The front door is ajar. Melting snow clusters around the door frame. The house creaks and groans from the outside blizzard. Everything is normal except for the scene at the kitchen table. Her face is slack. Her cheeks hollow. Her eyes glassy. In her hand she holds a butter knife, dripping red.
         I’m stunned. It takes all my effort not to scream in horror at this grotesque spectacle. The clock chimes twelve o’clock midnight, and I almost jump out of my skin. With apprehension, I force myself to slowly approach the corpse.
         On a closer speculation I can see the soft folds of her skin, the way her eyes lost their twinkle, and the bluish hue on her lips. My eyes start to water, and my chest feels stricken with grief.
         Emotions burst free, and tears start trickling down my cheeks.
         “Why did she do this to herself?”
         The question flies around our dilapidated wooden shack, unanswered.
         My hand finds the wound on her chest. The front of her weather-beaten coat is soaked with blood. When I try to pry the coat off her body, two things happen simultaneously. The front door bangs shut, and multiple black eyes peer at me from my mother’s hair.
         A scream is caught in my throat as I stumble back in alarm. My eyes widen as strands of her hair turn into slithering serpents. Ssssss. Ssssss. They hiss in unison, and in a blink of an eye I feel their cold scales on my skin.

         I wake up with a start.

         My chest heaves as I try to gain control of my breathing. My back is sticky with sweat, and my body continues to tremble. I’m still having nightmares five months after my mother’s suicide. My heart remains heavy with woe, but I can’t wallow in despair. Get a grip Gabrielle.
       I’m hiding between wooden crates in a secluded alley. My back aches from leaning against the concrete wall while I slept. I stand and stretch my stiff joints when I hear my stomach growl. Time to steal some food.
         The sun has just peeked over the horizon, as I take gulps of crisp air. My feet pound the pavement as I race to the Cafe on Avenue Mozart. The wind slices my ragged T-shirt and worn cargo pants as I pass rows of tall black-bricked buildings. The streets are deserted this early in the morning, thankfully, as I round the corner onto Avenue Mozart.
         The sweet aroma of pastries fills my nostrils as I step inside the Cafe. My mouth starts to water at the sight of all the delicacies. Blueberry éclairs, Macarons, Crème brûlée...
         I survey the cozy, brightly-lit surrounding just to make sure Pastry Chef Beaumont isn’t at the cash register, and set into motion. Walking towards the bread display in an easy, laid-back manner, I reach out to grab a loaf when a voice shrieks, “Papa! There’s a girl trying to steal our bread!”
         I curse under my breath and bolt to the door, but the girl who screamed blocks my escape. I assess this girl who has a smirk playing on her lips. She looks around my age at fifteen, emerald green eyes on a heart shaped face, long mahogany hair sweeps down her back, and she’s wearing one of those white pastry chef coats.
         I had two options. I could either stay and talk my way out of this mess or I could force my way out of the store. There was a chance that I couldn’t talk my way out and end up in jail, so I choose the latter.
         “I’m not letting you escape.” She snarls then screams, “Papa! She’s trying to flee!”
         Before I have a chance to shove her aside, the office door bangs open.
         “What on earth is going on here?!”
         Pastry Chef Beaumont is monstrous, reaching over six feet with muscles that put wrestlers to shame.
         His face is blotched and red with fury as he roars, “I have a guest, Danielle. Didn't I specifically tell you not to interrupt?”
         I see Danielle flinch and cower at her father’s wrath, “I’m sorry, Papa.” She mumbles.
         Then his gaze settles on me.
         “You!” He barks with his index finger pointed at me, “You are the one who’s been stealing our bread for the past five months. I will have you personally executed if you do not reimburse me right now!”
         His eyes are bulged from anger, and he’s breathing heavily after all the yelling.
         I gulp. Escape is out of the question now.
         “I’ll pay.”
         A scraggly figure emerges from the office. He looks to be about middle aged, wearing a dashing suit and top hat. His most striking feature is the scar running down the left side of his face, which has me wondering what caused it.
         “Mail me the amount, and I’ll visit again with the money.”
         “Count Dame, I can’t possibly let you do that. She’s a thief! She’s unworthy of your hospitality! Let her get the punishment she deserves.” Beaumont, his anger dissipated, gives me the evil eye. As if I somehow bewitched the Count into making him pay for me.
         The Count waves him off. “I didn’t say I would do it for free. In exchange, the girl will now be a chambermaid for my estate.” 
         Beaumont's whole countenance immediately brightens, “What a delightful idea!” Then he crouches and brings his face mere inches from mine, “If you cause him any trouble, I’ll send you to the guillotine myself.”
         I can feel my heartbeat hammering against my chest as his eyes stay locked on mine even as he straightens up and engages in a conversation with the Count. I could try to escape again, but my chances of success are slim, especially since Beaumont has his hawk eyes trained on me. In addition, being the servant of the Count couldn't possibly be any worse than living on the streets.
         “Come, my love. The carriage is here.” The count beckons me with a tilt of the head.
I clench my jaws. I’m not your love. As if hearing my inner thoughts, his seemingly black eyes gleam and narrow into slits. A shudder runs through my spine, and I almost recoil in terror. I blink, and his dark demeanor is gone. It’s as if it was never there.

