HELENA

Morning had never been Lena's favorite time of day; even when she was a child, before the night terrors began, she had always preferred to sleep until the sun was high and bright in the sky. She didn't like the mournful feeling of dawn, the struggle of the sun as it tried to bring warmth and light back into the world. After the terrors began, she had hated rising to the worried eyes of the servants, who had heard her screams in their quarters, or the tense lines on her parents' faces after they had spent the night trying to comfort their frightened daughter.

She'd liked morning even less after she met her companion, when she had to open her eyes every day to a room filled only with dull gray light. When she could still smell pine and wood smoke and lavender in the air, as if he had only just left. As if she might have seen him if she had opened her eyes a few moments earlier.

But now, she woke up every morning, shortly after dawn, to a big, beautiful, droopy face resting on her pillow, snuffling softly and licking her hands and face, and, if she didn't get up fast enough for Zeus's liking, a few pitiful whines. And she would pull herself out of bed and stumble over to her dressing room, pulling on her robe, cinching it about her waist, while Zeus sat patiently at the door. He was already tall enough to lick the doorknob.

He would walk at her side silently as they made their way down the servant's stairs and through the kitchen, careful to stay out of the way of the servants and the cook, Mrs. Wenham, at which point Zeus would pause hopefully at the door of the large pantry, where he knew his treats were kept. And Lena would shake her head and open the door to the herb garden, and Zeus would rocket out into the blue-gray morning light, a big black blur, to terrorize whatever small creatures were currently feasting on Mrs. Wenham's herb garden.

At first, the servants had been downright horrified that Lena was seeing to her dog's needs, as she did have a personal maid, Eleanor, and wouldn't Eleanor be perfectly capable of taking the creature outside a few times every day?

Lena, of course, had said no. Not only was Eleanor absolutely terrified of Zeus, but Lena really had nothing better to do in the morning, and she hated the idea of pushing her dog on someone else and then rolling over and going back to sleep. So she woke up a few hours after the servants every morning, and joined them for a cup of tea at the big, worn table in the kitchen. After a few weeks, they became more or less used to Lena's presence, and no longer felt that it was necessary to walk on eggshells around her.

The feeling of being able to just sit and think, or chat amiably with the maids, or joke with the grooms, and not have to worry about her posture, or the exact level to which she must curtsey, or the proper words to greet the second son of an Earl... It was delightful. And liberating.

"Beggin' your pardon, miss," Emily, one of the upstairs maids, bobbed her head as she stepped into the kitchen, "but your brother is asking for you."

Lena frowned. "Greg's awake?"

"Up at the crack of dawn, miss, every day." Emily's eyes took on that distant, slightly glazed look that so many women got when Greg was brought up in conversation. Lena rolled her eyes, a gesture that the stable boys were quite fond of using when their superiors had their backs turned.

"Where is he?"

"In the library, miss."

"Thank you, Emily," Lena said, draining the last of her tea and standing from the table with a sigh. On her way out of the kitchen, she opened the back door and found Zeus sitting patiently on the step, guarding his latest prize possession. A stick. "Very well, bring it in. But please stop hiding them in Greg's dressing room. I don't think his valet can take much more of it."

Zeus clamped the stick very gently in his massive jaws and lumbered inside, falling into step behind Lena as she wove her way out of the kitchen and down the hallway towards the main floor of the house.

Greg was, indeed, waiting for her in the library, lounging in an armchair by the fireplace with a glass in one hand and a closed book in the other. He was looking at the book like he wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

"Having trouble with the alphabet, big brother?" Lena mused, sliding into the armchair across from him with a grin.

Greg did not smile back. He looked up from the book and Lena realized that there were shadows under his eyes. His mouth was set in a grim line. He was still wearing his evening clothes from the night before.

"You know me, Lena," he said quietly. "I am a very fastidious person."

Fastidious was an understatement. Greg had always been very particular about where he put things and how he organized his life. Sometimes, he had to repeat tasks several times so that he would know for sure that he had done them properly. Lena had, when they were children, delighted in tormenting him by misplacing his books or toys. Until she had realized that it truly upset him to have his things moved or hidden.

"Yes," she said with a nod.

"Have you been reading my books?" The question was abrupt, and his voice was sharp.

"No, Greg," Lena replied slowly. "I haven't. I never go into your room."

