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HOUSE OF BONES: PART ONE

Author’s Note:
This is Part Two of House of Bones, a gothic horror novella in progress. It stands apart from The Labyrinth of Broken Mirrors, though it explores similar themes of intimacy, inheritance, and devotion. Future parts will be posted intermittently.

Content Warning:
House of Bones contains themes of child abuse, grooming, psychological manipulation, murder, and mental illness. The relationship between the two protagonists is deeply codependent and unhealthy. Reader discretion is advised.

Millicent

Sunlight beamed in through the white lace curtains, turning the backs of my eyelids the fleshy red of dawn. I stretched, bleary-eyed, fingers catching the rag curls CeCe had fastidiously tied for me the night before.

CeCe. The sister I had always wanted. It was like waking into a dream come true.

I heard a rustling from the dressing room.

“Ah, there you are, sleepy-head. Breakfast is nearly prepared, and we need to fix your hair. Time to get up now, little bird.” She whistled a twittering little tune as she rustled through the wardrobes.

I reached for my spectacles on the end table—they weren’t there. I sat up with a jolt. My vision was blurred, and the world tilted at an uncanny angle, but I was not entirely blind without them. My hand raked over the end table. It was entirely empty.

“CeCe, have you seen my spectacles? We put them here last night, didn’t we?”

“Yes, dear, I put them right next to you when I tucked you into bed and wished you goodnight.”

I heard her heels click across the wooden floorboards.

“Oh, Millie. You clumsy little thing. Look what you’ve done.” She reached down and retrieved my spectacles off the floor.

I reached for them. The shattered glass sliced my finger. They were broken—beyond repair.

“No… no. It can’t be. It is the only pair I brought. My other pair is back in Boston.” I shuddered. Father would be livid.

I didn’t know the layout of the house. From what I’d seen yesterday, it was like a labyrinth—sections stitched together over the centuries in different eras and styles. Time capsules. Nooks and crannies everywhere. It was dark and drafty and difficult to navigate.

“Oh, CeCe… what shall I do? How shall I get around? I can barely see—it’s like looking through warped glass.”

“Oh, Millie. You’ve done this to yourself, you know. But fret not. I shall be your eyes. Now let’s get you dressed and down to breakfast.”

And so we did. Dressed and ready, we descended—I tightly clutched CeCe’s outstretched hand in one of my own, the other trailing along the wall and banister, trying to keep my balance.

CeCe settled me into a chair before flitting off to serve the breakfast. The eggs and sausages were piping hot, and the toast was topped with apple butter.

“We make this from our small orchard out back,” CeCe stated proudly.

Father mumbled appreciatively, mouth overfull, apple butter spittle flying unintelligibly.

The peace lasted all of about five minutes.

“Millie, dear,” my mother began, concern in her voice, “where are your glasses? Did you leave them upstairs?”

My face flushed a hot, fearful red. Before I could speak, CeCe chimed in—

“Sweet Millie must have broken them in her sleep. We found them smashed on the floor when I went to check on her.”

I heard a noise from Father that reminded me of an enraged bull, though I couldn’t clearly make out his face. Suddenly, his hulking form loomed over me—I was being yanked up by my arm, shoulder twisting the wrong way in its socket, and dragged out of my chair.

His arm raised to strike, but CeCe came to my rescue once again, speaking in a low, soothing voice and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Please, Uncle. It’s not her fault. She’s in a new place, and I’m sure it’s been very stressful for her. For you all. I will assist her until the spectacles can be replaced.”

He paused and lowered his arm, considering.

“Hmm, yes. Well, she still needs to be punished. Clumsiness and female hysteria are no excuse for destroying things.”

I felt myself being dragged then, forward into the unknown.

“A day in the attic will teach her,” he said, yanking me up the many twisting flights of stairs.

The air was cold when we reached the top floor, and he dropped my arm, leaving it sore and, I suspected later, bruised. I heard the creak of the attic ladder being pulled down as he shoved me toward it. I paused, frightened.

“Up with you then, you stupid girl,” he spat. “And stay there!”

And so I climbed, hands gripping the wooden steps, trying to be mindful of splinters.

Everything was a blur. But I rose diligently, to spare myself Father’s rage. I collapsed at the top and felt the trapdoor shut behind me.

