All is clear to me now, though I almost wish it were not.
The Shrike, Maria Walewska, and the Emperor's Emissary — they are one and the same. One woman, moving unseen through every corridor of intrigue, her hand steady upon every thread I once thought unconnected.
It was she who guided the rebellion with an iron resolve. She who lured the Mice into obedience with a mothering hand. It was her deceitful voice whispering sweet lies into Bonaparte's ear. And into mine.
I must admit, I do not know what to make of this woman. The experiments to which I was subjected bear some trace of her design, yet her true purpose remains veiled.
There is cruelty in her methods, this I cannot deny — towards the Emperor, towards his ranks. And yet, in her dealings with the common folk there is a devotion so profound it borders on the sacred. She is no simple conspirator. She knows far more than she reveals.
One thing alone I dare to conclude: where Bonaparte hungers for power, she burns for something altogether different. Something fiercer, and perhaps far more dangerous.
Freedom.
