The morning after the ball had not been a pleasant one for Bailey. His back ached from sleeping in the armchair, his head felt like it would burst open like a watermelon, and by the time he had staggered into a cleaner suit, one of the servants had informed him that there had been a break-in near the servants' quarters. Of course, even as she showed him the wood chips lying on the floor next to the unlocked door, Bailey hardly registered anything beyond the fact that she was talking too loudly. A mumbled command to get the door fixed was issued before the matter was completely forgotten in the wake of finding a pillow to bury his head in for about an hour.

As the weather became more favorable, Bailey found ample excuses to avoid coming face-to-face with his questioning mother. Of course, she still sent him letters inquiring as to his relationship with the women he had met the night of the ball, but they all were doomed to the same fate of lying as ash in Bailey's fireplace. On one occasion, a young woman from the ball had come to his doorstep asking to see him, but she had hastily fled when one of the servants informed her that the master had contracted a rare disease on his previous trip to the Mediterranean that caused him to break out in large boils that eventually popped and oozed pus all over the place and they didn't know if it was contagious or not and would she like to go up to see him? The servant had gotten a day off for that one.

Bailey's sister also managed to sneak away from their parents to tell him of their mother's latest plans to back Bailey into a corner where marriage was the only escape. It seemed that his days would be wonderfully free of prowling bachelorettes with Elizabeth as his partner-in-crime, but that all changed on her latest visit to the manor.

"I'm going to leave for Paris tomorrow with Uncle Charles and Auntie Jane," she said bluntly as they were taking their afternoon tea. Bailey choked on his cake.

"What? You're leaving me?" he said once he had recovered. She nodded without a trace of sympathy. "But what about mum! If she has her way, I'll be married by the time you get back!"

"Bailey, have you even considered that it might be worthwhile to try and find a girl that you actually think you'd be able to spend the rest of your life with? I'm not always going to be around to pick out your suits, my dear. And I won't allow you to go breaking hearts for the rest of your life just so you can have a good time. It's simply bad taste."

"Well, maybe I'll just stay a bachelor for the rest of my life!" Bailey pouted, stuffing more cake into his mouth. Elizabeth shook her head, but not unkindly.

"Bailey, you're the only son in the family. Do you really think you have any say in the matter?" She reached over and patted his hand. "And you don't have to love her, Bailey. You just have to like her enough to bring yourself to churn out a few children."

He gave her a horrified look and she stared back for a long time. Of course she knew, he thought. Being inseparable meant that you didn't have any secrets. He finally dropped his gaze and stared at the sleek, silk napkin in his lap.

"You wouldn't want a husband who didn't love you," he grumbled after a while.

"Of course not! Why do you think I'm going to Paris? For the weather?" Elizabeth snorted. "Fairy tales are nice, Bailey, but in this world, you have to work hard if you expect to get a happy ending."

His sister took this opportunity to devour her cake, looking quite pleased with herself. It seemed the prospect of meeting handsome Parisian men eclipsed any concern for Bailey's social well-being in London.

"Oh!" Bailey exclaimed suddenly. France! "Elizabeth? Do you know of anyone well-known from France with the given name Amon?"

"Amon? No. Why?" she asked, puzzled. Bailey bit his bottom lip thoughtfully.

"I met a…gentleman at the ball and he said he was surprised that I did not know who he was."

"Well, I certainly haven't heard of anyone called Amon," Elizabeth replied. "Perhaps I am just as uninformed as you, if that's even possible. I will Uncle and see if he knows."

Soon after that, Elizabeth bade her brother farewell, leaving Bailey to reminisce about the young man he had almost forgotten about in the whirlwind that was his mother. Amon…yes, he had been a strange fellow. Bailey flushed as the sudden memory of a kiss on the hand flashed in his mind. He sincerely hoped that Elizabeth would not bring him back with her.

"Master?" Bailey was jolted from his thoughts as he turned to face the servant coming down the stairs. He unconsciously smoothed down the hair on the back of his head, looking as if he had been caught doing something naughty.

"Yes? What is it, Lydia?" he asked, a little too hastily. However, his embarrassment quickly faded when he saw the look on her face. "What is it?"

"There's…," her gaze flickered toward the second floor from where she had come, "something in your desk, master. I was…I had noticed a stain on the drawer and…I…I think there's something in there, master."

"I told you not to look through my things, Lydia," Bailey said, but his voice was completely devoid of reproach or scorn. At this point, it was merely a formality. He could feel his heart beating fast against his form-fitting waistcoat. The paleness of the girl's face alarmed him and he noticed that her grip on the banister was turning her fingers white. Bailey licked his dry lips and forced himself to ascend the staircase.

