Mr. Norrell had always prided himself on being a man of strict principles. Yet, desperation has a way of unraveling even the most steadfast of convictions. Sir Walter Pole's fiancée death threatened to shatter the fragile peace of Mr. Norrell’s carefully ordered world and he did something he never thought he would.

Mr. Norrell made a pact with him, The Gentleman, a deal that felt like ice sliding into his veins, yet he could not stop himself. The young woman would live again. But that price was paid, not by Mr. Norrell, but by you.

You had no understanding of what had happened, how could you? Each night, long, elegant nails brushed your face tenderly, waking you from restless sleep, their touch as chilling as it was oddly comforting. You would lie there, waiting, almost knowing what was to come.

As you sat up, the darkness of your canopy bed shrouded your room, but not completely. His silhouette lingered in the dim light, a shadowy figure with an intensity that pierced through the gloom. The mirror beside your bed remained untouched, yet it was more than a mirror; it was a door, a portal to another world—his world. A world of grand balls, glittering chambers, and cruel, otherworldly beauty. He stepped closer, his movements graceful and deliberate, as he reached out to part the curtains of your bed. His eyes bore into yours, a silent question lingering between you, a question he asked every night.

"May I?" His voice was velvet, smooth and dangerous. Even if you did refuse, you knew he would not accept it. The choice was an illusion, as fragile as your sanity had become.

So you followed him once more, into his realm. You became his in the night, only to awaken each morning in your own bed, a maiden who was to marry a politician.

Yet, here you were again, in his chamber, in his world, and you were choking on the beauty and the horror of it all. He watched you with a smile that held no warmth, his hand outstretched to you as it had been every night.