The days in Paris grew colder, the first hints of winter settling in. Evelyn's schedule was relentless—mornings at the Conservatoire, afternoons in rehearsal halls, evenings consumed by performances and receptions. Her name seemed to echo everywhere she went, yet she felt more invisible with each ovation.
One gray afternoon, she walked along the Seine with Josephine and Camille. The river reflected the heavy clouds, the city's grand bridges arching across like solemn sentinels. Camille chattered about a painter who had asked to sketch her, while Josephine lectured on discipline and scales.
Evelyn, distracted, traced her gloved fingers along the cold stone railing.
"You're not listening," Josephine said at last.
Evelyn blinked. "Forgive me. My mind was elsewhere."
Camille smirked. "Elsewhere usually means someone, not something."
Evelyn opened her mouth to protest, but Josephine's sharp gaze silenced her. Josephine, who noticed everything, touched Evelyn's arm gently. "Whoever he is, Evelyn, he's haunting you. I can see it."
Evelyn drew a shaky breath. "And what if…what if someone is far away, in danger? What if you can do nothing but wait?"
Her friends exchanged a look, but neither pressed further. Evelyn's secret was safe, but her heart felt exposed.
---
Meanwhile, deep in the Ardennes, Julian's regiment pushed on. The forest seemed endless, its shadows twisting like restless spirits. Food was scarce, sleep scarcer. Men whispered of curses, of unseen enemies stalking them.
One evening, as campfires flickered weakly against the damp, Julian stood with Sergeant Havers at the edge of the trees.
"Tell me you feel it too," Havers muttered.
Julian nodded slowly. "We are being watched. But by whom, or by what, I cannot yet say."
He thought again of the locket's warning—the man with no shadow. The words gnawed at him. Was it a metaphor? A traitor among them? Or something far darker?
That night, he dreamed of music. He saw Evelyn, though he had never spoken her name aloud to his men, seated at her piano in a halo of light. Her hands moved across the keys, but no sound came. Instead, she lifted her gaze to him, her lips forming words he could not hear. When he reached out to her, the forest swallowed the vision whole.
He woke with a start, hand gripping the locket through his uniform, breath coming hard.
---
Back in Paris, Evelyn returned to her apartment after another glittering recital. The room was filled with flowers—roses, lilies, violets—yet none of them held meaning for her. She pushed them aside and sat at the piano, her fingers trembling as they touched the keys.
The music that poured forth was unlike the pieces she played in public. It was raw, storm-tossed, filled with longing and fear. Halfway through, her mother's voice startled her.
"You play as though the world is ending."
Evelyn turned sharply. Her mother stood in the doorway, pale and elegant as ever, her eyes unreadable. They had not spoken in weeks.
"Perhaps it feels that way," Evelyn said softly.
Her mother crossed the room, laying a hand on the piano lid. "You are chasing ghosts, Evelyn. Music cannot heal every wound."
Evelyn's throat tightened. "And love? Can that?"
For the briefest moment, her mother's face softened, grief flickering across her features. But she said nothing more, retreating into silence.
Evelyn bowed her head, tears falling soundlessly onto the ivory keys.
Snow began to fall over Paris, soft and delicate, settling on rooftops like powdered lace. Evelyn watched it from her apartment window, her hands wrapped around a cup of untouched tea. The city glittered with holiday lanterns, laughter rising from the streets, yet her heart felt far from festive. Each flake of snow reminded her of silence, of distance, of a presence missing.
Josephine visited that evening, bringing pastries and stern advice. She settled herself in Evelyn's parlor, pulling off her gloves with deliberate slowness.
"You're wearing yourself thin," she said, eyeing Evelyn's pale cheeks. "You give everything to your performances but nothing to yourself. Audiences see brilliance, yes, but I see exhaustion."
Evelyn forced a smile. "Perhaps brilliance and exhaustion are the same thing."
Josephine leaned forward. "Is it because of your parents? Or…someone else?"
The question hung heavy in the air. Evelyn opened her mouth, then closed it again, unable to confess the truth. Josephine reached over, clasping her hand. "You don't have to tell me. But if you keep burying your heart in silence, it will choke the music out of you."
Evelyn's eyes stung, but she said nothing. She only squeezed Josephine's hand in return.---
Paris glittered in the evenings, but to Evelyn it felt like walking through a painted scene—beautiful, yet somehow distant from life itself. After her mother's brief, enigmatic words, she found herself haunted by unspoken questions. Why had her mother looked pained when she asked about love? Was it regret? Was it recognition?
