The night after the dinner, Paris seemed louder than usual to Evelyn. Carriages rattled down the boulevards, laughter spilled from salons, and even the Seine seemed to rush noisily beneath its bridges. But within her, there was only a steady silence, the echo of her father's words, and the brittle memory of her mother's gaze—proud, but distant.
She walked along the apartment's balcony, the chill of winter brushing her cheeks, her shawl drawn tightly around her shoulders. Somewhere below, a street violinist played a mournful tune. The sound floated upward, fragile yet determined, and for a moment, Evelyn leaned on the railing and let herself believe it was meant for her.
Josephine joined her, carrying a blanket. "You'll catch a fever standing out here." She wrapped it gently around Evelyn, then leaned beside her. "Do you ever wonder, Evelyn, what would have happened if your parents had not gone their separate ways?"
Evelyn exhaled, the cold turning her breath into clouds. "Every day. But then I think… perhaps I would not be here at all. Perhaps I would have been a dutiful daughter, married off young, playing piano only in drawing rooms."
Josephine studied her quietly. "And yet, you still long for them. Both of them."
Evelyn's voice cracked, though she forced herself not to cry. "I long for what never was. For the family that existed only in fleeting moments." She turned her gaze back to the city lights. "Now I'm caught between them. Father wants me secured like a contract. Mother… she's kind, but she keeps me at arm's length, as though I remind her of everything she lost."
Josephine touched her hand. "And what do you want?"
The question lingered, unanswered.
---
Far away, Julian woke to the sound of movement in the woods. Not the ordinary shifting of animals—something heavier, slower. He reached for his musket and signaled to Havers, who sat up instantly.
The men listened, breath held. Snow dripped from branches. Then came the sound again: a deliberate crunch of footsteps, circling.
Julian rose, moving silently to the edge of the camp. His eyes searched the white-dark tangle of trees. For a moment he saw nothing. Then—a flicker. A figure, tall, cloaked, standing just beyond the tree line.
Julian's pulse quickened. "Show yourself!" he barked.
The figure did not move. Did not even flinch. It stood utterly still, as though carved from the night itself. The firelight did not seem to touch it—its outline blurred, almost unnatural.
One of the soldiers whispered, trembling, "It has no shadow…"
Julian's heart pounded. The words from the warning in the inn returned to him with full force. Beware the man with no shadow.
When he blinked, the figure was gone. Vanished into the snow without sound or trace.
The men murmured in fear, some clutching their amulets, others muttering prayers. Julian forced his voice steady. "Stay calm. We'll double the watch. Whatever it is, it bleeds like any man. Remember that." But deep within, he was not sure he believed his own words.
Later, as the fires died and silence fell again, Julian sat with the locket in his hand. He whispered into the darkness, as though Evelyn might somehow hear: "If only I had your music now… maybe it could keep the
shadows away."
The snow thickened in Paris the next morning, muffling the city's noise, turning even the busiest streets into pale rivers of silence. Evelyn sat at her piano, fingers resting on the keys, but her mind refused to obey. Notes blurred, scattered, dissolved before she could catch them.
She pressed her palms into her eyes and exhaled shakily. Her father's words still echoed—marriage, respectability, the weight of duty. Her mother's careful silence only deepened the emptiness. Music was supposed to save her from such heaviness, yet now even that felt distant, like a bird just out of reach.
The door creaked open. Josephine slipped in quietly, her hair loosely pinned, her smile warm though tired. She set a letter on the piano. "Post for you. From London."
Evelyn looked at it but did not touch it. "Another critic?" she asked bitterly.
"No. A friend. From the Conservatory." Josephine tilted her head, studying her. "Why do you always expect the worst?"
"Because it usually comes," Evelyn murmured. But she picked up the envelope and slid a finger under the seal.
The letter was short, neat, written in careful hand:
'Dearest Evelyn,
Your last performance has been spoken of even here in London. Some call you the rising star of Paris. Do not let your heart grow heavy—you have a gift the world cannot ignore. I will always believe in you. Yours faithfully, C.'
Evelyn read it twice, her throat tightening. She folded it carefully and placed it on the piano. For the first time in days, her fingers moved to the keys and lingered there. Slowly, she began to play—not for an audience, not for her parents, but for herself.