"You may go back to your quarters, Lydia," he said sharply as she made to follow him. Although she did not move from her spot on the stair, she continued to watch Bailey as he reached the top of the stairs and moved swiftly down the hall to his room, her hands clutching her apron tightly. As Bailey reached his own room, his pace slowed and he peeked cautiously through the crack in the doorway. Lydia had only said there was something in his desk drawer, but Bailey acted as if there were a stranger lying in wait for him to enter. Breathing heavily, he opened the door slowly and crept silently into the room, his shoes making light clicking sounds on the lacquered wood floor. His beautiful mahogany desk stood across from his bed, gleaming in the afternoon light. One of the drawers was only open an innocent crack, but there was indeed a sinister smudge of something darker on the top edge of the immaculately carved drawer. Reaching out a shaking hand, Bailey carefully opened it all the way, standing slightly back as if whatever was in it would suddenly spring out. The first thing he saw was a letter. Bailey breathed a sigh of relief. Well, it was just a letter. But as he picked it up, his fingers brushed against something soft. Underneath the letter was a bundle wrapped in lace that was blotched with red. Bailey's muscles tensed again slightly, his eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement as to what it could be. Not entirely willing to find out, he turned his attention once again to the letter. He unfolded the paper gently, the crackling sound puncturing the thick silence that filled the room. Bailey read the letter.

As his eyes moved from left to right and down the page, they became wider and wider and the pink flush in his cheeks slowly drained from his face at the same rate. His lips were parted in anticipation; whether for an exclamation of disbelief or even for a scream. A gasp like a released arrow exploded in the air as Bailey's gaze roved over the final period and the letter fluttered to the ground as he clapped a hand to his mouth. His other hand gripped the back of the armchair, holding on for all it was worth in order to support Bailey's weight as his knees threatened to give out. The bright blue of Bailey's eyes stood out marvelously as they were surrounded by a vast expanse of white. All he could stare at was the bundle sitting quietly in the drawer. He knew what it was. The letter had told him what it was. The crimson flowers that blossomed over the delicate fabric told him that the letter spoke true. And yet, he still couldn't believe it until he reached out his violently shaking hand and removed the lace. The white chrysalis gave birth to a great, glistening ruby that tumbled out onto the polished surface of the desk with a noise like a wet snowball being dropped on the kitchen floor, its juices soaking into the fibers of the papers beneath it. Bailey's mouth opened and closed without a single word before he finally managed to scream. Running steps grew louder and louder until several servants appeared in the doorway.

"Good God, is that a heart?" cried an elderly servant. It seemed the confirmation of the object in front of him was what Bailey had been waiting for all along and he promptly passed out.

Bailey was suddenly awoken by the incredibly unpleasant odor of smelling salts. Blustering and shooing away the servants around him, he sat up and found himself on the guest room's bed. Disoriented, he looked about the room, wondering how he had gotten there and why everyone was standing over him. Then it hit him. And then he threw up. Of course, the servants had been anticipating this due to their master's delicate nature and proffered a bucket just in time to save themselves from scrubbing away at the sheets for hours.

"Dear God…what…what," he gasped, wiping his mouth unceremoniously with the back of his hand.

"It seems you have a secret admirer, sir," the elderly servant stated. Bailey looked at him in disbelief. "I took the liberty of reading the letter, sir, if you'll forgive me. It seems a lunatic found her way in and put that ghastly thing in your desk, sir. We have informed the police inspectors and they are looking into the matter. For the time being, they have installed several watchmen to patrol the manor during the evenings."

Bailey fell back onto the bed, clutching his chest and putting a hand over his eyes.

"Good. Good. Very good, William," he said, weakly. "Have you…have you disposed of it?"

"The inspector took it with him, sir, as evidence. And we have ordered you a new desk, sir."

"Have you told my mother?" Bailey asked, sitting up suddenly.

"No, sir. I thought I'd leave that up to you if you wished to do so," the servant replied. Bailey shook his head.

"No need…no need to trouble her about this sort of thing. What time is it?"

"Nine 'o' clock, sir. In the evening."

"I see. Leave me, all of you. I need…I need to rest." The servants filed out and closed the door behind them. Bailey sat on the bed for some time before noticing the curtains drawn over the balcony window. He quickly leapt off the bed, parted the curtains, and latched the doors as if that would keep him safe. Bailey collapsed into an armchair and put his head in his hands, all thoughts of his social troubles completely absent from his mind.

Just as Bailey was finally starting to doze off in the guest room's armchair, a soft knock at the door made him jump and nearly knock over the chair. William poked his balding head around the door.

"Sir, what would you like me to do with the letter?" he asked. It took Bailey some time to figure out what William was talking about, but when he did, he immediately turned an unpleasant gray-green.