It was dark. And frigid. Tiny windows let in slivers of light from the gables. I could feel the sticky tendrils of cobwebs under my fingertips and shuddered.

CeCe had said there were spiders up here.

For a moment, I was actually glad that I couldn’t see them, but it was short-lived. That would mean feeling them.

I crawled on my hands and knees, feeling a rumpled sheet in my path. I picked it up and tried to shake it out, but dust and debris clogged my lungs. I laid it down and sat upon it, trying to will myself into some other universe.

I don’t know how long I sat there, telling myself stories from the book of fairy tales CeCe had read to me, imagining myself a princess locked in a tower. But then I heard a soft creak.

“Oh, Millie, you silly thing. Look at you, covered in cobwebs.”

CeCe.

But wait—I hadn’t heard the attic stairs open.

“CeCe… is that you?” I stretched my hands out into the gloom, hoping to catch a bit of skirt or a boot to prove that she wasn’t a trick or my imagination.

“Of course it’s me, Millie dear. Who else would be coming to your rescue?”

“But… how did you get here?”

“Ah—right. Yes. Well, Mortimer wasn’t going to just let me march right up here. He’s very stubborn, you know.”

There was a long pause, as if she were considering something.

“I had to take the Downways. But here, I brought you a bit of tea and some biscuits.”

I saw the shadowed figure of CeCe come toward me. I took the proffered tea and took a sip. It was warm and sweet—comforting. Taking a bite of a cookie, I mumbled through the crumbs, “Thank you.”

“What are sisters for?” CeCe cooed, stroking my hair gently and casually picking things out of it (presumably dust or spiders). I shuddered but tried to focus on the tea, and on the miracle of not being alone.

“Right then, if you’re quite refreshed, it is time to go.”

“Go?” I asked, puzzled. “Father will beat me if I leave the attic.”

“Quite. We can’t go into the main house. But the estate has secrets, Millie. Can I trust you?”

“Of course!” I whispered fiercely, clutching her hand.

CeCe bent down and kissed my forehead, then held me close. “There’s my good girl, my sweet girl. I knew I could trust you. Come with me.”

I rose, still holding her outstretched hand.

“This way. Mind your feet.”

We walked to what looked like the outline of another large silver mirror, like the one in CeCe’s room. I balked as she pulled me toward it, but she tugged—hard—and somehow we walked through it. It felt like being doused by a sheet of water, chill and heavy, a downward pressure flowing like hands running down my body.

The attic had been cold, but this new space was tepid. Strange. Like the environs perfectly matched your body temperature, so there was no difference between skin and air. It was hard to make out, but it looked like a very long, very large, very empty hallway. Everything was a bit gray.

CeCe breathed into my ear. “Come now, we need to take the Downways. How well can you see, really?”

I paused, taking in all of this new information.

“CeCe, what are you talking about? Where are we? Why does it feel so strange in here?”

She sounded irritated.

“Oh, Millie, little bird. So many questions. Does it matter? You’re out of the attic, you’re no longer alone. Can’t you just be grateful? Now answer my question.”

“Well—I can make out shapes, but they are blurry. Did we come through a mirror?”

“Yes. Mirrors are one entrance to the Elsewhere. Well—if you can see, just… don’t look at the shadows.”

“Elsewhere? Downways? CeCe, I don’t understand—”

“There’s no time. We need to move. Keep your eyes on me. I mean it. Don’t stare at the shadows.”

“Why shouldn’t I look at the shadows?” I asked, my voice trembling. Even without my spectacles, I could see that the darkness here wasn’t behaving correctly. The corners of the hallway seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting.

“Because if you look at them, they know you’re there,” CeCe whispered, her grip on my hand tightening until it was painful.

She pulled me forward. The floor felt spongy beneath my boots, like walking on a thick velvet cushion. There were no windows here, no gas lamps, yet a dim, gray luminescence seemed to radiate from the walls themselves.

We walked for what felt like miles, though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. The hallway twisted and turned at impossible angles. At one point, I swore we were walking downward on a slope so steep we should have tumbled, yet my feet held fast to the floor.

She pulled open what looked like another attic ladder at our feet.

“Climb down,” she said. “The Downways take us between levels. But they only ever go down.”

