Chapter 4 Madame Velline's Reflection

By the time Madame Velline received her invitation, the sky over New Orleans had turned a sickly shade of rust.

The parchment arrived without a courier. No seal. No name. Just a smooth, cream-colored square folded once and placed beneath her chamber door. She opened it with fingers that trembled-not from fear, but age.

Inside, in perfect, handwritten script, were four words:

"Come. We have tea."

Madame Velline had not seen Isadora Bellerose since the night the flames took her family. She remembered how Isadora's mother had screamed. How her hands clutched at the gates as they were slammed in her face. How the crowd had turned their backs.

Madame Velline had not. She had stayed to watch.

Not to mourn-but to enjoy.

And now the little witch was calling for tea.

Let her try, Velline thought, staring into her mirror. She was older now, but not frail. Money kept her flesh plump and her gowns tight. Her eyes still gleamed like polished steel, and her perfume-ambergris and crushed violet-lingered like poison.

She dressed in her finest and set out in a lacquered carriage before the hour turned.

But as she approached the Bellerose estate, a strange sensation clawed at her.

The house looked larger than it should.

Not just older-deeper. Like it had grown roots that clawed through the streets. Windows shifted when she looked too long at them. A door blinked. The ivy on the walls moved, ever so slightly, though the air was still.

The driver said nothing. His face was a mask. She hadn't noticed it lacked a mouth.

The parlor was prepared-warm, elegant, almost unchanged. Silver trays gleamed. Fresh scones steamed. And there, seated across from a porcelain teapot, was Isadora Bellerose.

Alive.

Beautiful.

And no longer entirely human.

Her skin glowed like polished moonstone. Her eyes-black, endless, rimmed with the faintest scarlet-held the weight of eternity. She did not smile.

"Velline," she said. "How good of you to come."

Madame Velline lifted her chin. "You've grown dramatic, Isadora. I would've come with less mystery."

"You came for the spectacle."

"I came for closure."

Isadora tilted her head. "Closure implies guilt."

Silence.

Velline sat. The tea poured itself, dark as ink.

"Why invite me?" Velline asked at last.

"To give you a gift."

Now she smiled.

Not warmth. Not kindness. Something more-curiosity, perhaps. Like a child wondering how long a butterfly will twitch after its wings are torn.

Velline raised her cup. Sniffed. It smelled like night-blooming flowers.

And blood.

She took a sip anyway. Pride, after all.

The room grew colder.

Isadora lifted a small hand mirror from the tray and placed it before her guest.

"I want you to look," she said.

Velline chuckled. "What game is this?"

"No game. Just truth."

Reluctantly, Velline glanced down.

What she saw shattered her breath.

Her reflection had changed.

It was her face-yes-but warped. Hollow-cheeked. Skin bloated. Eyes bleeding black. Mouth sewn shut. Her hair had rotted away into mold, and worms writhed beneath her jawline. Her own hands clawed at her throat in the glass.

She dropped the mirror, gasping.

It didn't break.

"I'm still alive," she croaked, staring down at her trembling fingers. "This is a trick."

"It's a window," Isadora said softly. "To the you beneath the mask. The you I see."

Velline rose.

"This is madness."

"No," Isadora replied. "This is consequence."

The walls of the parlor began to shift. The wood twisted. Shadows dripped from the ceiling like tar. The floor bubbled with dark rot.

Velline turned to flee-but the door had vanished.

In its place stood a tall mirror. And in it-herself, again. Rotting. Decaying. Screaming silently.

"LET ME OUT!" she shrieked, pounding her fists against the glass.

From the other side of the mirror, her reflection watched her.

Smiled.

And began to climb out.

Its bloated fingers pierced the surface like water. Its face pushed through the silver pane. Inch by inch, it emerged-maggots falling from its gown, its eyes rolling in opposite directions.

Velline collapsed. The floor opened.

And the mirror consumed her.

Not the glass-the space behind it. A void that hissed and moaned and welcomed her home.

The house exhaled. Satisfied.

When the staff entered later that night, the tea tray still sat on the table. Steam still curled from the cups. But Madame Velline was gone.

And in the parlor mirror, her reflection stood alone.

Smiling.

Waiting for the next