I fell into an uneasy sleep.
I lay awake for hours in the dim light that seeped in through the curtains from the streetlamp outside. Eventually, I had a strange wakened dream; it felt like sleep, but I was not entirely sure it was for the dream itself was so cryptic and yet so vivid that I almost felt I must have been awake. There was snow, a rose and blood. The image had been so still yet so clear. There had been no movement. Just the image.
I woke early that morning. So early, it was still very dark outside. The room was cold. The frost from the earth – the first harbinger of a cruel and bitter winter – had crept u to Sylvester’s apartment window. The bitter cold stole through the silken curtains and had hidden in the dark corners of the room and had then preceded to climb up the walls. I dressed quickly in Sylvester’s white shirt which he had left on the wooden floor – tossed off when he had made love to me – which fell to just below my hips. I ran my fingers through my hair and my eyes caught the old jam jar which stored his paint brushes. I didn’t know Sylvester liked jam. I pulled aside the curtain and looked down to the yellow lit street below. It was then that I felt a strange subtle calling to go outside into the dim street, perhaps this was because crisp white snowflakes had begun to fall from the heavens and stay firm and un-melted upon the Parisian street, creating a cold white blanket that covered the land. I looked over to the bed to see if Sylvester was still sleeping peacefully and I smiled to see he was.
I tiptoed to the door. Unbolted it and stepped down the stairs – still in the shirt – to the hallway where I proceeded to the front door. I stepped out in bare feet into the snow. The cold felt good. Somehow true and real in a world where all was false. Even love could be a lie. I continued down the narrow street until I stopped for a second to look up into the moon. The gentle snowflakes plummeted against my face and for the first time in a long time I felt alive. I felt real. It was a strange feeling. I sat down in the snow, closing my eyes and places my face in my hands. Then, as had happened previously in my life, a note on yellowing parchment fell into my lap. I read it aloud.
Camille is dead. I found her this morning when I woke. I so wish you to come to meet me in the graveyard of Notre Dame for I want to tell you more – I have to tell you things I cannot say in a letter. But I fear the worst; I fear Sylvester may have played a part in her death.
Author Notes: The next few parts will become increasingly dependant on the reader understanding what had happened in The Curious Affair of the Palvine Residence.