Ophelia awoke early.

This wasn't particularly surprising, Ophelia mused, rolling over to pillow her face on her hands. She always woke up early — particularly in a strange house. What was surprising was the blonde man sleeping next to her in the bed.

She smiled.

Andrew was breathing softly, his long eyelashes fluttering. His cheeks were a rosy pink. There was something undeniably sweet about how relaxed he looked, she thought. It made him look younger, somehow.

She leaned forward, kissing his nose.

Andrew murmured in his sleep, but didn't stir. Ophelia slipped out of the bed, throwing on a thin white robe over her pajama shorts and tank top.

Coffee.

That's what she needed. Besides, Andrew was always cranky until he had caffeine in the morning; she might as well make sure it was available immediately.

Ophelia padded quietly down the stairs, pausing just outside the dining room. Actually, where did she find coffee? Breakfast seemed to magically appear on the table each morning, and then it was swiftly whisked away by Digby's cook, Ingrid. Did she go to the kitchen? But, no; she would only be in Ingrid's way.

She hesitated outside the door.

"Dickens?"

She spun around. Digby grinned at her.

"You're up awfully early."

"You, too."

"I'm sorting the guns." Digby turned so that she could see the shotgun resting in the crook of his elbow, the barrel pointing down. "Andrew was meant to help me, but he must be having a lie in, the lazy bugger."

Ophelia froze. Oh, god.

Don't blush, she told herself sternly. Don't blush, don't—

"Anyways," Digby said. "Did you need something?"

"I was looking for coffee."

"Oh, good." He winked. "I can help with that."

Ophelia swallowed, trailing Digby into the dining room. The large table looked oddly empty without people or food, and she perched awkwardly on a chair as Digby rifled in the sideboard. He let out a triumphant cry, producing a coffee machine and a number of capsules.

"Knew it!" Digby beamed. "Mother's addicted to the stuff."

He plugged in the machine. To Ophelia's surprise, he leaned the shotgun against the wall, claiming the chair opposite her.

"Well?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Well, what?"

"Have I finally impressed you?"

Ophelia couldn't help it; she laughed. "If all it took was good coffee to impress me, Digby, I'd be dating a number of baristas by now."

"What does it take, then?"

She hesitated. An odd sense of uneasiness filled her, and Ophelia fiddled with the lace sleeve of her robe. She knew it was stupid, but she couldn't help but feel like she was betraying Andrew right now; she couldn't imagine that he would be thrilled at the prospect of her sitting here, alone with Digby, in her pajamas.

Digby leaned forward.

"Oh, come on," he goaded. "I won't tell anyone."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, it doesn't take much, honestly."

"Just a fancy handbag?"

"Oh, no," Ophelia said, deadpan. "I'm worth two fancy handbags, at the very least." She crossed to the coffee machine, popping in a capsule. "Do you want one?"

Digby shook his head. "What about the first bloke you dated?"

"What about him?"

"How did he impress you?"

Ophelia pulled out a coffee cup, smirking slightly. She had dated Carter Bunce in sixth grade, mostly because he reminded her of a bespectacled Percy Jackson. Poor Carter had spent an entire week writing her love letters and feeding her Tamagotchi before she brutally broke up with him at recess.

"I'm afraid he didn't," Ophelia sighed. "In fact, I only really went out with him to practice kissing."

"Seriously?"

"Oh, yeah." She watched the coffee drip into the cup. "I tried to use tongue and everything; the poor boy probably needed years of therapy."

Digby stared at her for a moment. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. "You know, Ophelia," he said, "I don't think I've ever met anyone like you before."

"And I've never heard you say that."

"What?"

"Ophelia." She took a sip of coffee. "Normally, it's Dickens."

"Well," Digby said, "I'd like to use it a lot more."

He was watching her intently, and Ophelia paused, the coffee cup halfway to her mouth. Oh, no. Shit. This was heading in a direction that she wasn't entirely comfortable with. She set the coffee cup down in a saucer.

"Digby..."

"Let's go out," he said abruptly. "When we're back in London."

"Like a date?"

"Exactly like that."

Ophelia swallowed. Oh, hell. She turned to pop another capsule into the coffee machine, playing for time. Digby was asking her out. Right now. It was exactly what she'd wanted for months, wasn't it?

But now...

Ophelia stared at the dripping black liquid. What she wanted was lying two floors above her, blissfully unawares of this entire conversation.

No.

She couldn't do it.

"Digby." She turned around, swallowing. "I—"

"Good morning!"

Eleanora breezed into the room. Her blonde hair was already styled into a sleek chignon, and she was dressed in a pink headband, cashmere cardigan and black dress. Ophelia tugged at her robe, suddenly hyper-aware of her black-and-yellow pajama shorts with badgers on them.

"Morning," she muttered.

"Oh, good," Eleanora said. "I was hoping I'd find you here, Ophelia."

She stared at her. "Me?"

"Yes." Eleanora adjusted her headband. "Can we speak for a moment?" She shot Digby a pointed look. "Alone?"

Ophelia bit her lip. The idea of speaking with Eleanora was about as appealing as picking up that shotgun and shooting herself in the foot, but what was the alternative? Awkwardly rejecting Digby over coffee?

No, thanks.

"Sure." She swept an arm towards the door. "Lead the way."

Ophelia swallowed as they entered the library.