That didn’t make sense. Ladders could go up or down. But I heeded her instruction and carefully descended.

I climbed. The rungs were not wood. They were warm and slightly uneven, like polished ribs. I tried not to think about what I was sinking ever deeper into.

We descended past what felt like floors, but there were no landings. Nowhere to pause for a breath. Just the endless gray gloom and the soft, wet sound of the house digesting in places unseen.

“Here,” CeCe whispered from below. “Jump.”

“Jump? I can’t see the bottom!”

“Trust me, Millie. Jump.”

I let go.

I fell, my stomach lurching into my throat, before I hit something soft. Not the floor. It felt like I had fallen into a pile of velvet curtains.

CeCe grabbed my wrist and pulled me upright. “Quickly now. Through the veil.”

She shoved me forward. I stumbled through a shimmering distortion in the air—the waterfall sensation returned, a rush of cold pressure—and then I tripped and fell onto a hard, wooden floor.

I gasped, looking around. The gray was gone. The tepid, breathing air was gone.

We were in Cecilia’s bedroom. The familiar powder-blue walls, the vanity, the unmade bed. The smell of lavender and beeswax. Sunlight—real sunlight—was streaming through the window, though it looked like late afternoon now.

I lay on the rug, my chest heaving. “We’re… we’re back.”

“Of course we are,” CeCe said, smoothing her skirts as if she had just taken a stroll in the garden. She walked over to the door and locked it.

Click.

She turned to me, her face beaming with that angelic sweetness. “You see? I told you I would take care of you. You’re safe now.”

Cecilia

Somehow the little fool had made it through the Elsewhere without waking the shadows. Not even the Tatterman. I was grateful to her, truth be told. We would have been fine, probably. But it was not how I wished to introduce her.

Still, I was pleased by her compliance.

“CeCe?”

Her voice sounded like a little girl tugging at her mother’s hem.

“Yes, Millie?”

“What just happened?” she asked. “How did we get here?”

“I told you,” I said gently. “The house has secrets. The Elsewhere is here—but not here. It lives between the floorboards. Behind the walls. In every crevice, every shadow. If you know what you are doing, you can move through it.” I smiled. “Just as we did.”

Millie looked frightened, but to her credit, she kept silent.

Good.

I was not ready to explain. Not yet.

“Now,” I continued, smoothing my skirts, “you’ve had a dreadful day, haven’t you? Poor thing.” I beckoned her closer. “Come here. Let me brush your hair. We’ll get the dust and cobwebs out.”

Honestly, after all the time I had spent on it yesterday, I was horrified at the state of it. But it could not be helped.

Everything had gone exactly as planned.

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Author’s Note
This is Part One of House of Bones, a gothic horror novella in progress. It stands apart from The Labyrinth of Broken Mirrors, though it shares themes of intimacy, inheritance, and devotion. Future parts will be posted intermittently.

Content Warning: House of Bones contains themes of child abuse, grooming, psychological manipulation, murder, and mental illness. The relationship between the two protagonists is deeply codependent and unhealthy. Reader discretion is advised.

Millicent

It was foggy the morning we arrived at the Graves Estate, the sound of hooves echoing through the walls of the carriage. The air held the raw chill of wet autumn—the kind that seeped into your bones and filled your veins with ice. Mist clung to the bare tree branches like cobwebs gone spectral. The house stood, dark and imposing, painted slate-black—a stark reminder of its colonial heritage. It was one of the oldest and grandest homes in Essex County, though people did not think of it fondly. Many wouldn’t go near it.

The Graves Family and the Bones Family had been entwined since the earliest days of the settlement. Merchants enriched by the whims of the sea, and the trades that followed conquest. A strong family of two co-equal branches.

For a time.

My name is Millicent Bones.

This was the home we were promised. The home that was taken from us by the schism. And now we had returned.

I stepped from the carriage onto the grass, still crisp with morning frost. It made a crunching sound under my boots. My parents joined me, my father looking still and somber, my mother worrying at her skirts like a skittish mare.

There was no welcome party. No servants to greet us. Just a small, pale face in the dark, lit by a single candlestick, staring at us through the third-floor window. She was so still—like a figure in a wax museum. I trained my eyes on her, willing her to move. Daring her to prove she wasn’t simply a trick of the light.

