Sunday bells tolled through the marble arches of St. Valerius, their solemn peal echoing across the city.
Evangeline lingered in the pews longer than the rest, her gloved hands clasped as though her prayers might shield her from the world beyond the church doors. Her family had always attended faithfully; the Rosenthals were as old as the stained glass, their fortunes tied to the city's bones. Yet where others knelt in reverence, she was met with furtive glances, half-hidden sneers, and muffled laughter behind folded fans.
When she finally stepped into the sunlight, the whispers sharpened into words.
"Oh, look—the cursed heiress blesses us with her shadow.""Careful. She might bewitch you too.""I heard Lord Aurelius dances only because she ensnared him. Surely no man of such radiance would willingly touch a Rosenthal."
The laughter that followed was light, airy, as though cruelty could be disguised as jest.
A small cluster of noble ladies in ivory gowns waited at the steps, their smiles sharp enough to cut. One stepped forward, feigning politeness as she dipped her head.
"Lady Evangeline," she cooed. "How radiant you looked at the ball. Why, the way Lord Aurelius clung to you, one might think you've brewed some… enchantment."
A ripple of amusement broke from the group.
"Perhaps that's her family's secret," another chimed in. "Black roses and black magic."
The words struck like stones, but Evangeline's face remained calm, her back perfectly straight. She had been raised for this—to withstand scorn with poise.
Her lips curved into the faintest smile. "If I truly had such power," she said softly, her voice silken, "do you think I would waste it on whispers?"
Their laughter faltered for the briefest moment, and one lady's cheeks flushed red. But the rest quickly rallied, clinging to their mockery like armor.
"Careful, careful," one hissed, her tone playful but eyes sharp. "A Rosenthal's curse is said to linger. Touch her too long, and you may find yourself weeping black tears."
The group dissolved into cruel giggles, drifting away in their perfume and lace.
Evangeline stood alone, sunlight spilling over her like a spotlight, as though the world had placed her on a stage for ridicule. Her fingers curled inside her gloves, nails biting her palms.
And then—there.
That presence again.
It pressed against her skin like a chill wind, unseen but undeniable. She glanced toward the shadows pooling beside the church's arches, her breath caught in her throat. No one was there. No one ever was.
But she felt it. Watching. Seething. Protecting.
For a fleeting heartbeat, she swore she heard a whisper carried by the bells—low, fierce, unearthly:
They should not touch what is mine.
Her heart stumbled in her chest.
Mine.
The mocking laughter trailed behind her long after the ladies dispersed, echoing like broken glass in her ears. Evangeline descended the last of the cathedral steps with measured grace, though each movement felt like walking through thorns.
At the base of the stairs, the Rosenthal carriage waited. Polished obsidian panels gleamed in the light, its crest glimmering faintly. The sight was a balm. Her family name might be cursed, but it was hers, and she would bear it until the end.
The butler, Mr. Harrow, stood rigidly by the carriage door, his gloved hand resting against the polished wood. Age had lined his face, but his loyalty had never wavered. Behind him, Anna, her maidservant, curtsied with a bright smile meant to drive away the morning's cruelty.
"Milady," Harrow said, bowing slightly as he extended his hand. "You endured yourself with dignity, as always."
The mocking laughter clung to her even as she descended the cathedral steps, as though each word still hung in the air like smoke.
At the foot of the stairs, the Rosenthal carriage awaited—a dark, gleaming thing of lacquered black wood and iron trim, the crest of the black rose stamped proudly upon its door. The sight steadied her, as though the house itself had come to collect its last heir.
Mr. Harrow, her family's butler, bowed stiffly. His hair had long since gone silver, yet his back remained unbent, his loyalty unbroken. Beside him, Anna, her maidservant, curtsied, her cheeks flushed with indignation.
"Milady," Harrow said, extending a gloved hand to help her inside. "The service was… long." His tone was neutral, though his eyes flicked briefly toward the giggling ladies retreating in their white finery.
"It was filled with vipers," Anna muttered under her breath. "Were it not for propriety, I'd have emptied the holy water font on their heads."
Evangeline managed the faintest smile. "Your loyalty is wasted on such creatures, Anna."
Still, she accepted Harrow's hand and stepped into the carriage. Anna followed, still bristling, as the heavy door shut them away from the sunlit cruelty outside.
The carriage lurched forward, wheels creaking against cobblestones. For a time, only the rhythmic clatter of hooves filled the silence.
It was Anna who spoke first, her tone lighter, as though eager to pull her mistress from the shadow of insult. "Milady, forgive me if I spoil things, but… tomorrow is your birthday, isn't it?"
The words caught Evangeline off guard. "Tomorrow…" She whispered it as though the truth were foreign. "Yes. Tomorrow, I turn eighteen."
Anna brightened immediately, clasping her hands. "Eighteen! That's not just a birthday—it's your debut into life, into society. It ought to be celebrated with a hundred candles and a thousand roses."
Evangeline laughed softly, though without mirth. "Or a thousand whispers of curses, reminding them I have lived long enough to carry my family's shadow into adulthood."
"Bah," Anna huffed. "Let them choke on their own bitterness. We'll celebrate regardless."
Harrow cleared his throat, his expression softening despite his usual formality. "The household staff has made preparations, my lady. A small supper, your favorite wine, and—if I may admit to some conspiracy—a few gifts. For though the Rosenthal name may be reviled outside these walls, within them you are cherished."
Evangeline's throat tightened. She looked between her two companions—her only companions—and managed a whisper: "You are all I have. And perhaps all I need."
The carriage creaked as it passed beneath the wrought-iron gates of Rosenthal Hall. The estate rose before them like a cathedral carved of shadow, its many windows gleaming with the pale light of the waning day.
Tomorrow, she would be eighteen. Tomorrow, she would officially stand as the mistress of this cursed estate, the last of her bloodline, and the keeper of its vast fortune.
And yet, as the carriage rolled to a halt, she felt it again—that presence. A shiver slid down her spine, a silent awareness pressing against her skin. Watching. Waiting.
For a fleeting instant, she swore she heard the faintest murmur at her ear:
At last… she comes of age.