22 April 1894

Dear future husband,

I woke up this morning and found myself aboard a ship to Paris. Next to me is a woman whom I have not seen for over a decade. She claims to be my mother.

You will forgive, I am sure, the hasty scrawl, tear stains, and splotches of ink that mar this missive. For I am doing my very best not to give in to my emotions and keep a stiff upper lip, but it is quite difficult when one is in the state that I am in.

Last night was truly the best of my life. And now? I am afraid I might have lost my one true chance at love... forever. For last night, you see, I saw Maximilian Walker for the first time since we parted ways on that Oriental dock. Or, who is to say? He was a guest at the masquerade that Lily and I attended! He confessed to being Marcus Wakefield... and we have been slipping in and out of each other's lives over the past five years.

Yet if that is so, why would God be so cruel to pull us apart again, right when we have finally been able to meet?

I do not even know how he managed to attend my debutante ball, for surely he would not have been invited? Yet perhaps my father invited him. It seems like the sort of thing that Papa would do. Oh, I do miss him! I pray that God would lead him to me soon and that justice would be served for this vile act that my own mother has perpetrated against me.

Truly, I do not understand her. If she had simply wished to be in my company, we might have had tea or gone to Gunter's for an ice. I may not have been completely civil to her, as I am still quite put out with how she abandoned me and my father for the past decade or so, but... still. I would listen.

But she has left me no choice. No reason have I to be kind or polite, and every reason to resist and be stubborn.

My mother is waking up now, so I must put this letter away. Please, God, send my father to Paris, and let him know where I am.

Yours forever,

Rosalie Winthrop

Rosalie quickly tucked the letter into a hidden pocket of her overskirt, smoothing out the gown. Her mother stirred. Cornelia Winthrop looked perfect even in the faint rays of dawn light, and Rosalie resented it. Even with curlers in her golden hair and clad in a simple muslin dressing gown, she looked lovely.

It was a shame that her character was so hideous in comparison.

Not sure that her words would be polite or even civil, Rosalie kept her mouth shut.

"Good morning, Rosalie," Cornelia Winthrop said. "Did you sleep well?"

Abiding by the same policy, Rosalie nodded, though she had wept bitter tears, clutching her pillow, and wished that she were back at the ball with Maximilian and her father.

"Did your father not teach you to speak when spoken to?" she asked sharply, picking up a hand mirror from the vanity and examining her appearance.

Rosalie cleared her throat. "He did, ma'am."

"Then please abide by that rule, my dear." Her mother set down the mirror, taking out her curlers and fluffing her hair. She had brought no ladies' maid, as far as Rosalie could see, and so Rosalie had slept most uncomfortably in her gown from the ball. "I assure you, I am not such an awful conversationalist."

"Where in Paris will we be staying, ma'am?" She had always wanted to go to the Continent. But the thought of going with her mother, not with her father or hus–not with anyone she loved, seemed it would unbearably taint the experience.

"It's good to know that you are looking forward to sightseeing, as any decent young lady would be," Cornelia said. She yawned, and Rosalie replayed her words. It was far too cryptic for her liking, and was that a sliver of an accent she heard, twisting the edges of her words? It almost sounded... Cockney.

That was no response at all. Rosalie prodded for more, clenching her fingers in her skirts. She remembered the necklace she'd carried around, the letter she'd found from an Edgar to her mother. But she voiced none of her suspicions, frightened of what might happen to her. "Will we see the paintings in the Louvre, ma'am?"

"That's the only place to go, my dear," Cornelia said, humming absently as she brushed through her hair.

Rosalie touched the painful bruises on her wrist, left by her mother's henchman, Hugo. She would keep her faith in God to save her, in her earthly father to find her. She had to. It was all that Rosalie had in this moment. "I'm afraid my gown is a little dirty from last night's... events, ma'am. I don't think I'm fit to be seen in this state."

The faint lapping of the waves against the ship sounded like nails on a chalkboard to her, while her whalebone corset dug into her ribs, still laced too tightly from last night.

