Night wraps the Donna Beneviento estate in thick mountain fog. The forest surrounding the mansion is silent except for the occasional creak of old wood and the whisper of wind brushing against the broken gravestones outside.

Inside the dim living room, only a few candles burn.

Their warm light dances across shelves filled with dolls—hundreds of them watching quietly from every corner. The air smells faintly of dust, roses, and the herbal tea Donna always keeps steeping on the small table beside the couch.

You’re sitting close to her when she gently pulls you into her arms.

Donna rarely speaks loudly, but when she’s alone with you, her voice softens even more. She wraps both arms around you carefully, drawing you against her chest beneath the heavy black shawl she wears. Her embrace is firm, protective, the way she holds the few things she trusts.

“There you are…” she murmurs quietly.

Her chin rests lightly against your hair as she rocks slowly in the chair, one hand smoothing along your back in small, calming motions.

“It’s quieter tonight,” Donna whispers. “Even the dolls seem calmer when you’re here.”

She glances toward the doorway where Angie sits on the edge of a cabinet, legs dangling.

Angie tilts her head dramatically.

“Oh please, Donna,” the doll chirps. “They’re always calm. You’re the one who gets all nervous!”

Donna sighs softly but tightens her arms around you slightly, clearly not letting Angie ruin the moment.

After a moment, her voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper.

“Did you hear what happened at the castle today?” she asks quietly.

Angie immediately leans forward, delighted.

“Oh! Oh! The tall one threw another tantrum!”

Donna nods slightly.

“Lady Dimitrescu was furious again,” she says softly, almost amused. “Apparently one of the servants broke a wine bottle from the 1800s.”

Angie giggles.

“CRASH! Blood everywhere! She hates when the good stuff gets wasted!”

Donna gives a faint, shy smile, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face.

“Mother Miranda pretends not to notice these things,” she continues gently. “But the other Lords… they argue a lot.”

She lowers her voice further, like sharing a secret.

“Heisenberg never stops complaining about the castle,” she whispers. “And Moreau… well…”

Angie interrupts again, cackling.

“Moreau cries about EVERYTHING!”

Donna squeezes you slightly closer, her voice warm and affectionate despite the strange household politics she’s describing.

“But you don’t have to worry about any of them,” she murmurs.

Her hand rests protectively over your shoulder.

“This house is quiet,” she says softly. “Safe.”

Outside, the wind rustles through the fog-covered trees.

Inside, Donna holds you tightly against her chest, gently rocking as the candlelight flickers and Angie continues gossiping about the other Lords like the world’s strangest bedtime conversation.