He was quiet for a few moments, and then he leaned forward and handed her the book he'd been holding. Lena picked it up and turned it over to read the title, embossed in gold ink: A Treatise on Human Nature by David Hume. Lena frowned.

"I found it sitting on my escritoire this morning," Greg said. "I distinctly remember putting it on my bookshelf three days ago."

Lena believed him. He would remember putting a book away because he would take the time to line up the spine of each book so that they sat in a perfect row, organized by height.

"One of the servants, perhaps?" Lena suggested, and Greg raised one eyebrow at her.

"They know better," he replied.

"Papa?"

"He would have mentioned it to me."

"Margot?"

"Natural philosophy? At her age?" Greg's tone was mocking.

Lena sent him a dark frown. "Why don't you just get to the point and tell me who you think it is, then?" she snapped.

Greg sat up, put the book and his glass down on the table next to his chair, and leaned forward.

"I haven't the slightest," he said with a shrug. He ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. "But it keeps happening, little things, here and there. Not always my things, but I notice it nonetheless. Sometimes I think I see..." He shook his head, as if to clear an errant thought from his mind, and sighed. "I think I might be going mad." His voice was raw, and he looked downright haggard, his golden hair standing on end and his cravat hanging loosely around his neck. Lena felt a pang of sympathy for her big brother, the one who had always tried to protect her, even from her own dreams.

When they were little, he had offered to sleep outside her door to protect her from what frightened her so badly in her sleep. He had brought her flowers from the fields, and stolen sweets from the kitchen, and spent hours each night telling her stories about brave knights who vanquished evil dragons and saved princesses.

And he had kept the secret of her nightmares, just as she had kept the secret of his obsessive need to organize his belongings.

He had been there, after all, when she had fallen into the river.

He had seen the thing that was chasing her.

"No, Greg," she said, her voice firm and soft, "you are not going mad. Neither of us are."

Something in her tone brought his gaze up, and he locked eyes with hers. He hesitated. They had never spoken of what they had seen that day in the forest, when Lena had fallen into the river and nearly drowned. Lena suspected that Greg had feared he would make her night terrors worse by talking about it. And even now, she thought that he feared it might cause her terrors to return.

"Lena, to this day I do not understand what it is we saw," he whispered. "But if that thing... that monster... is here..."

"Then I doubt it would spend its time moving around books and trinkets just to upset you," Lena said quickly, and more sharply than she had intended. Then she sighed, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft. "You are overthinking everything because your mind is unoccupied. Get some sleep," She stood up, and pulled him to his feet, watching him sway as he oriented himself properly. "You are not meant for this life of idleness; you always get like this when you have nothing to do." He blinked down at her.

"I suppose you're right," he said with a nod.

"I'm always right," she replied instantly. That earned a small grin from her brother, at least. "Now, go. Sleep all day like a lazy English gentleman."

"I shall try," he said, and he turned to make his way out of the library. But he paused at the doorway, and glanced back over his shoulder. "Do you have any plans for this afternoon?"

"I don't believe so."

"Then meet us in the ballroom at three, will you? It's dashed awkward to dance with another man."

Lena could only stare at the empty space at the doorway for several moments after he left.

What in Heaven's name did that mean?

SAMSON

"Why do you hide from everyone, Samson?"

It was a simple enough question. Margot had asked it several times over the past few months. She had never once accused him of being a coward, though he was sure she harbored suspicions that he was. She never demanded that he play with her in her nursery, or joined her in the library to read during the day. She knew the limits of his comfort, just as Lena did. But she was naturally very curious about the entire situation. Samson gave her the same answer he always did: "Because I do not like people, and they do not like me."

Every time, Margot would just shrug and turn back to her doll, or to her sketchbook, or to tracing circles in the grime on the attic window, leaving Samson in peace to continue reading.

"You must have very good eyesight, to read in such dim light," she said from the window, turning and putting her hands on her hips.

Samson sighed, marked his place with a scrap of linen, and set the book down. "I do," he replied patiently.

"Why? Is it because your eyes are golden? Greg says that hawks have remarkable eyesight."

Samson's lips twitched into a small grin, but then the thought sank in, and drenched him in uncertainty. What if... what if he did? He had never seen any mention of animal parts in his father's journal. But perhaps he had missed something. "Perhaps I do have a hawk's eyes."

