Brevard, France 1919

 Amelie would never forgive them for murdering Mathieu. Never.

More than a week had passed since his death, but rather than diminishing, the stabbing pain in her heart had only grown stronger. Worse, she did not know what hurt the most: that Mathieu was really gone, or that her own family had been the root of his demise.

How could they have done such a thing to him? Or to her? The mere sight of them turned her stomach, especially the spectacle of Mariette fawning over Raoul. Her sister would marry the heathen come spring –the same month Amelie and Mathieu had planned to wed. Amelie should be arranging her wedding too, joyfully anticipating the day she and her betrothed would pledge their undying love and devotion to one another. Instead she spent her days in mourning, grieving the untimely passing of her lover, her young heart growing as hard and cold as the ground in which he rested.

No, not rested. She was certain Mathieu’s soul was no more at peace than hers. Thanks to Mariette and Raoul. Their accusations against Mathieu –that he was a monster, a werewolf!—were as ridiculous as they were unfounded. No, Mathieu was innocent. It was the two of them who should have had their heads chopped off for spreading such nonsense.

She watched Mama and Papa, Mariette and Raoul, gathered by the fire, talking, even laughing, as if nothing unusual had happened –as if Mathieu had never existed.

Who were these people? Not her flesh and blood. Not anymore.

Unable to tolerate a minute more of their company, she excused herself, pretending not to notice her father’s nod at Mariette. No sooner had she entered her room than she heard Mariette’s footsteps echoing behind her.

No matter. She was determined to leave, regardless who guarded her. Night had fallen; they would have to sleep sometime. Even Mariette. Patience would see Amelie safely out of the house. If not tonight, then one night soon.

And one day she would return and see that Mathieu received a proper burial.