I paused, utterly captivated. It was clear she wasn't just an illusion. But how on earth did she manage to climb into my window? Where had she come from at such an ungodly hour? And now that she was here, what did she want?

A fleeting suspicion crossed my mind - could she be here to steal? The open window let in the chilly night breeze, and there she stood, pausing as if to make sure no one had noticed her entrance. If she just glanced my way, she'd see me wide-eyed in my bed. I was as plain to see as she was. To my observation, she didn't move an inch, her gaze fixed straight ahead. After what felt like forever, she let out a sigh of relief, so pure that it convinced me this woman couldn't be a criminal. That exhalation carried an innocence that simply didn’t fit the profile of a burglar.

With tentative steps, she moved further into the room and bumped into a chair – the sudden noise making her jittery. I noted her hand rise to her forehead in a classic pose of someone trying to make sense of the situation.

“I can’t think where I am,” she mumbled.

Her voice shattered the silence oddly - it was melodious, smooth, unmistakably refined; it sent a shiver down my spine. Her statement's sheer simplicity threw me off guard more than anything else that night. Could it be that this woman was sleepwalking and had unwittingly ended up here? If so, what should I do? How could I explain things without startling her?

Before I could think further, my small movement caught her attention and she spun around with a startled:

“Who’s that?”

I chose to respond calmly and practically: “Don’t worry – it’s just me, John Ferguson. Let me switch on the light so we can see each other properly.”

At the flick of the electric light switch, I was silenced yet again by what I saw. At my bed's end stood the most stunning woman I'd ever laid eyes on – my sentiment then and now unchanged. She was both regal and delicate in stature. Her large expressive eyes met mine but carried a mixture of confusion and dreamlike wonder rather than alarm or fear.

“I don’t know who you are. Where am I? Have we met before?” Her tone mirrored that of a bewildered child on the brink of tears.

“No, I don’t believe we've met," I reassured her gently. "Don’t be scared - you’re safe here. My guess is you've been sleepwalking.”

"Sleepwalking?" Her puzzlement echoed through the word.

"It looks like it."

"Do I sleepwalk?"

I couldn't help but smile at her innocent question.

“You really should know more about this than me.”

“But—how did I get here?”

“That's another thing you ought to be able to figure out. Do you live here in the Mansions?”

“The Mansions?”

“Yeah, this place is called the Imperial Mansions. Is this your home?”

“My home?” She shook her head with a profound gravity. “I don’t know where home is for me.”

“How can you not know your own home? Who are you? What’s your name?”

“I have no clue who I am or what my name is.”

Was she mentally challenged? She didn’t appear to be. Her face was the image of intelligence itself. Yet, the more I watched her, the clearer it became that there was an odd look in her eyes. She looked bewildered, like someone who had just woken from a deep sleep and hadn’t quite grasped where she was. My initial guess was right; she had been sleepwalking and still hadn't fully snapped back to reality to understand where she was or what she’d been up to.

As I pondered this, I never took my eyes off her. And then I noticed something that horrified me.

She was draped in an enormous garment that flattered her silhouette perfectly. It seemed like some kind of fancy cloak, maybe for the opera, but it actually resembled a domino coat with front buttons more than anything else. The material was a striking shade of plum—I later found out it was alpaca—and it had a hood half-cast over her lovely head, lined with green silk on the inside. The front of this splendid cloak was adorned with lush green ribbons; one particularly wide sash ribbon caught my attention as it spread from her neck down nearly to her feet.

For a good portion of its length, this vibrant green ribbon bore a different hue—a recent stain that left the fabric soaked through. And it wasn't just this sash ribbon; smaller knots here and there had lost their brightness under similar stains. There were even splatters on the cloak itself. Her hand went up to touch her head and that’s when I saw it—how had I not noticed earlier? Both of her hands, one raised and the other hanging by her side, were speckled with something damp and red.

Suddenly, the bizarre scene I'd witnessed earlier in Lawrence’s room flooded back into my mind—the wild figure in a woman’s robe with spinning skirts—could it be? Right here before my eyes, on this woman, was that same robe, and what's more—the previously twirling skirts now lay still. In an instinctive move to block out the gruesome realization barreling towards me, I covered my eyes with my hand and exclaimed—

"Who are you and where did you come from?"

The room fell into silence. I posed the question once more. Instead of an answer, she countered with her own question.