***

          We travel in silence. I take in the lush green scenery where hills carve the earth, and flowers dot the fields with their vibrant colors. I’m awe-stricken at the sight of such beauty. The difference from the sooty and populated streets is unimaginable.
         “We’re here.” He says gruffly and points to the crystallized French chateau.
         I gape at the sprawling mansion. It looks twice the size of a soccer field with more than two dozen windows. The carriage enters through the iron gate, circles around the stone engraved spring fountain, and stops at the wooden double-doors.
         “Stop gaping and get off the carriage, girl.”
         “My name’s Gabrielle Martel. Not girl.”
         “What was that?” He asks, as if daring me to repeat myself.
         “Nothing.” I shut my mouth, and hurriedly jump off. We are met by a tall, lean man around his mid-thirties. He’s averagely built with dirty-blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and a grainy stubble.
         “Count Dame, about the profits of this year-” He’s cut off by a wave of the Count’s hand.
         “We’ll discuss that later in my office. We have a new servant present. Show her to her quarters. I have another business meeting to attend.”
         The Count takes one last glance at me then walks inside the double-doors.
         The man looks taken-aback when he spots me. His eyes widen and his mouth forms a small “o” which makes me furrow my eyebrows.
         He then smiles reassuringly and chivalrously introduces himself, “I’m Alexandre Baudin, the land steward of this estate. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
         He sticks out his arm for a handshake. I don’t want to be rude, so I accept.
         “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” I mumble and try to pull back my arm, but Alexandre has an iron grip. I quizzically look up at him, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he pulls my arm towards him, causing me to almost bang my nose against his chest. He then urgently whispers, “You are in danger here. I’ll secretly arrange a carriage to transport you to the nearest town at dawn. If the arrangement goes awry please flee when the opportunity arises.”
         He releases me, and before I can inquire the reason why; he places his index finger on his lips. So it’s confidential.
         He straightens up then orders, “Come along. I’ll show you to your chamber.”

***

         The inside of the chateau is absolutely breathtaking. A dazzling chandelier hangs high from the ceiling in the middle of the entrance, decked by two curved marble staircases connected by a platform. All the furniture scream aristocracy.
         “Where are all the maids?” I ask, looking around.
         “They’re cleaning different chambers. You will join them shortly. Come along now.”
         My chamber is on the second floor near the end of the hallway.
         Alexandre directs me inside. “Please freshen up, and join the chambermaids on the third floor.” He then drops his voice, “And please remember my words from earlier.”
He closes the door before I can utter another sound, so I’m left standing in a plainly decorated room with my mouth slightly open. Irritation churns in my chest at being cut off twice by Alexandre. Then there’s the prospect of how I'm in danger and the eerie Count Dame. Everything was just bone-tiring.
         I collapse onto the white platform bed and stare at the ceiling. My eyes start drooping close unconsciously as I mull over today’s events. Wait. I can’t fall asleep. The comfortable mattress makes it even harder to resist. I fight to keep my eyes open, but fatigue overcomes me, and I’m defeated.

