The Fugitive's Guide to Faking Your Own Death

Chapter 1: Reveille

I am dreaming.
Hazy, hostile figures swim in and out of my fuchsia mental fog. Some have no face. The others have Louis'.
One figure detaches from the rest. His face is a Louis. But while the others have straight, dazed expressions, his is of pure fury. I press myself against the walls of my foggy dream, backing away and stumbling. He strides towards me in a mechanical way, his arm extending to point accusingly into my pale, terrified face. "I know what you did," his expression seems to say, cerulean eyes piercing my heart and curly blond hair rigidly straight for once. I don't recognize the cold and impassive look he is giving me, but I do recognize the painfully familiar French soldier uniform he is clad in, with a bloodstained splotch across the stomach. He moves closer and closer, his frigid breath clouding my vision. Louis' mouth opens to speak, and in place of teeth or a tongue or gums is a gaping black hole. "YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM THE TRUTH, MATHILDE," he roars icily. "SOMEONE WILL FIND OUT WHO YOU REALLY ARE. I WILL FIND YOU. AND WHEN I DO, I WILL KNOW YOU FOR WHO YOU ARE." His face looms closer and more frightening, just as I cower from my evil soul's creation and pray for the worst.

It never comes. Instead, I feel my body violently shaking in the small bed I have been given at Madeleine Rochambeau's inn. My eyes flash open and my breath floods back in a rush of air. There is no Louis in my room. No, there is no Louis. There is just an iron-framed bed, a window overlooking the bay, a small wooden desk, and the pile of cream-colored sheets I am tangled in on the floor. There is no Louis. There are just the creaky wooden floorboards, the plain white walls, and the little stool at the desk. I start in alarm as the white door creaks open and dive under my covers in case it's my phantom Louis back to haunt me. But it's just Madeleine, bearing a breakfast tray with fresh croissants, fruit, and a mug of steaming tea. She frowns when she sees me, her wide brown eyes narrowing as she scans my face for alert signs. "What is wrong, mon amie?" she asks quietly in a voice of careful gentleness. I realize I'm probably as pale as a ghost. "Nothing, ma chere. C'est juste un rêve. It's just a dream." Madeleine does not look convinced by my little lie, but covers the awkward moment by smoothing a lock of auburn hair back into her maid head covering. She clears her throat. "Eh, well, my father says you need to get ready. La police - they are coming to search here. We do not have much time." My heart races, and I am suddenly as awake as if I had ten cups of bitter coffee. I wolf down the breakfast as Madeleine bustles around, panicking, making my bed and folding my few possessions into a cloth bag. "Where will I hide?" I fret. Madeleine's eyes are downcast as she explained that this time I am not going to hide. I will flee.

I will miss Madeleine. She has been kind and never complained, even though I can see the frustration at my often rude behavior taking its toll on her. I slip on a lilac-patterned dress, simple and airy, and tuck my dark tresses under a wide-brimmed sunhat. Madeleine is darting down the stairs before I can call out to her, so I follow suit, the cloth bag I am burdened with hindering me. She pauses at the back door to the garden as we hear a knock on the door. Her father answers it. He is a good man; he will not give me up. She silently opens the rear door and gives me a quick hug before dashing back inside to help her father. I'm standing in the Rochambeau family's garden, which is overflowing with a rainbow of flowers. But I have no time to stop and smell the roses. I must hurry and leave, and I know where to go. Montréal is safe. They do not know I exist. I smile to myself, knowing Louis cannot reach me in a place he has never been. And with that last, vaguely comforting thought, I am sprinting off into the distance.