Prologue

Lucie had been called many things: Lucietta, Loushe, Lucienne, and Luce.

Lucietta was what her childhood friend called her.
To her family and relatives, she was Loushe.
To her tutor, she was Lucienne.
To her classmates and friends, she was Luce.

Lucie Turn Figuamone.
That was her name.

She took a quiet, indescribable pride in the way her name ended in Amone.
Not because of its origin, but because of its sound.
Now and then, she would say it to herself, almost as if savoring it:
“Amone, you know? Amone, you know?”

More often than not, people meeting her for the first time assumed Amone was her name.
And yet, once they learned her full name, no one ever seemed inclined to call her that.

She did not mind.

What follows is a story in which Lucie will be called Amone.
Even if someone calls her Lucie, please call her Amone for as long as this story lasts.

And if, by the time you close this book, you find yourself wanting to call her Lucie, or Lucietta, or Loushe, or Lucienne, or Luce—then by all means, go ahead.
You may even enjoy seeing whether she turns around.

Now then—Lucie… no, Amone.
Please, come in with her.