"Of course you don't, silly," Margot replied with a roll of her eyes. She must have picked that gesture up from the stable boys. "You're not a bird, are you?"

Samson shrugged. "What if I replaced my human eyes with bird eyes? Or maybe I transform into a giant hawk on the full moon."

Margot tilted her head at him, eyes narrow. "Do not mock me, sir."

Samson grinned. "I wouldn't dare."

"And you're wrong, you know. About people. I like you. Obviously, Lena likes you. Maman likes you."

"What?" Samson's golden eyes went very wide at the mention of Lena and Margot's mother.

Margot sighed heavily, and spoke as if she was addressing a small, annoying child. "I do wish you would stop acting so stupid, Samson. You made Lena smile again. You made her happy, and she stopped screaming at night. You brought her back to life. Surely you did not think my mother would not notice."

He frowned for a moment. "No, I am not surprised that she noticed. But why would you think she would like me for it? She could not possibly know that I exist." He shot her a dubious glance, wondering if perhaps she had divulged the secret of his presence to her mother.

"Don't look at me like that," she snapped. "I did not tell Maman that you are here. She just has this way of... knowing things."

"Do you not think that she would be... upset by my presence?" To phrase it lightly.

"No, I do not. I heard her talking to Papa the other day, and she said she didn't care who it was, she was just glad to have Lena back."

"Ah, but she did not say she didn't care where I was."

Margot blinked. "In the attic, you mean?" She shrugged. "Why don't you get a house, then?"

Samson sighed. "It's not that easy, ma petite chou."

"Why not?" She sat down on a recently dusted trunk and stared up at him, and he marveled at the fact that he did not even flinch when she looked at him. If only he could bring himself to be this comfortable around Lena. "Because I have no money."

"Then make money," Margot said with a shrug. "Papa and Greg do it all the time at the horse races."

Samson couldn't help but chuckle, but he said nothing.

"Samson?" Her voice was suddenly quiet, and unsure, and laced with something else, an emotion that made his hackles rise in sudden, fierce protectiveness.

Fear.

"What is it, child?" he asked in as soothing a voice as possible. His sharp eyes scanned the attic, from corner to corner, watching for danger.

"Do you believe in monsters?"

It took him a few moments to answer. By now he was used to Margot's rapid shifts in conversation, accustomed to her insatiable curiosity and short attention span, but the question itself brought him up short.

"There was a time, not so long ago," he said slowly, "when I considered myself one."

Margot looked up from wringing her hands together and frowned at him. "Well, you're not."

No questions. No hesitation. No uncertainty. At those three simple words, Samson felt a vice loosen from his heart, and he took a deep breath.

"Thank you," he whispered, closing his eyes and bowing his head to hide the raw look in his eyes.

"For what?" Margot sounded genuinely confused. Then she sighed impatiently. "You never answered my question. Are monsters real?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Stop avoiding the question and answer me!" she snapped. Samson would have laughed, were it not for the jolt of surprise he felt at seeing Margot lose her temper. She sounded just like Helena.

"Yes," he said softly. "Monsters are real."

She was quiet for a few long moments.

"You haven't noticed anything... strange happening around the house, have you?"

A chill crawled over his skin, raising the hairs along the back of his neck. He lifted his head and fixed his gaze on Margot. "Other than the giant man covered in scars who is currently living in your attic, no." He kept his voice light, to shield her from the sudden awareness that prickled through him. "I would have noticed if anything was amiss in this household. My senses are superior to any human's. Nothing unusual has occurred."

"Greg said there was a monster," Margot whispered. "I was eavesdropping. I know I shouldn't have. But I've never heard mon frére sound so frightened. He's like you. He's not afraid of anything."

Ah, if only she knew that he was terrified of her big sister, a mere waif of a woman with silky blonde hair and soft, sweet lips. How he trembled when her eyelids fluttered in her sleep.

"Why did he say this?"

"Because things keep getting moved around. Books and the like."

Samson suppressed a self-deprecating sigh. He had grown complacent, had become comfortable in this house, with this family, and he had neglected to put everything he used back where he had found it. "Margot, your brother probably just noticed something I accidentally left out of place. He is a very sharp young man."

"But ... what about the monster that chased Lena into the river when she was little?" Margot's brow furrowed, and her eyes flickered to the floor. "I wasn't supposed to hear that, either. Lena and Abby were talking about it a few months ago."

