Eventually they reached the edge of the woods. Suddenly, the fog seemed to lift and the sky cleared. It was shy at first, then, little by little, the pale winter sun burst into the middle of the sky.

Once the forest was behind them, nature seemed to come back to life.

 "Tell me, what is this forest doing at the entrance to your estate?" Lucy asked. 

 "This is to deter the curious from entering."

Lucy turned around, gauging at the morbid woods and found that when it came to deterrence, there was nothing to complain about.

Ahead of them, a dirt road appeared. In the distance, in the sky, the smoke from the chimneys of a small village flew up into the heavens, long slivers of clouds carried by the wind.

On either side of the path the grass was frozen and shone like thousands of diamonds in the timid rays of the sun. On the horizon, the sky was turning white and orange. The air was crisp and cool and the sky had taken on a whole new, fresh blue hue, synonymous with a new day.

Further on, the grass was replaced by fields of turned earth, already ready for spring sowing, patiently awaiting the renewal of the next season. The ground was still wet from the recent rains and a few puddles of water remained on the road. 

The snow of the heart of winter had not yet arrived to cover the sleeping nature with its white coat. Every tree, every field and every plant was therefore waiting for the white flakes to tuck them in, to wish them a good rest until the return of the sun.

Soon, arriving at the top of a hill, they could see the village below. It was hardly a hamlet, a small town that had come to get lost there, taking refuge in this little pit in the middle of the hills. It was made up of just a few houses with stone walls, big gray bricks with thatched roofs that had chimneys pierced their entire length. A small mill which towered over the rest of the small houses with its large size, like a big brother watching over his siblings. The wind came to turn its wheel merrily.

In the center of the hamlet, a church, almost humble in its simplicity, which stood out from the other buildings for its width and the tower of its bell tower, adorned with a large clock marking the rhythm of the day for the inhabitants. The gray walls, with a few orange bricks, the roof of the same colour as the fawn of wheat at the end of a hot summer. If the mill was the big brother, the church was undeniably the grandmother, who scolded her grandchildren. The cross which surmounted its steeple became the lace bonnet which covered the old woman's head. Its walls, damaged by time, eaten away by humidity, were the skin, wrinkled and withered, of the grandmother. Her roof, the color of which was barely perceptible, was her hair, gray and wiry over the years.

The village had, in all and for all, a single street that crossed it in length and stopped in front of the venerable church. And still, giving the name of a street to this muddy dirt road, covered in dirt, rubbish and ruts, seemed quite out of place.

Even about this early hour, in the village, activity reigned for a long time. Everyone had risen at dawn and had since gone about their daily tasks with some diligence.

Carts crossed the fields' surroundings, people passed and repassed between the houses, leaning their heads out of the windows... Some went to feed the animals on the farm, others went with their basket to the fields, to go pulling weeds, some were getting ready for the market, the animals were being led to graze...

Yet the hamlet remained silent, no noises, no words, nothing. Just silence. No screams from the baker calling out to her customers, no vituperation from the merchant in front of a shoplifter, no discussions from the peasants in the fields at work.

The village seemed to be dead, inhabited by silent ghosts who had been performing the same tasks non-stop for an eternity.

In front of them, the maid went on her way, without looking around. Alistair and Lucy had to pick up the pace so as not to lose sight of her. She passed through the village street, under the noses of the peasants who, as they passed, suddenly stopped in the middle of their actions to stare at them, without the slightest word. They were gathering at the side of the road, without a word, without advancing, forming a sort of guard of honor for visitors. Lucy and Alistair were astonished, not knowing how to hold themselves, to behave in front of the sinister contemplation of the villagers.

The servant continued on her way, without worrying about the people who were staring at her.

Soon they had passed the small valley in which the village was located. A few yards ahead of them stood the sumptuous Averley mansion.

In the past it had hosted many festivals, balls in the hundreds, snacks, receptions. It was known for its elegance but also for the skill of directing of the mistress of the house, who had made herself famous for her natural abilities as a party planner.

