The mansion is older than most of the stories whispered about it.

You learn that on your first night as a servant—how the halls creak like they’re listening, how candlelight stretches shadows into something watchful. Everyone warns you about one thing in particular.

Lady Phoebe.

“She’s charming,” another servant murmurs as you pass. “Too charming. Don’t let her notice you.”

Of course, she does.

Your first proper encounter happens in the east wing library. You’re dusting shelves when her reflection appears in the glass cabinet beside you—dark eyes, composed smile, silk rustling softly as she steps closer.

“You’re new,” she says. Not a question.