The manor of the Black Forest stood silent under a moon so brittle and bright it seemed to pierce the dusty windows. Inside the grand empty ballroom, the only light came from the dancing purple flames of a dual-wick candelabra, held steady by Blackberry Cookie.

Her white silk gown, dusted with the passing of time, merged eerily with the pale moonlight. She was perfectly still, staring out into the deserted drive where no carriage had pulled up for a century. The deep eyebags under her purple eyes suggested a wait far too long for one night.