Ice water burned my throat as I sipped from the large glass on my side table. The rented apartment was cramped, the draft blowing a cold breeze onto the spitting fire. The embers in the grate hissed on the uncomely cold spring night.

I preferred these spaces, the in-between. The bed was flat and the side tables were wooden but not dressed up in garish lace or polished to a glimmer. Though draughty and damp these boarding houses provided me with anonymity. The silence was mildly comforting, only the hard crackle of the flames to accompany my thoughts

I swilled the water glass apprehensively, I was unsure about how to proceed. That made a small part of me chill in a way that ice and snow never could.

I knew she would be pretty from Jaskier's description. He had described her with ecstatic reverence, the same way an artist would articulate the virtues of a beautiful portrait. His description of her was not what drew my attention but the way his eyes were filled with poorly hidden urgency. I had seen that expression before only hundreds of miles away and in a hundred different faces.

Urgency. Desperation. Fear. They were so common now, plastered onto every impoverished rat-like child on the street. Its claws clutched polished ladies hanging on their stout husband's arms like ornaments. I thought the impactfulness of those feelings had shrivelled up until I had looked into Jaskier's typically jovial eyes.

I leaned into the moth-eaten back of the armchair and continued to rest my eyes on the firelight. Its low embers cast shadows on the walls and the cheap wax candles had burnt down to their stumps. The room felt cave-like, the tacky black velvet to appear fashionable melted into the walls and floors and I sat still, thinking.

She was beautiful but not in the way Jaskier had described. He had painted Miss Taylor as a beautiful London primadonna. He had described her in earnest detail like an inexperienced rich young sop would his favourite monthly opera soprano or Covent Garden Courtesan.

Her beauty rolled off her in waves, layered like a decadent concerto. When I first saw her from the balcony, I searched for her in the crowd. Her dark hair framed her face like a halo. It was her sharpness and quiet contemplation of my offer that intrigued me. Her dark eyes glared at me so harshly that I felt like my mask had slipped from my face.

Her voice was stiff and rehearsed, I could feel her well-practised control. She was not what I was expecting, she was not the girl which Jaskier had earnestly described to me. She carried a heaviness in her but she wore it with such elegant ease that I was unsure how to speak.

I had expected a simpering naive girl who I could keep at arm's length and live within comfortable separation. I wish she had been less aware of the world so that she may have her lovers and be content and I would not care. It was what I had tirelessly planned for over the last several months. She had to be so sorrowfully radiant in a decades-old gown.

I pushed myself onto my knees as I heard the fire give a pestering crackle. I reached a gloved hand to pick up some logs and stacked them onto the blaze. The momentous chore of stoking the fire gave me control, something which I shamefully craved. Encouraging servants into my rented quarters filled me with annoyance, I despised prying eyes.

A loud knock at the door shattered my well-curated silence and I tried not the grimace. I had explicitly told the stingy man at the front desk that I would not be interrupted unless it was absolutely urgent.

"Come in," I said sharply, keeping my back turned from the door and not moving from my seat in front of the fire. The door creaked open on its rusted hinges.

"Good Evening Sir, I have a letter for you, the messenger said it was urgent," said a shrill boyish voice. I beckoned the boy over and tapped the side table next to me briskly with my gloved palm. The boy shuffled over to me, he smelt damp and hungry and I dropped three pounds on the small table, not looking into his little face.

"Sir?" the boy stuttered.

"Go boy and take your money with you. I expect not to be disturbed again unless the inn is burning down. Do you understand me?" I stated. I knew the boy could see the white of my mask but I refused to indulge his morbid curiosity. As soon as I finished speaking, the boy hurried out of the room, closing the door excruciatingly softly.

I settled back into my silence before I hesitantly scooped up the letter. The unfamiliar thinness of the parchment under my gloved fingers caught me off guard. The lettering was delicate and practised but the ink had been pierced into the fabric as if the writer was trying to carve the letters into the page.

My blood ran cold and I pursed my lips and swallowed. I had not expected her to write back to me so soon. I pushed myself from the too-push armchair and paced the room with newfound energy. It had to be her, Miss Taylor, no other person would have written to me directly.

I had strode into this arrangement so quickly and with confidence that I would be able to keep ourselves separate. I saw now that I had made a fatal mistake in believing the and mocking crude caricatures which portrayed governesses. Furthermore, Jaskier's well-intentioned but incredibly poor description had thrust me into a false sense of security.

I slowly opened the plan and simply sealed the letter. Though the paper of the envelope was thin out slipped the contract in my letter which I had left for her. I had worked hard on that contract, rewriting and redrafting it so that I may be obligated to spend as little time with her as possible whilst giving her every reason to wed me.

A wave of disgust ripped into me as I ran my finger over her curved signature at the bottom of the contract. I wanted to be sick as I held the contract to the dying flame which revealed dried tear marks.

"What have I done?" I said softly.

I thrust my hands in front of me, dropping the letter to the floor beside me. I fell to my knees in front of the fire like a lead weight smashed into my stomach. Revulsion pulsated through me as I faced the cruel truth of what I had done.

I had taunted a woman with salvation from the horrors and terror of poverty and death. I had forced a woman into forging an everlasting and inescapable bond with a bestial excuse of a man. I clutched the whiskey-stained carpet, her cutting alto voice taunted me. She was a beautiful creature forced into an arrangement out of desperation.

Why did I think that this scheme would ever have worked out? If only I had been born first. If only there was another way to protect her and me from the inevitable.

"O Miss Taylor I hope that you may one day forgive me" I whispered, the sound coming out like the hiss of the fire.

I reached up slowly and ran a single finger over my cursed porcelain white mask. It was chilling to the touch even through the thick fabric of my black leather gloves. The Masquerade was merely a cheap prop up to enchant her, I realised that now. It was a small diversion to avoid the inevitable road to horror and terror.

From the moment I looked into her eyes they revealed wisdom brought by years of sorrow. If only she had been as frivolous and silly as her charges. I knew that I would not be able to distract her with silk gowns, sweet delights and freedom from destruction forever. That sweet gaze showed a hunger for truth, the most succulent fruit that I could never dare to give her.

I steeled myself, I would not descend into madness as my men had. I clutched the letter but I could not stop my hand from shaking. I brought myself to my feet and fell back into the armchair. I had to honour the contract which I had signed, Miss Taylor would not die because of a life of poverty. Though I knew that I could never give her a marriage of love, I would do everything to give her a life of freedom, education and decadence.

I watched the embers of the fire die slowly in the grate as I removed my black jacket, waistcoat and shoes. I pulled a thick blanket from the back of the chair and slung it over my legs and chest. I could not bare to remove my mask as I slipped into a cold deathlike sleep.