Dressed in her most modest of dresses, black with no skin exposed, as if she was on her way to attend a funeral, Rose stared at her reflection in the mirror behind her love's enclosure. She had one more thing to do before she left for the interview for the nanny position.

Rose concentrated, thinking of a woman slightly older, several years at most, and said, 'Ego te convertam pluribus annis maior.' 

Shortly, the mirror rippled as it did the last time she had changed her appearance. The seamstress then watched as her hair lightened, turning blonde and fair, before her face narrowed to give a sense of sternness. However, her features quickly softened to portray love and caring, and her mouth thinned and dulled with prudishness yet remained inviting. 

'Yes, perfect for a nanny up to something, if I may say so,' Rose finally said to her transformed self, soon realizing a change of scent would probably be needed too. She added, 'Petala rosacea et chrysanthemuma.' 

Immediately, the seamstress' nose tickled with the aroma of roses and chrysanthemums, of her hidden identity and of joy and optimism. And after saying goodbye to her love, telling him what time she would return and hopefully with good news, Rose embraced the dark, cold and dreary morning, and set out for the residence of Mr Bronfell. 

Her journey took her far away from home and its grime and poverty, far away from the middle class neighborhoods of the city that she wandered now and again, and into the affluent areas, where women and men like Madame Calloway walked the streets as if they had sticks up their arses. And the place plumed and billowed with the stench of her goal. 

'Yes, there are many beasts belonging to packs here,' Rose said to herself. 

It was nearing eight o'clock when she entered Channing Lane, a street lined with the biggest houses she had ever seen. At the very end was Mr Bronfell's residence, where a queue of women waited to be interviewed, the row starting at the front door and ending halfway down the lane. 

'Hmm, there must be at least a hundred,' Rose muttered, as she then took in a whiff of Mr Bronfell himself, his scent mingled with the smoke swelling out from one of the mansion's many chimney tops. Despite the odor's smoldering degradation, Rose could tell the man was waiting too, inside, and he effused power. But there was also sadness and heartache scattered in the fumes. The seamstress lingered on the aroma before her attention returned to the women. 'Time to take care of this. Time to send them safely back home. Crassa nebula veni.' 

Out of nowhere, the thickest of hazes descended, rolled into the street like a cloud of ash. It was a mist so soupy, a disorienting, muddling and waywarding fog accustomed to only seafarers and travelers. And when it finally had all cleared, moved on just moments before the new hour approached, Rose found herself the only interviewee left. 

With a nod of approval, Rose then straightened herself and headed for Mr Bronfell's residence. And the very second she arrived at the front door, she heard the strike of a grandfather clock inside, it echoing and setting off plodding footfalls. Soon, the door opened, revealing the man. Rugged with a well-groomed beard and cheeks that appeared to be chiseled from wood, most would call him handsome, but Rose just saw his dispassion, his weariness and the wolf within. 

No smile greeted Rose, just a curt nod and a weak, 'Good morning. And good morning to everyone–' 

Mr Bronfell had looked past the seamstress and was now furrowing at the queue that was no longer there. 

'Excuse me,' he said to Rose, staring at her as if he had just come out of a trance. 'What happened to the other respondents?' 

'Other respondents?' Rose replied candidly. 

'Yes, there were others waiting. Waiting to be interviewed for the nanny position.' 

Rose shook her head. 'Sir, I saw no others when I arrived.' 

Mr Bronfell's furrowing deepened. 'How very odd. I'm sure I saw others.' After a brief pause and a shake of his head, he continued, 'Well then, will you come inside Miss–' 

'It's Claire,' replied Rose, 'Claire Hedden.' 

'Well, Miss Hedden, shall we get this interview started? Please, if you wouldn't mind following me to my study. It's only a short distance.' 

Rose stepped through the front entrance as Mr Bronfell disappeared inside. And as she quickly caught up with him, finding herself in a hall that could fit her entire shop, the smell of other beasts invaded her senses. With a snap of a gaze, she discovered the sources. 

Staring secretly through the banisters of a staircase nearby were two children, a boy and a girl. They smelled of curiosity, a bit of fear and pups too young to emerge as Rose had expected. 

'They are not to be touched, not to be harmed,' the seamstress told herself again before giving the two a warm smile. 

The children didn't return the courtesy and ran away, scurried out of sight. 

Rose continued to shadow Mr Bronfell. Down a corridor they went, the man not even turning his head to make sure she was following, and finally through a set of well-polished doors. 

'Please, take a seat Miss Hedden,' Mr Bronfell said, waving to a wooden chair before a grand desk that shimmered from a roaring blaze set in a fireplace, the flickering light also casting its enchantment on the countless books that filled the study. 

Rose took her seat as Mr Bronfell went round the desk and sat down himself. 

'Would you like to see my curriculum vitae and references before we begin?' Rose asked, taking out her papers. 

'You can give all that to me after our interview,' Mr Bronfell replied. 

Rose nodded and set the documents on her lap, slightly annoyed. It had taken her quite a bit of time, magic and energy to get the lies in order and she wanted to flaunt them proudly. 

'Now,' Mr Bronfell continued, leaning back in his chair, 'Miss Hedden, what makes you think you would be a good nanny to my children? To Matthew and Laura? With their mother passing not too long ago, as you are probably aware, their heartache has made them shells of who they once were. I wouldn't say they are difficult to handle but they are lost and my efforts have failed despite the more time I've spent with them. I believe they need a nanny to get them straight, to help them.' 

'I know all too well about heartache, sir,' Rose replied in truth. 'I know about death and what it can do to a child, for I myself have been in that position.' 

Mr Bronfell's cold stare warmed just ever so at her words. 

'Your children need care,' Rose continued, 'need someone to listen, but they need structure and a bit of discipline. They need someone to show them that their world can be joyful again.' 

'Well, now I know why I failed,' Mr Bronfell replied with a croak, 'why I truly am in need of a nanny. Miss Hedden, do you think you can make them laugh like they once did? To enjoy the company of their father again?' 

'It will take time, but yes, I think I can make them as happy as when their mother was still around.' 

Rose could see Mr Bronfell's eyes gloss over and he proceeded to talk but the seamstress' concentration soon turned to something else, and which made her breathing deepen in panic. 

Through the gap underneath the study doors, wafted the fetor that seemed to now be following her. 

Anger. Bitterness. On the hunt. 

The stench filled the room until the sound of marching echoed throughout the residence. And the pounding of boots was getting louder, closing in. 

'Miss Hedden? Miss Hedden? Is anything the matter?' said Mr Bronfell. 

Rose came out of her distraction to see the man eyeing her with a look of puzzlement. 

'I'm sorry, what was that, sir?' she asked, readying herself to cast a spell if need be. 

'I asked if anything was the matter. You seemed to have entered another world,' Mr Bronfell replied. 

'My apologies. The talk of experiencing death made me drift away. Took me to my past.' 

Mr Bronfell nodded softly. 'Yes, quite understandable. I have done that many times, especially after the passing of my wife. . . .' 

Rose had gone back to the intrusion, Mr Bronfell's words fading away again. The stomping grew louder and louder until it stopped right outside the study's doors. Then came a rapping knock, sending the seamstress to her feet in preparation, ready to confront the beast. 

'There's no need for such formal welcomes in my household,' said Mr Bronfell, reading Rose's standing as a respectful gesture a nanny, a servant should beget. 'Please, take your seat, Miss Hedden.' 

Though hesitant, Rose did so, as Mr Bronfell called out to the obtruder, 'Please enter, Tavarious.'