"Just…just give it to me, William." William nodded and stepped into the room, letter in hand. He gently handed it over to the shaking Bailey who took it reluctantly; as if it were a cat he needed to treat for rabies. When the servant left, Bailey held the letter loosely in his hands and stared at the far wall for fifteen minutes, his face blank and still pale. Finally, he looked down at the piece of paper resting on his lap, swallowed the bile that was trying to make its way into his mouth, and opened it. The letter was just as horrifying as he had remembered it, but this time he read all the way through. A signature.

"Amon?" he said absentmindedly to himself. It wasn't until a few seconds later that he nearly knock over his chair again as he leapt to his feet. Amon! The man at the ball! This had to be the same person. Who else in London was named Amon? There was no one he knew that knew an Amon and the only one Bailey knew of was the one he had encountered the night of the ball. A shiver ran down Bailey's spine as he recalled the young man's breath ghosting over his ear and his lips brushing his hand. Yes, it certainly fit. Bailey paced the room, staring at the signature blazing up at him from the sheet of paper.

"William!" he called and the servant dashed into the room, looking about in case there was another heart to dispose of. "Tell the watchman on guard to come at once."

When the watchman had arrived, Bailey shared his new discovery and soon enough, wanted posters for the murderer "Amon" were put up over the city, offering a large sum if the man was caught. However, this did not comfort Bailey in the least. Over the next few days, he suffered from paranoia and anxiety; jumping at shadows, sleeping with numerous candles around his bed, fearfully opening every drawer he encountered. Not even the watchmen guarding the manor could ease his mind. At this point, he was even grateful for the company his mother kept sending him. Obviously, they were mostly potential spouses, but it was better than no one at all. However, there was one day that she had sent a gentleman around to Bailey's manner. Oliver Smith was the twin brother of one of the girls Bailey's mother had picked out, though she wasn't a favorite due to being less rich than the Adams, and they had been invited to drop by the manor without Bailey's consent. When he had peeked through the lace curtains of the study, Bailey didn't even think about pretending to have some exotic disease. He would've liked to say that the girl was particularly attractive and that he liked her company, but it became increasingly evident that the company he truly valued was that of her brother's. Oliver was the tall, dark, and handsome of the nineteenth century. Wavy, raven locks framed his pale, clean-shaven, heart-shaped face and he easily towered over Bailey in stature. Every week, Bailey played host to him, regardless of whether or not the sister was available. Whenever he would leave Bailey's manor, the young master of the house would stand at the window, watching the carriage speed off into the distance; the paranoia and fear returning to replace the warmth of the Oliver's presence.

"Did you know I got a love letter about a month ago?" Bailey ventured one day as he and Oliver were sitting in the drawing room. Oliver was at the pianoforte, playing softly, and merely made a noise to signify he recognized Bailey was speaking. "It was very frightening at the time, but it's rather funny now that I look at it. Would you like to read it?"

Oliver shrugged absentmindedly, but Bailey read this as, 'Oh, please show me because I can't believe that someone else could be after your affections other than me, but I'm going to act unconcerned about it because that sort of thing is just not done in society.' Of course, Oliver was just wondering how he could get Bailey to send him a pianoforte. Disappearing for a moment, Bailey went to retrieve the letter from its hiding place and came rushing back down, slowing down as he came into Oliver's view and trying his best to look nonchalant.

"There it is," he said, tossing the letter down in front of the other man. Oliver took the letter and opened it, read it, and laughed.

"This is complete rubbish," Oliver smirked. "Who could possibly be that sickeningly desperate for you? What's all this about a heart as well?"

"Oh, well, there was a drawing of a heart underneath the letter," Bailey lied while trying to keep the image of a grotesque, crimson lump out of his mind. "Perhaps if this person is of good enough status for my mother, she'll make me marry her."

"Well, my sister is definitely not insane, so I'd suggest you stick with her," Oliver replied, tossing aside the letter and placing his fingers back on the piano. This wasn't quite the direction Bailey had in mind.

"If you were a lady, Oliver, what would you think of me? Hopefully not quite like this person," Bailey said, gesturing to the letter.

"What sort of question is that? You don't need my opinion. My sister already likes you. Do you think you'll court her?"

"Oh, I don't know," Bailey replied exasperatedly, giving up. That evening, Oliver left for his own manor and Bailey was left to fume about the turn of events earlier that day. He knew he shouldn't expect anything from the young man, but the romantic part of him dreamed of a world where it would be possible. Or, at least, a world where there were secret love affairs and how his knight in shining armor would destroy all of the demons and shadows haunting Bailey. He tossed and turned that night, too preoccupied with imaging what could have happened if things had gone the way Bailey wanted them to that day.