Lucrète carefully detatched herself from Jacques and tottered over to the steps, where she sank down with a pained sigh. For a moment, her deep, ragged breaths filled the silence. Cautiously, Lucrète reached up and removed a broken hairpin from what remained of her upswept hairdo- no telling where her hat with the lovely tricolor feathers had gone. Her fingers traced along her temple and up into her red hair that was matted with blood. She cringed when she touched the wound, but seemed slightly gratified that it was not as bad as the blood had implied.
Resting her bloody hand on the step beside her, Lucrète looked up at Jacques. She calmed her breathing and murmured, "Thank you, Monsieur Belmont... My name is Lucrète de Labrouille." As her initial panic subsided, a wave of nauseau and hot anger washed over her. She looked down and covered her face with her clean hand. "How could they?" She cried.