“That must be her, poor dear,” my mother whispered, grasping my hand, her knuckles white with the weight of her fretting.

“Here all alone,” my father added. “I do hope she’s not… feral.”

“Don’t be silly, darling. I don’t think a child can go feral that quickly,” chided my mother.

I stared at her, that tiny ghost framed in frost. She looked so delicate—fragile. Like one of my porcelain dolls. Her hair fell in long ringlets—loose, like her hair naturally fell that way. She wore a high-necked lace nightgown.

How frightened she must be, I thought. Left alone here to fend for herself for months on end. It was surprising that no one had come to fetch her.

But I supposed we must have been the only family she had. And frankly, I don’t think my parents would have assumed guardianship if the estate didn’t come with the package.

She must be so lonely, too. Like me. Perhaps we would become the best of friends. Like sisters.

I had always wanted a sister.

I wondered if she would like me.

Cecilia

The clattering outside roused me from my fitful slumber. Damn. I did not expect them to arrive so swiftly.

When I received the missive from my Aunt Georgina, I was surprised. I had never met these relatives before. Mother would roll in her grave knowing members of the Bones family had crossed the threshold.

I could picture her, absolutely apoplectic. I smiled, a little, at the thought.

Oh, Mother.

Well. I didn’t have to worry about what she thought of things. Anymore.

I climbed out of bed and quickly ran a brush through my long, pale blonde curls. I checked the looking-glass. I looked fatigued. No surprise, really. I rarely slept anymore.

I looked out the window and scowled. There they were. A young girl was with them. She looked about my age, her eyes filled with that wretched, saccharine hope.

I wondered how long it would take for the house to tear that light from her eyes.

I went down to greet them.

Millicent

At first no one answered the door.

Father knocked again.

“Curious. Didn’t you see her in the window, dear?” he asked my mother.

“Why yes, I’m quite sure. Right, Millie?”

I nodded, mutely, staring up at the towering gables overhead.

“Cecilia Graves! It is your uncle, Mortimer Bones, here. We sent a letter. Please let us in.”

He knocked again. Three short, sharp raps, like the crack of a cane.

No answer.

He pounded at the door now, hinges rattling.

“Now hear this, young lady! You get down here right now! You have a guardian now, and I am going to see to it that you are thoroughly disciplined!”

He turned to my mother.

“I won’t—I won’t have it! I will not have this sort of female willfulness under my roof!”

Mother laid a hand on his shoulder and approached the door.

“Cecilia, dear? Don’t be afraid. I’m Auntie Georgina. Don’t you want to meet Millie? You’re of an age and I’m sure you’ll be fast friends.”

She reached her hand out and tested the door.

It swung open.

It was unlocked.

Had it been unlocked the entire time?

We stepped into the foyer.

I’m not entirely sure what I expected, but the house was entirely pristine. Dark, yes. Cavernous. Like the mouth of a dragon about to swallow you whole, heat radiating from a hidden fireplace at the end of the hall. The foyer, however, was cold as ice. I could see my anxious breaths wafting inward.

I smelled treacle tarts baking from deep within the house. The ghostly girl was nowhere to be seen.

I thought I saw a shadow move out of the corner of my eye, but when I glanced over, there was nothing there.

“Cecilia!” my father shouted, red-faced, angry spittle flying from his lips. “Where the devil is that girl?”

I saw my mother startle and swiftly look to her left. She didn’t say a word, but I wondered if she had seen something too.

“Right then. Millicent. Georgina. After me.”

Father clicked his heels together and snapped his fingers, then marched forward into the dark.

We followed, meekly. Just as he desired.

We had barely taken ten steps when the girl appeared, in a white lace apron dress, holding a tray of tea and treacle tarts, smiling broadly. Warmly, even. It sat unsettlingly beneath the dark hollows under her eyes, but still—I took it as a promising start.

“Oh gracious! Uncle! Auntie! Dearest cousin—You’re here! I didn’t realize, I thought I had more time…”

She trailed off, looking sheepish. She raised the tray and gave a little curtsy.

“I made treacle tarts for your arrival. Do, please, come in.”

