I watched as the woman, I assumed was the librarian, mumble to herself as she tried to keep all the papers and scrolls from falling out of her arms.
Selene caught me watching and decided to do introductions.
"My Young Widow, this is a copy of Mother Quill, the Archivist. She is an Undying Wight (Soul-Bound Librarian Construct). She manages the estate's library of forbidden bloodline records, soul-sealed tomes, and dimensional contracts."
I squinted my eyes at the maid. Did I hear correctly? Did she just say this woman was a copy?
"...Copy?" I asked, my brow arched in question.
Selene nodded without hesitation. "Yes, My Lady. The original Mother Quill resides in the Sanctum of the Forgotten—a colossal underground archive accessible only to the Vladiscar bloodline. It is where the deepest records are kept, woven into the marrow of time itself."
She gestured toward the current Archivist, still wrangling scrolls like a sleep-deprived banshee.
"This one is her echo—an animated imprint created to serve this branch of the library. While the Sanctum is reserved for bloodline heirs, this library was made available to all. Both Mistress Nyxaria and Mistress Velomirra believed that knowledge should be freely offered, not hoarded."
Selene's tone dipped, a touch of disdain threading through her usual elegance.
"The humans made the mistake of clinging to their sacred texts as symbols of power. They restricted wisdom to the elite, guarding it behind cathedrals and coin. Such foolish creatures."
Mother Quill finally seemed to notice us, looking up through round, cracked spectacles perched crookedly on her nose. Ink stains ran down her fingers like blood from a quill.
"Oh. My Lady," she drawled, scrolls wobbling dangerously. "Apologies for the mess—I was rearranging the soul-index by death order, but a banshee in the fifth row screamed and everything went out of order again."
Selene remained stone-faced. I, meanwhile, had absolutely no idea how to respond to that.
"…Right. Well. It was nice to meet you, I guess?" I offered, my voice trailing with the kind of uncertainty reserved for haunted librarians and conversations involving screaming corpses. "I'll be sure to stop by the Sanctum of the Forgotten sometime. Maybe brush up on… whatever the hell that was."
Mother Quill beamed—an unsettling sight with far too many teeth.
I turned to Selene.
"So… what's next? Actually—wait. I'm starving. Can we head to the kitchens?"
Selene bowed with her usual quiet grace. "Of course, Young Widow. Please follow me."
The triplets, still standing in their uncanny mirrored formation, dipped their heads in eerie unison.
"We'll keep the halls from misbehaving while you're gone," Hemlock said with a small wave.
Hellebore gave a faint nod. "The walls are settling. Mostly."
Hyacinth clasped her hands to her chest and chirped, "Bon appétit, Mistress Petal! Try the bone-marrow brioche!"
Then, just like that, they vanished—one after the other—folding into the shadows and silence as if they'd never been there to begin with.
I blinked. "Yeah… that's not gonna stop being creepy anytime soon."
Selene, unfazed, began leading me away. In order to get to the kitchens—located beneath the main banquet hall of the West Wing on Sub-Floor One—we had to use what Selene called the Spiral Servant Stair.
Apparently, the kitchens were only accessible two ways:
One, via a spirit-sealed dumbwaiter shaft that required a chant in Old Tongue and a pinch of shadow-salt.
Or two, the Spiral Servant Stair—a narrow, rune-etched passageway carved into the spine of the estate itself.
Selene paused before a smooth section of wall that looked like nothing more than carved obsidian—cold, flawless, silent. Then she pricked her fingertip with a silver pin she produced from her sleeve and pressed the blood against a nearly invisible sigil embedded in the wall's surface.
The runes flared to life, pulsing a deep crimson, and the wall shuddered.
With the soft groan of ancient stone giving in to memory, the wall cracked open—revealing a spiraling staircase of black marble, each step etched with flowing script that shimmered like dying embers.
"The Spiral Servant Stair," Selene announced, stepping aside for me to go first. "It only opens for the blood-marked, kitchen staff, or you—as heiress to the Vladiscar line."
I glanced at the twisting abyss beyond the threshold. "It couldn't have been, like… an elevator?"
"We do have an elevator," Selene said primly. "It just feeds on unwanted memories. Most guests avoid it."
"Great. Stairs it is."
The descent was steep and eerily silent. The steps made no sound beneath our feet, yet I could hear something breathing faintly in the walls. Every so often, a rune on the banister flickered and whispered something I couldn't quite catch. Words that sounded like ingredients, measurements, or maybe warnings.
As we reached the bottom, the temperature shifted—warmer, heavy with the scent of spices, roasted meats, and herbs I didn't recognize. A copper tang lingered just beneath the aromas, like old blood and firewood.
