I stayed home that night, happy for a quiet evening with Homer. Cécile was at a ball, and knowing that she would be out extremely late, I took my book to bed and soon fell asleep reading. Once again, something disturbed me while I slept, and I awoke around four in the morning, stunned by what I saw. My copy of the Odyssey still lay on my bed, but in it had been placed a single long-stemmed pink rose. Resting on top of the book was a small package and a note. I felt a strong breeze and watched the curtains, which I'd replaced since the burglary, billow. The window had been locked when I went to bed; now it was open.

All at once the darkness of my room was terrifying. Was I alone? Or was the intruder hiding, watching me? Summoning all the courage I could, I lit the lamp beside my bed. The light revealed nothing immediately, and I was too afraid to do a thorough search. I tapped on Cécile's door, but she did not answer. She had not yet returned home. I started to reach for the bell but did not want to wait alone for my maid. Rushing upstairs to the servants' quarters, I pounded on Davis's door.

"Get Mr. Hargreaves at once," I commanded. My butler did not hesitate, closed the door so he could dress, and was ready to leave the house in fewer than three minutes. My appearance in the servants' hall had caused quite a commotion. Lizzie poked her head out her door and shrieked when she saw me; soon the entire household was awake. I followed Davis downstairs where I sat on the staircase, clutching my knees to my chest, my back pressed hard against the railing as I accepted, but did not drink, the glass of brandy my maid had handed me. Meg was at least as upset as I was, and I considered offering her some brandy of her own.

Sooner than I could have hoped, Colin burst through the door, Davis right behind him. "What has happened? Where is Cécile?" The moment I'd explained the situation to him, he raced up the stairs, two at a time. Davis organized the footmen, who began to methodically search the house. I knew they would find nothing; the intruder was sure to be long gone. I returned to my bedroom, where I found Colin staring at the note, the rose flung carelessly on the bed.

"Have you read it?" he asked.

"No." I glanced at the text as he read:



"Would I were a pink rose, that fastening me with thine hands thou mightest grant me grace of thy snowy breast. Bloody hell." He looked at me. "Forgive me."