Slight of build, fair unto pallor, eyes so bright they seem fevered. There is an undeniable charm to him, a fey glamour, the charisma of the young genius, dead at twenty-five of consumption. Louison dreams of him sometimes, but not dreams of love. Avenging angels have his face, and drowning strangers who struggle silently as she passes by, and nameless fiends, lovely and treacherous. What he stirs in her is not desire, nor fear, but something akin to both. She watches his hands move, fascinated, and never ventures too close to him, lest she be drawn in irrevocably.