Winter came to Vendée with a vengeance, an icy grip that held the land in its thrall. For days, snow fell relentlessly, whipped by a bitter chilly bise that howled across the countryside, draping the world in a blanket of white.

"I ache for them, Andre. For Sacha, for every patriot who suffers, and for every soldier who falls!" Edith spoke to her beloved, riding on horseback through the snow-covered forest on their way back to camp after a patrol.

"There are, of course, the shameful speculators like that official, but most patriots stand with the people, don''t they? Why do these peasants willingly let themselves be used by nobles and priests, and turn against us, who need their strength so desperately?"

"Perhaps the peasants just want to be left alone to live their peaceful lives," Andre sighed.

"Peaceful lives? Peace under oppression and injustice, in the false tranquility of self-deception? Is that worth more than liberty?" Philippe exclaimed.

"People aren''t just black or white, Philippe. Vendée is different from Paris and the cities. There are many nobles here who are almost seen as part of the people, and the church isn''t as corrupt as well. Mild oppression can numb the people, making it harder to awaken them." Andre seemed lost in thought, as if remembering something.

"You seem to know a lot about Vendée," Edith looked at him curiously.

"I''ve only read a lot about this region in my colleagues'' reports," Andre replied, his eyes downcast.

"Ha, the false peace of slavery! Fools and cowards content with the status quo!" Philippe continued to rail against the revolt peasants, not really listening to his friend''s words.

"The greatness of revolution lies exactly in its service to those who deny it," Andre calmly refuted, without turning around.

"Don''t worry too much, Edith," seeing her troubled expression, he reassured her, "We''ve pretty much wiped out the rebel army, and the Republic is advancing from victory to victory. She''ll be saved soon."

"Let''s hope so!" the girl sighed.

Out of the corner of her eye, Edith saw Andre''s face suddenly change. He swiftly reached out and pushed her down, and then crouched low himself, calling out urgently, "Get down!"

Before Edith could react, two bullets whizzed past her ear, barely missing her. Her chest pounded as she huddled on horseback, her whole body tense.

Gunshots echoed three times before coming to a halt. From behind a tree trunk emerged a short figure, holding a small pistol in both hands, once again shooting resolutely at the approaching ones. But the gun was already empty.

It was a boy, no more than eleven or twelve, dressed in a dirty rebel guerrilla jacket, his oversized uniform hanging off his small frame. He was obviously malnourished, with a gaunt face smeared with mud, his eyes wide and alert.

Seeing that his mission had failed, he leapt out from his hiding spot onto the road, throwing his gun to the ground. With arms outstretched at his sides, he faced the oncoming group with an air of suicidal bravado, shouting:

"Long live the King! Long live Louis XVII!"

Philippe immediately aimed at the boy, ready to pull the trigger. But Andre stopped him, saying:

"Don''t shoot!"

"He''s an armed rebel caught in the act! By the law, we should execute him on the spot!" Philippe retorted angrily, his finger still on the trigger.

But Andre calmly ordered, "Bind him. Bring him back to the camp."

"Andre! Think of our hero young Bara! Age cannot be a reason to pardon him!" Philippe protested loudly.①

Andre remained silent. A single tear rolled down his cold cheek.

"We fight for him too," he whispered.

Philippe fell silent. He lowered his weapon.

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Edith followed closely behind Andre, and as soon as they stepped into the warm, fire-burning interior, she urgently helped him shed his snow-covered coat, before fondling her lover''s broad chest.

"My dearest Andre! In the past, I was enamored by your furor, but now I realise that it''s your clemency that captivates my heart more! When you saved a child''s life, you became truly like a handsome god in my eyes!"

Her fingers entwined themselves in his thick curls as she eagerly devoured his lips. Andre embraced her, and they tumbled onto the narrow single bed by the window, tossing and turning on the bedsheet, wrapped up in each other''s virtue, kissing with drunken fervor.

As Edith''s blouse slipped off one shoulder due to their intense movements, revealing her wheat-coloured skin, Andre suddenly sat up and gasped for breath in blush.

"That''s enough, Edith," he said, gazing lovingly at her flushed face. "We''d better stop here."

He lifted her fallen blouse and covered her bare shoulder with it, gently and fondly. Edith sat up, still holding onto him unsatisfied, as Andre showered her wet hair with one after another soft kisses.

"Go out quietly, don''t let others see!" he whispered to her, as he saw her off from his tent.

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Edith did not return to her dwelling. Love and passion made her scorched out all over, so she decided to take a stroll in the swirling snow.

Not far from the military camp, she was amazed to see a fiery red glow at the edge of her vision. It stood out in the sea of snow.

As she approached, she saw it was a little girl with scarlet hair lying on the ground. Judging from her appearance and size, she was only seven or eight years old. Her tiny face looked even paler against the backdrop of her red hair, almost blending in with the ice and snow. Her eyes were tightly shut. Despite this, it was still clear that she would have been a fairly beautiful child if she were alive and kicking.

