Chapter Text
“That day I oft remember, when from sleep I first awaked, and found myself reposed,
Under a shade, on flowers, much wondering where and what I was, whence thither brought, and how.”
Paradise Lost, Book VI, John Milton, 1667.
***
You wake with a start. Thunder rumbles in the distance, confirming the storm you suspected while watching the sky the night before. Groaning, you turn toward the small clock on your bedside table.
“Damn… way too early…”
Sleep has become a rare commodity. Every hour is something hard-earned. You change position, trying to coax your brain into quiet. But it doesn’t listen.
Instead, your thoughts return to where they always seem to: this strange, impossible place. You are deep in rural Romania, in a forgotten village, living in a sprawling, shadowed manor. Your life now consists of chores, locked doors, and the strange presence of a doll—Angie—who issues your orders with the self-importance of royalty.
She’s not technically in charge. But she might as well be. You answer to her, and only her. It’s a strange reality, but it has become your own.
There are no other maids anymore. Angie mentioned once that the house used to have more staff, but that was another lifetime. Now, you are alone in the manor at night. Alone in the quiet. Alone in the dark.
And you know you’re not allowed to leave.
You’ve never been chained. No one keeps you under lock and key. But the threat is always there, just beneath the surface. You’ve seen enough to understand that your safety depends on staying quiet. Compliant. Passive.
You tell yourself you’re surviving. But most days, you’re not sure if you’re living at all.
A few days ago, during one of your chores, Angie floated beside you like always. You’d decided to ask something that had been clawing at your mind for weeks.
“Why do I never see Lady Beneviento? I’ve been here for some time, and I haven’t seen her once.”
Angie had gone unnaturally still. Her painted eyes didn’t change expression, but her whole body seemed… tense. You immediately regretted the question.
After a beat, she responded with a voice softer than usual:
“She has a lot of work to do. In the workshop.”
That was all she said. You knew better than to press her. Angie loved to talk, to joke, to tease—but the moment her “mistress” was mentioned, she closed up like a locked cabinet.
Even so, the manor belonged to the Beneviento family. It was hers. And though you’d never seen her, you had theories. There was a portrait in the main hall—an elegant woman standing beside Angie. You’d caught yourself staring at it more than once. Wondering if that was Donna. Wondering if she really looked like that.
And wondering why someone so beautiful would hide.
You’d laughed at yourself, more than once, for the way your mind wandered to her. You’d imagined her voice. Her eyes. You were losing it.
Then, as if to confirm the mystery, Angie had added one last thing before darting away:
“She’s nervous. About you. About seeing you.”
Those words had stayed with you. You didn’t understand them. But you felt them.
The storm continues as dawn begins to crawl into the sky. You give up on sleep entirely, stepping into your shoes and gently opening your door. You’re relieved it’s not locked—it was, when you first arrived. Angie had eventually told you that as long as you didn’t “snoop or run away,” you could move freely.
You had laughed. Running hadn’t even occurred to you. You know better. You’ve seen enough to understand what would happen if you tried.
You descend the staircase toward the main hall. You intend to stoke the fire—winter is coming fast, and the chill clings to every corner of the old house. But as you near the room, you pause.
There’s already a light burning.
The fireplace is lit.
And someone is in there.
You freeze.
There are only three persons in the manor : Angie. Lady Beneviento. And you.
You can’t imagine Angie standing still by a fire. Which leaves only one possibility.
Lady Beneviento.
Part of you wants to turn back. Her nervousness, Angie’s warnings—they echo in your head. But curiosity drags you forward. You make deliberate noise as you walk, giving warning, afraid to startle her.
You hear it. The scrape of a chair. The faint sound of footsteps—hurried, almost panicked.
You push open the door.
And then you see her.
A woman in a black mourning dress. A dark veil covers her face completely. Her body is stiff, shoulders drawn tight, fingers moving as if tying invisible strings in the air. You stop. She stops. Both of you frozen.
This isn’t what you planned. You had no words prepared. But instinct takes over. You straighten your posture and speak carefully, respectfully.
