I found myself adjusting rather well to life in the manor. All things considered, there were worse ways to live: I had regular meals, a warm bed, attentive and caring servants, running water, and a fully equipped painting studio. Everything I could ever want, I had.

The gloomy halls of the estate no longer chilled me. It was a place covered in endless nights, sure, but it all seemed more peacefully melancholy as opposed to ominous. When I came back to my room, I noticed Doux happily napping on his pillow. He looked unusually plump for such a tiny animal. I had a feeling that someone was feeding him. That knowledge alone was enough for me.

As for my host, Faustine proved to be more than I thought. There were times when we spoke in which there was a lull or halt in the conversation when I expected her to relapse to her original state. This was the moment when she would start berating me again, I found myself thinking. But it never happened. The Madame was aloof, cold, and bad-tempered. But Faustine was demure, shy, withdrawn. I wondered which was the true face if there was such a thing.

We started walking in the garden after breakfast much more. Sometimes we talked idly about whatever Faustine happened to read or a painting I was working on. Other times, we just walked in silence together. I didn’t mind either way.

When we weren’t walking together, I found Faustine in the library reading by the fire. The few times when I didn’t feel like painting, I found my way there and sat by her with my sketchpad. When I walked in, she looked up from behind her small reading spectacles to silently acknowledge me. We sat together, her beak in a book and my nose in my sketches. No words were necessary.

There was something about her presence that was oddly calming. Maybe it was the distinct scent of lavender whenever I was close to her. Or was the low breathy quality of her voice?

I didn’t even mind the feeling of her scaly hands as much either. They were rough, yes, yet small and delicate. There was nothing especially wrong with them besides her missing her little finger on each hand. Otherwise, they seemed like normal hands, barring the scales and talons.

My thoughts returned to the storage room whenever I saw them. “You used to play piano,” I said aloud one night in the library.

“I did,” Faustine remarked without looking up from her book.

“Why did you stop?”

“I left it behind,” she replied curtly. “Or rather, it left me.”

I felt a twinge of sympathy. “Did you like it?”

Faustine sighed and closed her book. “I loved it.” She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “But that part of me must remain in the past where it belongs.”

“It must be hard having to leave that part of yourself behind.”

“Using my own words against me, I see.” Faustine laughed drily. “Very clever.”

“I mean that,” I said firmly. “From one artist to another. I know how that feels.”

Faustine said nothing for a period, then nodded in acknowledgment. She seemed contemplative of my words.

“I do hope to hear you play again someday if your muse returns.”

“I hope so too.”

On the times when I didn’t join Faustine, I spent my time wandering the halls and sketching my surroundings. This place, however gloomy, was a plethora of reference material. The arches of the hallways were sharp yet impeccably molded; Sharp beaks and unfurled wings of ravens were molded into every possible corner. That crest I’d seen when I first arrived, the one on the front door of the manor, appeared frequently as well on doors and on walls. Faustine’s family, whoever or wherever they might be, seemed adamant at reminding themselves of their heritage.

In my wanderings, I passed by the dark hallway leading to the storage room. I had not been down there since the time I had decided to run away. Temptation beckoned me to go back. This mansion’s darkness had the opposite effect on me: Instead of provoking fear, it provoked curiosity. I wanted to know all I could about this place by just exploring it.

I also explored the grounds outside the manor. Branching stone paths weaved throughout the snow-covered lawns. Ghost-lights lit the path, little pools of light keeping the perpetual night at bay. I walked to the edge of one of these paths which looked out into the forest. I stood at the boundary between stone and snow.

One time when I was exploring the grounds, I heard whinnying over the wind.

I turned in the direction of the sound A flat plain of white which faded into the dark tree line stretched out before me. Against the darkness, I could make out a large equine shape with a single rider trotting across the edge of the manor’s property. The whinny sounded again. I recognized a particular whistling noise to its timbre akin to wind through a canyon wall.

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Out of all the things here I was becoming used to, I don’t think I would ever reconcile myself with that horse.

Then I remembered what made me go down there. The Maer’s words egged me on in thinking I could find something to use against my host. That was a situation I did not want to repeat again.

Yet the mystery of that massive portrait and those living sculptures still puzzled me. A man and woman, presumably her mother and father, and an older sister. She did have a family. But where did they go? What happened to this place?

My questions refused to leave me until I happened upon Finley dusting under a table in the main atrium.

“Finley!” I called to the servant.

“Ah! Good night, young sir!” Finley smiled at me and raised his hat to me. “Is there anything I can assist you with?”

“Were you and the other servants always statues, Finley?” I asked Finley while wandering the halls.

“Hard to tell.” Finley shrugged. “Nothing changes here.”