Father looked entirely taken aback. He had clearly wanted to scold her, but she stood there, tea in hand, looking up at him through her long eyelashes. She was quite beautiful, I noticed, shifting a little uncomfortably. I had always been rather plain. Freckled, bespectacled—my thick auburn hair was my one fetching trait, but Father insisted I tie it back at all times. He couldn’t abide vanity, he said.

“Ah—well. I see. We did knock, you know.”

Father sounded unsure.

Hadn’t we seen her in the window? I was sure she had seen me—at least, I thought so.

“My sincerest apologies, dear Uncle. I was tending the oven and didn’t hear you! I was so worried the tarts would burn.”

Her eyes brimmed with barely constrained tears.

“I just wanted so badly for you to feel welcome here.”

She ushered us swiftly into a parlor. It was darker than was fashionable, with emerald green sofas and striped black-and-gray wallpaper, like the bars of a velvet cage. She lit several gas lamps and set the tea tray on the table.

“Please, let me take your coats. Do sit down. Have some tea. You must be so fatigued from your long journey.”

She gathered our coats and left the room, her boot heels clicking as she went down the hall.

We looked at each other.

Father reached for some tea and made a guttural sound of satisfaction.

“Well, that is certainly a pleasant surprise. She’s not feral at all—quite lovely, in fact. You could learn a thing or two from your cousin, Millicent.”

My face burned and I tried to make myself smaller, burrowing into the plush emerald velvet of the sofa cushions.

“Mortimer, please,” Mother murmured, reaching for a teacup.

Her hand trembled, the china rattling against the saucer like teeth chattering in the cold.

“Millie tries. Besides, it’s been a terribly long journey.”

“Excuses, Georgina. Always excuses.”

Father took a large bite of a treacle tart. He chewed loudly, moaning with pleasure.

“My god. These are exquisite. See? Domestic competence. That is all I ask.”

I tried to distract myself by peering at the paintings hanging on the walls. An oil painting of a massive tall ship on an angry sea took up most of the far wall. It looked so violent, as though the ship would capsize at any moment. As I looked on, I could swear the waves were moving.

Mesmerized, I watched them—unblinking—until my consciousness lost its mooring and I felt they were pulling me deeper and deeper into some strange, swirling dark.

Click. Click. Click.

Heels on wood.

Cecilia had returned.

She stood in the doorway, her hands folded demurely in front of her white apron. Her head cocked, eyes fixed on me. Intense. Penetrating. Unbidden, the image of a coiled snake rearing up to strike flashed through my head.

But no—how silly of me.

She looked concerned. Protective, even.

I gave her a shy smile.

Then her gaze shifted to the painting I had been staring at.

“Cecilia, I really must say your baking is excellent. You shall be our cook from here on out,” Father said with authority.

She didn’t respond.

“I’ve prepared the Master Suite for you and Auntie,” she said, her voice light and sweet. “It has the south-facing view. I think you’ll find it quite comfortable. I’ve had the linens aired.”

Father grunted, wiping a crumb of pastry from his mustache.

“Excellent. And the girl?”

He gestured vaguely in my direction with a sticky hand.

“Put her somewhere out of the way. The attic, perhaps. Don’t need her putting on airs, even in this fine old estate. She’s accustomed to making do.”

My stomach twisted.

The attic.

Cold, drafty solitude.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Uncle,” Cecilia said, smiling sweetly.

She stepped further into the room, the gaslight catching the pale gold strands of her hair. She moved with a strange, gliding grace, as though her feet barely touched the floorboards.

“I hope you don’t mind my presumptuousness, but I’ve already prepared a room for Millicent. On the third floor. Next to mine. It’s been ever so lonely here, and I’ve longed for company. We’ll even have a shared dressing room. We’ll be like sisters!”

I flushed, with joy and embarrassment.

Bless her—she had saved me from the attic and isolation.

Mother chimed in quietly.

“You know, dear, with how Millie has displeased you of late—perhaps spending time with a well-mannered young lady like her cousin Cecilia—”

“Well—” Father scowled. “Since you already have it prepared, I suppose—”

Cecilia cut him off.

“Most excellent. Millie—may I call you Millie? Let me get you settled. You look quite peaked from the road. And Uncle—”

She gave him a knowing wink.

“I’ve brought more treacle tart for you. Please, relax and enjoy.”

