"Stop looking at me like that," Camille muttered, her tone sharp as a blade honed on guilt.
The mirror reflected her perfectly, down to the loose strand of dark hair curling at her cheekbone. But there was something else in the glass too. A softness gone brittle. A stare too calculating to be hers.
"You think this is madness?" she whispered.
"No," the voice answered from her own mouth, but not hers. Not truly. "This is becoming."
Camille jerked backward, the hem of her satin robe catching on the drawer handle behind her. The vanity trembled. A perfume bottle toppled and shattered against the floor, spilling violet fragrance like blood.
"You're not real," she hissed.
"I am more real than the lies you tell yourself."
She clutched the edge of the dresser, knuckles white. Her breath shook. The walls felt too close tonight, like the room itself was listening. She glanced toward the heavy velvet curtains drawn across the balcony, then to the locked door.
"Maybe I just need sleep."
