Being the second journal of Sir Roger Shallot concerning certain wicked conspiracies and horrible murders perpetrated in the reign of King Henry VIII

If Murder is Satan's eldest son then Poison, Queen of the Night, is his favourite daughter. Why do I say this? Because I dreamt about her last night when my manor house had fallen silent and its mullioned windows gazed like sightless eyes over the dark, lush fields of my estate. I'd slipped out of bed, leaving Margot the launderess and her sister Phoebe gently snoring (they sleep on either side to keep me warm), and crept downstairs to my secret chamber, behind the high table in the Great Hall. Only I know which carved wooden panel to press to release the catch and allow me into the sanctuary of my past. Everything is there. Sometimes I just light the candles and squat, going through this coffer or that. Well, last night, I chose one 'specially. I unlocked the three clasps, took out the faded petals of a flower wrapped in oiled leather, as well as all the letters and documents from that fateful summer of 1520. I read them and cried as they took me back through time, down the long bloody passageways of the last seventy-five years.

I became maudlin, drinking more rich claret than my chaplain would like to imagine. I hummed a little tune, even as the ghosts gathered round me, silent and threatening. I didn't care. Old Shallot never gives a rat's arse. I leaned against the cold brick wall, cradling the faded flower petals in my hands, and drifted into a demon-haunted nightmare.

I was in Paris again, standing in the dark fields around the Chateau de Maubisson. Above me, a strange moon, white as snow, waned behind purple clouds. Strangely, the sun also shone, though it turned a dusty red, blotted out by the dark wings of vultures. A terrible rushing wind tore at my hair and clothes as merciless demons appeared from all directions, faces twisted with rage, teeth bared between snarling lips, eyes shining like stars whilst flames burst out of their mouths.