Presage
An icy draft sliced through the ballroom, snuffing out the flickering candles. The room plunged into darkness.
Moonlight streaming from the double doors leading to the terrace illuminated the bewildered faces of those mingling near them. Their powdered wigs shone with a ghostly brilliance and moon-rays silhouetted their corseted gowns, breeches, and coattails against a backdrop of an eerie blue night. Champagne glasses shimmered in their trembling hands, though all stood frozen by the sudden wind howling through the open doors. An oppressive gloom settled over the astounded silence until the sound of stricken matches cut through it, and as candle-flames sparked, whispers and murmurs rippled through the crowd.
A bloodcurdling scream resounded from the gilded walls, and more shrieks filled the room with horror and surprise. The guests parted, revealing the cause of the spine-tingling tumult.
Blood trickled from a gleaming scythe with its sharp tip lodged deep into the wall. The glowing blood pooled on the floor and slithered over the white marble, staining clothes and shoes.
Rumor has it those aristocrats with blood-stained clothes from that springtime night later fell under the guillotine during the following years of revolution and terror.
