Chapter Three

Juliette's eyes snapped open, and she found herself in the dimly lit bedchamber of her small flat above the modiste shop. Odette nestled on her chest, providing a comforting presence. However, the tendrils of a haunting nightmare still lingered, casting gloom over her senses.

A cascade of her hair tumbled loosely around her as she tried to make sense of the room, her heart pounding furiously in her chest, panic still gripping her. The lace curtains swayed gently, revealing the evening outside, but the warm glow failed to dispel the chill that clung to her skin. Dressed in a simple nightgown, Juliette traced the cotton fabric with anxious fingers, seeking a grounding touch. The room, with its Parisian paintings and delicate trinkets, offered little solace as she grappled with the aftermath of the nightmare. Breathe, just breathe. Slowly, in and out.

Odette purred, a soothing sound that contrasted with the turmoil within Juliette. Suddenly a memory, dark and fearful, and an unsettling metallic scent overcame her, and she gave a startled sob, terror gripping her gut.

"Why now?" Juliette whispered to herself, the questions echoing in the quiet room as she fumbled with the bedsheets. The memories were fragments of something she couldn't name, a puzzle with missing pieces that eluded her desperate attempts at understanding. Her nightgown flowed loosely around her as she moved, fumbling over the bed for a sense of solidity. The soft light from outside played through the curtain lace, casting fleeting shadows across the room.

In the solitude of her flat, she spoke to herself and the kitten, voice wavering with vulnerability. "I don't know what it is," she admitted. "But I see moments of it, glimpses. And it makes me want to curl up and hide forever."

But she couldn't do that.

She had a modiste shop to run, things to do. Bow Street captains to not think about.

Her attempts to shake off the remnants of the nightmare proved ultimately futile as she reluctantly swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The morning light filtered through the lace curtains, casting a delicate glow on the room. Determined to face the day, she reached for a simple day dress, the fabric cool and smooth in her trembling hands.

Another visceral memory seized her. The room around her blurred, replaced by the stark memory of hands closing around her, squeezing painfully. A gasp caught in her throat, and she staggered backward, the dress slipping from her hands. Her arms instinctively wrapped around her stomach, a feeble attempt to shield herself from the phantom pain. The small flat, once a haven, felt suddenly constricting, and the air seemed to thicken with the weight of fear.

" Non, " she whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet room. But the ugly memory lingered, an unwelcome intruder that refused to release its grip. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as fear coiled in the pit of her stomach.

Juliette's eyes darted around the room, seeking refuge from the memories that threatened to overwhelm her. She struggled to steady her breathing, her hands shaking as she clung to the edge of a small vanity. A sense of vulnerability washed over her as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back seemed caught between the present and the haunting past, unsure of where the lines blurred. With a deep, shuddering breath, Juliette fought to regain control over her senses, each inhale a battle against the memories that threatened to drown her.

The dress hung limply from Juliette's trembling fingers as the memory released its grip, leaving her breathless and disoriented. The flat seemed to close in on her, each familiar corner now tainted with the unsettling memories that clawed at her mind.

Helplessness settled over her like a suffocating shroud, and a surge of anger rippled through her. The uncertainty, the gaps in her own history, fueled a deep-seated frustration that gnawed at her very core. "I hate this," she muttered. The woman in the mirror stared back at her, hazel eyes displaying a mix of defiance and vulnerability. The memories, elusive yet haunting, kept her anchored in a past she couldn't fully grasp.

"Not remembering," she whispered, the words a bitter admission. The frustration of being held hostage by fragments of a past she couldn't piece together surged within her. Each memory was a reminder of a life she had lived, yet one that remained shrouded in mystery.

Juliette tried to steady her racing heart, to reclaim a semblance of control. The sunlight offered a fleeting warmth, but the shadows of her own uncertainty persisted.

With a determined breath, Juliette cast aside the remnants of her unsettling morning and focused on the tasks at hand. She put on the modest yet finely crafted day dress, the fabric smooth against her skin. As she descended the narrow staircase from her flat, Odette trailed behind, winding between her legs in an endearing display of morning companionship.

