"If a woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of the utmost importance; very various; heroic and mean; splendid and sordid; infinitely beautiful and hideous in the extreme; as great as a man, some think even better."---Virginia Woolf

20 janvier 1795
Firenze, Italie

Dearest Journal-Friend,

The thing they promised me has come to pass, and now I am in a place that is one of safety. Things are quiet and dull here, although I had spent so much of the past year in seclusion that I do not remember when things were quiet.

I was sent to the countryside of my most beautiful Versailles, cared for by a seamstress and her husband, a talented cook who managed to create the illusion of things being normal in a time when resources are few. While I awaited the time of the birth of Arnauld and Marguerite, they were kind to me. The woman, Madame Pauline, she dressed me in the simple frocks of the working class and hid my hair beneath a white cap so I should not have the trouble of tending to it on my own quite so frequently. It is shocking to know most people do not bathe nor dress their hair more than once a week. It is freeing to not have to go through such elaborate rituals each day, only then to help other women with their own. The greatest freedom is not needing to worry about looking beautiful for merely finding a husband.

I know I do not look beautiful, not now, and I have not for such time. During my confinement, I saw few besides Pauline and her daughters. She taught me a bit about sewing and embroidery, and I suppose I had reasonably decent talent in these things. If it is needed, I can pass myself off as a seamstress or governess and demonstrate some skill, so it is believable. A few times, my heart stopped at the sounds of the wagon and the men searching through the countryside for "traitors to the cause of Liberty". I heard the same cries I listened to the night my parents were taken, the motto of the Revolution. It made me wish to weep, though I did not. Madame Pauline looked at me often as if she pitied me, and I hoped she did not. It is natural, of course, when a woman finds herself in a pitiable state.

I was always careful to keep my eyes down. If I did that, they barely took notice of me, and the visits soon became fewer and fewer. There are rumours that the time of terror and fear is coming to an end, but it cannot arrive soon enough

During my confinement, no one told me about the death of Madame Élisabeth, sister to our late Roi Louis. They had promised her exile. One thing I know is that men who believe they have power are free to break promises, even at the risk of offending their God. Madame Élisabeth was always too pious and too strict for the life given her and the sensibilities of many before the times of darkness annoyed her. I mocked her quite a few times. Many say she died as what is called a martyr, one who is strong and puts others before themselves even the face of death. For this, the people started to grow angry at the executions.

Madame Élisabeth was convicted of the crimes against liberty and helping to support the monarchists, a crime punishable by death. She was convicted with twenty-four other people, most all with noble titles. I do not know why they go through the formalities of arrests and trials; the verdicts are decided before the charade begins and always there is a long night of anguish before death

When the wagon took the prisoners, I was told the story of how Madame Élisabeth comforted the women. She reminded them of their children and the good they had done on Earth. To the men, she recited scripture she had memorised over the years. To punish her, they made her watch as, one by one, each person made way to the scaffold. The first woman had tears of gratitude in her eyes, and she kissed Madame Élisabeth's cheek as if she were not anything but an ordinary woman. The woman then bowed and walked proudly to her death

It is said that Madame Élisabeth stood there and watched without emotion, reciting her prayers and providing comfort. Each woman kissed her cheek, and each man knelt before her before their time came. When there was no one left, they began to escort Madame Élisabeth. She had dressed in white, her head covered with a veil and shoulders draped with a shawl. I think she wanted to let the world know that although her lot in life did not permit her to become a bride of God, had she been free to choose, that is what she would have chosen

I am learning none of us picks much. We cannot choose our birth, nor much of our lives, nor love, nor Death. The only choice we have is the manner in which we greet each occurrence along the way.

People wept for Madame Élisabeth, though she never shed a tear. Maman would have been proud. I know if things do not work out and they send for me to return, when it is my time, this is how I must behave. I shall not dress in white, though, nor speak passages of Scripture. I know it is wrong, but I do not know how to see everything I have seen and still believe in something better. I worry I shall be a terrible bride to a man, but I should be an even more unfaithful bride of God.

