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I woke with a stabbing pain in my side and a throbbing in my head. Every- thing seemed clouded, distant. The last thing I could remember was horse hooves and a star-strewn sky...

And the peasant farmers escaping into the night, while I, their diversion, was shot down by the guards... It was certainly not what I had expected, but we had all known the risks, and it was better my life than theirs.

Only I was still alive.

I lifted my head and opened my eyes, groggy, blinking at the sunlight streaming in through a small window, dust particles floating in the air. I was lying on a low cot, a wool blanket pulled up to my chest. The blanket slid down as I tried to sit up more, revealing the blood soaked bandages laid just below my right breast.

Groaning, my head fell back against the thin pillow, only making my headache worse. I lay there, wondering where I was, how long I had been here, why Elzeltar hadn’t yet pulled me out of it? I called to him then, out of habit and irritation more than anything, but heard nothing in reply but the slight breeze through the window and distant voices coming from outside.

The room, though it was small, felt a though it belonged to one who could afford such spaces, as it did not look or feel often lived in. Through the window I could see nothing but sky, suggesting that I was on a second story, not common for a peasant’s house...

Le Chateau de Savine...

There were footsteps outside, and the door creaked open, revealing a middle- aged woman carrying a pitcher of water and a pile of clean linen, obviously for my wounds. She stopped short for a moment when I lifted my head, but quickly regained her composure.

“Madame,” she yelled back out the door. “Elle s’est reveillee!”

My heart sank. I was still in the castle, not that I had truly thought otherwise. It was just going to make things more difficult once it came time to escape. I decided not to worry about that just yet.

The nursemaid wasted no time in waiting, poring the water into a basin by the cot and laying her things out on the beside table.

I didn’t hesitate to start asking questions either, wanting to find out as much as I could before the Comte got the chance to interrogate me. “How long have I been here,” I asked, with the best French accent I could manage in my condition.

She paid no attention to such details, dutifully beginning to strip away the bandages that had become matted to my skin. “A few days,” she replied, and I flinched in pain as she pulled at a particularly stubborn piece. “You should be glad that you managed to survive at all.” There was no sympathy in her remark, possibly knowing that it would be better for me in the end if I had died. Wishful thinking.

The bullet wound had stopped bleeding, and appeared to be healing well enough, from both ends, I assumed. I had suffered some considerable injuries in my time, many of which would have been fatal to even the most battle hardened man. It was, however, the first time I had ever been shot with a bullet -something I had not quite expected, but would have to get used to.

There were more footsteps outside, the clomping of boot with a steady, confident stride. The door burst open and in walked a man in the tell-tale attire of a French nobleman. He was rather young, in his late twenties perhaps -much younger than I had expected the Comte to be. His dark hair was neatly cut in the latest style at court, and his clothing was just as in fashion and practically immaculate. There were rings on his long fingers, and a think gold chain around his neck. He did not seem like one to strike fear into his subjects, but there was something in his ice blue eyes that suggested otherwise.

“So,” he said as soon as he had made his presence known, his voice full of arrogance and pride. “Our invincible guest is awake at last.”

The woman gave him a harsh look. “And she still has a long way to go yet, mon sieur,” she declared, as though she was used to dealing with him in such a manner.

The Comte looked taken aback, but did not let it affect him too much. “Well, I am certain she can still answer a few questions.”

He stepped closer to the bed, and I suddenly felt horribly exposed. I must have looked horrible, pale and weak, my hair a tangled mess behind my head, my right breast bare as the woman cleaned the garish wound, raw and tender, streaks of blood running across my skin. He seemed both repulsed by my current condition, yet drawn by my apparent youth. My body felt so frail under his eyes, inadequate, but I did not let that weaken my will.

“What is your name?” he asked, not that it truly mattered who I was.

There was no reason for me to resist. “Cristine MacArthur, your grace,” I replied, allowing the title as a courtesy, nothing more.

“And you are not from here?” he continued.

He could not have asked a more obvious question, but it seemed almost as if he had been preparing what he would say ever since I had been discovered alive. “No,” I replied, “I am Scottish.”

He seemed rather surprised when I replied in fluent French, since few Scotsmen -not to mention young women- would know much of the language. Of course, I was far from average, which they were quickly discovering.

“Then why did you come here?” he inquired. “And why did you help the prisoners to escape?”