"Come here," Cornelia said suddenly, when her hair was neatly pinned into a chignon. "I'll fix your hair for you, just as mothers ought to do for their daughters, hmm?"

"Yes, ma'am," she said, each word biting into her. She took a seat at the vanity table, her reflection staring back at her. Her skin was sallow, dark circles beneath her blue eyes, and her hair had come uncoiled from its updo last night. The cerulean ribbon around her throat was fraying.

Rosalie tried to ignore the boiling resentment within her, mixing with fear and stewing with anxiety into a potent poison. Why had her mother left for so long, only to return now, as if she were some guardian angel or fairy godmother to rescue her from a dark and wretched life? Why return on the night of her coming-out, and why kidnap her to France? None of it made any sense to her, and it was just as tangled as the knots in her scalp.

"I know you must have many questions." Cornelia pulled a pair of golden pins from Rosalie's hair.

"Why... why come back now?" she said softly, her fingers digging into her skirt.

"I missed you." Her mother smiled, but there was something cold in its beauty, like the gleaming spires of an unreachable castle, shrouded in fog. "Didn't you miss me, Rosalie?"

Rosalie tensed as her mother tugged a wide-toothed comb through her hair, pulling on a particularly twisted strand. Had she missed her mother? When she was younger, perhaps, she had dreamed of her mother returning and saying that it was all an awful mistake, that she had only left for a short sojourn and had come to stay forever. Eventually, those dreams had faded. She had been content with her father and with her friends, but... Was she truly?

"I... I thought of you often, ma'am." She tried to smile.

"Hmm." Her mother picked up a boar-bristle brush, running it through Rosalie's hair. "How is your father?"

"Very well, ma'am." She didn't want to talk about her father in the presence of this woman. It felt like sullying his name in her presence.

"And did you meet any eligible gentlemen last night?" Her mother pulled out an array of har ribbons in a rainbow of colours. "Do choose a ribbon, dear."

She chose the pink one. "I..." To speak of Maximilian, too, felt like breaking something sacred.

"I do believe I met an acquaintance of yours," she said evenly, as though Rosalie had not spoken at all. "Maximilian Walker, his name was?"

"Yes, ma'am." She shut her eyes, wincing as her mother pulled her hair into a braid, wrapping the ribbon around the tail. She didn't want her mother to think that she cared for him. Who knew what she might do? The woman could be capable of anything. Surely any woman capable of abandoning her husband and child for over a decade could be capable of many misdeeds.

"All done now, and don't you look lovely?" Cornelia cooed over her as if she were a mere child of eight, and it rankled her.

"Thank you, ma'am." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Will we make land soon?"

"The captain says that we should reach France by noon."

Noon. It was already eight in the morning. A knot tightened in her stomach, and she stared at her reflection in the mirror. "I feel rather... confined. Might I take leave to venture outside for some fresh air, ma'am?"

A suspicious expression drifted across Cornelia's face, or perhaps it was only a drifting shadow. "Certainly. But take Hugo with you, dear. I would hate for you to get lost. And be back by ten, please."

Outside the cabin, Rosalie tried to take a deep breath. The ribbon around her throat felt like a collar. Her mother's plait felt like someone was tugging at her scalp, trying to constrain her.

Still, she began walking, and a black-garbed man, a head taller than her, began following discreetly. Hugo. He'd been the one to grab her from the ballroom when she had felt woozy from the lemonade, and the memory of his hands on her forearms bit into her like fangs.

"Good morning," she said, but it was strangled.

He nodded in response. Not much of a talker. That was alright. One couldn't expect everyone to be an agreeable gentleman, especially not henchmen of evil villains who kidnapped young ladies from ballrooms.

Should she try to run away? To tell someone on the ship of her plight? But what if they didn't believe her? If her mother was on speaking terms with the captain, they might be acquaintances, or worse, conspirators.

No. She had to remain calm. She would get off of this ship, and make her way out. Somehow.

Heavenly Father, please protect me...