Sometimes, I believe in a strange way, the death of my beloved parents was filled with greater kindness. What happens suddenly is better than awaiting the inevitable, is it not? Some are kept waiting for the inevitable for half a year, and not all make it to the date of their execution. I have always heard people say no one ever dies of a broken heart, but I know that now to be far from accurate. The loss of love is as lethal as a blade. It bleeds one's soul.

I was meant to leave the country a few weeks after they took my children from me. Michel told me only to be sure I recovered my joie de vivre, and more importantly, my figure. Does he believe women have any magic recipe to heal broken hearts and damaged bodies? I think him an idiot, and it is a puzzlement he has managed not to be killed.

The executions became more numerous the more than people began to have sympathy. They have run out of men and women of nobility to kill, and are now moving on to those of lesser importance. There is no honour amongst thieves, and I have no doubt the evilest men of them all shall fall victim to the revolution of their design. Betrayal is what happens when one runs out of enemies. The man whose schemes took my parents, my home, my country, a royal family, a legacy, and a nation is now dead. When the voices began to cry the news, the death of le diable Robespierre, my eyes filled with tears although I let none fall.

Whether it is just rumour or not, it is said he was held in the same particular cell as Reine Marie-Antoinette. Such retribution is perhaps the ultimate justice. He attempted suicide throughout the night, though he only succeeded in wounding his jaw so severely it remained barely attached. He died an unrepentant and desperate shadow of a man, bleeding and going to the scaffold in pain and misery. Rumours say le diable was so despised the executioner pulled off the bandages that covered his wound, causing a scream as if he was being tortured. Perhaps he was happy for death when it greeted him, in the middle of a shout.

Perhaps even le diable himself must give due penance. After all, suicide is a sin.

The death of the man who hurt so many caused more trouble, more uprisings, more arrests. The tides of justice that are not indeed truth are changing, and no one is immune. In one form or another, death is coming to an entire country. Some may say our destruction is only because we made it so

Because of this, the date that I was to return and gather my things kept being pushed back. I worried so often they should forget me and let me die. The woman once my nursemaid and later my attendant, Yvonne, had sent a few reassuring notes to the person I am now. They call me Delphine Abriele, apprentice to the seamstress

Two weeks ago, I was taken to what is left of the ruins of our home. I was permitted to take two trunks and Yvonne, who masquerades as my Maman. It outraged me to learn Michel still lives there, a guesthouse on the land his home. He pretends to all as if he was the gardener to a prosperous family sent to justice, and they smile at him proudly. Maman should murder him for his traitorous ways.

Everything of any meaning to me is now in two simple trunks, and Delphine and Yvonne Abriele were given safe passage out of France. The journey was so slow, so arduous. When one missed step can cause forfeit of lives, everything is deliberate, is it not?

We managed to reach Firenze today, and I am exhausted but happy. I was greeted by Magdalena, a kind woman who took me to be settled, rest, and taught proper manners and dress before I meet my new husband. It is something to get used to, a new name and title yet again.

I should like to dance about and sing and drink champagne and celebrate that I am going to live. I have found my freedom. Even if it only happened because my brother wished to be rid of me and end our family's name and memory, I still live. I shall be proud and noble enough for the both of us, though I never think of Michel with any love. There is only sadness. I feel sorry for him that he is so weak.

Some women are stronger than some men. He believes he has won, yet I am now the beautiful and exotic Duchessa Eleonora, and Michel is living in a shack and pretending he knows to tend to trees and flowers. I hope he knows most of the flowers he manages are mine. It is my memory that floods through the soil, the blood of our parents that nourishes the blooms. He knows nothing of love, but my flowers, they shall remember love even in the darkest of days.

It is those who believe they control my destiny whose downfall shall be mourned by no one. I hold this close to my heart, for it is some consolation. There is no justice in a world where weak men who hide behind false power are allowed to live. The day le diable Robespierre put a pistol to his head in the cell where the beautiful woman he murdered spent her final hours, I began to believe in justice again.

