The candlelight went out.
And from inside, very faintly, someone new was learning to hum.
The room was a sanctuary of oddities. Canvases leaned against every wall—portraits of people Sonia did not recognize, landscapes of places that did not exist. In the center stood a gilded chair, and upon it sat Aunt Marguerite, but transformed.
The west wing corridor was colder. The wallpaper was a faded pattern of peacocks. At the end stood a heavy oak door, slightly ajar. Golden candlelight bled through the gap. Lady-Sonia 17 10 27 Secretly Spying On His Aunt...
“The moon is full in three nights, Marguerite. The veil will thin. We must decide—does the girl stay, or does she go?”
Her silver-streaked hair was unbound, cascading past her waist. She wore a gown of liquid crimson, embroidered with constellations. In her lap lay a leather-bound book, its pages glowing faintly, and her lips moved in a language that sounded like rain falling on glass.
A man stood at the window, his back to the door. He was tall, dressed in a coat the color of midnight, and he did not cast a reflection in the mirror beside him. When he spoke, his voice was like distant thunder. The candlelight went out
Her own face.
Aunt Marguerite’s voice floated through the door, soft as a lullaby: “Don’t run, darling. We were all seventeen once. And every family needs a new keeper of the west wing.”
Lady-Sonia checked her appearance one last time. At seventeen, ten months, and twenty-seven days old, she considered herself an adult trapped in a girl’s body. Her mother, the Dowager Viscountess, disagreed, which is why Sonia had been sent to stay with her eccentric Aunt Marguerite for the summer. The wallpaper was a faded pattern of peacocks
His face was beautiful and terrible—ageless, with eyes like black diamonds. He smiled, and it was not a kind smile.
Aunt Marguerite only poured the tea, and her hand did not tremble.