Samson couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He could only sit there, frozen in shock, as an image of a little girl in a bright dress flashed through his mind. The look of silent terror in her eyes.

The cold, hungry grasp of the river as it swallowed her whole.

"She said there was a monster?" he asked in a strangled voice.

She thought I was a monster?

"She said it was chasing her. She was playing with Greg in the fields and she felt like something was watching her. Greg saw it first, but it went after Lena. Greg tried to distract it, but it just kept coming for her. She turned and ran into the forest, and fell into the river."

What?

She really had been running from something? But what? Why hadn't he seen it?

"Did she say what it looked like?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

"No, she said she couldn't remember. She just remembered that it was big and scary and it smelled... how did she put it?" She screwed up her face, trying to recall Lena's words. "She said it smelled like blood."

His heart leapt into his throat. He felt his palms growing slick with sweat. If this was true...

He should have seen it.

He would have, if he hadn't been half-mad with grief from losing the De Laceys. From being driven away like a criminal. A monster. He searched frantically through his mind, trying to bring the memory into sharper focus. He remembered the virgin snow, the bitter cold wind moaning through a dead, gray forest. The river, a dark, muddy gash marring the pristine winter landscape.

He remembered the flash of color, of a girl in a yellow dress, running swiftly through the snow, silent in her terror.

When she fell into the water, he remembered the surge of adrenaline that put fire into his veins. He was diving in almost immediately after she disappeared beneath the surface. There was not much else that he could recall. Even after he pulled her onto the riverbank, he could only see her white, bloodless face, blue lips, white-gold hair plastered to her forehead. The memory made his heart constrict with pain.

And then, he saw it. A flash of darkness at the edge of his vision, a blur that he ignored because, truly, whom in all the world did he have to fear? He was the monster in these woods. He was the one who was cursed and wretched. He did not jump at shadows, nor did he flinch at the smell of blood.

The sharp, coppery smell of blood.

Yes. The smell was there, in his memory, buried beneath the panic and the adrenaline and the heart-wrenching pain of watching a child struggle for life. The smell of blood. The dark shape at the edge of the trees, watching from within the shadows.

He went deeper, searching through his memories, dragging the old emotions back, trying to bring that blur into focus. Struggling to remember a time that he had tried so hard to forget, a time full of agony and despair, a time when he had wished for death, and cursed himself a coward for being unable to end his own life.

The blur sharpened, flickering in and out of focus. It was a shadow within shadows, but there was something there, something he had seen for the briefest moment, a flash of shape and color that become buried beneath the trauma of watching a helpless little girl struggle for life before his very eyes.

He fought the panic, and the sadness, and he focused on the shadow, and the shape within it.

He saw bone, bleached and sallow. The curve of a jaw, and sharp, jagged teeth. Death.

The skull of a dog?

No. More feral, more frightening. The skull of a wolf.

And beneath it, hidden within the hollow, gaping eye sockets, a flicker of color.

Pale, pale blue.

He felt his blood freeze within him.

Something had been chasing Helena.

"How did she survive?" He didn't try to mask the rawness of his voice, the pain of the loss that he came so close to enduring.

"Lena said that it was an angel who saved her." Margot shrugged. "I think it was just a man. She was very upset when she learned that Jacques had shot him. But Jacques was frightened, and he did not know what else to do."

The pain of the old wound burned in his shoulder. He ignored it. He had long ago forgiven the old man for shooting him.

"Margot, there was no monster. It was just your sister's imagination."

Margot's frown did not lessen at his bald-faced lie. She just stared at him, her brown eyes filled with anxiety and fear. Samson's gaze shifted to her shoulders, and he realized that she was shaking.

With a sigh, he stood, ducking his head to avoid a crossbeam, and crossed over to where she sat. He knelt in front of her and took her tiny, fragile hands into his. Even on his knees, he was taller than her when she stood. But he bowed his head to hers and met her gaze.

"Listen to me, Margot," he said, his voice low and laced with steel. "I will never let you come to harm. I will always protect you. I promise you this. I was born of death and fire, and I will bring Hell upon Earth to any who threaten your safety or your happiness. Do you believe me?"

Margot took a single shaking breath, and nodded. And then she leapt up and threw her arms around Samson's neck, hugging him tightly.