I began to believe in myself.

Whatever they wish to call me this time, I shall always be Eleni. It is easy to make me one hundred people in one hundred lifetimes, but I shall forever be Eleni.

Your ecstatic and joyful,

Eleni

In the late hours of the night, listening to the relentless rain of Aubrey Parish, Eleni sits with Victor at the aptly named Red Question. She catches herself reminiscing and daydreaming just in time. The man's eyes focus intently on Eleni. It is obvious he is growing bored and impatient, a sentiment echoing indiscreetly in the look on his face. Eleni did not mean to forget to pay attention, to make him enjoy the game every bit as much as she did. She mentally chastises herself for the oversight, softening her features and making sure her hand slides on top of his in a smooth, natural gesture.

Bored or not, he is still talking about how to survive her new life here. He takes her lack of response for an opportunity to spoon-feed her what he wants, so Eleni plays along, doubling her focus. "Best you start figuring out what you want to do in the Parish. Work-wise, many people work at bars and clubs and restaurants because they never go out of business no matter how poor folks get. I mean, we have all the usual stuff -- retailers, barbers, hairdressers and the likes. It's just about finding something within your skill set. What do you want to do, Eleni?" At that simple question, her eyes turn up to the helpful man who almost leaned toward her. His elbows were upon the bar top, and the flirtatious smile of hers is returned, almost a replica

The raven-haired girl blinks, realising she hadn't spoken in a while. Victor Zenovka was the sort of man who liked to talk more than he liked to listen and it was easy for Eleni to zone out. Still, she grew slightly curious as the man told his story. "A prison ship? That is something bizarre, and yet, I suppose more liberating than an actual prison." She does not ask what the man had done to find himself in prison, but there is a bit of spark behind the dark blue eyes at wondering. "So you were brought here against your will, but now, you have survival and freedom? It seems to me perhaps sometimes the best things do come to you in the worst ways."

Eleni pauses, giving his words some consideration, and also focusing her energy again towards him. Her hand returns to the now-familiar comfort of his calloused fingers. It is an intimate gesture, one that allows her much closer to his thoughts. "I had not honestly thought what I should like to do here, which seems strange, I know. I am never one for the practical things. Ending up in a place like this, it was a last-minute choice."

She laughs merrily, trying her best to conceal the fact that she is merely a New Orleans socialite thrown into a world that might involve her working for a living. The whole thought displeases her somewhat, but she knows what he wants to hear from her. It is important to let him believe he is leading her to the conclusions he wants the most.

Every time she does, she feels the swell of pride and desire to possess move through his body. He needs the reassurance, and Eleni can give that much. "I am a somewhat gifted performer," she offers, her voice soft and as if she is thinking. "I sing and dance and play the piano well enough, so perhaps a club in town may wish to grant me employment. Most people find me pleasing enough upon meeting me. I could do most anything, maybe even for a club like this. "

Eleni's smile is a comforting one, and she chatters on, turning the conversation to him once more. "Do you enjoy living here?"

The man's story had been open and mostly honest, and Eleni knows this. Victor, regardless of whether it was evident to most others or not, had not made much effort to reform himself. Anyone so content to explain their past with little regret was likely not looking to change their future.

Who could tell, after all? Eleni could only know he had no desire to change tonight, not with her. She could hear his thoughts just enough that she'd blush were she a different sort of woman.

He lifts his mug and sips the cold liquid down, moustache collecting just enough that he had to slurp it down quietly after, and give his lip a little wipe with the back of his hand. "Perhaps. I cannot say I am comfortable being so cut off from the world -- but I cannot say honestly I would be happy in a cell or at the bottom of the bayou."

Upon hearing her talk about her abilities performing, his fingers move delicately up her arm and back down again with a grin. His eyes meeting the bartender's, he silently gestures for another round. It is hard to take his hand from her skin now. Something in the air sparkles with electricity, and his head is in a fog as want turns to need. Eleni feels the change take over. There is a magical presence that is a silent but influential observer within the pleasant evening out.

