After the brilliance of the early morning, the day was now overcast. Everything was still and damp beneath the ineffective rays of the weak sun. An autumn fog was floating over the lawns and gardens, shrouding the world in a deceptive calm. Tomorrow at dusk. She looked at her reflection in the tall library window, thinking how strange it was that she could appear the same, yet be so utterly changed. Eyes, face, chin, mouth, all in the same place as they had been but three minutes earlier. Léonie shivered. Tomorrow was Toussaint, the Eve of All Saints. A night of terrible beauty, when the veil between good and ill was at its slightest. It was a time when such events could take place. A time, already, of demons and evil deeds. The duel must not be allowed to go ahead. It was down to her to prevent it. So dreadful a charade could not be permitted to continue. But even as the thoughts raced furiously around her head, Léonie knew it was no use. She could not deflect Anatole from his chosen course of action.