“What do you mean?”

Finley removed his hat. “The Mistress played piano. It ran in the family: her father was a master of any instrument, as his father before. The Mistress was… not. But she found the piano on her own.”

“Go on.”

“The Mistress was a natural. One of the greatest of all time, I think. I would give anything to hear that music again.” Finley hung his head sadly. “Alas, it is not to be.”

“I’ve never heard of her or this family. I think that kind of news would’ve reached Paris, at least.”

“About that—” Finley chewed his finger. “The Mistress’ family has certain arcane sensibilities. Has she mentioned that?”

“Yes, something about dreams, right?”

“Well, see, that’s just it. Since all things come from dreams, that goes double for the real world. Just as a dream can inspire people to act or create, so too can it be made to alter the world on a dreamer’s whim. Of course, that’s provided that the dreamer is strong enough.”

I blinked, confused.

Finley rubbed the back of his head. “What I mean to say is… we’re inside the Mistress’ dream.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Inside a dream?”

“See, the Mistress’ family all have this power over dreams. They could channel in different ways, but only mildly. The Mistress was a rare case. Her powers were so great, according to the family, that she could potentially make anything happen if she willed it. So, you can imagine that their expectations for her were quite high. Too high, I’d say.”

My stomach turned at his words.

“Her father… he was a right piece of work. He insisted she be taught the way he was taught. The method involved absolute perfection, and one wrong note meant a rapping of the knuckles.”

“But you can’t learn that way without making mistakes,” I remarked. “That sounds so cruel.”

“You’re telling me. And that along with wearing that veil all the time was not healthy for a young girl. She became a great pianist, sure, but after all that, it hardly seems worth it.” He hung his head, then cleared his throat. “One winter’s night, there was an important ball being held for a bunch of nobles I could’ve given a fig about. The Mistress was set to play for them. It was wonderful, as all her songs were. But she hit one wrong note. One. And a lord stormed out, utterly offended that his night was ruined.”

“That was it? One wrong note?”

“Worse. When the guests had left, Father Dear mercilessly berated her. He practically disowned her. And her mother and sister did nothing to help her, either.”

“Didn’t you try to help her?”

Finley frowned. “We all cared about her, young sir. But we’re her servants. We had to keep our distance. I think that was what proved our undoing.” He wrung his hat. “After her father was done with her, the Mistress retreated to her room and locked the door. She didn’t leave for three days. When she finally emerged, she was a Beast. They waited until tomorrow to decide what to do, but that never happened. The sun would not rise.”

“And then what happened?”

“The family told her to simply “fix it”. But she couldn’t. Her level of power was so rare that barely anything existed on how to control it. All they had was a piece of parchment saying that an “act of true love” could reverse such severe effects. They thought what they were doing was true love. As you can see it worked wonders.” Finley gestured to the gloomy halls.

“Berating her and then ignoring her at her lowest? What about that’s true love?”

“Nothing, I’ll tell you that. For three weeks they tried, but eventually just gave up on her. They just left.” Finley made a fist, then opened it. “Poof.”

My heart broke. “That’s terrible.”

Finley nodded sadly. “After that, weeks wore into months, and the winter never stopped. All the roses died. And then the spell came for us too. We all stayed behind for her sake. Now we can’t leave this place. We’re all a part of her dream now.”

I stared out the window into the cold night. “If I left today, how much time would’ve passed back home?”

“I can’t say. I’ve lost all sense of time. I had a grandfather back in the village. Etienne had her sister. We all had people back home or in distant countries. For all we know they could be dead. We don’t know. But maybe we’re not supposed to. We’re bound to this place for the foreseeable future.” Finley said wistfully. “At least I and Etienne are together. And the other servants make for good company.”

He was right that time seemed to have stopped here. I had tried counting the times between when I woke to when I fell asleep as a single day. I’d since given up. Now I truly did not know how many days had passed.

A terrible image flashed in my head: The village square, but the windows of the stores and other buildings were boarded up and vacant; The stone roads now overgrown with weeds and errant plants; the cottage having fallen into disrepair and moss and creepers growing all over the outside walls. I imagined myself walking up in disbelief to the cottage and being greeted by two old, withered men who greeted me at the door. I knew instantly who they were. When I asked them where Mother was, they said she died a long time ago. She was buried in the graveyard just up the road.

“Finley, which do you think is worse: dying or being forgotten?”

“Don’t know. Both will happen to all of us eventually. Time stops for no one. And all things will eventually fade from memory. It’s just the nature of things.” Finley mused. “Though I think they’re equivalent in their awfulness.”

“You may be right about that,” I mused as I gazed at the falling snow outside the window.