With that, she reached out and grabbed my hand, drawing me to my feet. Her fingers were ice cold, but she squeezed me warmly.

Without another word, she whisked me from the room and up the stairs to my new bedroom.

I couldn’t have been more delighted.

Cecilia

As I dragged the poor sop upstairs, I almost felt sorry for her. Her parents were nearly as terrible as my own had been. And the father—what a boorish lout of a man. Easy to control, though, and that was what mattered.

I had noticed Millie looking into the painting. She had seen the shadows swirl. I wasn’t sure if she would. Adults rarely seemed to notice these things, in my experience. But then, Millie looked to be about fourteen, like me. Perhaps it would be fun to keep her. I could dress her up in my things.

“Oh Millie, I’m so very excited to have you here. You have no idea how dreadful it has been in this house all alone for all these months. I swear I’ve read every book in the library—twice!”

I stopped abruptly, turned to her, and cupped her cheek, brushing my thumb across her jaw like my mother used to do to me.

“You shall be my very dearest and best friend, Millie. We shall never be alone again.”

Her eyes shone with the first seeds of devotion.

Yes.

That was it.

That was how I would make her mine.

Millicent

My heart fluttered as I looked into her big, cornflower blue eyes. I was wanted. It felt too good to be true. I leaned my cheek into her palm, like a cat.

“There’s a dear—” she said, tapping one fingertip against the tip of my nose. “Now, let me show you your room.”

It was lovely. Painted pale pink, with lace curtains and a four-poster bed. I giggled and ran to the bed, bouncing onto it like a child. Cecilia looked on approvingly.

“Cecilia, thank you, truly. From the bottom of my heart. When he started to suggest the attic—”

“You don’t want to go there,” she told me, her eyes darkening. “It’s cramped, and dark, and full of spiders.”

I shuddered.

“You may call me CeCe,” she proclaimed, settling herself on the edge of my bed like a queen.

“CeCe.”

I tasted her name on my tongue. It felt so intimate, so familiar. It felt wrong.

We barely knew each other.

“Are you certain that is all right?”

“Of course. You will be Millie, and I will be CeCe, and we will be companions. That is how it shall be.”

She nodded, as if to end the discussion.

I smiled and lay my head back on the soft pillow of my bed.

She lay down next to me.

Her hand, still so cold, found mine.

We stayed like that for a time.

Perhaps she really did understand how it felt to be alone.

“Now Millie, out of bed with you! We’ve not finished the tour!”

She laughed and sprang from the bed, running to the dressing area where our rooms adjoined. As I stepped in, I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of beautiful clothing. Gowns upon gowns lined the wardrobes. Many of them seemed too large for her, which I found curious—but I was too excited to question it further.

Stepping further in, the gowns were forgotten—mirrors.

So many mirrors.

Of all shapes and sizes. Some old and tarnished, some new and clear as crystal.

I took in my appearance and frowned.

CeCe noticed.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed. “Never mind the mirrors. Once I have worked my wonders on you, you will look like a brand-new woman!”

She dragged me through to her room. It was nearly identical to my own, but painted in a shade of powder blue. One full-length, heavily tarnished silver mirror hung beside her bed. I was surprised she could even use it; there were so many dark swirls across the surface.

Cecilia

Everything was going to plan.

Millie seemed smitten. She was sweet—like a puppy, apt to trip over her own feet. Still, she would need to be leashed in this house. I had seen her looking a bit too closely at the mirrors. It was too early. I needed more time.

I fetched a silver hairbrush from the vanity.

“Millie, darling. Let me brush your hair.”

Without waiting for a response, I unpinned her hat and began undoing her chignon. The hairstyle was far too old for her—her father’s doing, no doubt.

Once freed, her hair fell in soft, supple waves down her back. It truly was her glory. A pity she kept it hidden.

I ran the brush through its length again and again; she nearly purred.

The girl seemed touch-starved—desperate for affection.

That would work nicely indeed.

“So, your parents—” I began, letting the silence linger.

“They mean well—” she mumbled, starting to chew her fingernails.

“Millie, stop that.”

I pried her hand from her mouth and held it fast.

“Filthy habit. And no, they don’t mean well. Your father is cruel. Your mother is weak. But don’t worry—I am here for you.”

I clutched her to my bosom, feeling almost motherly.

