Outside, in the shadowed stillness of the manor’s garden, Gabriel stood perfectly still, his gaze fixed on a single dark window on the second floor—Pierre’s room. No light shone from within, only the empty reflection of the night staring back at him. His shoulders sat stiff and squared while his hands curled into fists before he forced them to relax. Slowly, he reached into his coat, retrieving his tobacco pipe. The scratch of flint broke the silence, a small ember flaring to life, casting fleeting shadows across his sharp features. He took a slow drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the cool air, but his eyes never wavered. He stood there, rooted in place, watching that dark window as if waiting for something—something only he could see.

Gabriel took another slow drag from his pipe, his dark eyes following the lazy swirls of smoke as they rose into the chilly air. Embers flickered at the tip, tiny flecks of fire drifting upward before vanishing into the darkness. For a moment, he simply watched them twist and curl, his expression unreadable, as his mind started bending the smoke shapes into something more vivid, more satisfying. The wisps of smoke thickened while the faint glow of the pipe’s ember transformed into a raging fire, in his imagination, no longer harmless tendrils but roaring flames were licking at the edges of Pierre’s window.

The fire spread, glowing bright against the black night, consuming everything inside. He could almost hear it—the sharp crackling of burning wood, the frantic pounding against locked doors, the desperate, muffled screams swallowed by the fire.

A slow, twisted smile crept onto his lips, his grip on the pipe tightening. The image burned in his mind, feeding the simmering hatred that never left his chest. The night was silent, the manor untouched, but in Gabriel’s thoughts, Pierre’s world was already turning to ash.

Gabriel’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile forming as he watched the scene unfold inside his mind. The flames grew higher, consuming everything in their path, the room beyond the window slowly reduced to ashes and flames. He could almost feel the heat on his skin, the intensity of the fire mirrored by the dark satisfaction that burned within him. His smile deepened, twisting into something unhinged.

The vision was vivid, almost real, and for a moment, Gabriel allowed himself to revel in it. The smoke from his pipe seemed to twist and writhe in harmony with the imagined flames, the ember glowing brighter as if feeding the fire in his mind. But then, with a slow exhale, the illusion began to fade. Gabriel’s smile lingered, though it no longer reached his eyes. He took another drag from his pipe, the ember flaring briefly before settling back into a steady glow. His gaze returned to the dark window, his expression once again unreadable, but the twisted satisfaction of his fantasy still lingered in the depths of his eyes.

***

Two weeks later, the dim morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of Pierre and Nicolette’s bedchamber, casting soft golden streaks across the room. Nicolette stirred beneath the thick linens, a dull ache twisting deep in her lower back. She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the ache only grew sharper. A sudden pressure built in her abdomen, tightening like an iron fist around her womb before easing just enough for her to catch her breath. The sensation returned, stronger this time—a slow, rolling wave of pain that spread through her spine and hips. Her stomach felt heavy, unbearably tight, and a thin sheen of sweat formed along her forehead. Then came the unmistakable wet warmth between her thighs. She gasped, her fingers clutching the sheets as realization struck—her water had broken.

A wave of dizziness swept over her as another contraction gripped her, the pain intensifying. She sucked in a breath, forcing herself to stay calm. It was time.

Nicolette glanced at Pierre, who lay beside her, still asleep. His golden hair was a mess against the pillows, and his arm was draped lazily over her waist. Another contraction came, sharper this time, stealing her breath. Panic clawed its way into her chest, but she forced herself to remain composed. She turned to Pierre, shaking his shoulder with an urgent whisper. “Pierre, wake up.”

He let out a sleepy groan, shifting slightly but barely opening his eyes. “Mmm… what is it, mon amour?” His voice was thick with sleep, his grip on her waist tightening as if he meant to pull her closer.

“Pierre!” she hissed, digging her nails into his arm. “The baby—it’s coming!”

