Our correspondent catches up with the mysterious redhead whose charm masked deadly intentions
Renaissance Weekly: Arrabella, you’ve certainly made quite an impression during your time in France. Our readers are dying to know – what’s your secret to being so… memorable?
She laughs, a tinkling sound that doesn’t quite reach her green eyes. Her fingers absently toy with a strand of auburn hair as she settles into her chair, every movement calculated yet appearing effortless.
Arrabella: [smiling with practiced sweetness]
Oh, you flatter me. I simply believe in making the most of one’s… natural gifts. A woman must use every advantage at her disposal in this world, don’t you think? Men are so easily distracted by a pretty face and a well-timed flutter of eyelashes.
RW: Speaking of distractions, we hear you have quite the talent for appearing and disappearing at will. Care to share your technique?
Her smile sharpens almost imperceptibly, and she examines her ring – a curious piece with a green stone that catches the light.
Arrabella:
A lady must have her mysteries, mustn’t she?
[She turns the ring thoughtfully]
Though I will say, people see what they expect to see. A helpless young woman with a basket at market? Who would suspect such a creature of anything more dangerous than buying overpriced herbs?
RW: That’s fascinating. Now, our sources tell us you’ve had some… complicated relationships recently. Any regrets about past romantic entanglements?
For just a moment, something flickers across her features – regret? Calculation? It’s gone before one can be certain.
Arrabella:
Regrets are a luxury I cannot afford.
[She pauses, her voice softening almost convincingly]
Though I will admit, there was a young scholar… brilliant mind, kind heart. In another life, perhaps things might have been different. But we all have our roles to play, don’t we? Some of us are destined to be the poison, not the cure.
RW: How delightfully cryptic! Speaking of destiny, what drives someone like you? What gets Arrabella de Nemours out of bed each morning?
She stands and moves to the window, her movements liquid grace. When she turns back, there’s steel beneath the silk.
Arrabella:
Survival. Power. The knowledge that in a world controlled by men who see women as pawns, I refuse to be moved by anyone else’s hand.
[Her voice hardens]
I’ve seen what happens to women who depend on others’ mercy. Francis Faber offered me something precious – the chance to be predator rather than prey.
RW: And if you could give advice to other young women trying to make their way in the world?
She returns to her seat, that practiced sweetness sliding back into place like a mask.
Arrabella:
Learn to be useful, mon cherie.
Beauty fades, but a sharp mind and sharper instincts? Those will keep you alive when everything else fails.
And always, always have an escape route planned. Trust no one completely – not even yourself.
As our interview concludes, Arrabella rises with that same feline grace, adjusting her cloak with practiced ease. There’s something almost tragic about her – a woman whose survival has required her to become someone who can trust no one and be trusted by none. She pauses at the door, that green-eyed gaze unreadable, before disappearing into the crowd as effortlessly as morning mist. One gets the distinct impression that this is far from the last we’ll hear of the enigmatic Arrabella de Nemours.