Seleste, Then

AUTUMN,

ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY EIGHT YEARS AGO

S eleste traced her finger over the words.

Ballet de Merveille

This year, the invitation was violet, as was her dress and mask. She'd never answered him, never agreed to his proposition. Yet, the pristinely wrapped box had shown up for her at her rented room in Merveille, the one she used only when in the city for a case. With a sigh in equal measure of exasperation and joy, she rose to don the taffeta gown.

Tucking the letter into the folds of her cloak, Seleste did not wait for the attendant to show her the way to Cal' s box, nor did she leave her cloak with him. She would not be staying long. She strode to the theatre box with purpose, despite the winged beasties aflutter in her stomach. Her letter had been penned the day the invitation arrived. She'd told herself it didn't mean she would go. But it was only a lie she'd fed herself.

The walk to the box was fraught with sensory memories. The scent of polished, old wood and ladies' perfume, reminding her of her tearful rush to leave last year. By the time she reached the curtain, her fingers were trembling. Steeling herself, Seleste pulled it aside, suppressing her many emotions when the light revealed him.

She'd vowed not to speak to him. It only made things harder. But he'd grown his hair longer, and a short beard grew on his jawline. All of her unspoken words came in the form of tears leaking from her eyes, despite her other vow to not cry.

The moment he saw her, he stood in a flurry of movement, a thousand emotions flitting across his handsome face.

Unwilling to stay even a breath longer, Seleste thrust her letter out. Cal reached to retrieve it, his fingers brushing hers. By the time he handed her his letter with his other hand, it was all she could take.

Seleste snatched it from his grasp and darted from the box, from the theatre. From him.