Early morning had barely shaken off the last shreds of night, yet the building before them seemed stranded in another era. Pale?stone walls and Art?Deco lines drew an imposing silhouette against Lunaris' grey sky. Slender turrets rose at each corner, trimmed with wrought?iron flourishes, and opaline stained?glass windows caught what little light there was, flashing like fish scales. At the entrance a faded red carpet ran across black marble, flanked by columns where tiny golden sprites spun in slow circles, bound by old enchantments. Everything proclaimed wealth, tradition and a discreet touch of magic—exactly what one expected from Anastasia's maternal family.

  Mr?Bad paused on the steps, scenting the air, before climbing. Red followed, their footsteps muffled by thick runner. At the main door they found a polished bronze call?panel, each button ringed by delicate runes that glimmered at a touch. The Wolf scanned the names, placed a finger on Drizella.

  The chime rang down the corridor—musical, brief, cold. Then silence. A burst of static from the speaker.

  'Yes?' A woman's voice, weary and raw with recent grief.

  Mr?Bad leaned toward the grille, his tone velvet?smooth. 'Is Big Bad. We're here to speak with you—and with your mother—about Anastasia.'

  For a heartbeat only distant Lunaris traffic murmured beyond the thick doors. Then an electric snap: click. 'You may come up.'

  The lock thumped open. Red and the Wolf traded a glance; neither looked anxious, yet a taut current quivered in the air—old instincts of people who had entered too many houses like this.

  The atrium was wide, washed in pale light filtering through stained?glass and scattering pastel colours over mosaic marble. A crystal chandelier hung in the centre, its tiny lamps enchanted. Along the walls old portraits showed women in long gowns and delicate tiaras, faces so perfect they seemed charmed. The smell was dried flowers and old books, underlaid by wax and spice.

  At the back waited an antique lift, wrought?iron doors parted like placid jaws. Mr?Bad led Red inside; mirrors framed in silver slightly warped their reflections, turning them into figures from another age. The button panel bore symbols instead of numbers: crowns, stars, roses. The Wolf pressed the blue rose—the Tremaine floor.

  As the lift groaned upward Red broke the hush, leaning against the mirrored wall. 'What if it really was an accident? Or suicide?'

  The Wolf studied his own reflection, red eyes half?closed. 'In my experience, the cleaner a death?scene, the likelier it's a crime. Accidents are messy—they leave clues. Suicide... leaves questions. This left too much silence.'

  She nodded slowly, doubt still flickering in her gaze. The lift sighed to a halt.

  Cream carpets hushed their steps; lavender?and?silver damask paper covered the walls. Oval mirrors hung between vases of living lilies that opened and closed with the building's breath. The silence was cosy and artificial, sustained by generations at Lunaris' summit.

  The Tremaine door was twin?leafed dark wood carved with fairy?tale scenes—slippers, sundials, golden keys, birds and grinning cats. A small plaque read, in gold: Tremaine Family.

  Mr?Bad knocked three times, firm. Red drew a long breath.

  The door creaked. Drizella stood there in severe black mourning: heavy matte fabric cut into sober, elegant lines. Long sleeves hid nervous hands; the skirt fell with controlled grace. No make?up touched her pale face; dark hair was scraped into a hasty bun—negligence born of exhaustion rather than vanity. Her deep?brown eyes looked almost opaque, bruised by sleepless nights. She lacked Cinderella's almost ethereal beauty, yet possessed a solid dignity that asked no permission.

  She weighed them for a heartbeat, then opened wider with a restrained gesture. 'Good morning,' she said, voice low and hoarse but steady. 'Please, come in.'

  Red answered first, gently: 'We're very sorry for your loss, Drizella. We know these days haven't been easy.'

  The Wolf merely dipped his head, keeping the ritual silence due the dead.

  She acknowledged with a nod, guided them down the broad hall, their steps smothered by plush.

  At a threshold she turned, body wired tight. 'I already spoke to the police,' she said without bitterness, only fatigue. 'Why more questions?'

  The Wolf replied, polite but firm. 'Alex hired us. He wants every possibility explored.'

  Drizella neither bristled nor balked—she merely looked emptied and nodded. 'Very well. I'll help however I can.' She beckoned them into the parlour.

