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Her name was Seraphina Blum. She was a Jew who had survived the plague because she was a pretty girl with sad eyes who happened to look like a dead princess. And that was the most beautiful lie of all.
Hundreds of men and women, hundreds of different opinions and expectations, a multitude of dreams and nightmares... All waiting for her.
Her breath caught at their reflection in the exposed glass: an angel whirling in the devil’s arms, the Danse Macabre personified. They were Life and Death, removed only by a single heartbeat.
But that was the beauty of darkness: it obscured what shouldn’t be seen. By moonlight, death could masquerade as slumber.
There were no swans at Eldridge Hall; only sitting ducks.
“I forgive you,” he said, and closed his eyes as she whispered the words he’d needed to hear for four years. “I forgive you, too.”
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice as soft as his fine silk shirt. “Don’t you see? Women like me always get what they want.”
“That you’ll burn me up, fiery one,” he said. She raised her chin and grinned. “And would that be such a bad thing?”
