September 1892, Amsterdam.

  Lewis Howard sat at the bar, a drink in one hand, trying to seek refuge from the day's unfortunate events. It was the sort of day that had the unique ability to turn the most optimistic of individuals into a jaded cynic.

     On the other hand, he held a razor-edged card that would've been mysterious, had it not been for the image of a tulip flower on the front which, in the great city of Amsterdam, was about as mysterious as a windmill. 

     Earlier in the day, the square piece of paper had been delivered to him by a young errand boy who, in the tradition of errand boys everywhere, had appeared and disappeared with such speed that Lewis wasn't entirely sure he hadn't imagined him.

     At first, he surmised the card was a desperate attempt by a tulip broker to peddle now-worthless bulbs, following the dramatic and somewhat comedic collapse of the tulip market a year ago. However, the inside of the card told a different story. 

     This was personal. So personal, in fact, that it had been written with the sort of elegant handwriting reserved for love letters and ransom notes.

     "Dearest, you must make haste towards the sanctuary of your abode this instant; for fate holds in its gentle embrace the enigmatic treasures that await your discovery," the message read, in a way that suggested it knew something Lewis didn't.

      With the nagging suspicion that the universe had decided to play an unkind prank, Lewis had followed the cryptic instructions and returned home, only to discover the gut-wrenching sight of his wife Morgana, and his step-brother Frankie, performing a rather intimate duet in his marital bed. 

     Heartbroken, Lewis did what any self-respecting man in his position would do - he sought solace in a bar.

     As he sat there, contemplating the unfairness of life, he noticed someone slide onto the barstool beside him. She was a hooded figure, clothed entirely in black, with hair so dark it seemed to absorb the very light around it.

     She removed her cloak, revealing piercing grey eyes and a full, red mouth.  "Hi there. I'm Lydia. We've met before, but you probably don't remember me," she said quietly.

     Her voice was a strange mix of the familiar and the utterly foreign, as though she'd been away for a very long time and come back speaking a new language.

     Lewis stared, trying to place her face. A nagging sense of déjà vu tugged at the edges of his mind, as if she was a character from a book he'd read long ago. 

     As she reached out and touched his arm, still clutching the nearly empty glass of bourbon, memories came flooding back like a tidal wave that had been dammed up for years. He remembered a woman from his past, a woman he had loved and lost.