She drowned herself in a fairy tale that afternoon for there was nothing else to do. Books provided her enough company for a whisper and a rustle outside is bad company. At least in stories, she could count Happy Ever Afters.

Sal settled into her chair as she read in what little daylight left as the sun comes to set. It was almost surreal to fathom this state. She awaiting her wedding like a fairy tale heroine expecting a prince. It was almost unreal.

Sal saw herself in flowing, white robes standing in a marble balcony underneath a wide vast, starry sky like it was for the heroine in the book.

Sal paused at the next lines and closed the book prematurely.

'Deny thy father and refuse thy name,

and if thou shall not,

Be but sworn my love

And I shall no longer be a Capulet.'

She shook her head. Begone, thoughts! Perhaps, spoiling the end would ease her a bit and then-

Sal gasped.

Whispers flitted in the air. At impulse, Sal jumped towards and hid on the corner. Her eyes turning to the door, to make sure it is locked, or if not at least. The maid would come soon. How could Sal not notice the visitors coming in the house? Perhaps they did not come via a carriage this time? Why would they not use a carriage? No, that was a stupid question. Stop. Was it a stranger this time who came? Someone whose name she is unfamiliar, a stranger to their house?

Sal hushed herself, holding her small hands together and her head covered by the veil as it blanketed her whole body.

Whispers went louder and turned to words as if if the people were right just under the room, down on the first floor. Vague conversations drifted by, the words she could not fully ascertain or the topic of their conversation but she was certain of one thing. Fear.

“Take me out of here now. I’m scared.“ It was a female voice. It was almost trembling, soft.

Sal twiddled her fingers. The woman’s fear must be getting to her too. Who was speaking?

“I can’t believe you’ll let me be dragged to ruin.” Voice raised. Voice trembling. That is it agitation. There was a hush. Her words coming back to a whisper.

“If the Signor could stomach to do that monstrosity--”

“Et yo nadere cognoscere cuos va fassire."

She held her breath. Caligarian so far has only been the tongue of merchants and of the older Signors, not of women or much less, maids. A creeping sense of fear came. Who are these people?

“Pashiense, vos et yo no deseo to preovocare cuo suspiciosco."

"Et yo oir facto succedio. Ayuda me."

“Help me.” Sal echoed the woman’s words. The two left soon afterwards. A suffocating sense of dread and repeating thoughts kept Sal up that night. That voice, it was the maid.