Victor shakes his head, the long full beard shaking baubles of amber liquid that Eleni dodges. "Ah, a performer. We do not have enough of them here. Many think they can entertain. Usually, the only performances they can put on are tantrums. It's all rather boring. They are rarely worth the effort. Every once in a while, there's a hidden gem.." His eyes dance mischievously, and his lips show the smirk he can't conceal. "I would certainly enjoy listening to you sing. I would enjoy it so much more to watch you do a little dance while you perform. It could be just for me if you're the shy kind."

Izolda Vasiliev is not, by any stretch of the imagination, the shy kind. A petite brunette with skin the colour of deep and endless sand and hair glistening with auburn highlights offered by the sun and tedious visits to the salon, she is the sort of woman who, at twenty-five, looks thirty. Her figure is a delightful one, bought and paid for by her previous lover, a gambler she met in the casinos of Biloxi, Mississippi.

She'd met Oliver Landry when he was stationed in the small military town, and she was pulling double shifts serving cocktails to leering old men, drunk and enthusiastic soldiers, and whoever else was passing through. Izolda had come with her familia to the lively if dull beach town, a sad version of Atlantic City, New Orleans, and Las Vegas. She was a pretty enough girl, though no beauty. Izolda wasn't of particular use to the familia, which hurt her heart in a way she didn't know how to explain.

There was nothing wrong with the young woman, except she lived in a world where young women were prized for their beauty, personality, or unique gifts, and Izolda wasn't remarkable in any particular way. Simply put, she was an ordinary girl in a world where that wasn't a marketable attribute.

She wouldn't ever be pretty enough that her face would launch any ships or sell anyone whatever she was selling, her figure was too small and like a boy's to be put upon the stage, and her personality was not one made for hustling and putting herself out there. The most attractive quality about Izolda was that she wanted to make others happy. There wasn't a rebellious bone in her body. She was the type that others would describe as "such a nice girl", a beautiful thing to be in any world but hers.

Oliver Landry, who'd been addicted to endless hours of blackjack and poker and the free drinks delivered by buxom girls in short skirts, gambled on Izolda. Most of the girls in Biloxi were like Izolda, settling for hamburgers and vodka cranberries instead of steak and champagne. They weren't quite pretty enough for Vegas, but they were attainable and affordable, and that made up for it.

When Izolda stood naked in front of the full-length mirror, her lips trembling as she looked at the flat bottom and boyish A-cups that were cute if not sexy, tears came to her eyes. "All I want is to be pretty, to feel like a grown-up woman. I see the way you look at them when they're on stage. Everyone looks at them that way."

Six weeks and seven grand later, Oliver Landry's girl was a picture of inviting curves and a pert nose. Izolda would never be beautiful, but she was enough for the world they lived in. Oliver was delighted to show her off to anyone who cared, and the familia was happy when she tripled her daily wages and started being offered extra work on the side. It didn't occur to her that her money should be hers until it did.

Oliver saw the attention Izolda drew, something he never had to worry about before. He'd happily pass her a few bills to keep her out of trouble while he played cards to all hours of the morning. Izolda was not the kind to ever complain about feeling ignored or slighted, but she did. What was the use of becoming more beautiful if only to be just as ignored as ever?

As so often happens, Izolda began to harden, becoming less of a very nice girl with each passing day. She started by pocketing the pocket money and lifting little trinkets from the hotels where she'd serve drinks. Eventually, she'd gathered the confidence to chat with patrons while Oliver tried to gamble them into success. The more Oliver spoiled her, the more she became used to the power and appeal a pretty woman held, especially when people were drunk and high and the woman was neither prudish nor demanding.

At first, the familia loved and embraced Izolda, proud of how she'd blossomed. She remained, in their eyes, the same plain but dutiful young woman. One day, one of the mothers found the false pockets Izolda had been sewing into some of her clothes.