---
In the Ardennes, the cold grew merciless. Julian rode with his men along a narrow path cut between the trees, the horses' breath rising in clouds. He kept his eyes sharp, though fatigue gnawed at him.
At dusk, they reached a ruined chapel, its roof half-collapsed, its windows shattered. They made camp within the broken walls, grateful at least for shelter from the wind. The men huddled around a small fire, speaking in hushed voices.
Julian sat apart, polishing his musket. But his thoughts wandered. He remembered the glow of chandeliers in London, the ripple of applause, and the brief glimpse of a girl at the piano, her hair glinting like gold under the lights. He had seen her only once, yet the memory haunted him more than he cared to admit.
Havers approached, breaking his reverie. "Captain, the men are uneasy. They say the figure you saw—" He hesitated, lowering his voice. "—they say it wasn't human."
Julian's jaw tightened. "Superstitions weaken a soldier's spine. Tell them it was a spy. Flesh and blood, nothing more."
But when Havers left, Julian stared into the fire, the locket heavy in his pocket. He could still see that strange figure—still as stone, unshaken by his command, vanishing without sound.
Snowflakes drifted down through the broken chapel roof. He tilted his head back, letting the cold sting his face. "If only I could hear her music again," he whispered into the ruins. "Perhaps it would remind me what I'm fighting for."
---
Paris was still asleep when Evelyn awoke the morning of her next concert. A pale light seeped through the curtains, and for a long moment, she lay motionless, listening to the hum of the city awakening—the distant clatter of carriage wheels, a milkman calling down the street, the faint echo of church bells. Her heart felt heavy, though the world outside was brimming with life.
She rose slowly, wrapping herself in a silk robe. In the mirror, she caught sight of herself—delicate features, hair tumbling around her face, the faint shadows beneath her eyes betraying sleepless nights. She leaned closer, almost searching. People often told her she was beautiful, that her pale skin and soft golden hair gave her the look of a painting. But Evelyn had never felt beautiful. She felt fragile, like a vase that might shatter with the slightest touch.
Her maid entered, laying out the concert gown—a gown of midnight blue satin that shimmered with the light. Evelyn ran her fingers over the fabric. Tonight, she thought, she must appear strong, unshaken, flawless. No one could suspect how fragile she felt.
Josephine arrived soon after, her presence brisk and grounding. "You look like a ghost," she said, tugging the curtains open to let in more light. "Paris expects brilliance tonight, Evelyn, not a shadow."
Evelyn managed a faint laugh. "Then brilliance they shall have, even if it drains the last of me."
Josephine studied her closely but said nothing more.
---
That evening, the concert hall glittered with anticipation. Chandeliers hung like frozen constellations above the crowd, their light scattering across polished marble floors. The air was thick with perfume, silk gowns brushing against uniforms, whispers filling the vast space.
Among the crowd, unnoticed at first, sat a group of British soldiers on brief leave from the front. They wore their uniforms neatly, their posture stiff but eyes curious, drawn more by curiosity than culture. Among them sat Julian Reed, his dark hair brushed back, his face sharp with the discipline of command yet softened by an undercurrent of weariness.
He had not intended to come. A fellow officer had pressed him into it, insisting that one must taste beauty before returning to war. Julian had scoffed at the notion—but here he was, seated among the glittering civilians, feeling more like an intruder than a guest.
The murmurs quieted as Evelyn stepped onto the stage. She moved with grace, though her heart thundered beneath her gown. Her hair, caught in the chandelier light, glowed like spun gold. Julian's gaze locked on her instantly, something inside him tightening without reason.
She sat at the grand piano, her slender fingers hovering over the keys. Then, as silence swept the hall, she began to play.
The first notes rose like whispers in the dark, delicate yet commanding. The melody unfurled, tender and fierce all at once, filling every corner of the hall. Evelyn closed her eyes, pouring her soul into each phrase, her music carrying fragments of longing, pain, and fragile hope.
Julian leaned forward unconsciously, his breath caught. Around him, the audience sat rapt, but for Julian, it was as though the music was meant only for him. For a brief moment, the war, the snow, the shadow in the woods—all of it vanished. There was only her, and the music, and the strange feeling that he had been waiting all his life to hear it.
---