Morning arrived far too swiftly, as though the world had conspired to hasten Eva's undoing.
She was summoned to Lady Valeria's chamber shortly after sunrise. The noble wing breathed a peculiar chill—not born of draft or stone, but of something older, colder. The kind of stillness that lingers in a mausoleum, or the moment before an executioner lifts the blade.
Valeria's rooms were not loud with luxury, but restrained, deliberate. Silk-draped windows. Gilded furniture too ornate to be comfortable. And the scent—ah, the scent. Lilies, and beneath them, something keener. Like old blood beneath fresh roses.
Eva hovered at the threshold, awaiting acknowledgment.
"Tea," came the command at last, soft and impersonal, as though directed at the room itself.
Eva dipped her head. "At once, my lady."
She moved with care, a quiet choreography learned through years of not being noticed. Mind the honey. Avoid the chipped porcelain. The sound of the teaspoon mustn't betray her.
Valeria remained by the window, a figure carved from velvet and frost. She did not turn.
When the tea was placed on the table, Valeria merely glanced.
"Not that blend again. Too earthy. Darven leaves next time. They bite sharper."
"Of course," Eva said, then hastily added, "my lady."
There was no reply. But something in the air tightened—like the hush before a curtain is drawn, or a coffin closed.
---
The day unfolded like a drawn-out performance, Eva cast in the role of invisible attendant. She polished jewels that bore no tarnish, fetched slippers already resting at Valeria's feet, and held a mirror until her arms ached and her face felt as immobile as the marble busts in the hall.
There was no overt cruelty. Only the precise application of indifference.
She was not important enough to address. But not unimportant enough to dismiss. A presence tolerated with all the warmth of a blade sheathed at one's side.
At one point, Valeria examined her reflection for so long that Eva wondered if she ought to speak.
"Shall I… adjust the gown?" she asked tentatively. "Tighten the laces, perhaps?"
Valeria did not blink. "I did not ask."
"Understood."
A pause.
"But yes," Valeria said at length. "Tighter. Slightly."
Eva obeyed. Her fingers grazed the corset lacing—careful, measured.
Valeria tensed.
Just the smallest shift, like a string pulled taut. Not fear. Something else. A silent current beneath porcelain composure.
Eva made no comment. She did not breathe too loudly.
"One more day of this," she thought, "and I shall start naming the hairpins just to stay sane."
She finished her task with the delicacy of one handling glass explosives. When Valeria finally sipped the corrected tea, no praise followed. But she drank it.
By midafternoon, Eva had been rendered a ghost with duties. Seen, barely. Heard, never. Each correction from Valeria was like a needle slipped into the hem of a gown—invisible, but inevitable.
"Return before dusk," Valeria said, reclining on a chaise with a book she wasn't reading. "There's a fitting. I'll require someone who can pin without bloodshed. The last maid was clumsy."
Eva inclined her head just enough. "I shall be present, my lady."
Valeria's eyes flicked upward. A pause. Sharp as a needle. Then she looked away.
"Do not be late."
Eva bowed—respectful, but never servile. Then she turned.
As she walked through the doorway, the fine hairs at the nape of her neck rose.
She did not see Valeria watching her leave.
But she felt it.
---
The town of Gravenhurst wore a different face by day. While the vampires slumbered, life crept carefully back into the streets. It wasn't quite freedom—just the illusion of it, polished to a fragile sheen.
Eva and Mira wove their way through the market with their baskets swinging and cloaks drawn.
"The sage. The thyme. Cinnamon sticks," Mira recited, ticking off their errands. "Half this sounds like a potion for summoning demons."
"Or entertaining them," Eva replied. "Depends on the guest list."
They passed a baker's stall. Warm bread perfumed the air. A child darted past, trailing laughter, and somewhere, a fiddle cried out a tune so bittersweet it felt borrowed from another century.
Mira paused at a spice table, lifting a small bundle. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like, living in a town where people didn't whisper during daylight?"
"Unnatural," Eva said. "We'd have nothing to complain about."
Mira chuckled. "Tragic."
Their laughter was soft. Too much mirth, even here, could be mistaken for defiance.
The sun overhead offered no warmth. Just clarity. Every crack in the cobblestones, every faded blood charm nailed to a doorway, every closed curtain whispered reminders: day was borrowed. Night owned the ledger.
"Did you mean it?" Mira asked suddenly. "About leaving home and not going back?"
Eva nodded. "That was before I knew what leaving home really meant."
Mira turned away, busying herself with apples. "Mine was to open a hat shop."
"You still could."
"Not unless vampires develop a taste for ribbon and netting."
"They might. Give them a century."
A smile passed between them like a secret handshake.
---
But when the church bell tolled the fourth hour, the illusion began to collapse.Stalls folded. Footsteps quickened. The market held its breath. Eva adjusted the basket on her arm. Mira glanced at the dimming sky, then at her.
"Back to the crypt," she muttered.
"With sage," Eva added dryly.
The walk back was quiet. Beyond the gates of the manor, dusk pooled like ink. The great house awaited them—its windows shuttered, its halls still and watching.
The warmth of the market fell away like a discarded shawl.
---
The house breathed different air at dusk.
It wasn't quite alive. . It was as though time itself slowed here, as if the world beyond the manor's gates had forgotten to turn. The shadows crept deeper into the halls, whispering and stretching. Every window seemed to be watching. Every door stood open—inviting or threatening, it was hard to tell. But one thing was certain: the house was waiting.