The same night Oliver Landry bought Izolda a beautiful dinner with oysters and champagne and offered her roses and a ring that made her feel like a lady, her father was waiting at home with a belt. "You have no right," he had screamed. "You think there is yours and not ours, that one day you will be a special grand lady and forget where you come from. Everything you are is ours." He left Izolda so broken she couldn't move for days and broke her finger trying to get the ring off.

Izolda wasn't stupid, and her fiance wasn't heartless. She'd grabbed as much as she could and packed a bag she stashed at the hotel. He saw what had happened to her, and she told him everything, expecting sympathy.

"Izzie, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for the life you've had to live. Those people are dangerous, though. I can't live with a gun pointed at my back for a girl who's a whore and thief for her own family. You know how twisted that all is?" Oliver shook his head, and said, "Look, I gotta leave town soon anyway. Being sent out on active duty, so more fighting, fewer cards. Let me get you out of here."

Izolda still misunderstood. She'd thought they were going together, but when he dropped her off at the airport, giving her three grand and an aeroplane ticket to New Orleans, she understood. He wasn't going anywhere. He was helping her to find her freedom.

She didn't want freedom. She'd just wanted love.

Oliver kissed her on the cheek and held her close. "Young love is stupid and reckless, Izzie. That's what we were. But I'll never forget a thing. I hope you have a much better life, Izolda. It's a big world out there.

New Orleans was too big, too expensive, and too overwhelming for Izolda. It was lonely, and she missed the quiet. She stayed for a week in a run-down hotel, turning down work at shady strip clubs and shyly approaching every pawn shop in the area looking to sell the rings, watches, and necklaces she'd collected. Izolda had no clue if she was getting a fair price or getting ripped off, she just wanted to take the money and get rid of her connection to the past.

It was when she was having a hurricane in a special glass and listening to jazz music that a fortune-teller approached her. The henna-decorated arms, the gold bracelets, the tell-tale light brown hair and caramel eyes were all Izolda needed to see. She'd found one of her people in a world that scared her to death.

It was the fortune-teller, Madame Esmeralda, who'd told her the stories about Aubrey Parish. There were more and more of their kind heading down that way, as far as one could go before falling off the map. It and other small towns like it were populated by refugees, young men and women who'd fled the confines of the familia to try to make it on the outside. Most didn't know how, and like Izolda, needed a world to call home.

Two days later, Izolda swept into Aubrey Parish with a diadem around her head for protection, one suitcase, a hefty nest egg, and a new body that made her feel pretty. The struggles of time and the hardship on the road left Izolda looking older than she should, weathered, but Victor Zenkova recognised something in her he saw in himself: a mixture of loneliness and ambition. He'd been there, and he wanted to help her out.

The next day, Izolda had opened a bank account where she'd protect the almost $10,000 she'd accumulated from her difficult and heartbreaking life on the road. It wasn't nearly enough to compensate for what was taken from her, but then, nothing was.

As he did with all the girls, Victor bought Izolda clothes, expensive jewellery, got her cleaned up and taught her how to be entertaining. She would never be able to make herself feel beautiful, but she learned the little secrets that made everyone in the Red Question feel special and beautiful all the time. Victor's gamble on Izolda was less personal and more calculated, which felt like a rejection. She learned fairly quickly there was a hierarchy, and Victor always had one or two girls who became favourites.

Despite appearances to the contrary, Victor wasn't a ruthless man, at least compared to others in his line of work. He was, however, wildly possessive. The women who were Victor's "special girls" found themselves treated kindly and protected from the cruelties of life. He didn't see them as employees so much anymore as mistresses, and ones who'd happily live as caged birds. Too many knew what cruelties the world had to offer, and found their golden cages to be a sanctuary. Others didn't, and every so often, someone would disappear.

It wasn't a place where anyone asked questions, this world where even the name of the club had a secret meaning. Izolda never knew if the girls ran from Victor as she'd run from her familia, or they met the same fate as those who tried to run. She understood the truth for what it was, that she'd traded one criminal family for another.