  The room was spacious: dark?polished wood furniture, blue?petrol velvet sofas stitched with silver?and?gold thread. Gilded panels framed dream?landscapes where magical creatures hid among iridescent lakes. A white?marble fireplace held an ancient clock and two enchanted candelabra. Heavy curtains filtered the dim morning light. On a side?table sat a porcelain tea?set painted with tiny fabulous beasts; on a sideboard, a tall vase mixed black lilies with glass flowers as though the house itself had donned mourning.

  'Please, sit.'

  Red chose a sofa; the Wolf hovered, then settled in a fireside chair. Drizella filled the interval by fetching a tray, setting cups before them.

  'Tea, coffee? A little liqueur?' The offer was a delicate echo of old courtesies.

  Red accepted tea; Mr?Bad declined with a brief wave. The smells of flowers and polish blended with respectful quiet. Conversation would begin only when porcelain touched down.

  He broke the hush first, fixing Drizella with a steady look. 'We'd like to know about the day before... all this. The last time you saw Anastasia.'

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  She stared into space, then spoke—voice serene yet frayed. 'Nothing out of the ordinary. Mother was having a weaker day, so Ana came to keep her company, stayed a while. She was tired; I think she napped in the arm?chair. She left before dusk, said she was going home. Seemed normal—or trying to.'

  Red leaned forward, elbows on knees. 'You said your mother is ill. Is she all right?'

  'It's just age,' Drizella replied, not elaborating. 'Some days she's confused, tired. Ana had been visiting more lately.'

  The Wolf opened a notebook, pen ready. 'About what time did she leave?'

  'Near sunset. Nothing strange—she said goodbye as always.'

  'Did she mention any worry, anyone unusual?'

  Drizella shook her head, then hesitated: 'No. Only that she needed to talk to Alex. She didn't say why.'

  He nodded, jotting. 'The press says Anastacia and Alex argued often. From the family's view—were things serious? Changed recently?'

  She exhaled, weight of private life turned headline. 'The papers don't lie entirely, but they never tell all. Yes, they argued. Money has been a shadow between them. Old debts, messy business... And lately, the will.' She met his eyes, voice firm. 'If anything happened to Ana everything would pass to me and Mother. She insisted. Alex never liked that, though he rarely said it outright—just went colder.'

  Red tilted her head. 'Were there other problems besides the marriage?'

  'Debts with dangerous people,' Drizella sighed. 'Lunaris' mafia forgets nothing, and they were in over their heads. Alex tried to negotiate—I never knew with whom.'

  The Wolf tapped his pen. 'Do you know why they owed the mafia? Gambling, wagers?'

  She clasped her hands, eyes on the cup. 'Gambling. Alex can't quit when he's losing, and Ana thought she could fix it afterwards. First small bets, then favours to cover old debts. Eventually you couldn't tell their money from what they owed. They tried to hide it, but Lunaris is small for people who owe the wrong crowd.'

  'The papers claim Alex's father—the king Aureliano—never approved the marriage,' the Wolf said. 'Is tru or just rumour?'

  'Not just rumour,' she answered quietly. 'He never liked Ana. Thought she was unworthy. Tension every time they met, though I don't know if it turned uglier.'

  Red asked, 'In the days before, did anyone strange come here? Any odd behaviour?'

  'Only family. I saw no one lurking. Everything was the same.'

  For a moment only the fireplace clock ticked, heavy. Drizella folded her hands in her lap.

  'I don't know what you're searching for, but I don't think Ana had enemies. If she feared someone, she never said. And Alex... despite the fights, she still believed they'd mend things.'

  The Wolf and Red exchanged a glance: words spoken were just fragments of a deeper, hidden truth.

  Time hung in the room—light dragging across gilt frames, the clock counting like a latent threat. Suddenly a sharp crash split the air deep in the corridor. Something hit the floor. A heartbeat later an aged, rasping shriek ripped through the silence:

  'CINDY! GET IN HERE, YOU INGRATE! I TOLD YOU TO WASH THE SHEETS, YOU WRETCH!'

  Drizella blanched and sprang up. 'Stay here,' she breathed, already running. Before she reached the hallway objects began to fly—cushions, books, a vase smashed.

  A bedroom door banged open. An elderly figure lurched out—thin, bent, wild white hair, crumpled robe, bare feet thumping. Her face was a map of deep wrinkles, eyes wandering, mouth twisted with fury.

  'YOU'RE WORTHLESS, CINDY!' she screeched, stabbing a gnarled finger at Red, not recognising anyone. 'I KNEW YOU'D RUIN THIS HOUSE! BACK TO THE KITCHEN!'