Guilt writhed in her stomach as she took an armchair by the fire, staring into the crackling flames. If Ophelia was being honest with herself, Eleanora had only crossed her mind once last night, and only in the context of whether Andrew was dating her; she had willfully ignored the fact that Eleanora might still have feelings for Andrew.

She studied the other girl carefully.

Eleanora ran a finger along the mantelpiece, frowning as it came away dusty. Ophelia bit her lip. Had she been telling the truth the other day? About Andrew saying that he would take her to Paris?

God.

Andrew had said they weren't together, but Ophelia hadn't exactly asked him to elaborate. What had he promised Eleanora? She watched with mounting trepidation as Eleanora produced a handkerchief, wiping her hands delicately on it.

"So," Eleanora said.

"So."

"Digby asked you out."

Ophelia blinked. Whatever she had been expecting Eleanora to say, it certainly wasn't that. She shifted in her seat.

"I didn't realize you heard that."

Eleanora rolled up the handkerchief, placing it in her skirt pocket. "You'll say yes, of course."

"Oh." Ophelia paused. "Well, no. I don't think I will, actually."

Not that it was any of Eleanora's business. Although with the way the other girl was looking at her, you would think that she had personally orchestrated the match.

"You misunderstand me." Eleanora sank into an armchair. "I'm not asking you, Ophelia; I'm telling you."

Ophelia stared at her. "Pardon?"

"Oh, dear." Eleanora smiled sweetly. "You really aren't very bright, are you?" She laced her fingers together. "Surely you remember our conversation the other day."

Ophelia's eyes narrowed; she didn't have to ask which one Eleanora was referring to. "I wouldn't call it much of a conversation," she said mildly. "Threats usually involve one person."

"I suppose."

"Eleanora," Ophelia said, exasperated. "What's your point?"

"You slept with Andrew last night."

Ophelia reared back. She felt the words like a sharp slap to the face, and her stomach plunged, like a drop on a roller coaster. Eleanora knew. She knew. The blonde girl smiled at her, apparently unperturbed.

"Oh, don't worry," Eleanora said airily. "I didn't listen to all of it, of course; just enough to ascertain what was happening." She tilted her head, studying her. "You really do moan a lot, don't you?"

Ophelia closed her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Eleanora."

"It's a bit late for that."

"Still."

Eleanora stared into the fireplace; her light eyes seemed to be burning, smouldering with a sort of ghostly flame. "I used to get in trouble for talking back, you know. My brother was praised for speaking his mind, but my mother said it wasn't suitable for a little girl. That I was too loud. Too opinionated."

She rose from her chair, her back straight as the letter I.

"I was often sent to bed without dinner. Sometimes, they would pinch me, too. Never in public — just in the places that guests wouldn't see."

"Eleanora," Ophelia breathed, horrified. "I'm so sorry."

Her eyes hardened. "But I'm not, you see. Disobedience deserves to be punished. My parents taught me that." She reached into a nearby shelf, producing an old book. "And now, I will teach it to you."

Ophelia's stomach plunged.

She knew what it was straight away. Gold-rimmed pages, worn brown leather, cracked spine — it was her copy of "A Tale of Two Cities." She half-rose from her chair.

"Where did you get that?"

"Your room, obviously."

"Give it back." Ophelia held out a hand. "Now."

She could feel her heartbeat racing. Eleanora smirked, moving closer to the fireplace. She was enjoying this, Ophelia realized dizzily. Enjoying taunting her.

"I never understood books," Eleanora said. "Particularly dusty old ones like this." She flipped open the book, casually scanning the page. "Odd fellow, this Sydney Carton. He seems to only care about wine."

Ophelia watched, froze, as Eleanora flipped to the front.

"Oh, look," Eleanora said, smirking. "An inscription." She cleared her throat. "Dear Ophelia — love reminds us who we can become. Gran." She closed the book, meeting Ophelia's gaze. "How sweet."

"Please," Ophelia whispered. "Please, Eleanora; I'm begging you."

She would have done anything in that moment. Crawled over broken glass. Sawed off her own finger. Climbed to the very top of Argyll Estate and jumped from one of the stone turrets. But Eleanora merely smiled.

"As I said, it's a bit late for that, darling."

Eleanora threw the book into the fire. Ophelia screamed. She felt the noise rip from her chest, and she lunged towards the fire, a terrible pain filling her lungs.

"No!"

Small hands gripped her arm. Sharp fingernails burrowed into her skin, but Ophelia hardly registered it; all she could see was the fire engulfing the pages, tearing at them with savage teeth. She made a whimpering noise as orange flames licked at the book.

Her grandmother's book.

"Let me be clear this time," Eleanora murmured, her breath hot in her ear. "Stay away from Andrew, or I'll make your life a living hell."

She let go abruptly.

Ophelia stumbled forward, pitching on to the rug. She could hear Eleanora laughing as she crawled blindly towards the fireplace. But it was too late; her book was already burning up, turning into black ash and memories.

A/N: Eek! I have a feeling you guys will have A LOT to say on this chapter ;)

So I always try to redeem my female villains ("Backstage Girl" readers will know that Lexi turns out to be a good human being) but this time around, Eleanora surprised me. The more I wrote about her, the more ruthless she became. And then, well, this happened.

Yikes.

I'm almost scared to ask, but what do you guys think of Eleanora? Ruthless villain, or just an unloved child that's lashing out? Or a combination of both?

Affectionately,

J.K.