No one liked being examined by priests and Witch Hunters. Least of all actual witches. It came as a considerable relief to be pronounced free of taint, a fact no wizard was ever entirely confident of, but a lingering feel gripped her of what Kasimir might say. A word from him to his father might see her imprisoned, even executed. This northerners were touchy about their honor afterall and it would ill behoove the count to tolerate having his entire court hoodwinked for a season. Eleanor showed no sign of her misgivings over the wine and roasted pheasant they were served for dinner but plead exhaustion and retired early to her chambers. She did not however to to sleep. 

"Thank you fair meeténg mé mon laird," Eleanor whispered. Lucien Schroder nodded conspiratorially. The pair of them were in the Rose Garden, one of the cloisters of the palace which had been given over to the cultivation of the snow white roses for which Middenheim was famous. It was well after midnight and it hadn't been easy to evade the guards who were on high alert after the disastrous theatrical show hours before.

"Of course mon Cheerie, though when I received your note, I rather hoped it was my charm which had inspired this midnight assignation," he chuckled. Eleanor simpered prettily. She was dressed in a dark traveling dress and coat, a small satchel over her shoulder that contained the jewelry, gold, and promissory notes she had amassed in six months in the Court of the White Wolf. It was quite a score, even by Altdorf standards where the cost of living life was high. Well, the cost of living the way Emmaline planned to was high.

"Ai did not know whaire elsé to turn," she replied to the hooded and cloaked lord, wringing her hands for theatrically effect.

"What can I do for you my dear," Lucien returned in a smooth soothing voice, the same tone you might use for a dog or a panicy animal.

"Ai need to gét oot of lé citay men 'ave tried to keehl me many times een ze past fu dais et ai fair if ai do not gét oot of haire now ai shall névair see mon belovéd Brettonia again," she fraudulently confessed. Lucien paused for a long moment, either considering her words or trying to puzzle out her outrageous accent.

"Ah," the nobleman said at last. "Don't you have the Counts bast...ah that is natural son to look after you?" Eleanor laughed with bitterness that she didn't need to simulate. Kasimir might very well 'look after her' if or when he told anyone what he knew, which probably wouldn't be long because he was spiteful and thick to boot.

"Look aftair me? Ze count méans to marry me to ze brute zo 'is sprog can claim a rich estate ét be far from la public eye hairé at curt, regardléz of mon feelengs abut zit!" she protested. Lucien nodded his eyes clearing as his hatred for Kasimir clouded his judgement just as Emmaline had known it would.

"And no one knows we are meeting?" he asked, still a trifle nervous. Eleanor shook her head.

"I can get you out of here, I have estates around Utenguard and no one will question my coach leaving they city even this late but we must go now," Lucien urged. Emmaline repressed a frown, a con woman's instinct warning her when something was going a little too well.

"Ai must gathair mon thengs," she temporized and turned to leave the garden. Light exploded across her vision and she was suddenly laying in the grass her vision swimming. Two men were standing over her, with rougher boots than Lucien's fine riding shoes.

"I do have a coach madmosielle, and it will take you out of the city, but that quaint little county of yours wont be going to the bastard Kasimir," he promised. A bag was thrust over her head and something sweet, cloying and wet was shoved up against her face. Everything went black.

She was unconscious when the coach clattered out of the city, unchallenged, just as Lucien had said.