The silence after her father's words lingered like heat.
Genevieve stood before his desk, trembling in every bone though she refused to let it show. Baton had already turned away, humming a low, tuneless note as he reached for his decanter. The sound of liquid hitting glass was soft, familiar—yet when he lifted it to the light, the drink shimmered not amber but violet, deep as bruised fruit.
He didn't notice. Or perhaps he did, and wanted her to.
The color caught in the facets of the glass, painting his fingertips purple, his smile just a little too sharp. It was the same expression he wore at parties when pretending the world was civil, when the laughter of others covered whatever bargain he'd struck underneath.
Genevieve watched him take a slow sip, her mind still caught between fear and disbelief. She told herself she imagined the color, that the light through the curtains had shifted, that she was simply dizzy. But the stain lingered on his mouth, faint and unnatural, as if something old and wrong had already started to bleed through the day.
Genevieve lingered by the door for a moment, forcing herself to breathe. The violet shimmer of her father's drink still burned in her mind, but she told herself she was imagining it. Baton had always favored theatrics—perhaps the light had played some trick through the crystal. She couldn't stay in that room any longer.
She stepped out, her heels tapping lightly across the marble floor. The air in the corridor was cooler, sweet with the faint scent of the garden drifting through the open windows. For a time she felt almost normal again. She even paused by the great stairwell to trace a fingertip across the carved banister, admiring the sheen of old polish as though it might steady her.
Her route took her through the western wing, past the portraits that her father refused to move. That hall had always belonged to her mother—every painting, every vase, every mirror arranged to catch the same flattering afternoon light. The closer she walked toward it, the heavier the air became. The sun struck the glass frames in long slanted bars, bright enough to sting her eyes.
Halfway down the hall, the temperature changed. The air thickened, golden and dense. Her breathing turned shallow. She slowed, pressing a hand to her chest. The warmth was pleasant at first—like stepping into sunlight after rain—but within moments it was too much.
She could feel it drying her from within, curling her hair against her neck, tightening her skin until she thought she might split. The light shimmered along the walls, stretching them forward, drawing the hallway longer with every blink.
Genevieve reached for one of the portraits—her mother's, forever painted younger than truth—but the frame rippled beneath her fingers, the gold leaf shifting like water.
Her breath caught. "No," she whispered.
The heat surged, but she barely felt it. The room seemed to pause—light hanging in the air like dust caught in amber. Her hand brushed the statue of her mother that stood at the end of the corridor. It wobbled once on its pedestal, a delicate tremor that drew her eyes.
Time broke open.
The statue tipped in slow motion, the marble gleaming pale as bone. In its descent Genevieve saw her childhood flicker behind her eyelids as if the fall itself had torn the seal on memory.
After her mother left, the shapeshifter had taken her place. It wore her mother's voice and perfume, her smile honed into something crueler, sharper. It didn't shout or strike. It taught by tone, by rhythm, by the long silence after a question asked in the wrong way.
"You must choose your moments to show your fangs," it would whisper, combing her curls in the firelight. "When someone forgets their place in this house, you don't crush them all at once—you let the lesson unfold. Break them slowly. You are a lady first, but a monarch butterfly next. Poison is the most polite correction."
Genevieve had hated how much sense it made, even then. She learned to smile when she wanted to snarl, to lace sweetness with warning. The creature had called her little monarch, and the name stuck.
Her father never stopped it. Baton would simply watch from the doorway, pleased to see refinement shaping his daughter, pretending not to notice what sort of mirror was teaching her.
She never saw the shapeshifter's true form. By the time they had grown close enough for truth, it was gone—her real mother returned, her face unchanged, as if nothing had been missing at all. The creature's absence left a hollow she could never name.
The memory lingered in her as the statue reached the floor. The marble struck with a dull, final sound, cracking clean through her mother's sculpted mouth. The vibration jolted up Genevieve's legs, the echo filling her chest until she thought her ribs might split.
Heat poured back into the hall. The air shimmered, bending around her. Her vision swam with afterimages—faces she hadn't seen in centuries, all smiling the same perfect smile.
She swayed, reaching for the wall, but the floor tilted away. The portraits of her ancestors stretched long and thin, eyes melting into light.
And just as the world began to fold in on itself, Genevieve fell.
Genevieve didn't feel the floor—only a weightless instant, a sudden hush, the rush of heat vanishing as her body hit something soft. The scent of soil and linen filled her lungs.
"Wake up, little monarch," a voice murmured near her ear.
She blinked at the ceiling above her—the same carved beams her father's house had always worn, the same afternoon light pouring in through the windows. Everything looked ordinary, too ordinary. The colors felt fixed, staged, as if nothing could move unless she did.