“Lady Beneviento. Forgive the intrusion. I only came to check the fire. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Your voice sounds formal, distant. A disguise, just like her veil. But she doesn’t move. She watches you—at least, you think she does. You can’t see her eyes.
The silence is unbearable. You add quickly:
“I’ve been working here for a few weeks now. My name is—”
“What are you doing here?!”
The shout comes from nowhere—or rather, from directly below you. A weight clings to your arm. Angie.
You bend instinctively as she tugs at you, her sharp voice cutting through the tension.
“You’re not sleeping? It’s not even daylight!”
“The storm woke me. I couldn’t get back to sleep. I thought I’d start early, and—”
A door slams.
You look up.
Lady Beneviento is gone.
Angie lets go of your arm. She sways on her wooden feet. Then, softly:
“I told you she was nervous to meet you…”
You stare at her. You’d always taken Angie’s words with a grain of salt. Her dramatics. Her jokes. But the Lady hadn’t looked irritated. Or cold. She looked terrified. Like a frightened animal.
“I didn’t mean to scare her. Did I do something wrong?”
Angie tilts her head.
“No. She just… it’s been a long time since she met someone new.”
She pauses, then adds with a smirk:
“Also, you look awful. No wonder she ran.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
Your voice is dry, your nerves frayed. Angie giggles and runs after her mistress, leaving you alone in the firelight, your thoughts spinning.
You replay the moment over and over. The veil. The silence. Her hands.
You don’t have answers.
But you can’t stop thinking about her.
You stay busy through the day, mostly to keep your thoughts from spiraling.
The storm hasn’t let up. Rain hammers the windows. Thunder rumbles somewhere beyond the woods. And you’re alone in the manor. Angie hasn’t shown herself since this morning, and Lady Beneviento… Lady Beneviento is still a ghost behind the veil.
You clean. You light the fireplaces. You try to lose yourself in routine.
By mid-afternoon, you find yourself in the kitchen, making tea.
At first, it’s just for yourself. But your hands start preparing two cups.
You hesitate.
Angie appears suddenly, as if summoned by your thoughts, balancing a basket of thread and ribbon.
You look at the doll curiously, then ask tentatively.
“Is Lady Beneviento still in the workshop?”
“Yup. Working all day. Didn’t even eat.”
You hesitate again. Then, slowly:
“Would it be alright if I brought her something? Tea. Maybe lunch. I thought she might… like that.”
Angie’s eyes widen. She looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. Then—softly, almost thoughtfully:
“She loves tea.”
That’s all you need.
You build the tray with precision. A small meal, a perfect cup. It’s nothing fancy—but you arrange it like it’s for royalty. You add a folded napkin. A silver spoon, honey and sugar.
Angie inspects it and gives a satisfied nod.
Together, you walk the quiet corridor of the basement. Angie slips inside first, cradling the edge of the tray. She leads to the workshop—Lady Beneviento’s world, never seem, never entered.
You wait at the door as Angie slips inside. Muffled words. Movement. Then, the door opens again.
She gestures you in.
Lady Beneviento is there, standing in the corner. Hands clasped, back straight, like she’s bracing for impact. Her right index finger rubs anxiously over the back of her left hand.
You clear your throat, voice gentle.
“Forgive the interruption, my lady. I thought some tea, maybe something to eat, might be welcome.”
You search for a place to set the tray, then find a clean space on the edge of her worktable. As you place it down, you add, without looking at her:
“I hope this suits you. I won’t bother you any longer.”
You turn to leave, each step an effort to remain composed.
Then—behind you:
“Thank you.”
You stop.
Her voice is low. Soft. Rough like velvet that’s been left out in the rain.
You glance toward her, and see Angie gaping—equally surprised to hear it.
You offer a small smile. Not forced. Not formal. Just real.
“Please enjoy it. Good evening, Lady Beneviento.”
You don’t wait for a reply. You step out, and the door closes behind you.
You feel light, a little breathless, like you’ve done something forbidden. But for the first time since your arrival, you don’t feel invisible.
That night, you slide beneath your covers and close your eyes.
And somehow, impossibly—
You sleep.
Peacefully.