  Drizella tried to restrain her, but the mother charged Red, arms flailing like a deranged bird. The Wolf stepped in, gripping her shoulders gently but firmly.

  'Ma'am, you're safe. No one means you harm.'

  She fought, scratching, beating, screams now shrill:

  'GET OUT! WITCH! I WON'T LOOK AT YOU!' Then she broke into sobs, then screams again, eyes seeing phantoms.

  Hands trembling, Drizella uncapped a vial and got a few drops into her mother's mouth. Gradually the old woman slackened; shrieks subsided to whimpers, her weight sagging in her daughter's arms.

  The exposed bedroom looked like memory's battlefield: priceless furniture scarred and dusty, velvet drapes torn, portraits askew, clothes and shoes strewn, perfume and jewels amid ripped letters. A headless doll stared at the ceiling from a stained cushion.

  When silence returned Mr?Bad lifted the frail woman with near?animal gentleness—strong arms, soft motion—and laid her on the ravaged bed, tucking the blanket to her shoulders as though that ritual could ward off cold, madness, or something older. Wan light seeped through torn curtains across powder?coated perfume bottles and discarded letters.

  Red slipped in, closing the door softly. Her eyes roamed: the smell of medicine and dust, spent incense, the headless doll, crumpled papers, empty glass phials lined on the dresser. Leaning against the hallway just outside stood a tall mirror with a midnight?blue frame studded with magic sigils, reflecting splinters of the room—it was a portal mirror like those over the lake but dormant, its usual glow gone. Red said nothing, merely noted.

  While the Wolf made the mother comfortable Drizella sat on the mattress edge, one hand on the old woman's back, murmuring promises and apologies only time could parse. Red drifted to the dresser; among torn pages, near the baseboard, lay a small stiff scrap of paper, diagonal fold, one edge stained as though it had lain in mud or water. She pinched it, absent?minded, then set it back. Mr?Bad's eye caught the motion; silent understanding passed and both acted as though nothing had happened.

  A faint music?box jingle leaked into the hush. Red found it on the bedside table, lid open, still turning: golden fish revolved above a sky?blue background, the tune slow and off key—childhood and broken memories. Drizella raised weary eyes, forcing a smile.

  'I don't know if she dreams or just replays life,' she whispered. 'Sometimes she looks so far away. Other times...'—her gaze drifted—'other times I swear there's clarity behind her eyes. But then it fades again.'

  Red pulled a chair beside her. The Wolf retreated to the wall, arms crossed; he noticed the mirror's lower edge was cleaner of dust, as if something short had touched it recently.

  'Was she always this... fierce?' Red asked, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  Drizella shrugged, exhausted. 'Mother was always strong—ruled everything. The illness just amplifies what was already there. And Lunaris isn't kind to old, widowed women.'

  Red's gaze wandered—the music box, the recent?dated crumpled letters, the lingering perfume lit for guests who never came. The Wolf stepped to the door, traced a tiny fresh nick in the mirror's arcane pattern—as though something heavy had grazed it.

  Only the old woman's slow breathing and the warped music filled the room.

  'Was Anastasia different?' Red asked. 'Did she like this room?'

  Drizella's smile faded into memory. 'She loved the stories, the magical trinkets, the music boxes, the mirrors. She was Mother's favourite; everyone said so. I never minded, not much...'—her eyes dropped to the worn quilt, voice barely above a sigh—'When we were girls, they painted me and Ana as monsters to Cindy. Truth is, Ana and I only copied Mother—maybe to please her, maybe from fear, maybe because it was easier. No one asked if it made us happy. Then it all felt like an adult game. Now... everything looks so different. We do such stupid things when we're young.' She chuckled bitterly. 'If I knew then what I know now... maybe I'd have protected Cindy instead of the other way round.'

  A gentle hush, full of dust motes and grey light, settled over them. Red poured coffee from a forgotten flask, offered the Wolf a cup; he accepted with a nod. Drizella thanked her with a wan smile.

  For a while they spoke of trivialities: Lunaris' damp mornings, the small markets, how the park's magic flowers survived winter. The Wolf watched details: Drizella's taut gestures, how she avoided the mirror. In the hallway the dormant portal showed fragmented images—the mother, the ruined room, the visitors, the silence. In that paused morning every secret seemed to breathe with them.

  End of Chapter