This joy was too unreal, and therefore, hard to last. The raindrops fell unexpectedly, barely giving people time to decide whether to ignore them or not, before quickly turning into a downpour that stung their faces with a painful intensity. The tourists had to hastily pack up their picnic blankets and scurry back inside with discomfiture.

The seven of them retreated to their respective rooms assigned, shedding their drenched garments and then reconvened in the dining hall.

When the storm interrupted, everyone's senses were at their most heightened state, making the disappointment all the more acute. Not a single person could muster the energy to continue the lighthearted banter and games from earlier. They all fell into a silent malaise, each occupying themselves with their own business.

As evening approached, the rain still showed no signs of relenting. The fierce wind howled and raged, the thunderclaps growing louder and closer, booming through their hearts.

Seeing his hopes of playing outdoors dashed, Little Horace began to fuss and cry. His tantrum only served to exacerbate the already-frayed nerves of those inside.

Lucile finally managed to soothe the child to sleep, softly excusing herself before carrying the little one up the stairs.

"When do you think it will end, Camille?" Danton, standing at the window and smoking, suddenly asked.

"The rain? It won't end," Desmoulins answered, his tone tinged with gloom.

"You know I'm not talking about the rain," Danton pondered. "The Terror. Will it ever end?"

"It won't. Whether it's the rain or the Terror," answered Raphael from the corner, his gaze fixed and distant. "Paris or the countryside, no matter where we go, it's all the same."

"You're letting the rain get the best of you, Saint-Clemont," said Camille Desmoulins, struggling to rally his spirits. "I'll continue to persuade Robespierre. I believe reason and clemency will ultimately prevail. The Republic will overcome this darkest hour and usher in true enlightenment."

As if in response to his words, a dazzling flash of cyan lightning suddenly shot out from the dark clouds, striking an old tree outside the window with a deafening crack. The candles on the long table flickered and then died, plunging the hall into darkness.

"I'm a little scared, Georges," Louise's childlike voice trembled.

"Let me light the candles again. It's alright, Citizeness Danton," Charlene soothed in a gentle voice.

"No need," Danton said, snuffing out his cigarette and waving his hand. "Everyone go back to your own rooms."

No one bid each other goodnight. After the rustling of skirts and footsteps faded away, the empty hall fell silent once more.

--------------------　

Edith leaned against the balcony railing, gazing wistfully at the curtain of rain outside.

The once carefree and joyful heart of the young girl was now shrouded in gloom. Somehow, she felt vaguely and pathetically that the storm which had ended their happy laughter also foretold the unfortunate fate of her friends.

Suddenly, she heard Raphael, slightly tipsily, murmuring behind her, "Will compassion destroy us?"

Edith turned to him in surprise. In the thick darkness, his pale and pinched figure looked mournful and lonely.

"Quenet was right. Neither side can truly accept me. Raphael Saint-Clemont is nothing more than the bat in Aesop's Fables, neither birds nor beasts willing to acknowledge me!"

"You don't have to think like that, Raphael. I think Citizen Desmoulins is right. Our hearts have been disturbed too much by this rain. How childish! When the rain stops and the sky clears, everything will be alright." She tugged at the corner of her mouth, the words spoken with a hint of uncertainty.

Raphael walked over to her, gazing together with her at the tempest that had engulfed the whole world. "I'm not as naive as Camille Desmoulins. Will Terror really end automatically by the power of charity? I have a premonition that it will only drag us all towards perdition!"

"Don't say such things, Raphael." The ominous sense of fatality in his words caught hold of her heart in an instant. Edith's emotions surged like the rainstorm outside, and tears at once welled up in her eyes.

He reached out and held her hand, his voice ethereal and touching as he murmured, "Love, can this also be a sin?"

Edith was at a loss as Raphael took her hand, bent to press a deep kiss onto it. His lips were feverish, making her entire hand scorching hot, yet a single, icy drop of water landed on her skin.

She realised then that such a fiery kiss could be dangerous for a woman with a heart that belonged to another.

"You're drunk, Raphael," she stammered, pulling her hand away. "I'm drunk too. We both should go back to our rooms."

Raphael didn't stop her, nor did he move. She hastily cast a plaintive glance his way before leaving the balcony, leaving the young nobleman to silently watch her vanish into the darkness.

He turned around, propping himself up on the railing with his arms and leaning over so far that he seemed poised to fall into the pitch-black emptiness below. He stayed there, buffeted by the strong winds and heavy rains that battered his hair, his cheeks, and his whole upper body, for a very long time.

The next morning, as the group prepared to return to Paris, the old stablekeeper pointed to them a tree in the courtyard, his face sombre.

That ancient and tenacious tree had been struck by lightning, cleaved in two from the middle.

-------------------

Nearly two months had passed since Fiona arrived in her new home in Plymouth, yet she still felt as though it was all a dream.

She crossed the Channel with the Marquis de Sèvremont by ship to arrive at this unfamiliar English harbour city. During the journey, she was held in the arms of the mysterious man and could always feel his warm chest and arms as she slept and woke amidst the tossing waves. It was the first time in her life that she had ever felt such a strong and reliable sense of protection.

From his tales, she gathered that the Marquis was originally a lord in Vendée who had to flee to the other side of the Channel like many other noble yet unfortunate people with the outbreak of rebellion against the monarchy. He had returned home a few months ago, assuming the duty of leading loyal and valiant peasants in defending their king and homeland. But now, with the rebels' ferocious onslaught, he was forced to retreat once again.

Fiona could never forget her amazement and awe when she first held the Marquis's hand to walk into the magnificent estate. The picturesque castle was surrounded by towering niveous marble walls, and the vast courtyard was a playground for the beautiful purebred horses of various colours that galloped freely on the grass.

