This evening brought an unexpected arrival from Shultz—a solemn-faced young man, the son of our picture cleaner, driving a horse and cart loaded with two hefty packing cases, each brimming with numerous paintings. The journey had been quite a trek, spanning ten leagues, and whenever a messenger arrived from our quaint capital of Shultz, we would gather eagerly in the hall, hungry for news.

The arrival of these cases stirred quite a commotion in our secluded abode. The crates were left in the hall, and the messenger was attended to by the servants until he had finished his supper. Then, armed with tools like hammers, chisels, and screwdrivers, along with some assistants, he joined us in the hall for the unveiling of the paintings.

As the old pictures, mostly portraits awaiting restoration, were gradually revealed, Victoria sat by, her interest feigned, while my father, armed with a list, identified each piece as the artist retrieved them. Most of these paintings had come to us through my mother’s lineage, hailing from an old Hungarian family.

“There’s one I haven’t laid eyes on yet,” remarked my father. “It bears the name ‘Marcia Rosewood’ in one corner, alongside the date ‘1698.’ I’m quite curious about its condition.”

I vaguely recalled this piece—a small, square picture without a frame, so obscured by age that its details were nearly lost. But when the artist presented it, there was a collective gasp. It was breathtaking—a striking resemblance to Victoria, alive and vibrant in the painting.

“Victoria, look at this marvel. It’s like seeing you come to life,” exclaimed my father, pointing out the intricacies, even down to a tiny mole on her throat.

While my father appreciated the likeness, his attention seemed fleeting, turning back to the conversation with the picture cleaner, who, being an artist himself, discussed the restored works with expertise. Meanwhile, I was captivated by the lifelike portrayal before me, my wonder deepening with each passing moment.

"Can I hang this picture in my room, dad?" I eagerly inquired.

"Of course, sweetheart," he replied with a smile. "I'm glad you find it so striking. It must be even prettier than I realized."

The young lady didn't acknowledge this compliment, seemingly lost in her thoughts. She leaned back in her seat, her eyes peering at me from beneath long lashes, a smile of quiet delight playing on her lips.

"Now you can read the name clearly in the corner. It's not Marcia; it appears to be done in gold. The name is Sienna, Countess Rosewood, with a little coronet above and 'A.D. 1698' below. I'm descended from the Rosewoods; well, my mother was," I explained.

"Ah, how intriguing," she responded languidly. "I believe I am too, from a very distant line. Quite ancient. Are there any living Rosewoods now?"

"No one with that name, I believe. The family suffered ruin in some old civil wars, but the remnants of the castle are just three miles away," I shared.

"Very interesting," she murmured. "But look at that beautiful moonlight outside!" She glanced towards the partially open hall door. "How about a stroll around the courtyard? We can admire the view of the road and river."

"It reminds me of the night you first arrived," I remarked.

She sighed softly, smiling, and rose to her feet. We linked arms, stepping out onto the pavement.

In quietude, we sauntered down to the drawbridge, where a picturesque landscape unfolded before us.

"You were thinking about the night I came here?" she whispered softly.

"I was thrilled when you arrived," I admitted.

"And you wanted the picture that resembles me for your room," she murmured, drawing me closer as she rested her head on my shoulder. "You're quite the romantic, Victoria," I teased gently. "Your story will be filled with grand romances."

She responded with a silent kiss, the moonlight casting a gentle glow around us.

"I'm certain, Victoria, there's a love story unfolding in your heart right now," I ventured.

"I've never loved anyone, and I doubt I ever will," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Unless, of course, it's you."

In the moon's gentle glow, she looked ethereal, her gaze shy yet intense as she nestled her face against my neck, her breath mingling with mine in soft, trembling sighs.

Her hand in mine quivered, her cheek warm against my own. "Darling, darling," she murmured, "I exist in you; I'd sacrifice everything for you, that's how much I love you."

I was taken aback by her sudden intensity.

Her eyes, once filled with passion, now seemed distant, her face pale and devoid of emotion.

"Are you feeling cold, my love?" she murmured sleepily. "I feel a shiver; was I dreaming? Let's go inside. Come; come; come in."

"You seem unwell, Victoria; a bit faint. You must have some wine," I insisted.

"Yes, please. I'm feeling better now. Just give me a little wine," Victoria replied as we headed towards the door.

"Let's take one more look; it might be the last time we see the moonlight together," she said wistfully.

"How are you feeling now, Victoria? Are you truly better?" I inquired, starting to worry about the strange symptoms she displayed.

"Papa would be worried sick," I added, concerned that she might have caught the mysterious illness plaguing the area.

"I'm sure he would. You're all so kind. But, my dear, I'm fine now. I just get a little weak sometimes. People say I'm delicate, that I can barely walk a few steps, and occasionally I falter like you just saw. But I bounce back quickly; in no time, I'm back to normal. See how well I am now."

Indeed, she seemed to have recovered. We chatted animatedly, and Victoria seemed like her usual self for the rest of the evening, without any recurrence of her earlier strange behavior that had unsettled me.

However, that night brought an event that shifted my thoughts and briefly stirred Victoria's usually languid nature into action.