Under the crimson glow, the middle-aged Viscount Stratford stumbled through the warehouse doors. He could no longer keep his balance and fell straight to the floor.
He was not wearing the white wig he usually wore outside. It exposed a high hairline and thoroughly disheveled black hair, the strands clumped together as though a downpour had soaked them before they partly dried. Yet for hours, the clouds had been thin and the Red Moon had hung in the sky. It had not rained.
Sweat ran down the hard lines of Viscount Stratford's face, drop after drop sliding toward his neck. Beneath his skin, countless fine black threads seemed to flow.
He slowly pushed himself up. His body was slightly hunched, his facial muscles twisted, and his eyes were filled with pain and worry.
He looked around. When he spotted Shermane, his face lit up, only to turn anxious. He rushed toward her, struggling to keep his balance.
The moment Shermane saw him enter the warehouse, her face came alive, as though light had fallen across it.
Then worry and fear mingled in her expression. She tried frantically to shake her head, but spider silk held her neck fast. She could not turn it at all.
She grew still more frantic. Tears spilled from her eyes, one after another, bright and fragile.
Just as Viscount Stratford was about to reach her, a tremendous bang erupted between them.
An invisible wall seemed to stand there, separating Viscount Stratford from Shermane, impossible to cross.
"If you want to lift the curse and take her away, answer my questions without hiding anything." A figure rapidly took shape in a corner of the warehouse.
Each of her features was lovely, and together they gave her an extraordinary sweetness. She looked like the lover every boy