After all the work my father has done to make Paris the “city of lights,” I am still unable to see his grave in the dark.

I pick up my lamp—my lamp, borrowed, not stolen, 

I’ve borrowed it from the rat catcher’s windowsill, since I don’t have any of my own anymore. I feel bad, but I should have one. This is my father’s design. I should have all the light in the world I want.

What do I have but woe?

Though I hate to dirty my hands so, I dig at the dirt until I can see their names on the stones: Antoine. Elaria.

Terrible things always happen on my birthday.

A knife graces the skin between my breasts.

swift as a shadow

I see none on him, but he reeks of iron—of blood.

I keep my eyes on his while I think, like all the girls in my novels. I figure that if I should die tonight, I should at least go out defiant.

I’ve heard what men of his like are capable of in the whisperings under my balcony.

His tone is hurried and paranoid. Neither of us wants to be here.

"

He is surely a man, but somehow more surely a boy. He glances up

I do not know how long I slept, only that I was woken by the grazing of fingers . There is a grunting noise so loud that it makes me twitch.

The petting stops, and I feel him freeze on me, hovering, and waiting for more movement.

I lay there until I hear no more sound. It’s not so long… maybe five or ten minutes.