Her gaze found the rabbit woman kneeling beside her, white-tipped ears twitching with each careful breath.
"What did you call me?" Genevieve asked, her voice thin.
Alice blinked once, her expression smooth. "I said it's time to wake up, madame. We almost have the carriage to Master Viktor's cabin ready."
Genevieve pushed herself upright, dizzy. The hall around her gleamed with impossible stillness—the portraits aligned, the air calm, the sunlight resting exactly where it had before. It was as if no time had passed at all. Or perhaps too much had.
She stood slowly, brushing the dust from her skirts, feeling the fabric cling with static. Her heartbeat lagged behind her movements. When she turned toward the end of the hall, the light seemed to stretch, the corners deepening.
Was the day moving quickly? Or was she? The air felt thick, heavy, as though she were wading through it. The paintings looked farther away now, even though she hadn't taken a single step.
She started forward anyway. The sound of her heels echoed too long, ringing in the silence. Each tap carried her somewhere that felt both near and far, as if she were walking inside a memory of the house rather than the house itself.
Behind her, the rabbit woman's presence followed like a tether. Genevieve could feel the heat recede whenever Alice was close, as though the air obeyed her shadow.
"What's your name?" she asked without looking back.
"Alice, madame," came the reply.
Genevieve nodded slowly. The name lingered in her mouth, familiar and strange. "Alice."
They kept walking. The sunlight outside shifted along the windows—gold one moment, gray the next. The day was passing; she could see it. But her body felt suspended, each step pulling her deeper into something that didn't obey the rules of time.
And in that strange rhythm, for the first time, Genevieve began to suspect she wasn't moving through the day at all.
The day was moving through her.
The carriage rocked in slow rhythm, its wheels whispering against the road. Every sway made the curtains breathe—gold light flashing, fading, flashing again. The scent of cedar polish mingled with iron and lilac, sweet until it soured. Heat gathered in the corners like syrup.
Across from Genevieve, Alice sat perfectly still. Hands folded, spine straight, eyes unblinking. Her poise had that same rehearsed quiet as the dolls Genevieve's mother used to collect—beautiful, hollow, and just a little too aware.
Genevieve turned toward the window. The trees were painted wrong, their colors pulsing in and out of existence like a heartbeat. "I remember that nickname," she said, her voice honey-dipped and slow. "Only one person ever called me that."
Alice tilted her head, vertebrae clicking like a lock being turned. "You finally caught on," she said, smiling faintly. "I always said you had promise."
Genevieve studied her face. The light caught on the woman's skin in strange ways—never quite holding, never quite belonging. "You were my nurse," she said. "My father bought you from a southern market."
"Bought me," Alice repeated, as if savoring the taste. "That's what he told you." She gave a low, amused hum, smoothing her skirts. "That's what all you new immortals who went with the New World think when you see someone of my place. You think in markets, in trade, in ownership. It comforts you."
Genevieve frowned. "You mean he didn't—"
"I wasn't bought," Alice said, laughter bubbling out, rich and cruel. "I was paid—to be your nurse. Imagine that. To raise what wasn't mine. Your father couldn't afford the real cost, but oh, he tried."
She laughed again, head tipping back. The sound started bright, almost musical—then slid lower, trembling into a moan that didn't belong in polite air. It lingered too long, half-pleasure, half-memory, and Genevieve's stomach turned.
"Such a man, your father," Alice breathed when the sound faded. "So eager to bargain with things he didn't understand."
Genevieve looked away, jaw tight. At least now I know where I get my taste from, she thought bitterly. Her father had brought every kind of being through their doors—sirens, fairfolk, whispering spirits who fed on secrets—but it was shapeshifters he adored most. He said they reminded him of progress, of beauty that could not rot. Maybe that was why she'd never learned to love anything that stayed the same.
Alice's smile softened, though her gaze never blinked. "I didn't give birth to you, Genevieve. But I fed you, dressed you, sang the rot right out of your lungs. Like all nannies, I let myself pretend you were my own. A terrible weakness."
Genevieve hesitated. "Did you… love me?"
The question seemed to hang too long between them.
Shapeshifters were often hired as nurses in those days—imitators of comfort for children who'd lost their mothers. They could borrow a face, a scent, a heartbeat. They could rock a child in perfect imitation of the dead. Some called it mercy; others called it training. The best of them learned to love the children they raised—but it was a mimic's love, practiced, borrowed, and always temporary.
Alice didn't answer at first. Her breathing deepened, her fingers flexing slightly against the fabric of her dress. A ripple passed under her skin, small at first—then spreading.
"I think," she murmured, eyes half-lidded, "the animal kingdom would say yes."
