Earlier that evening François stood by the window in one of the palace rooms, gazing outside as guests arrived.

He rubbed his thumb against the dark green material of the sash across his shoulder, feeling the silver embellishment of his family's coat of arms.

The gold band on his ring finger glinted in the dim lighting, a message delicately engraved into the precious metal. His mother had gifted it to him just months before she died as if she had known about the grisly fate that awaited her. His sister, Camille, had received a similar cryptic farewell.

The ring felt too heavy on his hand now as if it had absorbed every ounce of grief in him but he wouldn't take it off. Couldn't. It fed his determination to find whoever was responsible for his mother's murder and make them pay in the most painful and gruesome way.

Thinking about what happened that night seventeen years ago was something that François did often. It used to plague him like an endless film reel which he couldn't stop watching. Now, though, it was welcomed presence. A constant reminder, a puzzle he was determined to solve no matter what it took.

A smile of anticipation kissed his lips as he imagined the day he came face-to-face with those responsible. He did this sometimes. Often, actually. Daydreamed about how they would beg for death long before he gave it to them.

"The expression on your face is rather unsettling. Do I want to know what is causing it?"

François glanced over to see his godfather standing in the doorway, dressed in a silver tuxedo suit. He wore his hair back in a tight ponytail which rested at the nape of his neck.

"I'm sure you can guess."

Malcolm entered the room and came to stand next to him by the window. His closeness didn't bother François in the slightest. Due to his unfortunate appearance, people always moved away from Malcolm or avoided him completely but François never felt more at home than when in his company.

"The ceremony will be beginning soon," he says. "You do not want to be late."

In response, François squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled harshly out of his nose. The ceremony. A tedious ten minutes of listening to the speech his father repeated every single year and pretending to care.

He used to enjoy the ball and everything it entailed. The dancing, the drinking, the countless women who pined for his attention. It all seemed so pointless now, so meaningless. Just more things that distracted him from what was important. The truth.

"François..." Malcolm murmured, staring at him intensely. "I'm concerned. Since London, you have been acting unusual."

"I'm not the only one," François point out, throwing his godfather a sideways glance. Malcolm's behaviour had always been somewhat strange but ever since François' return from London he had been acting particularly peculiar.

"These are unusual circumstances," his godfather reasoned with a guileful smile. "I'm curious if you are going to be using them to your advantage."

"Papa wouldn't approve," François said, his tone coloured with resent. His father was already on thin ice with the British government as it was. Him rocking the boat would only make it worse but that didn't mean he wasn't going to do it anyway.

"I do." Malcolm's answer was low, revealing his true feelings. He had always been supportive of François' relentless pursuit for the truth. Unlike Bartholemeiu, Malcolm had seemed just as unwilling to move on from the tragedy as François did.

"You truly think I can blackmail Elias Temple into giving me the truth," François asked.

"Since when did what others think have an effect on what you do?" his godfather replied. He had a point.

When François didn't answer, Malcolm continued.

"Those human girls, especially Emelia Temple herself, are the perfect leverage. It would be foolish to pass off this opportunity."

François turned to fully face his godfather.

"I'm not passing," he told him, "I'm planning."

Malcolm cocked his head to the side curiously and probably would have raised an eyebrow too if he had had any.

"And what is this plan of yours so far?"

"I'm going to tell Elias Temple," François said, "that if he ever wants to see his niece and daughter again, he will give me what I want."

"And if he refuses," Malcolm pressed, "like he has done so in the past?"

François met his godfather's narrowed gaze and an anticipatory smile spread across his face.

"Then people will die," he replied. "Starting with those two."

Now as François stands beside his father atop the highest step leading down into the Grove.

The conversation he had with Malcolm plays in his mind whilst his eyes rove across the crowd of ball attendees until they find what they are looking for.

Emelia and Sofie are standing at the back of the assemblage with Jacques as their guard. The two humans blend in almost completely thanks to their attire but François would be able to spot Emelia's sapphire blue eyes anywhere. They stare back at him unflinchingly, full with contempt.

For the fun of it, he winks at her and almost loses his composure when outrage and repulsion morph her features. He purses his lips to hold back the laughter whilst his father begins his speech.

"My friends," he calls out, "tonight marks the three-hundredth and fifteenth anniversary of Le Bal Royal here at Versailles and I want to thank you all for coming."

He pauses for a beat, allowing his words to settle across the silent audience before continuing.

"As many of you may know, my beloved late wife took great joy in this event. Community was extremely important to her."

François' solemnity returns at the mention of his mother and he tears his gaze away from Emelia to stare straight ahead. This is what irks him the most, the brief upbeat mentions of his mother which held zero acknowledgement of the glaring reality; his mother - their queen - was brutally stolen from them and no one has yet to be held accountable.

"To commemorate her memory," his father carries on, "my family and I encourage all of you to enjoy the luxuries this evening has to offer. Now," he finishes with enthusiasm, "let the ball begin!"