"Child, wake up! You cannot sleep here. It will cost your life!" Edith hurriedly lifted the girl up and shook her shoulders.

The little girl barely responded. Edith noticed that her lips were blue, and her small, red hands tried to huddle inside thin sleeves.

She quickly removed her cashmere shawl and wrapped the little girl in it, holding her close and sharing her warmth. She rubbed the kid''s face with both her hands and breathed hot air on her fingers.

After a while, the kid''s breathing finally evened out, her chest rising and falling steadily. Her long lashes trembled, and then opened her large, bright eyes, the sight of which was breathtaking. The first words she uttered were:

"Bread."

Edith retrieved a pack of biscuits from her inner pocket and fed them to the girl bit by bit. After eating some food, the girl''s mind seemed to begin to clear.

Edith asked her, "What''s your name?"

"Fiona," the little girl timidly replied.

"Where are your family?"

"Papa became a bandit, mama and I have nothing to eat. Mama got ill. We had no medicine. She died the day before yesterday."

"A bandit?" Edith questioned in confusion.

"They say papa is a republican bandit."

"He''s not a bandit," Edith sighed. She hesitated, then looked towards the direction of the military camp.

"Listen, Fiona, I cannot take you back to the camp," she grasped the girl''s shoulders, "but you cannot stay outside. You will freeze to death. Walk in that direction and knock from door to door. There will be someone willing to take you in."

The little girl nodded, seemingly not fully understanding. As she turned to leave, the maiden called out to her once more before she had gone far:

"If you really cannot find a place to stay, come to the camp over there to find me! My name is Edith Travis."

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On her way back, Edith''s light-hearted joy dissipated, and her steps grew heavy. At the corner, she ran into Andre, who had come out to check on her. He was surprised to see her here.

"Edith, how haven''t you returned to your own quarter yet? And where''s your shawl?" he asked, swiftly taking off his own coat and wrapping it around her. Edith briefly explained to him what had just happened.

Andre looked frustrated. "You''re too reckless, Edith. I warned you not to interact with the locals alone. Did you ever consider that it might have been a trap set by the rebel guerrillas?"

"I am not inclined to believe a little girl freezing to death could be a royalist spy," Edith gave a cold hum, turning her head away.

He grew angry at her stubbornness. "I told you this place is dangerous. You have to put your safety first!"

"Do you mean to say that only you are allowed to do good?" Edith questioned, displeased.

Andre sighed apologetically. "I''m just too worried about you. If I brought you out here and then let you get into danger due to my carelessness, how can I answer to Philippe and Citizeness Percys? And how can I ever forgive myself?"

Edith didn''t answer, letting him take her hand and lead her back towards the army camp.

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Fiona''s petite figure wandered alone on the vast expanse of white land.

The child was in fact already ten years old. Only did she appear much younger due to her frail and small frame.

Her memories of what had happened were hazy. She only vaguely remembered walking for a very long time in the snow, collapsing on the ground in cold and hunger, as if she was about to join her mother; but then she woke up in the arms of an angel. However, this fairy godmother was not dressed in a white gown like in the fairy tale, but in a red robe, just like her own hair''s fiery guise.

The fairy seemed to have spoken to her a lot, but she couldn''t recall what was said. She only remembered the melodic voice telling her a name in the end. Did angels also have names?

Fiona heard the sound of approaching horse hooves amidst the silent frozen world.

A rider appeared in front of her, his deep purple cloak fluttering behind him, snapping in the gale. He was in a hurry, his legs tightly clasping both sides of the horse''s body, glancing around from time to time, as if eager to avoid someone''s manhunt, yet his posture showed no sign of discomfiture.

As if sensing the child''s gaze, he pulled the reins and turned his horse''s head, riding towards the little girl.

When he drew near, Fiona saw that the man was about thirty years old, with dark hair and black eyes, a square face, an exalted demeanor, and an elegant mustache above his lips. Except for the sharp glint in his eyes that might seem offensive, his appearance, like the horse he rode, conspicuously displayed lofty lineage.

From his mount and attire, Fiona guessed he must be a bigwig. He halted his steed, gazing down at the pretty child with a keen interest.

"What is your name?" He asked her, sitting on his horse.

"Fiona." She looked up at the man without timidity.

"Would you like to come with me?"

"But I don''t know your name yet."

"I am the Marquis de Sèvremont."

Leaning down from his horse, he extended his hand in black leather gloves towards the girl.

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"I forgot to tell you, Edith," as they were about to enter the military camp, Andre said to her, "I just received the order from Paris. We shall prepare to return now."

Edith nodded, her expression devoid of emotion, and then turned to gaze deeply once more at the endless expanse of snowfield behind her - she had just recalled that this was the last day of the turbulent and magnificent Quatre-vingt Treize.