The respectful servants bowed to open the cream-coloured double doors adorned with elegant golden knocker for them.

"This will be your home from now on, little one," he said, placing both hands on her petite shoulders and nudging her into the hall.

Fiona walked timidly yet excitedly into the palace and raised her tiny head to gaze at the sky-high ceiling. The walls around were covered with priceless tapestries and famous paintings, their variegated colours changing their hues under the shifting sunlight. The noble dame in the full-length portrait gazed down at the girl, with her grey eyes seeming to follow her every move, making Fiona feel as if the whole strange world was spinning at her feet.

She lifted the hem of her dress and ran up and down the grand and luxurious spiral staircase on her two slender legs like a birdling, exclaiming incredulously, "Is this really our house?"

"Your presence makes everything here so splendid like never before," the Marquis said, smiling indulgently at her.

He summoned the most skilled dressmakers, milliners, and shoemakers in town to create all kinds of exquisite and glittering puff skirts and small silk hats for the beautiful child.

All these lace and ribbons, pearls and agates, gems embedded in the staircase railings, the sparkling gold paint on the candlesticks and chandeliers, were all so dazzling to little Fiona.

But what excited her most was the doll lying on the bed in her bedroom: dressed in a delicately crafted pink tulle gown and with glossy blue enamel eyes, it was at least half the size of her own body.

"Now I have a doll too!" The little girl pounced onto the soft spring bed, tightly embracing her dream doll, and shouted in ecstasy.

"Your happiness is all that matters." The Marquis stared at her with pleasure.

She couldn't bear to let go of Annabelle - the name she gave her doll - so the Marquis let her hold her new friend while standing on a stool, as the maids and seamstresses busily embroidered lace onto her skirt, chattering and singing to Annabelle.

Fiona's boudoir, though designed for a child, was complete in every way, with a finely decorated dressing table displayed in the corner.

Before getting into bed, the little girl sat at the dressing table, while the Marquis stood behind her, gently combing her smooth and silky hair. When her red locks were let down, they fell like satin.

Fiona gazed blankly at herself in the mirror, her cheeks plump like plums from days of proper nourishment, and her lips as rosy as ripe cherries. Donning a pure white nightgown with puffed sleeves and a sash of royal blue silk tied around her waist and head, she felt as if she were enveloped in an illusory aura, becoming a princess in a fairytale.

But how distant she once was from all of this! She then remembered her mother's red, chapped fingers from washing clothes for others in the freezing winter, and how she used to envy and lament the rich little misses holding their dressed-up dolls.

Fiona had always thought that she lived in a world entirely separated from theirs, so far apart just like heaven and earth with no connection. Yet in an instant, she had leapt from her old world into this one; she's still the same Fiona, but now a noble young lady!

"Is this really me?" she couldn't help but ask aloud, her voice like a clear and melodious bell.

"This is who you truly are, my little princess," the Marquis bent down to kiss her soft red hair, his stubble tickling her, "all of this belongs to you."

And so, she looked at the bottles and jars on the dressing table, and opened again and again the wardrobe, where pretty dresses were displayed like in a shop window. Despite her euphoria, she still felt as if all these beautiful and brilliant objects were unreal.

Is it right for one person to have so much?

But she didn't want to think about it anymore. Regardless, she was now a happy child too. Happiness, can this also be a sin?

The girl wrapped herself in the fragrant and soft duvet, resting her head on Annabelle's warm chest, and closed her eyes, lost in sweetest fantasies.

---------------------

"Edith? Edith?"

Margot called out several times before her sister, curling up on the bed beside, finally came back to reality. Edith was almost startled, having sunk too deep into her own thoughts.

"Do you have something on your mind, my dear sister?" Margot turned to her with concern, reaching out a hand. "I can tell that you've been worried since you returned from your trip. I've never seen you like this before."

Edith sighed, sitting up in bed and holding her knees. Through the misty darkness, she gazed at the wall in front of her. "Sister, I feel like I'm losing sight of the direction of the revolution. How much longer do we have to go, and where will we end up? And Andre, I feel like I can't understand him anymore either."

Margot went silent for a moment, then leaned closer to her sister. "Edith, have you ever noticed that your feelings for Andre are not as sheer as you imagine?"

"What are you talking about, Margot..."

"Today, you sing the praises of the Incorruptible with such passion, but last year at this time, didn't you consider Brissot and Madame Roland to be paragons of wisdom and virtue? And even further back, didn't you use the same language to extol Mirabeau and Lafayette?"①

Margot paused here, yet seeing that Edith open her mouth, about to argue, she continued immediately. "Honestly, haven't you mixed your feelings for Andre with all these passions?"

"Doesn't the Republic teach us to choose friends who bear the most ardent love for the nation? I'm only willing to love the most loyal man to liberty. Can this also be a sin?" Edith still fought back, but this time it was more of a stubborn defiance than a persistent determination.

"I'm not denying him, or denying your relationship," Margot said softly. "But Edith, if one day this faith of yours also wavers, and he is no longer the most glorious, the most correct in your eyes, will your love for him remain unchanged?"

"It won't," Edith shook her head and muttered in a low voice.

Margot was surprised by her sister's quick response and looked at her. But Edith had already lain back down on the bed, turning her back to Margot while clutching the covers tightly.

"It won't! I do believe that unless I die, I will never stop being a patriot. No, even if I die, I shall never waver!" The young girl's voice was low and muffled, as if speaking to herself in a fit of pique.

Margot sighed with a bitter smile, turning over as well and folding her hands over her chest, "Ay, you've always been like this since you were little. Once you fall in love with something, you stubbornly cling to it, no one can ever persuade you. But Edith, such a kind of passion cannot last! "

***Author's Notes***

①The Incorruptible: refers to Maximilien Robespierre (1758～1794).

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