His anger was beginning to be shown, but I countered it with confidence. He could not kill me, after all. “I came by my own devices,” I told him, quite honestly. “And as for the farmers, I simply did what I felt I should.”

That didn’t satisfy him. “Then why did you let yourself be shot?”

I gave him a small smile of indignation. “Someone had to,” I said, “and I would be less missed than they.”

The Comte looked both shocked and perplexed, amazed yet not understanding. I knew what was going through his mind: How could a young woman and a complete stranger just volunteer to risk her life for some insignificant men she had never even met?

“Yet you are still alive,” he commented.

I flinched as the nursemaid put a little too much pressure on the tender skin of my breast. I resisted the pain as bet I could, not wanting to show my weakness. My smile became more of a grimace. “So I am,” I replied sarcastically. “What good luck I have.”

This only frustrated him more. “Then you must know in what direction they have gone, where they must have been going?” His blue eyes were cold, yet smoldering.

I starred back evenly, indifferent. “I am afraid I do not,” I replied. “They did not tell me.” I would not let them...

He flexed his fingers, stretched himself up to full height. His eyes narrowed. “Are you quite sure?”

I nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Apparently dissatisfied, yet knowing that he would make no further progress just then, the Comte took a deep exasperated breath, containing his anger and the injury to his pride. “We shall see about that,” he snapped, then turned on his heels and stalked out the door, nearly running into another woman carrying a tray of food.

She let out a startled cry. “Armand!” she exclaimed. “Are you harassing that poor girl already?”

From his tone of voice, I could tell that his temper was bordering on snapping. “She is a prisoner, Annette,” he all but growled. “I have every right to interrogate her.”

He looked back at me one last time, and I felt his gaze linger on my exposed breast for a moment, which the nursemaid was just beginning to re-bandage. It did not feel threatening, but it certainly did not put me at ease. “I will see you at dinner,” he said to the woman, then stomped off down the hall.

She waited until he had gone, then stepped into the room with a heavy sigh.

“You must forgive my brother,” she said, setting the tray down on the table beside the basin of water. “He tends to abuse his power when our father is away.”

I blinked at her, but said nothing. Her brother? Their father was away..?

The servant finished bandaging, and pulled the blanket back up to my chest. “Voila,” she said. “You need little movement and lots of rest, but it looks like it will heal. I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Of course not, I agreed, but was paying more attention to the younger woman, Annette, Savine’s daughter. She was not that young, actually, at least a few years older than her bother, Armand. She had his dark hair and fine features and the same bright blue eyes, only hers were kinder, as though she had seen more in her life, more sorrow.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and lifted a mug of hot liquid from the tray. “It’s incredible that you’re alive at all,” she clarified, lifting the mug to my lips. “Here, you must get your strength back.”

I took a sip from it, nearly burning my tongue. “How long has your father been away?” I asked, trying to seem simply curious.

“A little over a month,” she replied, making me drink some more. “He was called to the Capitale on some business.” Before the farmers were imprisoned… “I do not know what he will do when he finds that five families have been driven out of their homes, or when he finds you here.” She smiled at that, though there was irony in it.

“I did break in and nearly kill one of your guards,” I pointed out, not afraid to take responsibility for my crime.

She sat back for a moment. “And you do not regret that?”

I shook my head solemnly. “No, I do not.”

The nursemaid was collecting her things. “Did you change the dressings on her back, Camille?” Annette asked, offering me the cup again.

“Oui, Madame,” the woman replied, “but an hour ago.”

Savine’s daughter was soft spoken, yet I could tell that she was stalling, pensive. “Bien. Merci, Camille.”

She waited until Camille had shut the door behind her before continuing. “My father will not be pleased, I can tell you that,” she said while I drank the tea, taking the mug into my own hands. The taste and aroma was comforting, and I was tremendously thirsty, but had to pace myself to keep from scalding my throat. “He is a just man. But my brother...” She froze up for a moment, thinking. “Armand has always been somewhat more radical than our father. He would have executed those farmers had you not rescued them, I think. And unless Papa returns soon, he will have his way with you as well.”

She did not elaborate on his “ways,” and I did not ask. I had seen the look in his eyes.

I drank the tea, and decided to concentrate on healing. I realized that I’d gotten into more trouble than I needed, and getting out of it did not look easy.

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