Author's Note: A new chapter within six months of my last update? It's a miracle! PS – If you review, I update faster…
HELENA
"Lena, reveille." Margot's voice cut through the gray haze that now passed for sleep in Helena. "Nous sommes ici!" The carriage rocked to a halt, and Lena opened her eyes. Wake up, we're here!
"In English, please, Gogo," their mother chided.
Margot was already standing, pushing past Lena's skirts, waiting for the coachman to open the door and help her out. Their mother reached over and brushed her hand across Lena's forehead.
"You haven't been sleeping well," she noted in a worried voice.
Lena nodded. I haven't been sleeping at all. She winced when the door opened and bright sunlight poured into the carriage. Of all the days for London to be its usual dreary, sunless self, of course today would not be one of them. Today, there were no clouds in the sky, and the spring sun glittered on everything, compounding the headache that was forming at the back of Lena's skull.
"Go upstairs and rest," her mother suggested. "I'll have dinner sent up to you."
"Thank you, Maman," Lena murmured, grasping the gloved hand of the coachman and stepping gingerly down onto the cobblestone street. Margot was waiting by the door, tapping her little foot impatiently as Lena approached.
"Tu es malade, Lena." Margot observed.
"I'm not sick, Gogo," Lena replied in a tired voice. "And Maman asked you to speak English."
Margot frowned, but she refrained from commenting in the face of her sister's obvious weariness. Instead, she turned and marched through the front door and up to the nursery, where her governess awaited.
"Mother, you spoil that child rotten," Greg noted in his flawless English accent, appearing next to them just in time to take their mother's hand on his elbow and lead her inside. Lena rolled her eyes. Greg prided himself on his ability to sound perfectly English. But he was always quick to fall back into his accent around beautiful, young Englishwomen.
"Lena, tu vas bien?" Lena's father asked. Lena turned to squint up at the viscount as he rounded the carriage. He and Greg had ridden on horseback, so they did not know that she had dozed fitfully for most of the journey.
"I'm fine, Papa," she assured him, taking his arm and accompanying him through the front door and into their London house.
"Welcome back, my lord," Gerald greeted, dipping his head and taking her father's hat and gloves. "Lady Helena," he nodded to her, and Lena handed the older man her gloves.
"Thank you, Gerald," her father said with a wave of dismissal.
"Papa, are we still going to the Opera tonight?" Lena wondered as she made her way towards the stairs.
"Oui, ma petite," he replied distractedly. "If you would like to."
Lena sighed. "Perhaps."
Her room was exactly as she remembered it, decorated in hues of blue and lavender, and the sharp, bitter sadness that she felt at the sight of it brought tears to her eyes.
"You stupid man," she cursed at the empty room, throwing her hat and shawl down on a chair and throwing herself – in a very unladylike fashion – into the bed. "You are a coward," she said to the bed's canopy, "a miserable, stubborn coward."
She did not intend to stay in bed very long. If she let herself doze, she would eventually fall into a deeper sleep, the kind in which her nightmares always surfaced. But she couldn't help it. She hadn't gotten a full night's sleep in over a week. Not since the night he told her he wasn't coming to England with her.
"Imbecile," she muttered, as her eyes started to flutter, and darkness enveloped her.
The world was dead. And black. And empty. Everywhere she turned, she saw nothing. Emptiness. It surrounded her, hunting her, pressing down on her until she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move. She tried to run. She tried to call out for help. She couldn't.
Shadows within shadows, flickering around the edges of her vision. Something was there, in the darkness, watching her. Waiting. It smelled like blood.
Where was she? What world was this? Who had stolen all the light? She was not herself anymore, she was a child again, alone and scared and surrounded by monsters in the dark.
Abigail? Gregoire? Where are you?
A rasping voice from behind her. Harsh and feral. Growling, seething, ready to strike.
The terror filled her, the blind, unthinking terror. It was coming closer, and she could not move. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she screamed and cried and begged, she could not lift her feet. She could not move.
And it was getting closer…
"Lena? Lena! Are you alright? Answer me! Wake up!" Gregoire's voice, muted and distant. Someone was pounding on the door. Everything was quiet, like a thick blanket had fallen over the entire world. Someone was screaming. Far away. She opened her eyes, and the world was blurry and unfocused, but she was not afraid. She was not shaking with blind, uncontrollable terror. She was calm.
Because he was there, kneeling over her, cloaked in shadows. She knew his silhouette as well as she knew her own reflection. He was there, smoothing her hair back from her forehead with large, warm hands, whispering calming words in that gentle, deep voice. Her mind was too blurry, too heavy with weariness, to speak, or even move.
He bent closer to her, and brushed his lips over hers in a featherlight kiss. Strands of long, black hair fell around his face. He smelled like lavender. Lena wanted to cry and scream and throw her arms around him all at once, but she couldn't move.
"I'm so sorry, Lena," he whispered.
And then he was gone. A ghost. A dream. A figment of her over-tired mind.
Lena shot upright as the blanket of silence that had surrounded her dissolved, and the sound of Gregoire pounding on the door assaulted her senses.
"Stop that racket!" she commanded. "I'm awake!"
Instantly, Greg opened the door and rushed into the room. Their father followed close on his heels.
"Mon Dieu, Helena, you sounded like you were burning alive!" Greg snapped, frustrated by his own anxiety. "You can't keep scaring me like that! I'll have a conniption and die before I'm thirty!"
"Thank you for your concern, Greg," Lena murmured, a hint of a smile curling her lips.
Their father kneeled down by the bed and took Lena's hands in his.
"Are you alright, ma petite?" He asked in a soft voice. Lena frowned up at him. Lines of worry creased his dark, aristocratic brow. "You haven't had one that bad in years."
"I'm fine, Papa," she said quietly, glancing around the room for signs of her companion's presence. She could find none. Not a single object was out of place in the room. She could not smell even the slightest hint of lavender.
She felt her shoulders drop under the weight of disappointment. Her father placed a kiss on her forehead and stood.
"We are leaving for the Opera in two hours. I will let your mother know you'll not be attending," he said in a soft voice.
Lena's thoughts rushed through her head, piling on top of one another in their haste and panic. If she stayed here while her family went to the Opera, she would go mad. She would search the house for him, and cry when she could not find him. God help her, she might even fall asleep again. And she could not let that happen.
"Wait!" Her father froze at the door. "I want to come with you. I don't want to be alone."
Her father's expression darkened into concern. "Are you sure?"
"Oui, Papa."
"Will you be able to handle la masque?"
Lena grinned at her father's nickname for the English beau monde. She let her expression fade into a look of supreme, haughty boredom.
"Of course, Father. I am more than capable of handling the beau monde," she said in the same flawless English accent that Gregoire was so fond of.
A smile flickered over her father's face, and he nodded. "Very well," he said with a nod, and he turned and left the room, his boots echoing along the marble floors in the hallway.
Gregoire paused at the door, and sent Lena a frown. "I know I've been away for a long time, Lena," he said slowly, "but I'm still your brother. You'd tell me if something was wrong, oui?"
Lena wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Tell Gregoire that a man visited her at night, a man she'd never even seen? Yes. That would go over so very well.
"Of course, Greg. Will you have one of the servants fetch Eleanor to help me dress?" She pushed herself off the bed and began straightening her travel cloak.
Gregoire, who knew enough about women to know when he had been dismissed from one's presence, merely shook his head and left the room.