The First Ink [A Dark Fairy Tale Prequel]

Evelyn’s fingertips brushed her daughter’s shoulder, applying the slightest pressure to correct Anastasia’s slouch. The girl immediately straightened, a practiced smile never leaving her face as she continued her conversation with Lord Blackwood’s insufferable son.Perfect. Now if only Drizella would stop fidgeting with her napkin.

“Such remarkable poise in one so young,” Lady Ashworth drawled from across the gleaming mahogany table, her voice dripping honey over steel. “One might almost forget their... humble beginnings.”

The crystal stemware clinked as Evelyn lifted her wine glass, using the motion to mask how her other hand clenched beneath the damask tablecloth. “How fortunate that good breeding shows itself regardless of circumstance, wouldn’t you agree?” She took a deliberate sip, holding Lady Ashworth’s gaze until the woman’s eyes flickered away first.

Steam rose from the second course - duck à l’orange, each plate a mirror image of perfection. Evelyn watched through lowered lashes as her guests took their first bites, cataloging every minute reaction. Lord Pembrooke’s slight nod. Lady Blackwood’s widened eyes.They can’t fault the food, at least.

“Mother,” Drizella whispered, too loudly, “may I-”

“Shh,” Evelyn murmured, sliding her hand along the table to rest near her daughter’s. “Remember what we practiced. If you need something, catch my eye first.”

The candles’ warm glow caught the silver service, creating dancing reflections that drew attention from how Evelyn subtly gestured to the footman. He materialized at Drizella’s side, wordlessly refilling her water glass - exactly what the girl had been about to request.

“I must say,” Baron Whitmore projected from the far end, “young ladies with such refined manners are increasingly rare these days. Though I suppose with their mother’s... unique background, they’ve had to work twice as hard to achieve such polish.”

Heat bloomed across Evelyn’s chest, but she transformed it into a gracious smile. “How observant of you, Baron. I’ve always believed that true refinement comes from dedicated study rather than accident of birth. Don’t you agree, Lady Ashworth? I recall your own daughter’s rather memorable debut last season.”

Lady Ashworth’s face tightened. Everyone at the table knew her daughter had thrown wine on a duke’s son and run from the ballroom in tears.

The subtle shifting of chairs and clink of silverware filled the momentary silence. Evelyn used it to catch Anastasia’s eye, giving her an approving nod. The girl’s posture remained impeccable, her conversation pleasant but not overeager.At least someone remembers their lessons.

“I must know,” Lady Blackwood leaned forward, her diamonds catching the light, “wherever did you find such exquisite tablecloths? I’ve been searching everywhere for proper Venetian lace.”

“Oh, these?” Evelyn traced a finger along the intricate pattern. “A small shop in Florence. I’d be happy to make introductions, though I believe they’re quite selective about their clientele.” The barb landed; Lady Blackwood’s recent social gaffes had made her persona non grata among certain continental circles.

A servant appeared at Evelyn’s elbow, silently requesting instruction about the timing of the next course. She gave an almost imperceptible nod, then returned her attention to the table. Every detail required her vigilance - the temperature of the room, the flow of conversation, the level of wine in each glass. One misstep could provide the vultures with weeks of gossip fodder.

They’re all watching, waiting for us to slip.Evelyn maintained her serene smile as she guided the evening forward, each word and gesture precisely calculated.But they’ll find no cracks in this facade. Not tonight. Not ever.

Evelyn’s fingers tightened around her wine glass as Alistair rose from his seat at the head of the table, the crystal catching the warm glow of the candelabras. The evening had progressed perfectly until now - the roast pheasant garnished just so, the wine selected to complement each course, their daughters’ manners impeccable. Yet something in her husband’s pallor sent a chill down her spine.

“Friends, neighbors...” Alistair’s voice carried across the dining room with its usual authority, though Evelyn noticed a slight tremor in his raised glass. “We gather tonight not just as members of the same social circle, but as-”

The cough struck without warning. It doubled him over, his free hand flying to cover his mouth as the crystal goblet slipped from his grasp. The red wine splashed across the pristine tablecloth like arterial spray.

Evelyn surged to her feet, her chair scraping against the hardwood. The dozen pairs of eyes around the table darted between her and her husband, their guests frozen in that peculiar way of nobles - horror masked by practiced restraint.

