Thesnowinthemountainswasmelting, the nightly place was illuminated by small wet lamps. The mansion, in which took the place of murder, stood alone, isolated from the quaint town they lived in.
Through the window's glass, a faint silhouette hinted at a girl peeking out, anticipation gleaming in her eyes. The manor stood regal, a tapestry of opulence merging golden, brown, and pristine white hues. Within, an orchestrated flurry reigned—maids flitted, butlers poised, and guards stood sentinel-still. Her gown mirrored the grandeur, a mesmerising pearl adorned with lustrous emerald. The impending visit of the queen was no secret; her majesty had a penchant for emeralds, and this young girl knew it well.
Mathilde Mira Baudelaire, a cousin to Britain's reigning queen, navigated the court's intricate politics with an acumen born of necessity. Presenting oneself gracefully was no mere formality; it was a calculated dance. Her fingers trembled subtly, betraying the composed facade she meticulously maintained. She refused to display weakness, refusing to wade into the viper's nest of false camaraderie that the court deemed essential. Despite her mastery of feigned pleasantries and contrived smiles, she harboured a profound disdain for such disingenuousness. Call her a hypocrite but at least she was forced to do it, unlike many others. She rid her hand from her dress and started walking towards the ballroom. There was no time for overthinking, the guests had arrived.
In the grandeur of the Baudelaire estate, Carlisle Cullen, a recent arrival to London from Italy, stood among the glittering assembly. Despite his lack of title or prior standing, he cut a distinguished figure in his refined attire. A doctor by profession, his blonde locks and Italian roots were a curious contrast that often raised eyebrows among the English elite.
As he navigated the lavish soirée, exchanging pleasantries and toasting with champagne, Carlisle marvelled at the splendour surrounding him. The opulence of the residence was unlike anything he had seen before, casting a spell of awe upon the young bachelor. Yet amidst the mingling crowd, an unexpected collision interrupted his evening.
A chance encounter with Mathilde Baudelaire had a peculiar effect on Carlisle. Their paths crossed in a brief but impactful moment, the physical contact leaving an inexplicable mark. It wasn't just the force of the collision but the scent that lingered—a fragrance so captivating that it seemed to entwine itself with every breath he took. The sweet yet potent aroma permeated the air, encircling him like an inescapable veil.