Eva had not yet made it to the top of the stairs when the silence thickened around her like fog.
The noble wing greeted her with its usual stillness, the air cold and scentless. Candles flickered against the encroaching dark, casting long, wavering shadows across the marble floors. The delicate sound of an owl floated from somewhere within the heart of the manor. It was a piece she did not know, strange and off-key, as if it, too, were learning to exist in the quiet.
Eva passed through the long corridor where portraits of long-dead ancestors lined the walls. She tried not to meet their eyes, their painted gazes too knowing, too sharp. She could feel them—feel them whispering. Even the shadows underfoot seemed to stretch to form shapes that resembled those very eyes.
At the end of the hall, Lady Valeria's door stood ajar. It was an invitation, but not a welcome. Eva hesitated for a moment, her fingers brushing the worn iron handle. She could have turned back. But she didn't. She never did.
Inside, the room was dim, the only light coming from the fire crackling softly in the hearth. The furniture was arranged as always, unyielding and elegant. Yet, something about the room felt more suffocating now. The heavy scent of lilies had returned, their sweetness thickening the air. But beneath it, something darker lingered—a faint, metallic scent she couldn't quite place.
A dress form stood in the middle of the room, draped in layers of midnight-blue silk, its fine material gleaming faintly in the low light. Ribbons and pins, gloves and lace, all lay neatly arranged on the nearby table. It was a waiting assembly of delicate weapons, each tool ready to serve.
Valeria stood by the hearth, her back to Eva, staring into the fire. The flickering shadows cast an ethereal glow across her skin, but it was not warmth she emanated. It was something colder. She did not turn as Eva entered. She did not need to.
"You're late," Valeria said, her voice smooth, void of irritation, but sharp as ever.
Eva dipped her head, offering the briefest of apologies. "The sage took longer to find, my lady."
Valeria's gaze flicked to her. There was no warmth in those eyes—only a sharp, assessing gleam. But there was something else in her expression, something barely perceptible, as though she had expected the delay.
"Let us hope the fitting requires less foraging," she replied, her words like a blade sheathed in velvet.
Eva stepped closer, a quiet grace in her movements, her gaze drifting over the dress form. The gown was exquisite—a deep shade of blue that would make the midnight sky envious. Each fold of silk was precisely placed, the lace delicate but strong, as though it had been woven with threads of secrets.
"Shall I begin?" Eva asked softly, though she already knew the answer.
Valeria's voice came in a near whisper. "Without bloodshed, if possible."
There was something dangerous in the way she said it, though Eva couldn't quite place it. It could have been a jest, a lighthearted request for competence, or perhaps something darker—an unspoken warning.
Eva stepped forward and carefully picked up the first pin from the table. The metallic click as it left its resting place in the tray was the only sound that filled the room.
She knelt before the dress form, her hands steady despite the tension building in her chest. As she threaded the pin through the fabric, she felt it. A subtle shift. The air seemed to thicken around her, and she was conscious of every movement, every breath. Even the fire crackling behind her seemed distant, as though the room itself was holding its breath.
The Lady watched her with the same stillness, her hands clasped behind her back, her posture perfect and unmoving. The only sign of life in her was the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the gentle flicker of her fingers at her side.
For a moment, the silence between them stretched. The sound of the pin being worked into the fabric was the loudest thing in the room, each delicate movement reverberating like a whisper.
Eva adjusted the lace, careful not to disturb the fragile structure of the gown. She could feel Valeria's gaze on her, sharp, calculating, like a predator watching its prey. She had become so accustomed to the lady's silence that it was almost more unnerving than any spoken word.
"Do you find it difficult?" Valeria's voice broke the silence.
Eva's fingers paused as she worked the fabric, though her expression never faltered. "What, my lady?"
"To serve," Valeria clarified, her tone almost mocking, though her eyes never left Eva's face. "To be nothing more than a tool for another's convenience."
Eva's heart quickened, but she didn't allow herself to react. Instead, she adjusted the folds of silk as though the question had been no more than idle chatter. "I serve," she said, her voice calm, steady. "Because it is what is needed."
Valeria's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. "So you do not mind? That you are nothing but a tool? That you have no voice?"
Eva's gaze flicked up briefly. Valeria was still staring at her, her eyes cold and unreadable. She felt the weight of those eyes press down on her, like a hand on her throat, though she didn't show it.
"No," she said quietly, turning back to her task. "I mind only if I fail."
There was a long pause, and then, as if she had lost interest, Valeria's attention returned to the fire. "I suppose that will do."
Eva let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She straightened and turned her focus back to the gown. The fitting was nearly complete, but the tension in the room lingered, sharp and unspoken.
With a final flourish, she pinned the last piece of the gown into place. The silk hung perfectly now, the delicate layers shimmering in the candlelight, as though the dress itself were alive, breathing in time with the house.
Valeria finally moved. She walked toward the dress form, her fingers grazing the fabric with a lightness that suggested ownership. "It is adequate," she murmured. Then, her gaze flicked to Eva once more. "For now."
Eva remained silent, though her pulse quickened.
Valeria tilted her head, her lips curling into the faintest of smiles. "I shall require more from you. You have learned nothing yet."
Eva bowed her head, acknowledging the unspoken command. "I will do better, my lady.
There was a flicker of something in Valeria's eyes—perhaps amusement, perhaps something darker. But it was gone before Eva could name it.
The fitting was over. But the night, the real test, had only just begun.