One night, she sat with Camille and Josephine in the quiet of their shared practice room after hours. The gaslights burned low, their reflections trembling in the tall windows. Evelyn rested her chin on her folded arms atop the piano, silent, while Camille sprawled lazily in a chair.
"You've not been yourself," Camille said, breaking the silence. "If I were in your place—with audiences eating from my hand—I would never let such melancholy spoil the taste of success."
Evelyn smiled faintly. "You've always found joy in being seen, Camille. For me, it is…complicated."
Josephine, sitting more upright, studied her carefully. "Complicated, or lonely?"
Evelyn did not answer. She reached out instead to press one soft chord on the piano. The note lingered, fragile, before fading into the stillness.
Camille shifted. "Perhaps you need a distraction. A suitor, perhaps?"
Evelyn laughed softly, though her chest ached. "And would a suitor calm a restless soul? Or only add to the noise?"
Josephine's sharp voice cut in. "Not all men bring noise, Evelyn. Sometimes, rarely, one can bring silence—the good kind. Peace."
The word hung in the room, like something Evelyn both longed for and feared she might never find again.
---
In the Ardennes, Julian marched through mire and shadow. The forest grew denser, its branches clawing at the pale sky. At times the mist was so thick that men vanished from sight only a few paces away. Whispers moved through the regiment like a sickness—of men disappearing, of fires snuffed out by unseen winds, of eyes glittering between the trees.
That evening, Julian ordered a tighter camp, men grouped in closer ranks. Yet the sense of unease did not lift. Havers joined him by the dwindling fire, face grim.
"The men are frightened," Havers admitted. "Some speak of desertion."
Julian stared into the flames. "Fear spreads fastest in silence. Keep them busy—patrols, drills, anything. If we falter, we are finished."
Havers hesitated. "Do you believe the forest is cursed?"
Julian turned his gaze upward, where no stars could be seen through the canopy. "I believe men disappear when their courage gives way. And I believe shadows are often cast by other men, not spirits."
Yet even as he said it, his hand brushed against the locket in his pocket. Beware the man with no shadow. The words gnawed at him, their meaning elusive, yet urgent.
That night, he slept lightly, dreams again tugging him toward music. In his dream, Evelyn sat at the piano, but this time her hands stilled. She looked at him across the silence, lips forming a single word. He strained to hear it, but before the sound reached him, he woke to the howl of wind through the branches.
---
Back in Paris, Evelyn awoke one morning to find her father had sent another letter. It lay unopened on the small table by her bed. The sight of his careful, elegant script filled her with unease. She broke the seal, scanning the words quickly:
Your success has reached London. You are the pride of our name. It is time you consider alliances—patrons who will ensure your future. Music alone cannot protect you. We must meet.
Evelyn's hand trembled. Alliances. He meant arrangements. Suitors. A future chosen for her. She folded the letter carefully, tucking it into her journal with a sigh.
Her life was moving so quickly—concerts, praise, expectations—yet in her heart, time felt suspended, stretched across miles of distance and silence, waiting for a man she had met only once, whose voice still lingered like a hidden melody.
---
Evelyn's days blurred together with rehearsals, lessons, and carefully arranged social calls. Every hour was claimed by someone—patrons who wanted to hear her play in their salons, critics who wanted her time for interviews, students who begged for her guidance. The city adored her, but it left her no air.
One Sunday afternoon, Josephine and Camille found her sitting on the practice-room bench, staring at the keys without moving her hands.
"You haven't played a note in ten minutes," Josephine said sharply.
Evelyn looked up, startled. "I was…thinking."
Camille dropped onto the bench beside her. "Thinking is dangerous for artists. Too much of it and the music disappears." She nudged Evelyn with her shoulder. "You need distraction. Come to the gallery with us this evening. There's an exhibition. Paintings, champagne, handsome men who stare at you as though you are already art."
Evelyn gave a faint smile. "I fear I have no room left to be stared at."
Josephine studied her in silence. Then, in her careful way, she asked, "Is this about your father's letter?"
Evelyn stiffened. "You know?"
"Camille talks," Josephine said, glancing sideways at her friend.
Camille lifted her hands in surrender. "I only guessed. The way you've been carrying yourself—it's as if some invisible hand is pulling you in two directions."
Evelyn sighed, leaning forward against the piano. "He wants me to consider alliances. Patrons, suitors—men who will secure my future, as though music is not enough. But when I imagine a future tied by convenience, not by love…" She trailed off, shaking her head.
Josephine's voice softened. "Then don't imagine it. Your music is your future, Evelyn. Not his bargains."