***

            I feel the knife before I see it. On my throat, to be precise.
            I gasp awake, wondering where I am. Hands clamp down on my mouth, and I almost choke on my saliva.
            Adrenaline kicks in, and I chomp down on flesh. The figure howls in pain and stumbles back. In the pale moonlight I recognize the distinct scar on the intruder’s face. Count Dame. My eyes widen at the gleaming knife in his hand, and I can feel my increasing pulse pound in my ears.
            I race to the chamber door, and I’m not surprised to find it locked. I could run to the bathroom and lock the door, but that would only prolong my death. Instead, I run to the dresser, grab a pair of sharp scissors, and hold it two feet in front of me in a defensive stance.
            I try to keep the trembling out of my voice, but both my arms and legs are shaking as I ask, “Why are you trying to kill me?”
            He stares at me then throws his head back and laughs.
            “Why are you trying to kill me?” I ask again, but this time anger creeps into my voice.
            He stops cackling, but has a wicked smile on his face as he replies, “Because you’re you.”
           “What do you mean by that?” A few pieces are still missing from the puzzle.
          He could’ve thrown the knife at me while I retrieved the scissors, but it seems as if he’s itching to divulge a secret.
            “You are the daughter of Agathe Couture and Jacques Martel.” He stated in a snarky manner.
            “How do you know that?” I inquire. My arms and legs are no longer shaking with the initial threat gone. I look past the Count, through the window and see a sliver of light peeking through the horizon. It’s almost dawn. If I can stall him maybe Alexandre or a maid will come.
            “Because,” he sneers, “your mother was my wife before she ran off with my footman.”
            At first I do not comprehend, but ice spreads throughout my veins as the news settles in. Mother told me my father was a merchant that died in a road accident when I was four. Whenever I mentioned him she would look around in alarm and tell me to shush. There was no mistaking the fear in her eyes. Then it hits me.
            “Yes,” he reveals, a cruel smile dancing on his lips as he registers my understanding. “I was the one who killed your mother that cold winter night.”
            Black spots dot the edge of my vision. I feel myself clenching my fists. A white ball of fury churns in my chest. I feel my eyes ripple in their sockets as I stalk over to the Count. All the emotions I’ve kept locked away after my mother’s death spring out.
            The element of surprise works in my favor as I lunge towards him, grab his collar, and ball it up in my fist. After the initial shock flees from his face, he aims the knife at my side. I catch his wrist without turning my stone-hard glare away from him and twist it upwards with all my strength. The knife clatters to the floor, and he screams in agony.
         “WHY DID YOU KILL MY MOTHER?!” I scream loud enough to wake the whole estate. “MAYBE SHE HAD HER OWN REASONS!”
         His face looks pale, but the smug grin is still on his visage. “Infidelity is unbecoming.”
         I yell in frustration and want to claw his throat out when I feel a hand clasp my shoulder.
         “Please calm down, Gabrielle. The police are here to arrest the Count for attempted homicide.”
         I turn my head to see Alexandre and two officers dressed in navy blue suits lined with credentials, standing at the opened doorway. I still wanted to throttle the Count, but getting arrested is not an option, so I allow the anger to slip away.
         As the officers execute a body search, I slump down in an ornate sofa. Alexandre joins me after talking to the officers, and we sit in silence. If I had gone home sooner maybe she wouldn’t have died.
         As if hearing my thoughts Alexandre says, “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s not your fault as to why any of this happened.”
         I don’t respond. My mind feels like it has shut down and all I want to do is curl up in a ball and sleep. As if none of this happened.
         “You know, I was your father’s best friend.” He pauses then continues, “He asked me to help him escape with your mother. She was pregnant with you at the time. What could I do, but agree?” He sighs at this and looks down at his hands.
         I feel a pang of empathy and venture to ask a question. “What happened after my parents escaped?”
         “Naturally the Count found out and went berserk. He started tracking down your parents and told me, ‘I must get my revenge,’ I warned your parents, going directly against the Count's order, but I couldn’t just sit back and watch him murder three people. Upon hearing the news, they decided to separate, so he would then have to search for two locations. If one of them was eliminated, the other one would be able to still act as a guardian.” Alexandre stops here to let me control my emotions.
         Tears had sprung from the corner of my eyes. I could feel my skin heat up from anger towards the Count and a little towards my mother. If she had been faithful then none of this would’ve happened. And I wouldn’t have been born.
         Alexandre resumes, “Sadly he located your mother first. Luckily you weren’t at home at that time or you would not be here. The good news is that your father is alive and well in Colmar. I phoned him in advance of your arrival here.”
         He lets me digest the news of having a father that is alive and well. I should be happy. I’m not alone in this world, but all I feel is hollowness, like a black hole had engulfed me whole.
         “Walk.” The police command the Count. He’s handcuffed and marched to the door. His shoulders are slumped and his face dejected. All the mockery from before is wiped from his face. Serves him right.
***
            It’s during the small hours when I find myself mounting a carriage traveling to Colmar. I take deep breathes of the fresh, cool air as we travel. It takes roughly one hour to arrive, and I’m struck by the vivid atmosphere.
            Homes are painted in bright pastel colors and gorgeous flowers in all different shades line the streets around the canal. Patisseries border almost every street with their cute store-fronts and cozy atmosphere. We stop and let a green train pass in front of us. There are a handful of adults and children grinning as they snap pictures with each other.
            I can’t help but feel a pang of loneliness, but then it’s replaced by hope. Hope of a better future here.
            The carriage travels a few more blocks then comes to a stop in front of one of the many rectangular shaped buildings with a downward sloped roof. A man stands a few feet in front of the doorway with his hands in his pockets. He spots the carriage and walks to meet us.
            I descend and stand face to chest with him. He’s wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt. He has medium length chestnut colored hair streaked with gray and slight wrinkles on his face if one looks closely. He could be anyone’s father, but his eyes are what make me certain he’s mine. Eyes the color of liquid amber, people say. The same ones I have.
            His eyes crinkle, and the corners of his mouth turn up as he brings me into a hug.
            “Welcome home, Gabrielle.” And I smile my first smile in five months.