The landing opened into a cavernous stone kitchen with vaulted ceilings and long iron racks draped in dried herbs and glowing mushrooms. Cauldrons bubbled. Knives floated mid-air. Ovens hissed softly with enchanted flame.
The scent hit me first—burnt cinnamon, smoked root, and iron-slick heat. Then came the noise: chopping, bubbling, the wheeze of bellows, and a low, deep hum in a language I didn't know—but understood.
The Hearth Below was alive. The cauldrons breathed steam. The knives moved without hands. Spice jars opened their mouths to whisper. A chicken skeleton clacked by on two legs, carrying a ladle like a torchbearer.
And there, towering at the far end of the kitchen, stood a short, broad-shouldered woman, missing both eyes, replaced by enchanted garnets. Her thick, dark brown skin was marbled with faint silver lines—culinary sigils etched deep into her flesh by rituals long lost to time. She wore a long apron made of demonhide, stained from centuries of "fighting food" that tried to eat back.
Her eyes glowed, and when she spoke, her voice echoed like two tones slightly out of sync.
"Well, well. If it isn't the Mistress Fangtip herself," the woman said, knives never missing a beat. "Hungry, are we?"
"Mistress," Selene said smoothly, "this is Mirelda Glaive. The Kitchen Matron."
She gave me a slow once-over—top to toe, toe to teeth.
"You're smaller than your mother," she said at last. Her voice was gravel soaked in hot broth. "But you have your father's calm eyes. Could be worse." Rude!
She turned back to the stove, stirring something thick and red in a cauldron with a spoon the size of a mace.
"Sit. Eat. No one talks until the meat stops screaming."
Selene gently guided me to a seat at the long bentwood table. The cushion exhaled softly beneath her. A plate was already being set—spirit-braised root, shredded marrow-laced meat, a roll that blinked once and went still.
I didn't speak. I just picked up the blackened fork. The moment the food hit my tongue, my spine relaxed.
Warmth spread through my ribs, up my arms, behind my eyes. The ache in my chest, which I hadn't noticed, softened. The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was sacred.
Mirelda said nothing more. Selene, faintly pleased, folded her hands and stood like a proper ghost.
And I, without realizing it, whispered, "...Thank you." I rarely ever said thank you or I'm sorry. I always left a bitter taste in my mouth.
The Matron didn't smile. But I could tell she was pleased. Is she a tsundere? Ah, so cute!
~ | 💮 | ~
The next and final stop was the veiled gardens on the fourth floor in the north wing. And honestly I was glad this was the final stop. I was getting tired.
When the doors to the Veiled Gardens opened, the air changed.
It smelled of wet stone, rich loam, old petals, and faint blood—it wasn't fresh but ancestral, like the earth remembered something buried there. A dense, crimson fog clung low over the soil, curling gently around one's ankles and trailing behind like a mourning train. The ceiling overhead flickered between the night sky and greenhouse glass, depending on the emotions of those within. Sometimes, the stars wept, and sometimes, the sun never rose.
A maze of twisting pathways, carved bone arches, and overgrown hedges stretched deeper than the floor plan allowed. At its heart lied a circular clearing with a stone basin filled with blood-touched water, reflecting not the face, but the soul of the one who looked in.
When we returned to the beginning of the veiled garden, I was introduced to its caretaker. Mr. Stitch, the Groundskeeper, was a mute, golem-like caretaker formed from stitched burlap, preserved bone, and vine-bound limbs.
He wore a burlap sack for a face with button eyes and leather gloves stitched into his hands. Seriously, why was all the staff so weird?
He was sweet, though. He never spoke, but hummed eerily while pruning roses with thorns sharper than daggers. He even gifted me a bouquet of them before Selene and I left. He's such a sweetie!
As we strolled through the veiled corridor, soft-glowing sconces casting long shadows along the walls, Selene's voice broke the silence.
"Mistress, would you like to take a bath before retiring?" she asked, her tone as calm and ceremonial as ever.
I raised a brow. "Depends. Is this a normal bath? Or is it filled with blood, starlight, or flower petals that whisper secrets while you soak?"
She didn't even flinch. "Yes."
"…Yes what?"
"All of the above, depending on your preference," she replied smoothly. "The Estate offers multiple bathing chambers—ritual, ceremonial, restorative, and aesthetic. Mistress Nyxaria favored the Mirror-Frost Baths. Mistress Velomirra preferred the Crimson Chrysalis."
"I'd settle for hot water and soap that doesn't try to read my mind."
"There is the Moonpool, then. Peaceful. Private. Only mildly sentient."
I sighed, lips twitching into the beginning of a smile. "Show me the way."