"Thank you, Samson," she whispered. Samson placed a gentle, fond kiss on the top of her head, glad that she could not see the alarm etched on his face in the dim light.

Something had chased Lena into the river on that cloudy spring day, so many years ago. Something real.

Something evil.

HELENA

Early afternoon sunlight streamed through the large windows of the ballroom, illuminating the marble parquet floor and glittering off crystal chandeliers. The effect was quite dazzling, actually. Lena wondered, as she stepped into the room, why she didn't come here more often. It was open and airy and full of light. And Zeus would be absolutely ecstatic to play fetch beneath the rainbow of light splayed across the floor.

In fact, Margot would probably enjoy it as well. Lena wondered where the little hellion was. She hadn't come sprinting past Lena even once today, on the run from her governess or playing hide and seek with Zeus.

Footsteps echoed behind her, and Lena turned to question Greg about their sister's whereabouts, but she stopped short when she saw who was with him.

"Montford!" she said with a smile, coming forward and dropping a quick curtsey to him as he kissed her hand, "What a pleasant surprise!"

Montford sent her a grin and a bow. "Much more pleasant for me, I daresay. Lady Dubois, may I present to you my brother, Mr. Rothwell." Lena turned to his brother, ignoring the fading signs of a black eye on the younger man, and curtseyed as Montford said, "Edison, the delightful Lady Dubois, Gregoire's sister."

Edison Rothwell bowed. "A pleasure to meet you, my lady," he said in a soft voice. "I must beg your pardon for my appearance."

Lena blinked. She flicked a look to Montford, whose face remained still as stone. But she didn't miss the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Your appearance is perfectly satisfactory, sir. Tell me, how have you enjoyed your visit to London thus far?" At Edison's sudden, panicked expression, Montford laughed, clapping his brother on the back.

"I told you we wouldn't get anything past her, Monty." Greg said.

Monty's eyes flickered behind Lena. "How is Miss DeLacey faring, my lady?"

"She is perfectly well, thank you." At the mention of Montford's name at lunch, Abby had fled to her room to change her dress and fix her hair, shouting that she wasn't getting dressed up for anyone in particular, and that if Lena didn't stop laughing Abby would cut all of Lena's hair off in her sleep.

"Excellent," Montford said in a mild voice. "I do hope she is enjoying her visit to England."

Lena almost didn't catch the undertone in his voice. When she did, she snapped her eyes back to Montford and found them slightly narrowed. Clever man. Using her own phrase against her to infer that he realized Abigail wasn't all that she seemed.

"Very much so, my lord," Lena replied in a soft, deadly voice. Then she smiled a bright, very fake smile. "We have all been so busy these past few days, planning the masquerade ball, and she decided to rest a bit before tea. She should be down shortly." She let her smile drop slightly, and added an almost imperceptible edge to her voice. "I do hope you will not hold her at fault if she seems a bit... beat up."

Montford blinked at her. His glance flicked over to his younger brother's fading black eye. And he started laughing. "Not at all, my lady," he said softly, nodding his surrender. His voice held the distinct note of respect that he had, until that moment, only ever used when he addressed Greg. "Not at all."

"Greg!" Lena turned to her brother, who was standing by the pianoforte looking at her like she'd just sprouted a second head. "I didn't know you played."

"I wouldn't call it playing," Montford teased. "But he can keep the time well enough."

"And what are we dancing?"

"Today shall be the waltz, I think," Greg stated, grimacing as he took his seat before the piano. "And you are all under the strictest oath never to utter a word about this to anyone."

"I don't recall swearing an oath," Lena replied mildly.

"The waltz? Again?" Edison looked pained, and his immaculate highborn accent slipped a bit. "I 'ate that one."

"Do stop complaining, Edison, or I shall make you dance it with me again instead of Lady Helena," Montford warned his brother.

"You wouldn't," Edison said with a gasp.

"Try me."

Edison set his jaw and offered Lena his arm. Together they walked out onto the dance floor, and when Edison set his hand on her back and pulled her closer, Lena had to force herself not to laugh. He looked like a martyr going towards his death. "Come now, Mr. Rothwell, try not to look so miserable," she whispered, as Greg struck up the first chords of a waltz. "The waltz is a delightful dance if you put your heart into it."

"I beg your pardon, my lady," he replied instantly, cracking a small, apologetic smile. "I'm just not quite sure any of this is working." He really was quite good, his steps were sure and unfaltering, and his timing was impeccable, but he moved as if he was a marionette on strings, adhering to the perfect form of each step. There was no fluidity in his dancing.

