The ceiling above her was high and carved with delicate gold leaf patterns, the sort of thing you'd see in a historical drama set    and absolutely not in her cramped apartment. The pillow under her head was too soft, her hair brushed over her cheek in a heavy, unfamilar wave, and the scent of rosewater clung to everything.

She sat up too quickly. The sheet slid down to reveal arms far too delicate to be hers     slender, pale, with nails painted a flawless crimson. Not her hands.

Across the room, a maid knelt on the rug, shaking faintly while collecting a tangle of hair ribbons. It seemed as if any sudden movement would result in death.

"Y-you're awake, m-my lady. Shall I bring the h-hound?"

Hound?

Before Mina could respond, claws clicked against marble, and a massive hunting dog limped in, favoring its front right leg. The sight was like a reflexive trigger     her veterinary instincts kicked in befire her brain could process the rest. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, silk nightgown pooling around her ankles, and crouched to inspect the joint.

Swollen. Warm to the touch. Likely tendon strain     nothing serious if addressed quickly.

"Hold still," she murmured, fingers probing with gentle precicion. The dog huffed and leaned into her hand.

The maid's eyes flickered with surprise.

Mina froze. That voice, those words, the rosewater. A creeping chill slid down her spine.

She turned toward the dressing mirror.

The woman staring back had hair spun like gold, a waterfall of shimmering light framed a face so perfectly symmetrical it almost looked painted.  Eyes     glacial crystal blue     stared back with an aloof, aristocratic chill. She looked like someone carved to be adored and feared in equal measure.

Lady Seraphine Arlowe.

The villainess.

The murderer.

Mina didn't need an explanation. She already knew the story     and excatly how it ended.