The house was never quiet at night, not really.
It breathed. It ticked. It whispered.
Eleanor stood barefoot in the hallway, holding the pale blue costume by the hanger, fingers curled around the stiff lace like it might bite. Her room had grown too small. The air inside it pressed down like a hand. So she'd left, thinking she'd wander, just to breathe.
But the house had plans.
Down the main stairs. Past the long mirror near the landing — the one she avoided now without thinking. Through the narrow arch that led to the east wing. The door at the end had always been locked.
Until now.
It stood open, just a crack.
Beyond it: a room she didn't recognize. Wooden floors. Vaulted ceiling. Long, arched windows with velvet drapes.
A ballroom.
Not ruined. Not dusty like the rest of the house. It was… untouched. Perfect. Waiting.
The air inside smelled like perfume and ash. Light filtered in from nowhere.
The music box sat at the far end on a pedestal of dark marble.
It was open.
It was playing.
She stepped inside.
Behind her, the door shut without a sound.
Christabel couldn't sleep. Again.
Not with the journal beside her bed.
Not with the ink still fresh on the page where her name had appeared.
At midnight, the house shifted. She felt it. Like a tension string pulled tight.
Something calling.
She crept downstairs, holding nothing but a candle stub and a growing sense of dread. The study was cold. The floor beneath her feet buzzed faintly, like it remembered music. Movement.
And then she saw it.
A door.
One that hadn't been there before.
Set into the far wall, behind the bookshelf.
The panel she'd opened earlier had become a passage.
Wider now.
And waiting.
Eleanor stood before the pedestal. The music slowed, became something breathy, aching.
The box turned once. Twice.
The ballerina didn't spin.
Instead
A mirror slid open on the wall.
She saw herself.
Only not quite.
Because the reflection wasn't alone.
There were others behind her. Girls in shadow. Eyes wide. Limbs bent too sharply. One of them lifted a hand and pointed—to Eleanor's chest.
She looked down.
The costume was on her.
She hadn't put it on.
Her hands shook.
She turned to run—
And nearly collided with Christabel, who had just stepped through the hidden door.
Both of them froze.
Stared.
Both wore the same costume.
Same ribbon. Same pale blue.
The music stopped.
But the reflection did not.
It began to dance.
And behind them, from somewhere deep in the mirrors, a voice echoed:
"Places, girls."