The modiste shop, bathed in the soft glow of morning light, unfolded before Juliette like her own private sanctuary of creativity and craftsmanship. The delicate scent of lavender and the myriad colors of fabrics decorated the space, enveloping the space in tranquility. Around her, antique dummies displayed the latest creations, and ribbons cascaded like waterfalls of color.

Juliette moved with purpose through the shop, her fingers lightly grazing the fabrics and trinkets that spoke of a life she had built with unwavering dedication. She couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of the shop she had created in a mere three years. " Mon petit paradis, " she whispered to herself, the words ripe with the pride she felt.

The mornings in her shop, before the hustle and bustle of Bond Street fully awakened, were moments of quiet bliss. The sunlight cast a warm glow on the polished wooden floor—polished to a high sheen with her own two hands. As she reached the counter, a sense of accomplishment filled her. Madame Toussaint's Modiste Shop didn't just display her skills as a seamstress but also her deep-rooted resilience.

However, the very success, the wealth, that had made her life stirred a twinge of worry inside her. And an even bigger twinge of guilt. For what, she knew not. Well, not specifically, at any rate. She only knew that one did not generally lose their life's memories and yet possess enough on-hand wealth in their carpetbag to purchase a small country when they came to consciousness in a dark alley. Not for any innocent reason, anyway.

She looked over the array of hats, dresses, and delicate accessories neatly displayed. The money she had used to purchase the shop, open the business, and make a name for herself lingered as a question mark in her foggy memory. Where had that bag of money come from? The lack of memory surrounding the acquisition of such resources gnawed at her, another puzzle piece missing from the narrative of her life.

"I've built something extraordinary," she mused aloud, her voice echoing in the stillness of the morning. Odette padded over, weaving between the legs of the dummies and chirping softly. "But how did I come by all this? I still can't remember who I was before that night in the alley three summers ago, mon ami ."

Despite the peace that blanketed her shop, she couldn't shake the nagging doubts that lurked beneath the surface of her success. As she meticulously arranged fabrics and checked the stitching on a delicate lace overlay, another unsettling thought crept into her mind. "Did the money come from somewhere bad?" she whispered.

Odette, sensing the shift in her demeanor, wound around her ankles again, offering comfort in the face of her uneasy thoughts. Juliette traced the intricate patterns of a silk gown, the material cool against her skin, yet the tendrils of doubt seeped into the very fabric of her existence. Suddenly the success she had built, the modiste shop that stood as her beacon of accomplishment, felt like a fragile house of cards threatening to collapse. She questioned the source of the funds that had allowed her to create this haven. Was it earned through honest means, or did it carry the stain of something darker? Was she something darker?

No, she couldn't possibly be.

As she stared at the array of dresses around her, a sense of foreboding lingered. The polished surfaces of the counters and the delicate trinkets on display seemed to hold secrets she couldn't unlock.

With a heavy sigh, she admitted to herself, "I need to know. I can't keep living in the shadows of my own past. I'm going to have to find out where the money came from and who I really, truly am—was?" A flicker of determination ignited in her gut. Odette mewed softly at her feet.

Juliette pushed the front door of the shop open, stepping into the cool embrace of a misty London morning. The air carried a subtle fragrance of damp cobblestones and the distant hint of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby establishment. The mist clung to the elegant fa?ades of the surrounding buildings, casting an almost ethereal aura over the street. The soft murmur of early morning activity echoed through the air as shopkeepers prepared to open their shops for the day. The occasional clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages could be heard, the background rhythm of an awakening Bond Street. Her steps resonated against the damp pavement as she joined the ebb and flow of the city's pulse.

Bond Street, with its cobblestone paths and elegant storefronts, unfolded before her like a canvas of restrained opulence. High-end boutiques beckoned with their amazing displays, showcasing the latest fashions and accessories. The scent of perfumes wafted through the air, mingling with the damp earthiness of the misty morning. The architecture showcased the city's historical grandeur, the fa?ades adorned with intricate details that spoke of a bygone era. Juliette took in the scene—the polished windows, the gleaming brass signs, and the elaborate ironwork that decorated the lampposts.