“My dear?” She kept her voice steady, taking measured steps toward him.Don’t make a scene. Control the narrative.“Perhaps some water-”

Another cough wracked his frame, deeper this time, wet and wrong. Alistair fumbled for his handkerchief, pressing it to his lips. When he pulled it away, Evelyn’s heart nearly stopped. Instead of the bright crimson she’d feared, black stains bloomed across the white linen. Not the dull brown of old blood, but something darker. Slicker.

The substance caught the candlelight strangely, seeming to absorb it rather than reflect it. As Evelyn drew closer, her steps faltering, she could have sworn she saw it move. Not spreading naturally through the fabric, but writhing, like tiny snakes made of shadow.

“I do apologize,” Alistair managed, his voice rough. “Seems the winter chill-” Another spasm seized him.

Lady Portsmouth’s shrill voice cut through the tension. “Perhaps we should-”

“Yes,” Evelyn interrupted smoothly, one hand coming to rest on Alistair’s shoulder. His skin felt cool through his evening jacket. “I believe we should conclude our lovely evening here. The hour grows late, and I’m sure you all have commitments tomorrow.”

She could feel the relief ripple through the room as she gave them permission to flee. The scrape of chairs, the rustle of silk, the murmured platitudes - all of it washed over her as she focused on the way Alistair’s shoulder trembled beneath her palm. The black stains on his handkerchief seemed to pulse in time with his labored breathing.

“Harrison will see you out,” she said to no one in particular, knowing their butler would materialize to handle the exodus. Her attention remained fixed on that handkerchief, on the way the darkness seemed to coil and stretch when Alistair’s hand shook.This isn’t natural. This isn’t right.

The room emptied with practiced efficiency, leaving them alone among the half-empty wine glasses and cooling dinner plates. The candles guttered in a draft, sending shadows dancing across the walls. Or perhaps, Evelyn thought with rising dread, the shadows were dancing of their own accord.

“It’s nothing,” Alistair rasped, trying to straighten. “Just a touch of-”

His words dissolved into another coughing fit, and this time, Evelyn saw it clearly. The black substance that spattered his handkerchief moved like liquid mercury, but darker than any natural material she’d ever encountered. It writhed with deliberate purpose, as if reaching for something.

Or reaching for someone.

The sharp copper tang of blood mingled with ink saturated the dining room’s air. Evelyn’s fingers tightened around her wine glass as she rose from her chair, her smile a porcelain mask that revealed nothing of the terror clawing at her chest. “I must apologize, but I’m afraid we’ll need to conclude our evening early. Lord Tremaine requires rest.”

Lady Portsmouth’s face pinched with barely concealed disgust as she dabbed her napkin against rouge-stained lips. “Of course, dear. These winter chills can be so... inconvenient.”

They saw. They all saw.Evelyn guided her guests toward the foyer, each step measured despite the urge to sprint to Alistair’s side. The butler materialized with coats and wraps, while she maintained her practiced social smile. The wool of Lady Portsmouth’s cloak felt rough against her palm as she helped the woman into it.

“Such a shame about the pudding,” simpered Mrs. Whitmore, her eyes gleaming with poorly concealed satisfaction. “I was so looking forward to comparing it to the one I served at my last gathering.”

“Another time, perhaps.” Evelyn’s voice remained steady, though her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She could still see that black substance writhing on Alistair’s handkerchief, moving like something alive.

The grandfather clock in the hall struck ten, its deep resonance matching the growing heaviness in her chest. One by one, the guests filed out, their whispers already forming tomorrow’s gossip. The moment the heavy oak door closed behind the last visitor, Evelyn gathered her skirts and rushed up the curved staircase, the carpet runner muffling her hurried footsteps.

She found Anastasia and Drizella in the nursery, their faces pressed against the window glass as they watched the departing carriages. “Girls,” she called softly, and they turned with matching worried expressions.

“Is Father very ill?” Anastasia’s lower lip trembled.

Evelyn crossed to them, kneeling despite her formal dress. The silk whispered against the floor as she drew both girls close, checking their foreheads for fever. Their skin was warm but not hot, their breathing clear and steady.Thank God. Thank God.

“Your father needs rest,” she said, running her fingers through Drizella’s dark curls, searching for any hint of pallor or shadows under her eyes. “And so do you both. It’s well past bedtime.”

“But Mother—” Drizella started to protest.

“No arguments tonight, dear heart.” Evelyn helped them change into their nightgowns, her hands only slightly shaking as she worked the buttons. She checked their throats, their wrists, anywhere that might show signs of the strange affliction she’d witnessed downstairs.

