Genevieve screamed. The sound tore through the air, raw and human, echoing too long against velvet walls.
She remembered the moment before—their hands swarming across her body, the pull of something vast and unseen. She could still feel the thorns bleeding into her skin as she tried to climb out, how they had ripped her sight from her. It was like she could see, but not see at the same time—light burning behind her eyelids, darkness blooming beneath them.
But now, all she saw as she screamed was the brightness of the walls and the familiar curve of the carriage—her father, the slave, the horses ahead on the road. It looked ordinary, peaceful, like any of their usual rides through town.
Her father's voice followed almost instantly.
"What's wrong with the girl?"
When her vision cleared, Genevieve found herself seated inside the carriage. Sunlight spilled through the windows in long, steady bands, turning the air pale and warm. Across from her sat Monsieur Baton, elegant and already annoyed, a man too handsome for his supposed age.
He adjusted the cuff of his dark plum waistcoat with practiced calm while idly toying with the newest slave seated beside him—the latest he'd purchased at auction. She sat perfectly still, hands folded in her lap. Her skin held the soft sheen of dark caramel, and from her hair rose a pair of long ears—white at the roots, fading to black at the tips. In the sunlight they almost glowed, so natural and impossible all at once that Genevieve couldn't decide whether she'd seen them before.
Maybe the woman had always been there.
Maybe she'd ridden with them on every journey, a quiet shape in every dream.
The thought chilled her.
Everything about this moment felt like a test she hadn't agreed to take.
"Ma fille," Baton said at last, his voice rolling smooth and slow, touched with a faint French lilt softened by Southern ease. "What's this look you're givin' me for? You act like you've seen a ghost."
Genevieve blinked, realizing she had been staring. The sunlight curved too neatly around him—the shine on his coat buttons, the way the shadows refused to cling.
"I was only thinking," she murmured. "You look… different."
"Different?" He gave a quiet laugh, polite but cold. "No, my dear. You forget your papa too easy, that's all. It's you who looks pale. You always do when you start thinkin' too much."
He adjusted his cuff again, calm and measured. "Best you not faint again. We both remember how the last spell carried on—had the whole house talkin' for weeks."
The rhythm of his voice—smooth, practiced, unbothered—struck something deep in her chest.
Genevieve blinked, and a memory rippled through her mind. This moment.
Yes—this was the day of the auction. She remembered the smell of dust and sweat, the droning voice of the man calling prices, her father's hand resting too easily on his cane as he outbid another family.
But the memory didn't stay still. Faces shifted. Voices echoed wrong.
Whatever those things were—the ones from the dark place, the ones that had pulled her down—they must have dug into her mind, rearranging the scene piece by piece. Perhaps this wasn't the memory at all, but some echo of it, stretched thin and painted bright to trick her.
Her pulse quickened.
Her father kept talking, too calm, too knowing—as if he understood more than he'd ever say.
"Careful now," he drawled, eyes catching hers. "We wouldn't want another little accident. You know what happened last time you partied with those goblins."
She froze. "Goblins?"
He chuckled, rich and sly. "Don't tell me you've forgotten your friends already. Such wicked little things—always chasing light, never mindin' who they steal it from."
"I don't… remember any goblins."
A lie, maybe. A sliver of one, at least. Genevieve did remember something—shapes with too many teeth, laughter that sounded like glass breaking—but the memory sat behind a film of smoke and syrup. She'd been high as heaven that night, baked out of her mind on the morphine her father swore was only for the nerves. He'd let her drift among the dancers and the flickering lights, calling them "guests" while whispering to his friends in that half-French murmur she'd never quite catch.
If this were a true memory, he'd have said something else—warned her, scolded her, reminded her of the price for shame. But then again, they had gone to the auctions so often that one blurred into the next. Baton had a taste for the spectacle, for the sound of the hammer and the hush that followed his bids. Maybe he really had said these words before, or maybe her mind was only stitching scraps of different days together.
Still, something about it felt rehearsed. Too clean. Too easy.
He smiled again, smooth as glass. Then, without breaking that easy composure, Baton reached for the rabbit-folk slave and drew her into his lap. He cupped her chin between his fingers, turning her face from side to side as though inspecting fine porcelain.
"Well," he said, his tone honeyed and cruel, "if it wasn't goblins that made you scream like that, then what did? You frightened my latest buy into thinking she'd done something wrong."
The woman's long ears trembled, white to black in the sun, but she made no sound. Genevieve's stomach knotted. The scene was wrong—too still, too quiet, like actors holding a pose.
She turned away, fumbling through the chest at her feet. Her hands shook as she searched for the one thing that had never lied to her. The morphine might dull her thoughts, might twist her memories, but mirrors always showed the truth. If she could just find hers—see her own reflection—she could prove whether this was real or one of those things from the dark still pulling at her soul.
Her fingers brushed something cold. The mirror.
Lifting it to her face, she stared. The sunlight hit her reflection, bright and merciless. Her skin was flawless. No scarring. No wax. The burns she remembered were gone.
"This isn't right," she whispered. "I had scars. I remember them."
Baton sighed, patient as ever. "You dream too much, ma fille. Leave ghosts to the poets."
She turned the mirror toward him. "Then explain this."
For a heartbeat, the carriage held its breath. The reflection didn't change. Her father looked exactly the same as before—same smirk, same unblinking gaze, same perfect stillness. And beside him, the rabbit-folk slave mirrored herself precisely, white-to-black ears unflinching, her dark caramel skin gleaming in the sunlight. Everything was identical. Too identical.
Something in Genevieve's mind snapped like a thread pulled too tight.
"This can't be real," she whispered. "It can't."
Her father's pleasant mask faltered. His mouth tightened. The air between them shifted—sweetness curdling into scorn. "Enough," he said quietly, too quietly.
But she wouldn't stop staring. "None of this is real," she murmured again, louder now, as though saying it could shatter the illusion.
Baton's hand moved faster than thought. The slap cracked through the carriage like a pistol shot, turning her face sharply toward the window.
He was on his feet now, breath unsteady, the mask stripped away. "You listen to me, girl," he hissed. "You've let that poison eat your head again. Mirrors and morphine—same damn disease."
Genevieve's cheek burned. Her pulse thundered. She could taste iron at the corner of her mouth. But beneath the pain came a flicker of terrible clarity.
He thinks I'm sick, she realized. He thinks this is one of my spells.
She pressed a hand to her cheek, then began to laugh. Soft at first, then louder, until it filled the carriage like a fever breaking. "It was all a dream," she gasped between breaths. "Every bit of it—the house, the dark, the voices—just a dream."
The rabbit woman flinched; Baton didn't move.
Genevieve laughed harder, clutching the mirror to her chest. "That's all it ever was! You were right. I must've been dreaming the whole time." Her voice cracked on the last word, trembling between hysteria and hope.
Baton's expression softened again—too suddenly. The calm slid back over him like a glove. "Yes," he said softly. "That's better, ma fille. Only a dream."
But his eyes gave him away—cold, watchful, gleaming with the faintest satisfaction, as if he'd just pulled her strings into place again.
Outside, the sunlight flickered over the glass, and for a split second Genevieve saw something move in it—something dark and reaching.