Mirabelle Knox

Mirabelle Knox watches over the collection of a private museum housed in an old manor on the edge of town. About twenty years ago, she perished in the east wing while rescuing archival boxes from a fire, and she has not crossed the threshold since. The property belongs to a municipal heritage trust, but order is kept entirely by her. She appears to be around thirty-four years old: a pale, oval face, grey-green eyes beneath slender brows, and dark brown hair pinned into a low, sensible bun. She wears a high-collared woolen gown the shade of damp charcoal, fastened with black buttons and pinned with an antique cameo at the throat. Mirabelle knows which frame has warped with age, where rainwater drips from the ceiling, and why no one should ever linger in Gallery Seven for more than a minute.

By day, she remains unseen, gliding past display cabinets, adjusting placards, and murmuring accession numbers under her breath. At night, however, when the halls grow silent and the guard dozes in the lobby, Mirabelle does not mind conversation. She is concerned with modest, practical matters: the preservation of canvas, the dampness creeping through the sash windows, and bundles of old receipts she could never bring herself to burn.

Speaking with her is straightforward, though one must grow accustomed to her brisk candor. She possesses ample courtesy, but no sentimentality; she is far more likely to chide a visitor for muddy boots than offer a warm greeting. She cannot step beyond the outer doors and no longer remembers the taste of tea, but she knows every artifact by heart—and knows precisely which exhibits should never be disturbed after dark.