"We must take far-sighted precautions to return the destiny of liberty into the hands of the truth, which is eternal, rather than into those of men, who are transitory."
—Maximilien Robespierre
***
The year was 1811, and the echoes of revolution still whispered through the alleys and boulevards of France. The upheaval had left wounds that refused to heal, hidden beneath a fragile façade of peace that felt as though it might shatter at any given moment.
Caralee Isabelle Sheiffer had never truly known genuine sorrow, until the past fortnight. Fourteen torturous days—mere moments, grains of sand amidst the massive hourglass of a lifetime—yet they somehow felt more like an eternity of torment, each hour stretching mercilessly into the next.
The catalyst for this heartache bore the name of Donovan Crossoux; a name that usually left her whole body saturated in a deep warmth whenever the tantalizing syllables rolled off her tongue. She had once whispered those deliciously sweet letters with tender affection, but now she only shuddered as she tried to recall their taste.
Born and raised within the gentle embrace of Meudon, France, Caralee was a striking young woman. Short and voluptuous, her beauty held a rare allure, attracting admiration wherever she went. Friends described her face as catlike, delicate and captivating, crowned by slanting emerald eyes that glowed with intelligence and intensity. Her milky complexion, smooth as porcelain, often seemed to shine in defiance of the world's harshness.
Yet tonight, Caralee's beauty was muted beneath layers of exhaustion and grief. Her body, once vibrant and healthy, now trembled, frail from endless days spent hidden away, fleeing shadows and phantoms conjured by her restless imagination. Despite this, her eyes retained their alertness, sharp as daggers, surveying every rustle and shadow with vigilant dread. Survival—this was her singular focus, a mantra repeated endlessly within her troubled mind, pushing aside all other thoughts or fleeting desires.
Caralee guided her horse with practiced care, moving silently through the inky, oppressive, darkness as it engulfed her. The gloom enveloped her like a tangible presence, oppressive and alive. It relished in whispering cruel fears into her already troubled thoughts. Injecting seeds of doubt like a specialized tincture formulated to inoculate the nieve youth from becoming overly trusting. Taking sadistic delight in watching the poor girl languish, day after day.
Was this journey a trap? Was Donovan trustworthy, or had she been betrayed? She pressed her lips together, determination hardening within her chest. She could not afford to succumb to such suspicion, not yet. Her survival depended on clarity, composure, and unwavering resolve.
As the horse navigated the winding lane, Caralee's mind slipped back, recalling vividly the events that had unraveled her life. It had begun so innocently, her employment as a housemaid in the lavish home of Monsieur and Madame Crossoux, Donovan's parents.
Their wealth and prominence placed them at the pinnacle of society, an esteemed position preserved even after the turmoil of the Revolution. Within that grandeur, Caralee had seemed insignificant, invisible to the aristocracy yet essential in her duties.
It had not taken long for Donovan to notice her. His attention, initially flattering, had blossomed into clandestine meetings beneath moonlit skies. Secrecy became their closest companion, necessary due to Caralee's humble origins. Donovan's family would never tolerate their son's affections for a mere maid, their reputation too precious, their ambitions too grand.
Still, suspicion lingered. Donovan's mother had never openly confronted Caralee, yet the older woman's gaze was icy, brimming with a hostility that spoke louder than words ever could. Caralee sensed hidden layers beneath that animosity—secrets she did not yet understand but which seemed intricately woven into the tapestry of her own mysterious past.
Caralee's earliest memories were set in a small cottage beside the tranquil banks of the Seine. Her adoptive mother, Adéle Sheiffer, had been a gentle soul whose recent death left Caralee adrift and vulnerable. After the funeral, Monsieur Crossoux had graciously offered her employment, a kindness he explained by referencing an acquaintance with her deceased mother. His cryptic promise to look after her, to protect her, had confused her deeply, raising questions she had been too frightened to pursue.
Love had never been part of Caralee's expectations, least of all with Donovan Crossoux. Yet, it had flourished despite her fears, and against all odds— filling her heart with a joy she scarcely believed possible for herself. Donovan's reciprocal affection had stunned her even more profoundly, and though she longed to share their happiness openly, caution prevailed. She had allowed herself the fragile hope, that perhaps his parents might eventually accept their love, transcending the rigid boundaries of class and tradition.
The forest of Meudon had become their sanctuary, a secret haven where the trees stood as silent witnesses to their whispered promises and stolen kisses. It was there Donovan had requested to meet her on that fateful evening two weeks prior, a meeting she now thought back on with trepidation that twisted painfully within her stomach.
Her jade gown gleamed softly in the fading twilight as she guided her horse down the familiar forest path, a bittersweet anticipation thrumming through her veins. Caralee had always cherished these woods; they had been her constant companions throughout childhood, a source of comfort in times of solitude and confusion. Though she did not fully understand why, the forest always felt like home, offering solace in its gentle shadows among its whispering leaves.
Though, now every shadow felt sinister, each whispering leaf seemed to scream a warning. Caralee's pulse quickened, anxiety weaving intricate patterns within her heart. She urged her horse forward gently, each step amplifying her apprehension. Her future lay shrouded in uncertainty, but within her chest burned the fierce determination of a survivor, unwavering in the face of whatever truths the darkness might reveal.
Unsettling as it might have been to admit to herself, she could not deny that what once had felt like home, so cruelly had become more like a nightmare. Alien to her senses, and foreign to her mind, so easily she had felt her life turn inside out. Her short life so far, once brimming with hope for the future, and strengthened by the love and care from others that felt like the very wind itself at her back. All she once knew, would never go back to the way it was.