlor. Without a word, we both enter the gardens, heading to our favorite stone bench. But Clara walks past it, saying,

"I am afraid of someone tracing our habits. Come this way."

We go to a corner of the garden where it is not so well-kept. Clara takes refuge from the sun under a dying vine, and I sit in the grass, facing her. For a very long time, we are both silent.

"He tried, didn't he?" she asks bleakly. "Philippe. I knew he would soon. It wasn't exactly a secret: the way he looked at you, how he acted when in your company."

"Yes – he tried –but I didn't, Clara! I couldn't!" I grab her hand, desperately trying to keep my one friend. "Please, Clara, how could I ever?" When she continues her silence, I say, "I stabbed him with a needle instead. Right here."

What she says next surprises me. "You – stabbed him with a needle?" She suddenly giggles. "That's probably why he is so cross! Oh, Christine, did it hurt him terribly?"

I nod, smiling, but Clara's face falls. "You…you will be punished for this. Do you realize that?"

"I already have," I say, and I describe what happened two nights ago. When I finish, Clara suddenly hugs me. It has been a long time since someone has embraced me platonically, and I cannot help but smile along with her.

----

It is a very long time before I see Raoul again. He comes on a very ordinary night. I am turning down the sheets when he walks in and closes the door softly behind him. I sigh with morbid relief inwardly – there is no gloating Philippe to encourage him. It will not be as humiliating with just Raoul. But when I see him fully, I know he is not here to harm me.

He is very, very unkempt. His dark hair is tousled, and his eyes are tired. They look much older than they did the first time I saw them. His clothes are distinctly rumpled and somewhat dirty. He looks thin, as if he has not eaten in a while, and his cheeks and chin are darkened with stubble.

We do not say anything, but he gently holds me for the first time that night. He rests his forehead on my shoulder and sighs heavily. He seems so dejected and heartbroken, I cannot help but forgive him and say hesitantly,

"Can I ease your trouble?"

Raoul sits up and rubs his face before turning and smiling softly at me.

"No," he says quietly. "But thank you." And he leaves.

Clara and I speak in the late afternoon. The hot sun presses down upon us, and I feel my pale skin flush with the heat. As the sun illuminates her face, I see, for the first time, something that mars her smooth skin. It is a dull, ugly bruise that stands out against her cheek. She dismisses my questions quickly.

"There have been some problems down in the villages," she says. "Philippe is frustrated – and, of course, the fact that you stabbed him is still bothering him." A smile graces her lips, making the bruise less pronounced. "I think things are starting to move, Christine. There have been too many problems. Something will happen soon."

Instead of inquiring further about the problems, I instead ask, "How in the world do you know so much about all of this? Surely Philippe doesn't let you know!"

"Christine, have you even attempted to speak with anyone other than Raoul or myself?" When I shake my head, her smile widens just little. "The servants know much more than you think they do – much more than they think is important, anyway. Little favors go a very long way in the mansion."

We finally return when the sun disappears. After bidding each other good night, we go our separate ways. But I am unable to get to my room. A woman in black finds me and tells me I am required in Raoul's study. Instead of speculating, which I usually do, I instead walk with weariness and enter his cluttered room. He offers me a seat and takes the one opposite. I wait in an uncomfortable silence. Raoul seems perfectly serene. He has his usual half-smile and is looking out of the window that is in the wall on his left. I doubt that he knows about Philippe. But what would he do if he did know? Was what Philippe did permitted? I made a mental note to ask Clara about it. Even if it wasn't allowed, Philippe would still go without a reprimand.

After a very long time, Raoul dismisses me. I wish to ask him what he had called me for in the first place, but I instead return to my room and quickly fall asleep.

The weather is gray and gloomy when I wake up. A chill sweeps around the mansion, and the rain starts in the late morning, confining me to the house. The doctor waits for me after lunch, and, after that, I hurry down to the piano. The rain lashes against the wide windows; I watch it while sitting on the bench before playing. Not long after, Raoul comes into the room.

"No, no," he says, when I rise, "continue." He sits down in one of the chairs and listens to me for a very long time before leaving. He is being most peculiar. I lie quietly that night and wonder if it is his worry over the recent disturbances that have him acting so differently. Then again, I have not known Raoul long enough to say that I can name his habits. Perhaps he has always been this way.

But, nevertheless, a few days slide by. I see neither Clara nor Philippe in my wanderings – I am thankful for avoiding the latter, but I wish to speak with Clara. I am called for dinner one night, and, for once, I look forward to it. But I am disappointed. Clara is not there, but Philippe is. I spend an awkward evening in their company. When I am finally dismissed, I hurry up to my room and – it is a night for firsts – hope that Raoul comes.

I am sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the door when he enters. After he shuts the door and approaches, I say,

"Where is Clara?" He stops short, but I continue quickly, "I haven't seen her the past few days. I – I was just wondering, is all."

There is a long moment of silence, and he fidgets uncomfortably. "Well – I had thought you'd known," he stammered before sighing. "Christine, Clara is…gone."

"Gone?" I repeat suspiciously. My insides are being doused with ice, and I fight for some warmth, a reassurance. I am mistaken in my thoughts. "When will she be back?"

He looks at me, his gaze full of pity. "She's not coming back, Christine. She's dead."