This one allowed her freedom, as long as she behaved, and didn't assume the liberty of taking half her belongings or climbing into her bed. In fact, no matter how much she tried to impress Victor and convey her interest in sharing his bed, he turned a blind eye. She didn't know he was doing her a favour. The fact that Izolda wasn't Victor's type gave her the freedom to live a life apart from the Red Question, something that many of the employees would never do.

Izolda saw only rejection in the eyes of a man who judged everyone. She never noticed the gift she'd been given.

That night, when Izolda sees Victor with his latest acquisition, she is filled with rage. The girl was everything Izolda had always wanted to be. She is undeniably beautiful, curvaceous, dressed in an elegant way that suggests she's long been the Princess of her world, not a girl hanging all over the owner of a high-end brothel. The jewels and the fur looked real, and Izolda wonders for a moment if the girl is Victor's daughter. The way he put an arm around her corrected that very quickly.

Teeth gritted, she approaches Victor and his companion, her ensemble jingling as she offers a modest curtsy. Izolda still dresses in costumes befitting a belly dancer and walks around barefoot, auburn hair tumbling past her shoulders. "Good evening. Is there anything that might delight the two of you tonight?" The words barely leave her lips as she avoids looking at Eleni.

Victor laughs, and replies, "So many things, Izolda, but none you can help me with too much. Izolda, this is Eleni. Eleni, meet Izolda. She's one of the most caring and attentive members of our family. If you ever need anything, ask her."

Izolda's face forces a smile and speaks to Eleni in a voice laced with kindness. "Welcome, Eleni. Will you be joining the Red Question family?" Her eyes drift from Eleni to Victor and back again.

The Russian man gives a hearty chuckle, wasting no time in not allowing Eleni to answer. "Let's give a lady some time on the first visit, shall we? She is so exquisite, and it would be a shame if she said no. I'm hoping the answer is yes, in one way or another. I have many questions for her that should all be answered yes!" Victor's grin is boyish. He has a way of being charming when he wants to be, and it makes something in the pit of Izolda's stomach burn all the more.

Izolda gives Victor a tight-lipped smile and turns to leave. "Izolda, could you please send Virgil this way with some drinks? No rush, but I'd love Eleni here to try our very special brand of champagne. After all, she is a proper Frenchwoman! We may have to up our champagne stock should she agree to stick around a bit more often."

Victor winks at Eleni, leaning back in as if he hadn't missed a beat. Whether or not he notices the murderous look on Izolda's face, it's hard to say.

Victor's peach eyes look up to see how she reacts. The innocent and hopeful face is exactly what he had been waiting to see. It makes her look five years younger and much sweeter. His fingers move all the way up the pale and pristine flesh, noticing there is not a single mark or imperfection.

The poor girl is a bit too thin and cold from the rain, but he can take care of her and fix her up. He has to. She has become a prize he won't relinquish, and his actions are emboldened by her agreeable response. "Maybe I'll throw in a good word with some friends of mine here? If you'd like, of course. We are friends now, aren't we?"

He shrugs and drains his glass, his wet lips moving to her hand with a kiss. "Why don't you think it over, and let me know when we see each other tomorrow."

There was a complete lack of modesty about Eleni, but also little pretentiousness. He sees the way she notices his broad, twitching smile, and the graceful way she moves her head to the side causes a rush of blood to push through his body. There is a semi-enchanted look on her face, and for a moment, he wonders if she is trapped in the same vortex of wanting he can't escape.

She doesn't flinch when his callouses begin to travel the length of her arm. "What is it that you do? Perhaps you could help me, yes? I do not imagine you are the barber". She gestures to his beard with a laugh.

Victor looks down at his beard, and he also started laughing with her. In the end, he just rolled his eyes. "No, I'm not the barber. I speak for my people, act for them, protect them, make sure they are all safe and happy here in the Parish. We're not considered natural, you know? So it's always a battle." He'd almost forgotten that he was speaking to a stranger at this point, and just looked at the back wall.

