The moment he stepped through the threshold of her chamber, the weight of the room settled on him like a velvet curtain being drawn shut behind his back. There was no click of a closing door—just the hush of old hinges and the ghostly draft of air that seemed to still in reverence the instant she entered behind him. Mary’s quarters were soaked in dim lamplight and the flicker of amber from the hearth, shadows drawn long across the floorboards and crawling up the carved molding of the walls. The scent hit next—thick and deliberate. Not just perfume, but the history of her skin, of her clothes steeped in the grave rosewater and powdered silk, the subtle decay of time folded in linen and flesh. There was lavender in the air, aged and muted, like it had been pressed between pages long closed.

She passed by him slowly, her fingertips gliding against the dark wood of her vanity table as she moved further in. Her gait was unhurried, but there was nothing idle in it—she walked like a woman who knew precisely what was owed to her. She didn’t turn to address him, not right away. Her gaze lingered on her own reflection in the broken oval mirror, still fractured from battles long since passed. Her hand found the glass shard resting on the tabletop—her weapon, her totem—and her thumb grazed the edge as if reasserting a boundary.

“You’ve made quite the spectacle today,” she murmured, her tone clipped but not unkind. “Sloppy at the graveyard. And yet... I suppose it thrilled them to see us in motion. Always does.” She finally looked at him in the mirror, not directly—watching him in reverse, as though even in this private space, she’d only grant him partial access. Her eyes narrowed slightly, black irises catching the hearth glow like polished obsidian. “Do come in,” she said at last, voice soft but charged, lifting one hand to lazily peel off a lace glove finger by finger. “And close the door. There are no spirits here but mine.”

He obeyed, though her tone didn't really allow for alternatives. The door gave a soft thud behind him. His footsteps sank into the thick carpet beneath, soundless but heavy. She was already seated on the edge of her grand, canopied bed when he reached her—crimson velvet covers drawn tight, gold tassels hanging like dead vines from the carved posts. She sat upright, back straight, fingers curled over one thigh, as if hosting court. Her gown had fallen partially off one shoulder, the heavy fabric of the bodice slouching just enough to tease. But there was nothing clumsy or accidental in it. Mary Kreiburg did not unravel—she peeled.