"Any of what?" Lena asked, somewhat distractedly, as she was putting most of her effort into moving gracefully through a waltz with a puppet.

"This miserable attempt to make me into a gentleman," he replied in a flat tone. Lena tilted her head up at him. He looked like a slightly softer version of his brother; age and experience had not yet carved the angles into his face that Montford sported. Still, he was quite handsome, and amenable, and he was the second son of an Earl. He should have had no limits on his education or socialization.

And yet his native dialect seemed to be slightly cockney, and he did not know how to dance the waltz, which any young gentleman would have learned as soon as it came to England and completely scandalized old dowagers across the country.

"You are a gentleman, Mr. Rothwell," Lena said with a shrug, a distinctly French gesture that made Edison's eyebrows rise slightly. "Even if you are unfamiliar with the strictures of our rank, you hold yourself with dignity and you have treated me well, which is less than can be said for many members of the aristocracy."

"Thank you, my lady," Edison replied with an astonished smile. "You are very kind."

"You seem surprised," Lena teased.

"Not at all, just somewhat confused as to why you have such a reputation for coldness amongst the beau monde."

Again, Lena shrugged, following him in a twirl that brought them back around to Greg and Monty. "Perhaps I, too, must put on a facade for the town."

Edison stepped back from her, and bowed deeply.

"Well enough, Ed," Monty conceded with a nod, "but you still move like you're marching into battle."

"Perhaps I am," Edison replied under his breath. Lena coughed to cover her laughter and turned to Abby, who was standing silently next to Montford, staring at Lena with a very meaningful expression in her eyes. Her cousin flicked her gaze towards Monty.

Lena grinned.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to show him how it's done, Montford," Lena suggested.

Monty blinked, and smiled. And if Lena had not spent the past several months listening for emotion in the words of her companion, and learning how such emotions were conveyed through tone and pitch, she might have missed the reluctance in his voice. "I would be delighted, my lady." And he began to come towards her, and stopped when she held out her hand.

"I'm afraid I'm quite winded from the first set," she said, and then paused, and brightened. "Perhaps you might dance with Abby? She hasn't been approved by the ladies of Almack's, so she cannot dance the waltz in public."

She saw Monty's eyes narrow very slightly, as if gauging her sincerity, but then his smile widened. He turned on his heel to face Abby.

"Would you care to dance, Miss DeLacey?" he asked in a voice that was just slightly softer, and full of meaning. Lena heard the change. She wondered if anyone else could.

Abby smiled, and instantly she transformed from distant and exotic to welcoming and friendly. It was one of the reasons she was so popular amongst the beau monde. That and the fact that her origin was the greatest mystery of the season. "I would be delighted, Lord Montford." She laid her hand delicately over his arm and together they walked out onto the dance floor.

At the piano, Greg sighed and struck up another waltz. "Matchmaker," he accused Lena, in a voice just soft enough as to carry only to her.

Lena laughed, and leaned back against the wall to watch as Montford and Abby floated across the ballroom, spinning and twirling and moving as if they had been born to dance together. She bit back a sigh as she took in the sight. The ballroom glittered with light, and echoed with the sound of the dance, and radiated with warmth and happiness.

Unexpectedly, Lena felt a pang of jealousy towards her cousin. Abby would never have to watch for Montford in the shadows, or be with him only in the darkness. She could dance with him, in a ballroom, surrounded by hundreds of people. She could walk with him in daylight, and sit with him by the fire.

Lena would never have that.

Tears pricked her eyes, and she cursed them silently and blinked them away.

And then she saw him, a shadow among shadows. The slightest movement drew her eyes up to the second level, a series of linked balconies that overlooked the ballroom and flanked the entire perimeter. The whole top level was darkness, broken only by a few brave shards of light reflected off the crystal chandeliers. And he was there, in the farthest corner from her.

She could feel his eyes on her, now, like a brush of warm air that stirred the fine hairs along the back of her neck.

She was on her feet before she even realized it. She turned to Edison, who was watching the dancing couple with a scrutinizing gaze.

"You must excuse me, Mr. Rothwell. I just remembered..." and that was all she could manage before the doors to the ballroom shut behind her.

She started running.

