I look at the red silk dress on the bed. It gleams under the chandelier light, looking wet.
"No," I say.
Wearing that feels like conceding ground. It feels like putting on a costume for a play I didn't audition for. If I’m going down to meet the family, I’m doing it as Miranda Fredson, clock mechanic, not as the long-lost Duval heiress doll.
I open my battered suitcase. I pull out the only semi-formal thing I own—a black vintage midi dress with a high neck and long sleeves. It’s severe, structured. It’s armor.
I move to the vanity mirror. The glass is old, silver-spotted with age, distorting my reflection.
I look tired. My skin is pale, a stark contrast to the dark fabric of the dress. I’ve always looked a little sickly, a little too sharp-edged for comfort. My features are angular—high cheekbones that could cut glass and a jawline that suggests I’m grinding my teeth in my sleep. Which I usually am.
I pull the pins out of my hair. The platinum blonde mess falls around my shoulders. It’s chaotic, refusing to sit smooth, static electricity making it cling to my neck. I try to tame it, but it’s a losing battle, so I just pin the front pieces back to keep them out of my face.
Then there are the eyes.
I take off my tinted glasses. The violet irises stare back at me. It’s a mutation, the doctors said. Genetic drift. But looking at them now, in this house, they look unnatural. They look like the color of a bruise. I slide the glasses back on. Better to filter the world. Better to hide the defect.
I touch the starburst birthmark at my throat, right where the pulse beats a frantic rhythm.
"Pull it together, Mir," I whisper. "It’s just dinner. Eat the soup, make small talk, leave in the morning."
The dining room is a cavern of shadows.
The table is a slab of polished mahogany that stretches long enough to seat thirty, but only six places are set. The only light comes from silver candelabras dripping hot wax onto the wood. The air smells of copper and heavy, cloying lilies.
Matilde sits at the very head of the table like a queen on a throne of carved ebony. She’s flanked by four others—three men and a woman—all sharing that same starving, aristocratic beauty. They are impossibly still. No fidgeting. No micro-movements. It’s biologically wrong. Even when people sit still, they breathe, they shift weight. These people sit like statues waiting for a command.
"You did not wear the dress," Matilde says. Her voice travels the length of the table without raising in volume.
"It wasn't my style," I say, taking the seat at the far end. "I prefer my own gear."
"A pity," the woman to my right says. She has hair like spilled ink and lips that are too red. "Red suits the season. It hides the stains."
I don't ask what stains.
A servant—not the maid from upstairs, but a man with the same vacant expression—places a bowl in front of me. It’s a dark, rich broth. No one else has food. Their plates are empty, pristine china gleaming in the candlelight.
"Aren't you eating?" I pick up my spoon. The metal feels heavy, unbalanced.
"We have already supped," a man on the left says. He’s older, with silver at his temples and a face that looks like it was chiseled from marble. "Please. Do not let our abstinence disturb your appetite."
I take a sip. It tastes like venison and rosemary. It’s good, but my throat is so tight it feels like I’m swallowing gravel. Every time I lift the spoon, five pairs of eyes track the movement. They watch my throat work. They watch the pulse in my wrist. It’s predatory. I feel like a mouse eating cheese in a room full of vipers.
I really want to ask for my cousins’ names but the nervousness is getting at me. Matilde didn’t even bother to introduce them.
The silence is heavy, pressing against my eardrums. I need to break it. I need to normalize the pressure before the tank blows.
"So," I say, setting the spoon down. "I didn't see much of the town coming in. The fog was pretty thick. But I saw some lights across the bayou when I got turned around near the bridge. Looked festive."
The temperature in the room drops. I didn't think it was possible, but the air actually gets colder.
"The bridge," the silver-haired man sneers. His upper lip curls, revealing teeth that look too white, too straight. "You speak of the filth in the swamp."
"I just meant the Christmas lights," I say, defensive. "Someone over there really went all out. It looked nice. A little color in the grey."
"It is a garish display," Matilde says. Her fingers drum on the table—tap, tap, tap—a slow, rhythmic sound that syncs with my racing heart. "The mongrels lack the capacity for elegance. Theycling to their human holidays like children clinging to a security blanket. We do not speak of that side of the Parish in this house."
"Mongrels?" I ask. "You mean the neighbors? The ones with the boats?"