Pierre’s sky-blue eyes flew open as he shot upright so fast he nearly fell off the bed. “What?!” His gaze flickered from her face to the damp sheets, widening in absolute terror. “Oh, oh—oh no—okay, okay—don’t move—wait!”

He scrambled out of bed in a blind panic, his feet tangled in the sheets as he tripped, still naked, onto the floor. He grabbed the first clothes he saw and half-dressed himself within seconds. Nicolette barely had time to let out a groan of pain before Pierre was sprinting to the door, yanking it open so hard it nearly ripped off its hinges.

Another contraction tore through her, and Nicolette let out a shaky breath, pressing her hands to her belly as Pierre, still half-dressed and completely frantic, disappeared into the hallway, screaming orders like a general to his army minutes before entering the battlefield. Within moments, the door creaked open, and her closest maid, Ivonne, rushed inside.

“Madame?” Ivonne’s eyes widened as she took in the damp sheets and Nicolette’s pale face.

“I think the baby is coming,” Nicolette whispered, wincing as another contraction took hold. Within seconds, the midwife, who had been staying in the servants’ quarters for weeks in preparation for this very moment, entered the room.

As the household stirred awake, preparations began. The chambermaids worked swiftly to ready the birthing room, moving Nicolette from her marital bed to a smaller, sturdier birthing chair placed near the fireplace for warmth. The maids spread thick cloths across the floor and laid fresh linen over the chair to absorb any fluids. Another maid brought a steaming pot of water to wipe Nicolette’s forehead and ease her pain. Other maid stood ready a silver bowl of wine-soaked cloths—both for cleaning and, later, to press against Nicolette’s lips should she grow too weak from exhaustion.

The midwife rolled her sleeves to the elbow, her hands pressing gently against Nicolette’s belly. “The baby is coming,” she confirmed, nodding to the maids. “We must strip Madame of her garments.”

Ivonne and the maids removed Nicolette’s fine silk nightdress and dressed her in a loose linen chemise, allowing her body to move freely. Sweat dampened her hair as they unpinned it and loosely braided it to keep it from tangling during labor. Meanwhile, Pierre stood outside the room, clenching and unclenching his fists as he struggled to steady his breathing. Only women were allowed inside, leaving him to pace the hallway, forced to rely on the midwife’s updates as he fought to calm his nerves.

Inside the room, the contractions grew sharper, more frequent. Nicolette gritted her teeth, her fingers gripping the wooden arms of the birthing chair as the midwife instructed her to breathe through the pain. Sweat dripped down her temples, her body tensing with every wave of pressure.

Ivonne knelt beside her, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth. “You are strong, Madame,” she murmured. “Just a little longer.”

Nicolette shut her eyes, inhaling deeply, bracing herself as the stage of labor began. The room filled with the low hum of activity, the crackling of the fire, and the occasional murmur of encouragement from the midwife and maids. Outside, Pierre’s pacing footsteps echoed in the hallway, his anxiety palpable even through the closed door. Pierre together with the rest of household’s staff held their breath, waiting for the moment when the madame’s baby would finally arrive.

***

The hours stretched into what felt like an eternity, each moment dragging heavily in the dimly lit chamber. The fire in the hearth flickered low, casting restless shadows across the walls as the long and arduous process of childbirth drained every bit of strength from Nicolette’s body. Cold sweat clung to her skin, her loose chemise damp and clinging uncomfortably to her trembling frame. The once-intense contractions had dulled into a distant, hollow ache, yet the weight of exhaustion pressed heavier than any pain. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her chest rising and falling with effort as the midwife’s voice, once firm and commanding, now quivered with urgency.

“Madame, stay with me,” the midwife pleaded, tapping Nicolette’s cheek lightly. Ivonne knelt beside her, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead, her hands trembling as she whispered prayers under her breath. But Nicolette’s body felt heavier with each passing second, as the room around her blurred, the faces of the maids nothing more than fleeting smudges of color. She heard them calling her name as their voices grown distant, like echoes traveling through water.