Valentine lay in bed, her body weak and her mind foggy. The prosecutor had told Madame Danglars the truth, Valentine wasn't recovered yet. Exhausted beyond measure, she was confined to her bedroom, where her stepmother, Madame de Villefort, had filled her in on all the shocking news. Eugénie's sudden disappearance, the arrest of Andrea Cavalcanti, whose real name was apparently Benedetto, and the murder charges against him.

But Valentine was so drained that the news barely registered. Her brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton, filled only with vague impressions and shadowy images that drifted through her consciousness like smoke.

During the day, Valentine's mind stayed relatively clear, thanks to her grandfather, Monsieur Noirtier. The old man had himself carried into her room every morning, watching over her with fierce protective love. Her father, Villefort, would also visit after work, spending an hour or two with his father and daughter before retreating to his study at six o'clock.

At eight every evening, Dr. d'Avrigny would arrive personally, bringing the sleeping draught he'd prepared for Valentine. Then Noirtier would be carried away, and a nurse handpicked by the doctor would take over until ten or eleven, staying until Valentine fell asleep. On her way out, the nurse would hand Valentine's room keys to Monsieur de Villefort himself, ensuring no one could reach the sick girl except by passing through Madame de Villefort's and little Edward's rooms first.

Every morning, a young man named Morrel would visit Noirtier to ask about Valentine. Strangely enough, each day he seemed less worried than the last. Yes, Valentine was still suffering from terrible nervous episodes, but she was improving. More importantly, the Count of Monte Cristo had promised him something when he'd shown up at the count's house half out of his mind with fear. If Valentine survived the first two hours, she would live.

Four days had passed since then. Valentine was still alive.

The nervous excitement plagued Valentine even in sleep, or rather, in that strange twilight state between waking and sleeping. It was during these hours, in the dim glow of the alabaster lamp on the mantelpiece, that she saw shadows moving across her room. Dark shapes seemed to hover over her bed, fanning her fever with trembling wings.

Sometimes she thought she saw her stepmother looming over her, face twisted in threat. Other times, Morrel would reach out to her with desperate arms. Occasionally, strangers appeared, even the enigmatic Count of Monte Cristo would materialize in her delirium. The furniture itself seemed to shift and breathe. This state would last until about three in the morning, when heavy sleep would finally claim her, holding her until daylight broke.

Tonight, the evening after learning about Eugénie and Benedetto, her thoughts spiraled in confused circles after her father, grandfather, and the doctor had all left for the night.

Eleven o'clock struck. The nurse placed the medicinal drink within Valentine's reach, locked the door, and hurried downstairs. She was eager to join the other servants in the kitchen, where everyone was trading the horrible stories that had been circulating through the prosecutor's household for months.

While the nurse gossiped downstairs, something unexpected was happening in Valentine's carefully locked room.

Ten minutes had passed since the nurse left. Valentine, burning with the nightly fever, couldn't control the wild procession of images flooding her mind. The lamp cast strange shadows that her fevered brain transformed into bizarre shapes.

Then, suddenly, she saw the library door, the one recessed by the fireplace, slowly opening. She strained her ears but heard no creak of hinges.

Under normal circumstances, Valentine would have yanked the silk bell-pull and screamed for help. But nothing surprised her in this state. Her rational mind insisted that everything she was seeing was just another hallucination. After all, by morning, these night-phantoms always vanished without a trace.

A human figure emerged from behind the door.

Valentine was used to these apparitions by now, so she simply stared, hoping it might be Morrel. The figure moved toward her bed and seemed to listen intently. A ray of light fell across the midnight visitor's face.

"It's not him," she murmured, assuming this was just another dream that would soon dissolve or transform into something else.

Still, she felt her pulse racing and remembered that the doctor's medicine usually helped clear her head. Valentine reached for the glass on her bedside table, but as soon as her trembling arm left the bed, the apparition moved faster, coming so close she could swear she felt his breath and the pressure of his hand.

This time, the illusion, or was it reality, felt more intense than anything she'd experienced before. Valentine began to believe she was actually awake, truly conscious. The thought that her mind wasn't deceiving her this time made her shudder.

The pressure on her arm was clearly meant to stop her from drinking. She slowly pulled her hand back.

Then the figure, which she couldn't tear her eyes from, and who seemed more protective than threatening, picked up the glass himself. He walked to the night-light and held the glass up to examine it against the glow. Apparently unsatisfied, the man poured out a spoonful of the liquid and drank it himself.

Valentine watched, completely stunned. Any second now, she expected him to vanish like all the others. But instead of dissolving like a shadow, he came closer and said in an agitated voice, "Now you may drink."

Valentine's whole body went rigid. This was the first time one of her visions had ever spoken to her in an actual voice. She was about to cry out when the man placed his finger on her lips.

"The Count of Monte Cristo!" she whispered.

Suddenly, there was no doubt left in her mind, this was real. Her eyes went wide with terror. Her hands shook as she rapidly pulled the bedcovers up to her chin.

Still, his presence at such an hour, his mysterious entrance through the wall, it all seemed impossible.

"Don't call anyone. Don't be alarmed," the count said calmly. "Don't let even a shadow of suspicion remain in your heart. The man standing before you, Valentine, this time it's no ghost, is nothing more than the most devoted father-figure and respectful friend you could ever imagine."

Valentine couldn't speak. The voice proving this was a real person terrified her into silence. But her eyes seemed to ask, If your intentions are pure, why are you here?

The count, with his remarkable perception, understood exactly what she was thinking.

"Listen to me," he said. "Or rather, look at me. Look at my face, paler than usual. Look at my eyes, red from exhaustion. I haven't slept in four days, because I've been constantly watching you, protecting you, preserving you for Maximilian."

Blood rushed to Valentine's cheeks at that name. The fear the count's presence had inspired instantly melted away.

"Maximilian!" she exclaimed. The sound was so sweet to her ears that she repeated it, "Maximilian! Has he told you everything about us?"

"Everything. He told me his life depends on yours, and I promised him you would live."

"You promised him I would live?"

"Yes."

"But sir, you mentioned vigilance and protection. Are you a doctor?"

"Yes, the best one you could possibly have right now, believe me."

"But you said you've been watching me?" Valentine asked uneasily. "From where? I haven't seen you."