The girls’ governess appeared in the doorway. “Shall I take over, madam?”

“No, Miss Hayes. I’ll see to them tonight.” Evelyn tucked each daughter into bed herself, pressing kisses to their foreheads and breathing in their clean, soap-scented warmth.Still healthy. Still safe.She lit the small lamp between their beds, its gentle glow pushing back the shadows that seemed darker than usual in the corners of the room.

“Mother?” Anastasia’s voice was small. “Will you sing to us?”

The request squeezed Evelyn’s heart. She hadn’t sung them to sleep in months, deemed them too old for such coddling. But tonight... “Just one verse,” she conceded, perching on the edge of Anastasia’s bed. Her voice wavered slightly on the first note of the old lullaby, but steadied as she watched their eyes grow heavy.

When both girls finally drifted off, Evelyn rose carefully, her fingers trailing across their blankets one last time. At the nursery door, she paused, watching their peaceful faces in the lamplight.I won’t let anything happen to you,she promised silently.Either of you.

She closed the door with exquisite care, the latch catching with the softest click. Now, finally, she could attend to Alistair.

Evelyn’s footsteps echoed through the empty corridor as she left Alistair’s bedchamber, her fingers still tingling from the unnatural chill of his skin. The manor’s familiar shadows seemed to twist and writhe in her peripheral vision, taunting her with half-formed shapes that dissolved when she turned to face them directly.

She pressed her palm against the study door, the aged oak smooth and worn beneath her touch. The brass handle fought her grip, its mechanism stiff from disuse - this room belonged to Alistair’s domain, not hers.Unless something happens to him, a treacherous voice whispered in her mind. The door’s hinges protested with a drawn-out creak that set her teeth on edge.

Moonlight spilled through the bay windows, painting silver rectangles across the Persian carpet. The study smelled of leather-bound books and Alistair’s pipe tobacco, an aroma that usually brought comfort but now made her throat constrict. Her heels sank into the plush carpet as she crossed to his massive mahogany desk, her shadow stretching long and distorted across the floor.

The ledger lay exactly where Alistair always kept it, centered precisely on the blotter, its moroccan leather cover gleaming dully in the moonlight. Evelyn’s hands trembled as she reached for it. The leather was butter-soft beneath her fingertips, but cold - as cold as Alistair’s skin had been. She swallowed hard and opened to the first page.

Nothing. Where there should have been columns of precise numbers and annotations in Alistair’s meticulous hand, there was only pristine cream-colored paper, unmarked as fresh snow. Evelyn blinked hard, then held the page closer to the lamp she’d lit. The paper wasn’t merely blank - it bore a subtle sheen, as if recently wiped clean. When she ran her finger across its surface, the page felt slick, almost wet.

“No,” she whispered, her voice harsh in the silence. She flipped to the next page, then the next. Numbers and text appeared as normal, but that crucial first page - the master summary of their entire fortune - had vanished as if it had never existed.

Something dark caught her eye - a drop of liquid, black as ink, beading at the corner of the blank page. As she watched, it grew, swelled, and then began to move of its own accord, leaving a glistening trail as it crept across the paper. Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat. She slammed the ledger shut, but not before she saw the droplet disappear into the binding, like a living thing seeking shelter.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she backed away from the desk. The ledger sat innocently in the pool of lamplight, but she could have sworn she saw something shifting beneath its cover, like shadows moving under ice. The room’s temperature seemed to plummet, and her breath fogged in the air.

First Alistair’s cough, now this.The two events were connected - they had to be. But how? And more importantly, why? The implications made her head spin. Their fortune, their standing in society, their children’s future - everything depended on the contents of that first page.

A floorboard creaked behind her. Evelyn whirled, her hand flying to her throat, but the doorway stood empty. Only shadows moved there, dancing in the lamplight. Yet she could have sworn she heard the whisper of skirts against carpet, the soft sound of retreating footsteps.

She forced herself to turn back to the desk, to face the ledger that now seemed to pulse with malevolent purpose.I have to know what’s happening. For the girls. For all of us.With trembling fingers, she reached for the cover once more.

***

A/N (Author’s Note):Thanks for reading! 🩸 The story is just beginning... but if you can’t wait for the next update, theENTIRE 30-chapter prequel, plus the epic main series The Other Glass Slipper, is available RIGHT NOW on my Patreon! 👑[Click the website link in my author profile to unlock all chapters!]