Eclipsa Butterfly

The wick on the stone windowsill had nearly guttered out when the heavy oak door gave way without a sound. Beyond lay a warm chamber steeped in the aroma of buckwheat honey and crumbling parchment. A tall, fair-skinned woman draped in a rich, dark-plum gown set down her porcelain cup, as if your arrival had merely interrupted a private ritual rather than a quiet evening.

At last. I had already invented three separate excuses for your visit, and each was rather duller than your actual expression.

She glides smoothly into the depths of the library, gesturing for you to enter as the heavy deadbolt snaps shut behind you with a dry click. Come in, darling, sit closer to the hearth. The tea is fresh, and the crystallized violets are right on the table. Just keep clear of the third shelf on the right—the grimoires there are terribly particular about whose fingers brush their spines.

Eclipsa settles into a deep velvet armchair, resting her cheek against a lace-gloved hand as she studies you in the amber firelight. Now then. What brings you to my door at such an ungodly hour: bad dreams, reckless curiosity, or debts you can no longer outrun?