SAMSON

Samson knew that she had seen him. He felt it in the pit of his stomach. Even from across the ballroom he had seen the way her body went tense and still, like a predator that had just spotted its prey. She had looked right at him, and he had felt her gaze down to his very bones.

The thought brought a grim smile to his lips even as he worked his way methodically towards the attic, dodging servants as he went. Now, he was the hunted one, and he had no doubt that Lena would rip him to shreds if she found him.

He shouldn't have done it; he shouldn't have left the safety of the attic in the middle of the day just to watch her dance. But after he had realized what had chased her into the river when she was a child, he couldn't stay away. He had to see her, to reassure himself that she was safe and whole. Even if it meant having to see her in the arms of Edison Rothwell; at least he knew that she was okay.

Not to say he hadn't entertained a few murderous thoughts about the boy. He couldn't help himself, really. The idea of seeing Lena with another man made him want to punch something. Hard. It went against his most basic instincts. She belonged to him.

He heard her before he saw her, because she was talking under her breath in French as she walked. He ducked quickly into an unused guest room and stepped into the dressing room adjoining it, closing the door quietly behind him. The room was furnished for a female guest, with rows of shelves lining the walls and a vanity desk in the corner. There was a small window as well, flanked by red velvet curtains. He twitched the curtains closed and the room descended into blackness.

In the distance, a door opened, footsteps sounded, and a door shut again. A pause, and then another door opened, footsteps, and a door closed. She was checking all of the rooms in the hallway. Samson stifled the urge to curse aloud and settled for streaming them through his head. If she found him...

A door opened, closer this time. He heard her footsteps, padding over the thick Persian carpet he had crossed on his way to the dressing room. She was just outside of his door. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his breath came hard and fast, and he waited.

Silence stretched through the darkness. She opened the door. Samson winced at the sunlight that poured into the room. There was nothing he could do now, short of knocking her unconscious. The terror that was shooting adrenaline through his veins made the thought almost tempting. But he remained where he stood, frozen in place, as she walked slowly into the room.

She had her eyes closed.

"I'm not going insane," she whispered. "I'm not. I know you're here."

She shut the door behind her, and cast the room back into darkness.

The relief that flooded through his body robbed him of his strength. He almost fell to his knees. There she was, a few feet away after weeks of agonizing distance.

He had tried so hard to stay away from her. To give her time away from him, so that she might get her life back. Her real life, with family and friends and society, instead of the miserable half-life he had imposed upon them both. He had hoped that it might make the separation easier, so that when he truly left, she would be none the wiser, and would forget him in time.

He had fought himself constantly. Fought the urge to touch her, to kiss her, to pull her into his arms and never let her go. He had fought the urge to watch her in the daylight, but he hadn't been able to turn his eyes away from her, from the gentle flush in her cheeks and the laughing sparkle in her eyes. He had tried not to follow her to balls, but he hadn't been able to leave when he saw her dressed like a queen, wrapped in silk and sapphires, with her golden hair and pale skin glimmering in the light of a thousand candles, as she danced and laughed with others.

He had failed. He had utterly and completely failed. His eyes had already adjusted to the dark. He saw her standing by the door, and her eyes were open. A jolt of fear snapped through him. He ignored it. She could not see him, and even when her eyes adjusted she would only see his silhouette.

He stood, and approached her silently. When he got within arm's reach, she sucked in a sharp breath, as if she could sense his presence.

Of course she could. She had always been able to sense when he was near. He didn't know what to say, and he wasn't sure if his voice would work anyway. So he just lifted his hand and brushed his fingertips over her cheek. She didn't recoil, like he expected. But then, she had never tried to get away from him, or flinched at his moods or his touch. Even when he was angry, even when he had threatened her life during their first few meetings, she had never been afraid of him.

He had been hopelessly lost for his entire life. And then he had met Helena. She had spoken with him, she had laughed with him and teased him. She had scolded him and cursed him when he was being stubborn. She had begged him.

She had kissed him.

She had made him whole.

She reached up and took his hand in hers, and her soft fingertips traced the scar on his palm, and then she smiled in the darkness, and flew into his arms.

Nothing had ever felt so wonderful. Nothing. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him so tightly he couldn't breathe. He held her close, and his entire body sang with joy at her touch. Every inch of him felt electrified, and tiny sparks glittered on his skin in the darkness.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn't need words.