Genevieve frowned. "What?"
Alice's voice lowered, velvet and wrong. "Some mothers, when the child disappoints them, eat what they made. Not from hunger, but instinct. They bring the flesh back into the body that created it. A kind of… correction."
The words seemed to open something inside her. Her face began to change. The light bent across her skin like it was being rewritten—cheekbones lifting, jaw narrowing, eyes shifting to a warmer brown. Her hair lightened strand by strand, until a honeyed wave framed her face. The transformation was seamless, practiced, almost reverent.
When she spoke again, it was Genevieve's mother's voice. "Don't you remember, my sweet? The lullabies, the ribbons, the way I brushed your hair?"
Genevieve's breath hitched. "Stop that—stop wearing her!"
Alice's lips—her mother's lips—curved in a soft smile. "Does this make you more comfortable?" she asked gently. "Or less?"
Her pupils were wide, almost feral. "Love, instinct, hunger—they're all the same at the end, aren't they? The creature gives, the creature takes. Sometimes it takes back what it made."
The air between them thickened; the smell of lilac rotted sweetly into iron. Alice—half herself, half mother—leaned closer, voice a purr. "You wanted to know if I loved you, little monarch. I did." She smiled wider, showing too many teeth. "Just not enough to let you go."
The illusion flickered. The carriage walls pulsed like a heartbeat; the curtains breathed in time with Genevieve's own chest.
Genevieve pressed herself against the seat, trembling. The thing across from her—whatever face it wore now—sat serene, watching.
"Nature," Alice whispered, her mother's voice gone again, "never wastes what she creates."
The carriage rocked on, steady and merciless. Outside, the forest leaned closer, listening.
The carriage rocked on, steady and merciless. Outside, the forest leaned closer, listening.
The carriage rocked on, steady and merciless. Outside, the forest leaned closer, listening.
Then Alice started laughing.
It began as a soft tremor in her chest, then broke loose—raw, wild, unrestrained. She threw her head back and howled until tears streaked the illusion of her mother's face. The sound cracked through the confined air like thunder wrapped in silk.
"You—" she gasped between breaths. "You truly believed that nonsense?"
Genevieve blinked, shaking, the sound scraping against her nerves. The seat creaked beneath her as she sat straighter, trying to reclaim the posture her tutors had drilled into her since childhood. Her gloved hands smoothed her skirts, fingers trembling in spite of her effort.
She'd once thought the woman who called herself her nurse—the one who wore her mother's voice like perfume—might've loved her better than the real thing. Her real mother had been cold, sharp-edged, too concerned with appearances to notice the child behind the lace. But Alice—Alice had looked at her like she was something worth keeping alive. That mimic's affection had been easier to trust than blood. And now that same face was laughing at her like she'd been a parlor joke gone stale.
Alice wiped her eyes, still grinning. "Oh, little monarch. You sweet, desperate creature. You think this is about love? About me?"
Her laughter softened into something almost tender. "Truth be told, I've always had a fondness for your brood. Your father, especially—he warmed my bed like a proper courtesan when he still fancied himself clever enough to bargain with creatures he didn't understand." Her smile curved, sly and soft. "He begged prettily, though. I suppose that's worth remembering."
Genevieve's jaw clenched. The velvet curtains swayed, brushing her arm like restless fingers. The scent of lilac soured in the heat.
Alice continued, voice lilting. "So I'm doing this as a favor, of sorts. A kindness, even. I rather liked your family once—before they tried to cheat the balance. Before your grandmother started thinking she could outlive her promises."
She leaned forward, eyes gleaming, smile gone sharp as broken glass. "Your whole blessed bloodline's been borrowing power they never meant to repay. And now look at you—pretty little heir drowning in her father's debts. The family's been struck from the List of Evil, and who do they send to mend the ruin? You."
Genevieve drew in a breath, spine stiffening. "The List of Evil—" she began, then stopped, the name tasting strange on her tongue. "You mean The Ledger of Nighted Houses." Her brow furrowed as the thought took shape. "But that can't be… my family's name's been on that book since the first signing."
Alice gave a slow, amused nod, her smile deepening. "Ah, so that's what they're calling it these days. The Ledger of Nighted Houses. Hm. Has a certain charm to it, I'll grant them that. I think it went by another name once—something older, heavier on the tongue." Her fingers tapped idly against her knee. "But who knows anymore? Time's a liar, and the dead rewrite their stories as often as the living do."
Her gaze sharpened. "And, no, little monarch, it wasn't just your father. If it were only him, he'd have been tossed into one of the torture circuits and left to rot for a century or two. But oooh…" she purred, leaning forward, "your entire house had a hand in this ruin. Grandmother, aunts, uncles, all of them. Every one of them thought they could handle a deal too large for their blood."
