Dreams of him plagued you.

"Tell me, is your father a good man? It's surprising how little he seems to understand." Flashes of his voice echoed with the imprint of his breath hot on your neck before your body would seize and you would jerk from your sleep in a cold sweat.

"His daughter was my savior." You almost couldn't tell if the whispers were his quiet prayers in the room beside yours or the hallucinations of your peculiar mind. You would see him in your dreams every night. Every night it got worse. Every night, you fell in love. Every night, you escaped from your life. Every morning, you never spoke to him. Every day, you lied through your teeth bitterly to your arranged fiance, who you fought relentlessly with.

Virgil had to be pulling strings somehow. He had to be, in some strange way. It could be pure delusion or even magic that he was using to infect your subconscious like an addictive drug; you couldn't decide which.

One day, as you were making your way back to your room, you saw Virgil in the hall. A slender hand slid across the top of the broom as he tilted his head and lazily swing his body to the side, the fabric of his skirt swaying as he muttered some odd tune. He was off in his own little world, clearly. But you were entranced. You always were by him; so you watched as he swayed with the grace of a spirit. His movements went from slow and smooth to twitchy and jerky in small intervals. Finally, his eyes landed on you as he turned and he froze, hair falling over his eyes and his knuckles tinted white.

"Paramour." The word, left his lips in a whisper as he stared at you, his reaction both inaudible and nearly unreadable.