"Don't worry about all those practicalities. I pay enough, and you won't feel anything unnatural with me. I promise this is a beautiful start to a new life here, Eleni. " The rough and calloused fingers slip under the lightness of the black fabric of her dress, pushing the strap aside slightly. His fingers only touch her lightly, but he can feel she doesn't wear a bra underneath the pretty black sundress

Victor doesn't even notice when the bartender brings them another round of drinks.

His eyes stare blankly, but his thoughts are focused and redirected each time he touches her. It's as if the spark of desire he is holding carefully in check is returned two-fold. That's my good girl. You're safe here. Victor's thoughts practically purr in her direction. Her lips turn up into an almost wanton smile as she shifts her body toward him, responding to words he hadn't spoken in the most delicious of ways. His thoughts were now clearly focused in one direction, when at all. She slides him the frosty pint left on the table. He's not drunk enough yet, and he wishes to be.

He has never been one to apologise for anything he's said or done. Victor is notorious for saying he will not feel bad because of the decisions that cause others regret. When his mind takes over, and all that fills his being are the visions of what he wants to do to the pretty young woman sitting next to him, he mentally apologises. Even Victor knows she deserves better, but it does not mean he'll do the right thing for anyone but himself.

He can't remember the last time he wanted someone enough he would both kill and die for such intense pleasure.

In an attempt to clear his head, Victor chugs the entire pint, looking pleased with himself for the accomplishment.

The alcohol does very little. It is the feeling of her skin beneath his fingers that is the true and inescapable addiction.

Taking the decorative and pretty champagne flute into her well-manicured hands, the surprise in her now-wide blue eyes is legitimate. One of Eleni's little eccentricities is also her greatest gift, charisma developed to a tremendous extent. Eleni can hear thoughts, enhance feelings through simple touch. As if she didn't have undeniable gifts of persuasion already, Eleni could compel others to wish to please her, whatever it is that would make her happy. It is not a very complicated gift but a useful one. When a person is already in the mindset she desires, it takes almost no energy from her

Something is happening to Eleni that confuses her. She was disoriented in her way, yet no one else could see. It was the supernatural equivalent of having someone toss something in her drink that was guaranteed to skew her already skewed perception of reality. Eleni never heard thoughts so loudly, except for the voices of the rare one or two who knew she had weaknesses she could exploit. It was possible to get inside Eleni's head and cause chaos, but far from easy.

Is someone in my head?

All that aside, she is still very much in control. This reassures her greatly. She isn't giving anything away.

She didn't take Victor for being the smartest man in the Parish. Then again, she thought him human until about sixty seconds ago.

"Unnatural?" she whispers, swallowing roughly. "What does that mean?"

If Eleni could feel fear, it would pass through her body at that moment. Instead, it manifests as a shiver. This whole game was predicated on the premise that of course, she'd be in control. He is human, after all. She feels the heartbeat, hears the raspy breath, is acutely aware of how every muscle in his body responded to her. Eleni even understands his thoughts, knows his games. She is in control of every moment of the carefully choreographed dance, no matter how much artifice it takes to convince him of her ultimate powerlessness.

Of course, I am in control. Something just overtaxed me. I know what I'm doing.

Eleni's mental dialogue is with herself, but the answer comes in the form of a heat spreading through her body. For a few seconds, she loses touch with her surroundings, wanting to rip her clothes off and crawl into the lap of the man beside her. It didn't matter that she didn't find him even slightly attractive.

But what if you're not? The voice asks her this in almost a teasing, mocking tone as if it knew what she just felt. It didn't sound like Victor's voice, although anything was possible. His thoughts were nowhere as coherent or sophisticated. Eleni recognised that and briefly considered going home, but it stops her. It has been too long, Eleni. Strange things happen when you don't eat. She lets out a small sigh of agreement, which the man beside her takes as an expression of desire and pushes his fingers into her skin.

Do you still want to play the game?

Eleni feels her body freeze for a moment, so she can almost hear the large blue orbs fluttering shut for a moment. She reaches for the drink beside her, Alice taking a tenuous step toward the rabbit hole.