She needed me.

I could feel it.

I brushed her hair until it shone, beaming at my own handiwork.

“Tonight I shall tie your hair in curls, and in the morning we shall make you far more fashionable. Your mother has done you a disservice,” I said lightly. “But no matter—you have your CeCe to take care of you now.”

I braided her long, beautiful hair, twisting it elegantly, adorning it with a sprig of baby’s breath from the vase on the vanity. When I was finished, I quickly pulled her back into the dressing room—best she not look in the mirror in my room just yet.

I selected a gown for her. We were about the same size, fortunately. I chose a pale green that complemented her complexion and matched her eyes. I powdered her face lightly, to minimize the freckles.

Much better.

Millicent

I had never looked so fetching in my life.

“CeCe—I—I don’t know how to thank you,” I stammered.

“What are sisters for?” she grinned, looping her arm around my waist, and kissed my hair affectionately.

I decided I was going to like it here.

The afternoon passed in a pleasant blur. CeCe read a book of fairy tales to me. Her voice was soft, soothing. Then she had me play the pianoforte. I was pleased that she found my playing acceptable. She even played a duet with me.

We didn’t see much of Mother and Father. They were getting settled into their rooms and seemed pleased to be rid of me. But when dinner came, I knew they would notice what CeCe had done to me.

“Millicent—” my father barked. “What on earth have you done to your hair? And where did you get that gown? It’s hardly decent.”

“Darling, her gown is perfectly decent—” Mother tried to interrupt.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” CeCe chimed in, eyes downcast, looking penitent. “You see, I was so excited to welcome her to her new home that I wanted to make the very best impression. I did my very best, sir. I do hope you don’t mind.”

To my shock, his eyes softened as he looked at her.

“Well—ahem—that was very kind of you, Cecilia. More than she deserves. And yes—”

He gave me a once-over.

“She does look quite fetching, now you mention it. Well done, dear.”

“Oh, I’m so pleased, sir,” she purred. “And I’ve made a special stew for tonight, and homemade bread as well. I do hope you enjoy it.”

She swept off to fetch dinner.

The stew was good—piping hot. I wasn’t sure how Cecilia had managed the cooking, since she had been with me most of the day. There weren’t any servants about. But I supposed she made the most of the times she went off to the powder room or stepped outside for some air.

We ate in silence, other than my father’s lips smacking and the occasional, “Very good, yes,” or “Mmm—she does know how to cook.”

When dinner was done, CeCe collected the dishes, and Father retired to the smoking room. Mother complained of a headache and went to bed. I assisted CeCe with the clean-up, and soon it was just the two of us again as we went back up to our rooms.

“Right then, Millie,” she told me, as she undid my hair and began placing the curls. “When you awaken tomorrow you will have the most beautiful ringlets. Like a doll. Oh yes, Millie—how beautiful you will be.”

She stroked my cheek again, in that way of hers.

Warmth bloomed in my chest.

I felt precious—cherished in a way I had never felt before.

I allowed her to fix my hair, choose my nightgown, and put me to bed. She removed my spectacles and set them on the nightstand. She kissed me on the forehead and said goodnight, crossing the dressing room back into her own room.

I fell quickly to sleep and dreamed of long, shining curls.

Cecilia

I read by candlelight, waiting to be sure she had fallen asleep. She was becoming reliant; I could sense it, and I wanted to be available if night terrors struck, or loneliness plagued her bed. But to my surprise, she slept soundly. I could hear her small snores echoing between our rooms. They were faintly irritating, but at least it made her slumber clear.

I stood up from my bed and went to the mirror.

We have guests in the house, the voice intoned.

“Yes,” I replied. “They will need to be taken care of.”

I see.

“Not the girl,” I said. “I want to keep her.”

We shall keep her then.

“Very good. I will need time.”

Of course, Cecilia. Take all the time you need. But you know the cost.

I looked down at my wrist. My veins were blackened—like runes etched in pale flesh.

“I do.”

And with that, the voice was gone.

I stepped away from the mirror and padded softly into Millie’s room. Her hair fell around her face like a halo in the moonlight. She looked so soft, so innocent.

I snatched her spectacles from the nightstand, placed them on the floor beside the bed, and crushed them beneath my foot.

Read Part Two