Little Fiona had a long, long dream.

From the scorching temperature on her forehead, she understood that she was ill again. She dreaded falling ill, because there's no medicine in their home. For a child from a poor family, such minor ailments had to be borne on their own.

She couldn't forget that one time, two years ago, when her mother went out to work for others, she was left alone in bed, her whole body aflame with fever. She gritted her teeth, bearing the discomfort, yearning to moan, yet not daring to make a sound. For her thirst was agonizing, her throat felt like it was being pricked by needles, but she lacked the strength to fetch water for herself.

But it wasn't like this when papa was around. Papa would always smile at her, using his rough, large hands to caress her red hair. In her early years, she often fell ill, but whenever papa's thick-calloused hand touched her feverish forehead, she immediately felt cooler.

Father looked dull, but Fiona knew he could tell the most amusing jokes. During the slack season of farming, he even carved a few crooked little toy horses out of firewood for her.

When she was five years old, papa went on a trip to town and came back with a red booklet in his pocket. They couldn't afford candles, so he would sit outside at night, reading that booklet by the moonlight. Since then, Fiona noticed papa becoming even more silent. Even when working in the fields, he would often be lost in thought and occasionally utter some strange words that she and mama couldn't understand.

She never expected Father like that to later become a bandit and heartlessly abandon her and Mother. He's so small, how could he carry a long rifle? After Father left, she never smiled again.

She did not blame her mama. They were too poor, that's why mama always got angry. When you are hungry, it's easy to get mad. When mama got angry, she would fiercely beat her, pulling at her hair. But when they managed to scrounge up a mouthful of bread, mama would hurriedly stuff most of it into her mouth.

Fiona then recalled the last illness Mother suffered. More dreadful than the lack of bread was the lack of medicine. People had all gone off to war. No one was willing to tend to the two of them.

Mother lay half-naked on the bed, drenching the sheets with sweat, turning them a murky black. Her entire face took on a terrifying ashen hue. No matter how much her daughter shook her body, cried out her name, she would not open her eyes, or make a single movement.

Fiona watched as flies landed on Mother's eyelids, waving her hand to shoo them away, only for another to settle near Mother's lips, stained with coagulated blood. Mother must have suffered as much back then as she herself does now? Probably even more so than her.

Holding her mother's hand, Fiona knew that Mother was about to die, perhaps already dead.

Death! At her age, she still did not quite understand what death meant. It wasn't due to being too well protected, but rather the ignorance brought about by poverty. She had no fairy-tale imagination of death, but still had some vague, religious understanding of it.

Mama would ascend to heaven, wouldn't she? She hadn't done anything bad. Even when people hit her, she never fought back. Just like the teachings in the Bible.

The searing heat subsided, and suddenly, Fiona felt unbearably cold. It was as if she had fallen once again into that icy, snowy expanse. But this time, someone took hold of her sweaty little hand, bringing warmth to her entire being. Fiona smiled, knowing that the angel in the red dress had come to visit her once more.

"Edith..." she softly called out the fairy's name, opening her eyes.

Yet by her bedside, only a deep, mellifluous male voice replied, "Hmm? Is that your classmate at school?"

Fiona immediately took in her surroundings. She had returned to her cozy, pretty bedroom in her new home.

"Monsieur the Marquis?"

The girl instinctively pulled her hand back, feeling that she should be afraid of the man before her. But why? She racked her brain trying to recall what had happened before she arrived here, but it was like a fog veiled her memories, blocking her gaze into the past. Her head throbbed, so she gave up trying to think further.

"What has happened to me?" she asked the Marquis de Sèvremont.

"You fell ill, my daughter. When the nun woke the students this morning, she found you lying still in bed. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that you had a high fever. To make it easier to take care of you, I immediately brought you back home," the Marquis replied smoothly and naturally.

"So, I was found in bed?" Fiona murmured softly, sensing that something was amiss but unable to pinpoint why.

The maid, Mother Susan, approached and gently changed the cloth on Fiona's forehead.

The little girl felt hot, instinctively wanting to throw off the heavy-scented silk coverlet draped over her.

"You need to sweat, dear Miss Fiona," Mother Susan said, pressing down on her hand, smiling and shaking her head.

"But I feel so hot," Fiona sighed irritably.

"Let me blow on you, soon you won't feel hot anymore," the Marquis, sitting by the bedside, bent down and earnestly breathed onto her petite forehead, causing a few stray strands of hair to flutter, tickling her face.

"Am I some kind of hot sweet cookie?" Fiona laughed at this playful side of her usually dignified father.

"You are my little sweetheart, exclusively mine, Fiona." The Marquis's expression was serious, yet his gaze upon her eyes was filled with a smile.

She reached out and touched his large hand. "Stay and talk with me, Father," the girl cooed with her melting voice.

"Of course, little princess. I'll be here for as long as you want. As for the school, I've already arranged a month-long leave for you. During this time, you'll just stay home until you've fully recovered," he assured her.

"Really?" Fiona exclaimed with delight. "I thought I wouldn't be able to return to your side until I turned seventeen."

"I couldn't bear that," the Marquis chuckled. "I would be lonely too, my dear Fiona. The yearning for you would overwhelm me."

