The Moonlit Revelation

I pressed myself against the rough trunk of an ancient oak, my breath caught somewhere between my throat and the stars above. The night air hung heavy with the perfume of night-blooming jasmine, a sweetness that now seemed obscene against what my eyes had just witnessed. Through the lacework of leaves, I could still see them—Armand de Valois and the young servant girl, their forms illuminated by the pale wash of moonlight that filtered through the live oaks.

The girl's name was Celeste. I had seen her only hours before, laughing as she carried a tray of silver goblets through the ballroom, her dark curls bouncing with the vitality of youth. Now those same curls hung limp as Armand held her against him, his mouth pressed to her throat in a pose that I had mistaken, for one terrible heartbeat, for a lover's embrace.