Sun dried petals coat the bottom of the music box’s hidden compartment, and old parchement holds onto the last remnants of charcoal, sketches of Maryse, whom Jocelyn can’t forget.
The music box comes to life with a gentle melody, melancholy waltzing off with memories Jocelyn locked away a long time ago, a ring on her hand like manacles snapping shut, tied and bound to a man of power. Valentine gathered clout and followers, until his power consumed him, only leaving ashes in its wake.
Jocelyn believed him dead, and it pained her, because she couldn’t be certain of his demise.










