Free Night of the Candles by Jennifer Blake

and pulled the door open.
    The dresses hung on their padded silk hangers, dresses covered with braid and tassels, with lace and embroidery, dresses in bright hues with all the extravagances of fashion dreamed of in Paris and New Orleans and Philadelphia. Shoes in neat canvas cases were in the bottom of the armoire while parasols of lace and satin, silk and tassels, stood closed in the corners. Fans lay on the shelves along with neatly piled lingerie, with corsets and camisoles and a scattering of garters. There was also a pile of folded handkerchiefs, each delicately embroidered. With a thoughtful frown she took one from the top of the pile and turning, tied it quickly to one of the tall posts at the foot of the bed. It hung, a white signal, and an odd smile tugged at the corner of her mouth before she turned back to the armoire.
    She chose a nightgown of white silk with a panel of green embroidered leaves set into the bodice and a green ribbon threaded through the decolletage to gather it up for modesty.
    She stepped out of the dimity gown and threw it on the bed and then let the white silk one flow down over her with a delicious coolness. She pulled the green ribbon, drawing it closed over her breasts and tied it in a graceful bow.
    That little exertion left her faintly nauseated with a swimming feeling behind her eyes. As she made her way to the dressing table she held to the furniture, then half collapsed onto the stool before the mirror.
    This would not do, she told herself dropping her head into her hands. She must be stronger.
    At last, looking down, she noticed the end of the braid that fell over her shoulder. With trembling fingers she slipped the ribbon tie off and began to separate the plait into strands. Finally she picked up the brush. As she began to pull it through the lustrous tresses she automatically raised her eyes to the mirror then she stopped, staring. Gray eyes. Lashes and brows slightly darker than they should be, a firmer chin and wider mouth. For a moment tears threatened, then she took a deep breath, compressing her lips. What had she expected?
    She shivered a little, becoming aware of the chill of the room. On her right was the fireplace from which a little warmth still emanated, she could feel it against the skin of her arm. Strange, she thought as she took up a hairbrush, how you noticed little things like that at times.
    Carefully she brushed her hair, spreading it out over her shoulders, curling the ends around her fingers and pulling tendrils free of the mass to curl about her temples and before her ears. Taking up a scent bottle she sniffed the glass stopper, violets. It was a lovely fragrance, light but lasting, memorable. She touched the liquid to her wrists and the hollow of her throat, then passed it over the shining strands of her hair.
    With deft hands she opened jars, applied softening cream to her face, her hands, and arms. She used rice powder papers to remove the shine from her face and then, humming a snatch of a lilting song beneath her breath, she touched a bit of oil of carmine to her lips.
    There. That was much better. She could do with another length of ribbon to go around her hair but she now looked much better.
    The thought and her soft singing broke off as a faint sound came from behind her. Her heart fluttering in her throat, she turned on the stool.
    A man stood in the doorway in his dressing gown.
    “I heard someone moving about in here, and I thought perhaps you were ill,” he said, a frown between his eyes, his eyes bleak and withdrawn despite his words of concern.
    “Jason!” she said, jumping to her feet and going toward him, her bands outstretched and a teasing light in her eyes. “Jason, my love, don’t you know…”
    But she had not taken more than three steps before the fragile darkness caught up with her, and she sank, like a boneless doll with a white china face, to the floor.

Chapter Four
    “WHY, fraeulein, were you perhaps uncomfortable in the other