For the first time in days, Evelyn felt warmth at those words. But the ache remained, unspoken. What if love is already out there, and I may never see it again?
---
In the Ardennes, the regiment pressed deeper into silence. Snow fell thicker now, weighing down branches, muffling each step. The men's breaths steamed in the air, and their nerves frayed with every passing hour.
Julian rode near the front, scanning the path ahead. His instincts prickled—something was wrong.
That night, around the campfire, Havers leaned close. "Another man gone. Private Llewelyn. His bedroll empty at dawn."
Julian's jaw tightened. "No tracks?"
"None. As if he walked out into nothing."
Julian stared into the fire. He could feel the unease spreading like frost through the men. If fear took root, discipline would crumble.
Later, in his tent, Julian finally unfolded the locket's paper again. Beware the man with no shadow. The words burned into his thoughts.
When he stepped outside, he paused. The fire cast long shadows of men moving between tents—but one figure, standing just beyond the circle of light, seemed wrong. His outline flickered, the shadow at his feet too faint, too distorted.
By the time Julian strode forward, hand on his sword, the figure was gone.
---
Back in Paris, Evelyn dreamed of music that turned into marching boots, of applause that became the roar of cannon fire. She woke breathless, staring at the ceiling, her hands clutching the sheets.
The city outside was alive with carriages and laughter, but Evelyn felt caught between two worlds—the one demanding her brilliance on stage, and another far away, where a man she barely knew might already be in danger.
She sat at the piano, closing her eyes as her hands found the keys. The melody that spilled forth was quiet, aching, full of longing. For a fleeting moment, she imagined he could hear it, wherever he was.
Evelyn had little choice but to accept her father's invitation. A carriage arrived one crisp evening to carry her to a dinner arranged at an elegant townhouse near the Place Vendôme. She had not seen her parents together since their separation years ago, and the thought of them seated at the same table filled her with dread.
The dining room glowed with candlelight, the air heavy with the scent of roasted pheasant. Her father was already seated, glass of wine in hand, posture stiff as stone. Across from him, her mother sat with her chin high, her beauty untarnished by time but her expression weary.
Evelyn took her place between them, her fingers nervously smoothing the napkin in her lap.
Her father broke the silence. "Evelyn, your reputation grows by the day. Paris is yours. Soon London will follow."
Her mother's voice cut in, cool and even. "Do not turn her into another one of your business ventures, Charles. She is not a contract to be secured."
He bristled. "She is my daughter, and I wish her protected. When audiences tire of prodigies—and they always do—she will need stability. Suitors, alliances. It is the sensible path."
Evelyn set down her fork with a sharp click. "Enough. I am not a chess piece to be moved for advantage."
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Her mother glanced at her, something like pride flickering in her eyes. Her father, however, tightened his jaw, his voice low and dangerous.
"You will see, Evelyn. Applause fades. Family remains."
She wanted to shout that family had abandoned her long ago, but instead she rose, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Then perhaps it is better to have neither," she said, her voice shaking. And without waiting for permission, she left the room.
The cold night air outside bit at her cheeks, but it was a relief. The stars above Paris glittered faintly, and she let herself breathe again.
---
Far away in the Ardennes, Julian walked the perimeter of the camp beneath those same stars, though the sky above him was half-hidden by twisted branches. The snow fell in heavy flakes now, muting every sound, making the world feel dreamlike.
He stopped when he saw Havers crouched near a tree, examining the ground.
"What is it?" Julian asked quietly.
Havers looked up, his expression grim. "Tracks. But not leading away—circling. Whoever took our men isn't dragging them into the forest. They're watching us. Studying us."
Julian felt the chill deepen. His gaze swept the trees, but only shadows stared back. "Keep it quiet. If the men lose faith, we're finished."
That night, as the fires dimmed, Julian sat alone, the locket cold in his hand. The warning—the man with no shadow—echoed in his mind. He thought of Evelyn without meaning to, of her music, of the way her presence had struck him like light through darkness. He wondered if he would ever see her again—or if this forest would claim him first.
---
In Paris, Evelyn returned home to find Josephine waiting with a lamp lit and tea prepared. Her friend studied her pale face and said softly, "It was difficult, wasn't it?"
Evelyn nodded, her throat too tight for words. Josephine poured the tea and pushed the cup toward her. "You don't have to carry it all alone. Not fame, not family, not even love, whatever its shape may be."
Evelyn managed a faint, grateful smile. But when she sat at the piano again that night, the melody that came was darker, more uncertain, as though her heart already knew the shadows in which Julian walked.