Lucy's eyes were almost shining with joy. She who, in the past, had spent hours in her boredom reading the newspapers, and had read with excitement all the articles about the great parties given at the Averley manor. It was with delight that she had devoured the slightest description of the place, the outfits of the participants and the course of the evenings. She had savored every crumb of detail she could find and had dreamed countless times of attending one of those receptions herself, of dancing the night away, of enjoying the spectacular banquets, the magical decoration of the place, laughing and chatting with the other nobles. She would have felt in her place, accepted. She could have had fun. She would have played the princesses in a sublime ball gown under the thousands of crystal chandelier lights accompanied by the enchanting music of the classical orchestra, she would have twirled without ever stopping. She could imagine the whole scene. The huge ballroom, all in marble, gilded, decorated with flowers and sculptures, the long white tables covered with a thousand and one dishes, the dancing couples in their sublime finery, the light clink of the glasses of champagne collide... A special melody, which was specific only to this type of event.

Unfortunately, it had been a long time since a party like this had been given at the Averley mansion. For some years the Count had shut himself up with his wife and son in his home and no longer received anyone. It had been the end of grandiose receptions.

But, today, Lucy was going to be able to enter in real life into the theater of her daydreams, discover the setting of her fantasies. She felt like a child on Christmas morning, about to discover what was left under the tree.

While Lucy was absorbed in her thoughts, Alistair couldn't help worrying about their future investigation. The arrival in the woods, the meeting with the servant as well as the passage in the village. Everything seemed strange, singular... Starting with the famous letter sent by the Countess. Alistair well remembered having read and reread it about a hundred times, having examined it from every angle to determine if it was a fake. The Countess had been particularly laconic. In her letter, she spoke to them of a pressing matter, of the utmost importance, without specifying further... It only said that she invited them to her mansion immediately.

Nothing in the letter seemed suspicious or disturbing, but rather it was the context that alarmed Alistair. Neither he nor Lucy had ever met the Countess. Why did she contact them? They had, so to speak, never solved an investigation, they were not known to any circle. Alistair had a title of nobility but never appeared in major events, as for Lucy, she had just entered the world and was a commoner. Why them?

Everything seemed to ring hollow in this area. The village seemed artificial, the inhabitants looked like extras, the servant to a puppet. The fact that the only access to the mansion was through a terrifying forest that was previously unmarked on maps only added to his confusion.

Alistair feared that the crime they were going to investigate was very out of the ordinary. He was also afraid for Lucy's safety. He knew playing detective was her big dream, and being able to do it in the Earl of Averley's mansion must have lit sparks in her eyes. He sensed that no matter what danger they faced, Lucy would refuse to give up on the investigation.

The thing that scared him the most was that his companion's dreams would be shattered. He didn't want to see that look of desolation and despair on her face, a lost and bewildered look that he had already encountered so many times in the past among others.

So he had to play the game, regardless of what awaited them.

The Averley mansion. Residence that has become almost mythical among the nobility. House of celebrations and enchantments, of pleasures and amusements. The mansion was quite large and very wide. It was divided into three large parts: the central part, which advanced a little, with the white marble steps, framed by vines laden with grapes, with the huge wooden door which seemed to be able to stand for centuries, with above the large windows fitted with white curtains concealing the interior of the house, and the two adjacent parts, the one on the left and the one on the right, in perfect symmetry. White walls, wrought iron balconies, sculptures and engravings... Columns, bouquets of flowers... A gray slate roof pierced with several round skylights. Gutters with sculpted gargoyles. And, on the side of the house, an elegant little tower that crowned it all.

The Earl's house was framed by tall redwood hedges. It was accessed by a gigantic golden iron gate adorned with the coat of arms of the count's family, a stylized capital A.

When the maid approached, the gates opened immediately, moved by an invisible force. They walked up the red gravel driveway that led to the marble steps of the front porch.

On either side of the walkway were flowering groves. An arch of red roses rose above their heads.

This tunnel was called the entrance to paradise. It was through it that all the guests of the Count and Countess entered the mansion. Over time, it had come to look fantastic. Some even called it magical.

Once in front of the door of the house, the maid, unimpressed, rang several knocks on the wood with the silver door knocker in the shape of a lion.

Once again, the door opened by itself, giving way to new visitors. Lucy felt her excitement skyrocket. Everything was as described in the papers. She felt like she was living a daydream. She was almost tempted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn't asleep.

All these years she had hoped and now, finally, she could experience a moment like this. It was almost worth the sacrifice she had to make to get here. Well... Sacrifice... It was someone else who had to suffer the consequences for her.

Lucy sighed lightly and shook her head to dismiss these unwelcome thoughts. She was at the gates of her dream, now was not the time to be assailed by regrets or memories.