The night-light flickered on the mantelpiece, its flame dancing weakly as the last drops of oil burned away. The glass globe glowed an eerie reddish color, and the dying flame threw wild shadows across the room, like the final convulsions of something alive gasping its last breath. A dull, sickly light spilled over the bed where the young girl lay.
Outside, the streets had gone silent. The quiet was suffocating.
That's when the door creaked open.
A figure appeared in the mirror across the room, Madame de Villefort. She'd come to check on her handiwork, to see if the poison she'd prepared had done its job.
She paused in the doorway, listening. Only the lamp's faint sputtering broke the silence. Satisfied no one else was around, she crept toward the bedside table where Valentine's glass stood. Still a quarter full, just as she'd left it.