As she moved along the street, shopkeepers exchanged morning greetings, their voices a melodic chorus against the backdrop of the awakening city. The scent of fresh bread emanated from a nearby bakery, adding a comforting note to the sensory symphony that enveloped her. The mist, suspended in the air like a whisper-thin veil, lent an otherworldly quality to her surroundings. It clung to her clothes, leaving a refreshing coolness on her skin. The occasional drizzle painted a glistening sheen on the cobblestones, like a reflective, rain-patterned canvas beneath her feet.

With each step, she inhaled the misty London air, hoping to find clarity amidst the fragrances and sounds that defined the city. As she strolled along Bond Street, the mist-kissed morning air embraced her, and the elegant storefronts greeted her with an air of refined allure, urging her to forget her cares. She exchanged nods and smiles with the fellow denizens of the street, punctuated by a few courteous greetings.

"Good morning, Madame Toussaint." A distinguished gentleman tipped his hat, his eyes crinkling in a genial smile.

"Good morning, sir," Juliette replied with a nod, not knowing who he was, but figuring she had clothed a female member of his family.

Further down the street, a group of ladies dressed in fashionable gowns and extravagant hats paused in their animated conversation. "Madame Toussaint, a lovely morning to you," one of the ladies, a vision in a design of lace and silk, said.

Juliette curtsied lightly, her movements graceful and refined. "Good morning, ladies. I trust you find Bond Street as enchanting as ever."

The morning greetings continued as Juliette made her way down the street, each exchange a choreographed dance of manners and politeness. Such was High Society. Only those of means strolled the cobbles of Bond Street in Mayfair.

Just then, a shopkeeper emerged from his establishment, a quaint bookstore overflowing inside with leather-bound volumes and aged parchment. "Madame Toussaint, a pleasure as always," he said, his spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. "How's your reading list these days? I've a few new tomes that might interest you should you be getting lean on reading material."

Juliette acknowledged him with a gracious smile. "And a good morning to you as well, Mr. Jacobs. I'm well stocked still from our last visit, thank you. May your day be filled with literary delights."

As she continued walking, a sudden chill slithered down her spine, and an ominous weight settled in the pit of her stomach. The genteel atmosphere around her seemed to shatter, replaced by an unsettling awareness that eyes, unseen but undoubtedly present, bored into her. A murmur escaped her lips, a string of muted French words under her breath as a reflexive response to her sudden unease. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention, and her eyes darted around, searching for the source of the disquiet that gripped her. Breathe, Juliette, just breathe.

Oh, how she hated this panicked feeling that could overwhelm her in moments!

Think and breathe.

The fashionable members of the ton continued their amiable exchanges, seemingly unaware of the tension that coiled around Juliette. The mist, once a refreshing companion, now seemed to thicken with an intangible threat. The ambient sounds of the street became muffled, drowned out by the ominous drumming in her ears.

She scanned the faces of the passersby, questioning every shadow and scrutinizing each corner of the storefronts. The weight of unseen eyes lingered, casting a pall over the graceful ballet of morning greetings. Instinctively, Juliette quickened her pace, the cobblestones beneath her feet echoing with her hurried footsteps. The ominous feeling clung to her, a relentless presence that refused to be shaken off. She resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder; a primal fear gnawed at the edges of her consciousness.

Whose eyes? And where? Why?

At the corner of a building across the street, a figure emerged from the murky darkness, and Juliette's breath caught in her throat. The man, a stark contrast to the refined ton strolling Bond Street, exuded an air of menace that set her instincts ablaze. He was tall and lean, his body cloaked in a worn and tattered greatcoat that seemed to swallow his form. The fabric, once a deep shade of black, had faded to a sickly gray, bearing the scars of time and neglect. A wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his face, concealing features that she strained to discern.

His boots, heavy and scuffed, echoed with a dull thud against the cobblestones as he moved with an unsettling purpose. The collar of his shirt, frayed and disheveled, hinted at a rugged existence. A scar, jagged and ominous, etched a path across one cheek, evidence of a life marked by violence and hardship.

