Beatrice began, her voice soft as falling ash.

“I sit in the rain, the droplets mingling with my tears, cold trails weaving down my cheeks. Around me stand blurred silhouettes dressed in solemn black, their umbrellas like withered wings beneath the leaden sky. The air is swollen with sorrow as my father’s casket is lowered into the wet earth. The groan of the ropes, the thud of wood meeting dirt—each sound strikes my chest like a bell tolling the end of warmth.”

“I look to my right.”

“My stepmother dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief of fine lace, her posture delicate, the picture of grief. To the others, she is a mourning widow—fragile, broken, pitiable. But I catch it. The shimmer in her eyes. A flicker of something… pleased. Her lips twitch, like she’s stifling laughter at a cruel little joke whispered only to herself.”

“I turn back to the grave, to the damp soil ready to swallow the only parent who ever truly saw me. My father—gentle, kind, always humming lullabies in the halls—is gone. And something in me is buried with him.”

Beatrice's hands twisted slightly in her lap as she continued.

“Back inside, the house feels like a husk. Cold, empty, echoing. My bedroom, once a haven of books and candlelight, becomes a cage. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for… something. Anything. A sign that I’m still alive, still real. But the silence presses down on me like the weight of dirt above a buried coffin.

“The shadows lengthen. Hours or days pass. Then—”

She tapped her fingers once, gently.

“—a knock at the door. Soft. Delicate.

“‘Darling, are you alright in there? I just wanted to see if you were hungry,’ she coos through the wood. Her voice is sugar-spun poison. It sticks to the walls and drips into my ears. I don’t answer. I can’t. My mouth feels sewn shut by dread.

“She lingers. Then leaves. Her footsteps echo away like a clock counting down.”

The dormitory was still now. Even the candle seemed to dim.

“I stayed in bed. Time folded in on itself. The maids whispered as they passed my door, eyes lowered, hands trembling. I once caught one scattering salt along the floorboards outside my room. Another clutched a rosary and muttered prayers under her breath. None of them would look at me.

“I began to wonder if they saw something I couldn’t.

“Then came the attentiveness. My stepmother visited every day, bringing little trays of food: warm breads dusted with sugar, tiny cakes dotted with berries, tea steeped with spices that made the air dizzy. She’d smile and tilt her head like a porcelain doll, but her eyes never quite blinked. The food smelled too sweet. Too… deliberate.

“I stopped eating.

“On the third day, she didn’t bring food. She brought a gift.

“A hand mirror.

“Silver-framed, delicate vines etched around the rim, like it belonged in a fairy tale. ‘An heirloom,’ she said, placing it on my lap. ‘From my side of the family. Beauty runs deep in our blood.’

“I forced a thank-you and looked into it.

“But it wasn’t me looking back.

“My reflection was off. My face was there—but drained of colour, lips too red, pupils too wide. It looked… dead. But then it smiled. Before I did.”

She paused, a tremble passing through her voice like wind through leaves.

“I dropped it.

“It didn’t shatter.

“It hissed. Like breath on frozen glass.”

Lilith shivered visibly. No one spoke.

“That night, I woke to someone brushing my hair. Slow. Gentle. I opened my eyes just a crack.

“My stepmother stood over me.

“But her eyes were wrong. Too large. Too dark. Like she’d scooped out her soul and left only shadow behind. She whispered, ‘You’re becoming more beautiful every day. Soon, everyone will say you’re the fairest of them all.’

“I kept still. Pretended to sleep.

“Then she leaned down and murmured: ‘That won’t do, my dear. Beauty like yours attracts monsters. It has to be… contained.’”

Beatrice’s voice faltered.

“She kissed my forehead and left. Her lips were cold.

“The next morning, the house was silent.

“The maids were gone.

“The gates were locked.

“Every mirror in the house had been covered.”

Jonathan swallowed. “What did you do?”

“I waited,” Beatrice said. “I wandered the house like a ghost. The silence became my only companion. Each day, a tray appeared outside my door. The same thing every time: honeyed apples, sliced and arranged in a perfect spiral.

“I was starving.

“So one night, I took a bite.”

The room seemed to lean forward.

“The taste was sickening—sweet, cloying, like perfume clinging to rot. I gagged, spat it out.

“But it was too late.

“My limbs stiffened. My breath caught in my throat. My heart slammed once—twice—and then…

“Nothing.

“I fell. I could hear her footsteps approaching, slow, confident.

“She stood over me.

“Smiling.

“She knelt beside me and whispered, ‘It’s better this way. You’ll stay beautiful forever.’

“She kissed my cheek and left me on the floor like a discarded doll.”

Beatrice’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“When I opened my eyes again, I was in a coffin.

“Glass walls all around me. Buried beneath the house.

“I could see the beams of the cellar ceiling. Hear the wind crying through the walls above. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. I wasn’t dead.

“Just… preserved.

“For display.

“Time passed. I don’t know how long. Dust gathered. The world continued.

“But I stayed there.

“Waiting.”

The dormitory was silent. Even the fire seemed to still.

Alice broke the hush. “Did someone save you?”

Beatrice closed her notebook slowly, her eyes distant. “That’s where the story ends.”