Fiona listened in a daze to these unheard-of words.

"If only you were my father," she sighed suddenly. "I mean, from the very beginning, you have been my father."

However, the Marquis shook his head, "I'm not willing to be your father, young lady."

Fiona felt an instant chill in her heart, and tears all at once brimmed in her eyes.

"Are you also going to abandon me, Monsieur the Marquis?" Her delicate and dulcet voice trembled, adding an extra layer of emotion.

Caught off guard by her reaction, the Marquis froze for a moment. He gently caressed her cheek and wiped away the tears that streamed down her face.

"You have misunderstood, my beautiful child," he spoke again, his voice husky yet tender. "How could I bear to abandon you?"

"What did you mean by those words, then?" she gazed at him, perplexed.

"You will understand when you grow older, little angel," he took her now fair and tender hand in his, bowing his head to press a deep kiss upon the back of it.

The girl found the Marquis's actions peculiar. "Why do you behave this way, my noble father?"

"You must get used to this, my love," he raised his eyes to gaze into hers. "In the future, you are going to become a noble dame."

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

Margot, already sickly, soon succumbed to a consumption under the torment and harsh conditions. Curled up in the corner, she struggled to suppress the wheezing and moaning of her discomfort. Even when she had to cough, she tried to muffle the sound, unwilling to disturb her sister's rest.

Edith immediately reproached her sister upon discovering it. "Why do you have to put on such a brave face?"

"I'm fine, Edith. I'm not feeling as bad today," Margot lowered her head, her jet-black silky hair veiling her weary face.

Seeing her sister's submissive state, anger welled up within Edith, and she yelled at Margot, "It's only the two of us left here, Margot! Who are you trying to impress with your bravado? Must you make me feel like a burden?"

Margot simply turned her head away, coughing softly.

Edith suddenly dropped to her knees on the straw mat, embracing Margot as she sobbed, "I'm sorry, sister!"

Margot, as always, silently stroked her sister's back.

Edith, with a childlike indignation, pounded the straw mat beneath her, burying her face into Margot's shoulder, choking out, "Ah, poor Aunt! And my Andre!"

The girl was trapped in an abyss of heartbreak and despair, so she resorted to reading Charlene's letter time and again, pressing the tear-stained paper against her heart.

"l don't even know how Raphael is doing now! He hasn't even heard the news of poor Charlene's death!" she thought bitterly.

Fortunately, whether it was because Margot's worsening illness or the men outside had found more intriguing sources of information, they were no longer interrogating the stubborn girl.

One day at the end of August, the two girls overheard the chat of a few gaolers at the doors.

"Have you heard? Definitive evidence has been found. Quenet's true identity was a catamite raised by a noble in rural Vendée, practicing sorcery with that old aristocrat all the years, causing local people to suffer a lot."

"This is truly a shocking revelation! Who could have thought it would involve such a massive conspiracy!" one man commented with great interest.

"But if that's the case, why would this Quenet blag his way into republicans?" another asked curiously.

"Only the heavens know!" the initial person shrugged dismissively.

After that day, the committee further relaxed their surveillance of this prison cell, assigning only one guard to keep an eye on them.

As the gaoler entered to deliver their meal, Edith noticed his distinct features.

He wasn't particularly tall, but had a sturdy physique. His orange hair was quite short, cropped like a Roman, revealing his whole slightly round yet hard-edged face. His nose was short and wide, while his small eyes appeared shrewd. The eyes were blue, but unlike the infant-like crystalline blue of her deceased lover, they had a more noticeable grayish tone, giving his gaze a fierce and martial air. However, this fierceness was tempered by the full and thick lips underneath.

Overall, he appeared to be under thirty years old, only his rough skin from wind and sun exposure gave him a mature and weather-beaten impression.

Unlike the general apathy in the previous soldiers, wisdom and integrity could be seen in this man's face. He spoke sparingly, but often regarded them with sympathetic and contemplative glances.

Several days later, one evening, when the guard was certain there were no witnesses around, he stooped down and whispered urgently to Edith:

"I can help you out of here. Last August, someone falsely accused me of stealing the Republic's property. It was Citizen Quenet who hid me in a hidden place and later helped me clear my name. I'm just a humble gaoler, with no much culture, but I'm not foolish. I can discern who is truly loyal to the Republic. Those testimonies they collected against Citizen Quenet, I don't believe a single word of them.

"I am an Irishman, formerly a hunter. If you are willing, you can come with me back to my homeland, or I can find a way to settle you both in another town. It's all up to your preference."

"Take my sister with you, good soul," Margot feebly coughed, "Don't mind me. I don't have much time left to live."

"Margot! Do you think for a moment that I would ever consider leaving you behind?" Edith immediately interrupted her sister's pessimistic thoughts.

"Don't worry, Citizeness Percy. If I can take one of you out, I can take both. It's all the same. I have a way to ensure your safety," the man's deep voice carried a reassuring strength.

"How should I address you, virtuous citizen?" Edith asked earnestly.

The man replied, "My name is Lucas Garvan."

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Vote/comment to celebrate Edith and Margot's regained freedom, and welcome the male protagonist of our Book Two!