27 September 1571
London, England

"She craves the darkness, because there, her heart lies. To truly belong to the darkness, she must become a creature of the night---of blood, of death, of madness."

Violette slams the cover of the manuscript shut, her hand shaking with each movement. It is only a book, one of the scandalous and gothic-toned romances that ladies of any quality are forbidden from reading. Violette has not been a lady of quality for some time now, and one of a delicate nature at that. These days, it doesn't take much to frighten her.

The words are haunting, but it is the bold black ink that underlines the words that strikes fear through her heart as swiftly as a dagger. She knows the more she reads, the more passages she will find, marked as if they were made for her. Harmless and forbidden scandal means so much more when underlined in black ink.

Each one is a message. Each one brings her natural skittishness and distress closer to despair.

"I am not a creature of the night. I do not welcome blood or death. I must shelter myself from madness. Stories keep my mind from the darkness." Violette speaks the words aloud, whispered, as any sound resonates in the cold and empty room. The softness of her own voice brings her peace.

There is only a small cot for a bed, a nightstand and basin without a looking-glass to see her own face, and a table that also functions as a writing desk.

The most appreciated kindness anyone had shown her in over one hundred and sixty-two days is the gift of a hard wooden chair. The stool she occupied most hours lacked a cushion, as such comfort was deemed extravagant and sinful. After the first two months of sitting, her bones began to ache and her once lovely taupe and pink gown hung from her frame. The promising curves of youth had faded into the mournful muted tones of middle age, a lifetime of changing seasons illustrated in a half year.

Every day, Violette takes care to brush and powder her hair, a labour of love. Even though she cannot see herself, she knows it keeps her dignified, what little claim she has left to that word. The fragile pink tea roses that adorned her hair in Spring have become amber around the edges, dry and brittle as the paper of some of the cheap manuscripts brought to her under the cloak of darkness.

They are a luxury, she knows, a solace in her hours of waiting. Violette reminds herself endlessly to be grateful for the care others show her. Instead, she is a nervous bird, reading ominous phrases by candlelight.

Father Antoine brings them to her, the covers disguised as texts on faith and virtue. The English consider this the only proper reading for women, especially women in a state of disgrace as she is now. She wishes to comment that the English have a long history of making ladies of quality into symbols of disgrace, but she knows better. A Catholic priest, and a French one at that, is enough of a scandal.

He is a good man, old-fashioned and pious, with white hair that makes Violette think he must be eighty. Of course, he is much younger. At twenty-three, she is still of the age meant for dewy eyes and the heat of the summer's approach.

"The darkness is where she feels the power, delicious and lustful. To succumb to the pleasures of another world, she must lose herself. It is within the loss that she finds truth and beauty, two things that never lie."

A chill runs through Violette's body as she reads the words, the forbidden description with the black ink dripping from the words catching her eye as she sneaks a peek. It is difficult to breathe. What remains of summer's heat comes to life inside her tortured body, the thoughts seductive and tempting.

Who would mark such a thing, for her? Her thoughts spin wildly. Certainly, no ancient Catholic priest would be so corrupt and blasphemous?

She almost laughs at the idea. It is not just the books that come to her via Father Antoine, but apples and the gift of a ruffled collar that would keep her warm and preserve her modesty. Violette finds modesty cloying, unnecessary for a caged bird.

No, Violette decides. She has a secret admirer, one who is playing with something far more dangerous than heartbreak and fire. It must be true. The idea keeps her going from one day to the next.

She moves to the window, her eyes falling upon the green lawn below. There are no bars, but the window is the sort that was made never to open. It is September, and the English sun burns bright and hazy over leaves that begin to change into lovely reds and ambers.

If she listens hard enough, Violette can hear the angelic voices singing a mournful melody. It is a requiem, a celebration of Autumn fading into darker, colder months ahead.

**

Violette had been the Queen's captive for one hundred and sixty-two days. The Tower she calls home once held the Queen herself, a woman notorious for walking the fine lines of reputation, treason, even murder.

She had imagined a woman would have more empathy for her plight. Violette learned quickly that was not the way of things. The Queen's cold black eyes didn't believe in sisterhood and weren't moved by love. They saw only a French harlot who'd committed the ultimate crime.

Violette had what the Queen wanted, even if only for a brief time.

The young Frenchwoman had been in love, or something like it. The English Lord who was the object of her affections fled, claiming sanctuary in Madrid. Twenty-seven, unwed, and of no consequence to anyone, the man who now called himself Arturo made Violette feel foolish. She couldn't wait to rush to the altar, a fair-cheeked maiden blinded by innocent infatuation.

He'd promised her a position in the English Court, life as a respectable married woman. In France, no one knew the ladies of the English Court were not allowed to marry, not so long as their Queen couldn't marry the one she loved.

The day she was presented and allowed to curtsy to the Queen was the most glorious of her life. Later that night, she had barely slipped into her white bridal dressing gowns when they came for her. She didn't understand most of the words the men spoke, arms twisted behind her back as she was taken, bridal silks flying immodestly in the night air.

It took a week for anyone to bring her a gown. The guards enjoyed the mortification of the once coquettish Frenchwoman, her pale features and petite build making her distress alluring.

Violette holds the book tightly, realising she is paying for her youth and innocence with the most fitting punishment available. She will be here until she too has faded from neglect and obscurity, as every rose inevitably does.

She feels the heat of her cheeks against the oppressive dampness of the room. Unable to resist, her eyes scan the manuscript, the words on the pages beckoning her. As she thumbs through the parchment, tears burn behind her eyes. She can feel the confines of her fate slowly suffocating her.

The story is a rather steamy one, a retelling of the fall of Persephone into the underworld. The woman does not seem fittingly horrified in Violette's eyes, an innocent who won't know better until it is far too late.

"She would be the wife of a Prince with no throne, the darkness their sanctuary."

(Author's Note: 1st draft word count, 1320 words)