Juliette's gaze locked on to his hands, callused and weather-beaten, fingers that seemed more accustomed to wielding tools of destruction than the delicate fabrics she handled in her shop. A menacing aura enveloped him, an intangible darkness that clung to his every step.

As he glanced in her direction, his eyes met hers from beneath the brim of the hat—piercing orbs that seemed to hold a malevolence that sent a shiver down Juliette's spine. The icy gaze bored into her, devoid of the social niceties that normally defined the interactions on Bond Street.

Her palms instantly grew sweaty, and a wave of fear gripped her. The lovely morning atmosphere evaporated in a puff of smoke, replaced by the primal instinct that warned her of imminent danger. The man across the street, with his rough exterior and haunting presence, seemed like a specter from a nightmare intruding into her perfectly nice morning.

Juliette quickened her pace, her heart pounding. The unease, the near panic, that had gripped her earlier now intensified again, and her instincts screamed in protest. But just as she tried to distance herself from his forbidding presence, a sudden, vivid memory seized her like a vise. The world around her blurred, and the sounds of Bond Street faded into a distant echo. Instead, haunting memories flooded her consciousness, engulfing her in a scene from the past. It replayed in her mind and all around her. "No!" she cried.

She felt the sensation of being grabbed, the pressure on her wrists, and a chilling voice that dripped malevolence. The memory, like a cruel ghost, played out the darkness she desperately sought to suppress. Fear, cold and consuming, gripped her.

The man across the street wasn't just an ominous stranger—he was a direct connection to the darkness that lurked within her own forgotten past. As the fog lifted off that memory, the link between her ever-present fear and the menacing figure crystallized in her mind.

Something bad had happened to her.

Juliette, frozen in her tracks, spoke to herself in a voice tinged with fear and, somehow, defiance. "It's… it's all connected," she whispered, the revelation sending shivers down her spine. The morning mist seemed to thicken as she spoke aloud, and the air hung heavy with the weight of the memories she had struggled to unearth. But this one was here in utter clarity.

That man had hurt her.

Her instinct for self-preservation suddenly propelled her into action. Without a second thought, Juliette broke into a run. The peaceful feeling that had surrounded her morning dissipated in the urgency of her sprint. Her heart raced in tandem with her rapid footsteps, and the misty morning air seemed to swirl around her. The shops and boutiques became a mere blur as she dashed past, the haunting figure across the street left behind in her haste.

The echo of her breath, rapid and shallow, mixed with the sounds of Bond Street. Startled gasps and whispers followed in her wake as surprised onlookers tried to make sense of the sudden commotion as she darted past. Driven by a desperate need to escape the man who had somehow hurt her and was connected to her past, Juliette sprinted with a single-minded determination. She maneuvered through the sparse morning crowd, her vision fixed on the destination ahead—the comforting sanctuary of Madame Toussaint's Modiste Shop. The street became a frenzied backdrop to her impromptu flight.

Each stride she made took her closer to the haven she had built for herself, and the sheer physicality of the act provided a momentary distraction from the haunting memories and the ominous figure that had triggered her flight. Bond Street became a fleeting panorama as Juliette raced toward the refuge of familiarity. She needed her things, her space, now .

It was all she had.

Her breath hitched, and her pulse quickened with each step she took. Yet the haunting figure across the street was no longer her sole focus; now, an image of Captain Catamount Castlebury flashed through her mind and quickly dominated her thoughts.

Juliette suddenly changed direction. Her swift feet carried her in the opposite direction, away from her shop, away from the whispers of her past that lingered in the corners of her memory. The rhythmic echoes of her footsteps reverberated against the grand fa?ades.

As she navigated through the throngs of people, her destination solidified in her mind. The image of Captain Castlebury, with his tawny hair and piercing green eyes, flickered in her thoughts like a guiding beacon. The urgency of reaching the safety of his domain fueled her into a full sprint.

She threaded her way through the labyrinth of streets, her destination clear in her mind—the Bow Street Runners' headquarters, where perhaps the answers to the haunting mysteries of her past awaited.