"You talk so oddly. And why do you cover your eyes with your hand?"

Her voice was a balm to my nerves. I've always believed that a woman's voice is one of her most endearing qualities. Her voice was profoundly reassuring—a voice that carried such sincerity, it seemed inconceivable it could belong to someone deceitful. I took my hands from my face and looked at her again.

Half of her face was marked with red smudges, smeared by her own fingers.

"Look at what you've done!"

"What did I do?"

"What's that on your hands?"

"My hands? What's on them?"

She extended her hands, examining them as if seeing them for the first time with wide-eyed innocence.

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"It's blood."

"Blood? How did it get there?"

The way she asked reminded me of a puzzled child. Despite the grim marks on her face and hands, her eyes implored trustingly and her voice's truthful tone moved me.

"Try to recall where you came from and what happened?"

"Recall? I can't."

"You must remember. Can't you see yourself smeared with blood?"

"Smeared with blood? Yes, indeed! Oh no!"

Her exclamation morphed into a half-sob as she began to sway unsteadily. She collapsed before I could catch her, fainting onto the floor.

What an awful situation I found myself in! Women's company isn't something I'm used to—I've spent too much time in places where women simply aren’t present. My knowledge of them was less than my understanding of ancient scripts. Though I'd heard of women fainting, seeing one so distressed and helpless was new to me. Now what? Mrs. Peddar came to mind—the housekeeper back at the Mansions, superb in every way and someone who had proved surprisingly helpful before—but involving her didn’t seem quite right here.

Gazing upon the motionless figure of beauty before me, my heart swelled with compassion and an ever-growing desire to protect her emerged. Should she need my aid amidst uncertainty and peril, I was prepared to be her guardian, ensuring that her secrets remained veiled from all. With firm conviction, I decided that without her consent, not Mrs. Peddar nor anyone else would learn of her being here. How to reawaken her remained a quandary for me.

While pondering this dilemma, I noticed an item on the ground next to her; its origins were a mystery – unlikely to have slipped from her attire. Retrieving it, I immediately identified a photograph stained with blood – it was Edwin Lawrence’s portrait. Compelled by an inexplicable urge, I slipped it discreetly into a book resting on the mantel, just as she began to stir. As she slightly elevated herself and gazed at me with wide, puzzled eyes, I was momentarily disconcerted.

“What’s wrong? Was I sleeping?”

Her direct gaze was laced with innocence and confusion which made me falter in response.

“You've been unwell but seem much improved now. Please allow me to assist you in rising.”

Extending my arm, she placed her hand in mine and stood with a graceful ease. As our hands parted, I noted a crimson stain transferred onto me. The blood-stained plum-colored outfit and vivid green ribbons appeared more strikingly apparent now.

“Perhaps you might want to remove your cloak?”

Surprised at the suggestion, she queried.

“Remove my cloak? For what reason?”

“It will alleviate your comfort.”

“If that is so, then certainly.”

She shed the cloak with my help, which I draped over a chair.

“There is water available for you to cleanse your hands and face.”

She looked surprised once more at the suggestion.

“And why should I do that?”

“You have blood on you.”

With astonishment she examined her hands and acknowledged the blood she'd previously forgotten about.

“Blood? Indeed there is! How peculiar; I do not recall how this happened.”

Her complexion paled further as she considered whether washing would rid her of the stains.

I assured her tersely, hoping that basic hygiene would suffice to eradicate the visible marks.

Rapidly retreating into my dressing room under her watchful eye, I dressed more appropriately. Afterward, stepping into the dining room, I invited her through the connecting door.

“When ready, do join me in here where we'll be more at ease.”

Promptly responding to my request, she approached as innocently as one would expect from a child who had completed their chores.

“I am clean now. Do I appear so?”

Her proximity unexpectedly unsettled me; stepping back allowed me a clearer view of her attire – an elegantly fitted dark blue silk dress accented with white around her neck and wrists – enhancing her beauty beyond my initial impressions. Yet there lingered an inexplicable sense of familiarity about this captivating sight that left me faltering for words once more.

Let us hold on to the belief that soap and water will at a minimum wash away the evident smear.

I turned and proceeded to my dressing room, under her watchful gaze. In haste, I changed into attire more fitting of the situation. Afterwards, I made my way to the dining room, pausing to call out to her through the adjacent bedroom door.