Genevieve's temper cracked. "Don't call me that, you—"
The woman's pupils thinned; a low growl vibrated the air. "Quiet," she hissed, and even the carriage seemed to hold its breath. "Or I might eat you whole."
Her tone softened but stayed edged with threat. "Is that how you speak to your mother—the one who kept you breathing when your real one barely tried?"
Genevieve's lips parted, then closed again. "Quiet," she muttered, staring down at her trembling hands.
Alice smiled, satisfied, and leaned back. "Better. Now, usually," she said, almost conversational, "there's an easier way to crawl back onto the Ledger. Families make a few blood offerings, pay their dues, whisper the right names—it's a small price for damnation." She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with cruel humor. "But since they sent you, it's not so simple anymore."
Her grin widened, wicked and bright. "Getting your name back on the page these days is hard, even for the clever ones. It's a crowded, evil world, and no one's handing out second chances. You've already gathered three true strikes with Viktor, and that makes you special. It means every mistake you make bleeds twice—once for you, once for them."
Genevieve's breath hitched. "Three strikes? That's not—"
"Let me finish." Alice's voice snapped like a whip, cutting the air in two. "You'll want to hear how this ends before you start pretending you've got a choice."
The carriage seemed to tighten around them, the shadows along the walls shifting like ink in water.
Alice sighed, gazing out through the fogged glass. "It's a curious time out there, you know. There's a civil war burning across the provinces—old houses clawing at one another, desperate to keep their seats on whatever they're calling that infernal list these days. The Ledger of Nighted Houses, The Registry of Sin, The Book of Black Grace—it's worn so many titles I scarcely recall which one was last in fashion." She smiled faintly, gaze drifting. "I suppose I've spent too long in my own head to remember every new name they give the same old rot."
She tapped her gloved fingers lightly against her knee. "It was never meant as punishment, you understand. The list was created to help men change their wickedness to suit the age—civilized corruption for civilized times." Her smile turned thin, ironic. "They call it progress. I call it repainting the gallows."
Alice's smile deepened. "It's yours too. You're the fastest route back. They think if you can fix this—if you can play nice with Viktor, make a show of grace—they'll slide right in again before the war finishes eating what's left of their fortune." She leaned forward slightly, eyes bright with something that was neither warmth nor pity. "But here's the trick, little monarch: you don't have time for the slow way. They're near penniless. The estates are half-sold, the servants unpaid, the cousins drunk on borrowed coin. By the time you crawl home, there might not be a home left."
Genevieve turned toward the window. The trees outside blurred, too fluid to be real, as though the whole world had been painted in wet oil and left to melt. "And if I fail?" she asked quietly.
Alice's teeth flashed white as she laughed. "Then you'll be eaten at the soul, of course. Oh, not all at once—no grand tragedy, no divine spectacle. Just a nibble here, a hollowing there." Her voice softened to something almost tender. "The Sonsters might try to piece you back together, but their resurrection trick is far from polished. The Sisters do it better, though they're a touch distracted—keeping their wings dry in all this civil unrest." She paused, licking a thumb and rubbing away a speck of dust from her cuff as though brushing off the thought. "So yes. Fail this little test, and they'll have a dreadful time putting you right again."
Genevieve's throat tightened. "This isn't a test," she said. "It's punishment."
Alice tilted her head, the gesture graceful as a swan and twice as cold. "Lesson, punishment—semantics," she murmured. "Your family begged for it. They want results, and I deliver. You, my dear, are the experiment."
Genevieve met her gaze. "And what am I supposed to learn?"
"That change is coming whether you approve or not," Alice said simply. "Immortals like you cling to your hierarchies as though they were divine right. But empires rot. Fortunes wither. The world doesn't care how well you curtsy." She smiled, a thin, dangerous curve. "You're being looped through this scenario until you understand that survival requires more than charm. Perhaps then your name will mean something again."
Genevieve frowned, voice unsteady. "Looped?"
"We've done this before," Alice said lightly, as if discussing weather. "Twice, perhaps three times. You never remember it all—you're stubborn that way. But this one is the last run. After this, the pattern locks. Either you learn the lesson, or you stay broken."
She leaned back, the carriage swaying gently with her. "So think of this as mercy in slow motion," she said, almost kindly. "Learn fast, Genevieve—before your own kin decide you're cheaper to replace than repair."
The road curved. The trees outside bent so near the windows they seemed to breathe against the glass. Genevieve watched their shapes distort and said nothing, because every word tasted like truth she wasn't ready to believe.