The Ouroboros Cycle, Book One. G.D. Falksen

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      Autumn, 1861

      The arrival of autumn came as a relief to Babette. It meant the end of the social season, and with it the end of their regular trips back and forth between home and Paris, which she could not help but regard as an unnecessary interruption of her time with Korbinian. Each trip to the metropolis had done little but bore her and force her and Korbinian to restrain their natural impulses beneath the chains of decorum.

      Which was not to say that it had not been enjoyable smiling at one another across the ballrooms and parlors, sharing a private joke at a distance amid the ignorant masses of the elite. But there were only so many times she could watch Korbinian snicker at the follies of their peers without giving in to the desire to kiss him. In Paris, the temptation had been unbearable.

      But safely returned to Grandfather’s estate, Babette lost no time in taking advantage of every moment to be spent with Korbinian. Her studies had been repeatedly interrupted by the trips to the city, and now she threw herself back into them with abandon. The changing of the season renewed the discussion on the nature and qualities of plants, while the arrival of the harvest invoked great excitement in Korbinian, who took it as an excuse to discuss different harvest celebrations across Europe. From there, the lessons quickly began to embrace the study of folklore. Babette was certain that Father would not approve.

      With the air still pleasant but free of the oppressive summer heat, they spent more and more time walking the grounds, especially the forest that dominated one side of the property beyond the gardens and orchards. Korbinian loved this part of the estate the most, he often told her. The romance of those deep woods reminded him of his home, and he often spoke at length of it and of the many delights that Babette would find there when they were married.

      Marriage was a point on which neither of them had any doubts.

      * * * *

      “I feel,” Korbinian said, as they strolled through the forest arm in arm, “that we must make an expedition to Mont Blanc. I am given to understand that the primeval horror of the view is most inspiring.”

      Babette sighed at him and rested her head against his shoulder. She could not have done so in company, but there among the ancient trees, they were free to profess love and affection, whether in triumphant oaths or quiet gestures.

      “You have been reading Shelley again,” Babette said.

      “And what if I have?” Korbinian asked. He raised Babette’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “Herr Shelley is a fine poet. He stirs the soul with his words, even if they are English.”

      “Oh, what nonsense!” Babette scoffed at the very idea.

      Korbinian caught her by the chin and turned her face toward him.

      “You do not agree, liebchen?” he asked in his usual charming way.

      Babette looked into his eyes and smiled.

      “You may call it a ‘philosophical dispute’ if you like,” she said, “but I assure you that I do not agree with you. Nor can you convince me otherwise.”

      “Is that so?” Korbinian asked as he leaned in to kiss her.

      “It is,” Babette whispered as she closed her eyes and inhaled with anticipation.

      As her lips brushed his, Babette heard a noise in the trees. She pulled away and turned sharply. Her eyes darted about as she searched for the source of the sound. Korbinian, surprised at the abrupt change, placed a hand upon the back of her neck and gently stroked her hair.

      “What is it, my love?” he asked softly.

      What a question! Could it be possible he had not heard the sound? But no, surely not. It had been so loud and clear to Babette’s ears.

      There it is again, she thought. Closer this time.

      “Something’s approaching,” she said.

      Korbinian listened carefully and said, “I hear nothing.”

      “Nevertheless, it is there,” Babette said.

      She finally fixed on the sound’s direction and pointed.

      Korbinian drew his pistol and held her close at his side.

      “What is it?” he asked.

      “I do not know,” Babette said, clutching his arm.

      She heard the sound again, closer and louder, accompanied by snorting and growling. This time Korbinian heard it too. He swung his revolver around and aimed it into the brush.