"Once you are prepared, would you please join me here? It shall be more comfortable for us both."

She was swift to respond, not making me wait an instant, as she approached with outstretched hands, in the manner of an innocent child.

"I am now clean, am I not?"

Her nearness inexplicably unsettled me, and I found myself stepping back. The discarding of her cloak revealed a dress of dark blue silk, clinging to her form exquisitely in my eyes. The white accents at her neck and wrists only elevated her loveliness—a loveliness that was even more striking than upon our first encounter, inspiring awe within me. Yet somewhere within, a vague notion whispered that I had beheld this captivating presence in the flesh before. Seeking appropriate words proved difficult, and when I finally spoke, it was with clumsy articulation.

"Is there any cause for you to hide your name?" She responded by shaking her head. "Then please share it with me."

"But I am unaware of it. Do I bear a name?"

"I would venture that you do possess one such as everyone else does. Rest assured, though, my intention is not to pry unduly into your affairs. It is merely a suggestion that revealing your origin prior to your arrival in my chamber might be in our mutual interest."

"You ask if I came into your quarters? Ah yes, now I recall; but nothing else." She raised her hand to her forehead in a familiar gesture that caught my attention previously. "Where have I come from?"

"I am unsure whether you jest deliberately or truly cannot remember; alas, if you are unable to provide details then certainly I am of no help."

My demeanor appeared to distress her; she drew closer with an anxious air resembling that of a scared youngster anticipating reproof.

"Why do you wear such an expression? Are you displeased with me?"

Despite the puzzlement over my own thoughts and emotions, one thing was clear – anger did not take root within me. If indeed her behavior was an act—and skepticism hung over this theory—her performance enthralled me so wholly that unmasking any deception seemed beyond me. It dawned upon me that perhaps Mrs. Peddar's expertise was required here.

"Our housekeeper, Mrs. Peddar, is exceptionally adept—perhaps she could assist you where I cannot. Might I have your permission to inform her of your presence?"

"If you think it best—by all means convey this information."

Her words were laced with such sincerity and devoid of any inkling that something could be amiss with her circumstances that I felt a twinge of guilt for my suspicions.

I made my way toward the exit when she halted me.

"Whom are you informing about this?"

"The housekeeper—Mrs. Peddar."

"I see." This time uncertainty tinged her voice. "She is also a woman; while you are a man and I am another." She pronounced these facts gravely as though they bore significant weight recently unearthed by her contemplation; she seemed suddenly chilled by them. "Is she agreeable? Will she treat me kindly?"

An internal pledge was sworn—that kindness would prevail or explanations would be sought—and while less fervently expressed outwardly than inwardly resolved, afterward, I exited.

Yet before going off in search of Mrs. Peddar directly, I circled back into the bedroom through the passageway door. With scant regard for propriety in handling that purple-hued cloak, it was rolled up tightly and secreted amongst other articles within a wardrobe's recesses. Then stepping onto the balcony through the open window, I disposed of the water remnants from my peculiar guest's freshening splash far into the street below—I heard its echo against pavement stone as proof of its journey's end.

Our housekeeper is an exceptional individual—Mrs. Peddar by name. Her assistance will prove most valuable to you, far more than my own. May I have your permission to inform her of your presence?

"Why not? Yes, go ahead and tell her—if you wish."

Her response carried such a genuine tone of naivety, with absolutely no trace of concern over the legitimacy of her circumstance, that I felt a wave of guilt for the suspicions cluttering my own thoughts. I proceeded to the exit. She halted me in my steps.

"Whom are you going to inform?"

"The housekeeper, Mrs. Peddar."

"Ah." Her reply was laced with a hint of uncertainty. "She's female, and you're male, as I am female." She pronounced this solemnly, as though she had just unearthed significant truths, and she appeared faintly trembling. "Is she approachable? Will she treat me well?"

Inwardly I committed myself to ensuring her kindness towards the guest, or else seek an explanation; I assured her in a toned-down manner before departing.

However, before embarking to locate Mrs. Peddar, I returned to the bedroom via a door leading from the corridor. With little regard for delicacy, I bundled up the plum-colored cloak and concealed it in a closet beneath an accumulation of garments. Next, I flung open the window, stepped onto the balcony and hurled the basin's contents—water used by my visitor for cleansing—out onto the street with maximum force. The splash as it met the pavement echoed upward.