Chapter 1 - The Lady's Appetite

The Whitcroft Manor slept in a veil of mist, like a ghost curled upon the hill. Inside, candle flames jittered in their glass cages, struggling to pierce the heavy dusk bleeding through the high stained-glass windows.

Lady Selene lounged across her crimson chaise, a pale hand draped lazily along the spine of a worn leather novel. Her long brown hair spilled like syrup down her back, gleaming faintly in the dim light. Gray eyes, sharp and glinting like silver blades, flicked toward the doorway as soft footsteps approached.

The four girls entered, their apprentice uniforms crisp and perfect despite the hour.

They gathered at respectful distance, each bowing low. Selene watched them with something between amusement and hunger.

Selene: "Adeline."

She pointed a pale finger at the tallest.

Selene: "Clara."

Her finger shifted to the blonde.

Selene: "Lys."

The nervous one.

Selene: "And sweet little Margot."

They all straightened, hands folded before them like proper lambs.

Selene: "I've been thinking." She closed the book with a deliberate, echoing snap. "We’re in need of a new apprentice maid."

The girls exchanged glances, confused, hesitant.

Adeline: "Begging your pardon, my Lady, but... we already serve you in shifts around the clock. Why would you need another?"

Selene smiled, slow and wicked, her perfect teeth glinting like porcelain knives.

Selene: "Why?" She stood gracefully, the crimson skirts of her gown whispering across the floor. Her gray eyes sparkled with mischief, and something far more dangerous. She leaned closer to the girls, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Because, sweet ones... you can never have too many pretty things to nibble on between meals."

Clara flushed scarlet. Margot let out a soft, mortified squeak. Even Adeline bit her lip hard enough that Selene’s grin only widened.

Selene: "Perhaps I’ve simply grown greedy." She twirled a lock of her brown hair idly around one finger. "Or perhaps I wish for some fresh blood to liven up our lonely little household."

The candles shivered.

Lys: "Should we... should we prepare a recruitment notice, my Lady?"

Selene turned her full attention to Lys, her smile sharpening.

Selene: "Such a clever little bird you are, Lys. Yes. An announcement. Something... exotic. Something foreign."

Her fingers tapped thoughtfully along her jaw.

Selene: "The continent. Germany, perhaps. Their girls have such fascinating accents. And so deliciously soft skin..."

The girls nodded, hastening to write it down.

Selene: "And none of that sterile newspaper nonsense. No, something romantic. Nostalgic. Printed posters. Something to catch the eye of a desperate heart."

Margot: "What if no one answers, my Lady?"

Selene laughed, a low, rich, unsettling sound.

Selene: "My darling, someone always answers. There’s always a poor little creature dreaming of a new life. Dreaming of castles and fairy tales. Dreaming of a Lady to sweep them away."

She licked her lips, slowly, as if savoring the idea.

Selene: "And when they arrive... oh, what fun we'll have. Dressing her up. Teaching her our ways. Breaking her in..."

Another blush rippled across the four girls. Clara stared at the floor, pretending she hadn’t heard the thick suggestion layered under Selene's words.

Selene turned toward the grand window, staring into the thick night fog wrapping Whitcroft Manor like a lover’s embrace.

Selene: "Send it tonight. Have the posters placed where lost little lambs may wander, cafes, old university walls, crumbling corners where dreams still cling."

Selene: "And when she calls..." Her voice softened again, full of anticipatory glee, "Tell her she’s already been chosen."

The four girls bowed, skirts whispering like moth wings, and hurried away to complete their errand.

Left alone, Selene’s smile slipped into something sharper. Something hungrier.

She pressed a cool hand to her chest, feeling the slow, heavy beat of something ancient and aching. Five hundred years, and still, still, she had needs that clawed under her skin.

Selene: "Come find me, little lamb. Come, before I come looking for you."

Outside, the storm began to rise, whispering through the dead gardens, rattling the iron gates.

And somewhere far across the sea, a poster fluttered in the damp German wind, waiting to catch the eye of a girl desperate enough to dial the number written in bleeding black ink.

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