She was about to move on, when the prison doors opened. A small entourage emerged. At its center was a tiny woman, no more than five feet tall, her dirty face still showing signs of the beauty she must have possessed. Dressed in a plain shift and barefooted, she stumbled forward, tripping and straining at the ropes that bound her, one around her hands, one around her waist, and a third around her neck.

As the guard yanked the Marquise back, her head rose and, for the first time, she saw the crowd. Her lips curled, face contorting in a snarl so awful that the old woman beside Nicolette fell back, hands clawing for her rosary. As the Marquise snarled, her face seemed to ripple, as if her very spirit was trying to break free. Nicolette had seen ghosts before, had been seeing them since she was a child—as did her mother and great-uncle. Yet, when the Marquise’s spirit showed itself, everyone around her fell back with a collective gasp.

Nicolette snuck a glance around. They’d seen it, too?

The guard prodded the Marquise into a tumbril. No horse-drawn gilt carriage for this voyage. Her conveyance was a dirty cart, barely big enough to hold her, filthy straw lining the bottom. She had to crouch in the cart like an animal, snarling and cursing as the cart disappeared.

Around Nicolette, the crowd began to move, heading for the Notre Dame Cathedral. She hesitated, quite certain she didn’t want to see the final part of the Marquise’s journey, but the mob buoyed her along and, after a few weak struggles, she surrendered.

They’d erected the platform before Notre Dame. Nicolette watched as they dragged the Marquise up the steps, forced her down, and began cutting her long hair.

Nicolette had a better vantage point than she liked, but the crowd behind her was so thick she had no chance of escaping. As she tried to divert her attention from the platform, a man stepped from the crowd. A foreigner, with olive skin and dark wavy hair. That alone might have been enough to grab her attention, but what held it was his beauty. Nicolette, who considered herself above such things, found herself staring like a convent schoolgirl.

He looked like a soldier—not his clothing, which was everyday, but his bearing. A man who commanded attention…yet not one eye turned his way. To Nicolette, that could only mean one thing. He was a ghost.

The ghost climbed the platform. At the top, he stopped and stood at attention as the guard continued to hack at the Marquise’s hair. Clearly the ghost wanted a front-row seat. Had he been one of the Marquise’s victims?