I lower my gaze, gasping when I see what looks like a pool of thick, red, viscous fluid swirling around me. But as soon as I blink, it’s gone, and all I can see are the few small drops she promptly cleans.

“I’m sorry—I—” I shake my head, still stricken by what I know I saw just a second ago.

“No matter.” She heads for the door. “Just—” She pauses, eyes surveying me as she grasps the shiny black pendant hanging from her neck. “Just mind yerself, that’s all.”

The moment she’s gone, I put my painting aside and decide to get dressed. I mean, even though it’s the middle of the night, the fact is, I’m so wide awake now, I may as well do some exploring and check out the rest of the house. So after shivering under a weak spray of water that never really ventured anywhere past lukewarm, using some kind of weird, oddly scented, handmade soap that made me long for my nice, sudsy body wash back home, I sit at the dressing table, comb through my wet hair with one of those silver-plated combs, and dab on a little perfumed oil from an old-fashioned glass bottle, hoping to kill some of that soap stench. Then I go searching for the clothes I arrived in, since, thanks to the airline losing my bag, I have no other option.

But after checking the armoire, the chest of drawers, and just about anywhere else you could stash a black V-necked sweater, faded jeans, and a navy blue, hand-me-down peacoat, and coming up empty, I ring for Violet, only to be told they’ve been sent out for cleaning.

“But now I don’t have anything to wear,” I whine, realizing my voice has risen a few octaves louder than planned. But hey, I’m an only child, I’m not used to people messing with my stuff.

“Sorry, miss.” She averts her gaze in a way that makes me feel this big. “Just trying to keep things runnin’ smoothly.”

I sigh. Knowing that to say anything further would just peg me as a spoiled American brat. Besides, wasn’t the whole point of coming here to improve my art and experience something different from my suburban L.A. condo community? Not to mention, enjoy some time away from Jake, Tiffany, and Nina? And now that I’m here, maybe it’s time I embrace it.

“Sorry.” I shrug. “I didn’t mean it like that—it’s just—”

“I’ll check on them come morning.” She nods. “I’m sure they’ll be returned to ye in good time. But for now, why not pick something from this here armoire to wear?” She smiles encouragingly. “There’s some beautiful gowns in there, miss. Real antiques they is. It’s all part of the restoration. Every last detail was noted and attended to.”

I tilt my head and scrunch my nose, not near as convinced as she. I’m not really into fancy vintage gowns. I’m much more of a peacoat-and-cargo-pants girl.

And I’m just about to say it, just about to ask if she could possibly find something a little less fussy, when she says, “Don’t really know which type ye are until you try a few, right?”

I squint, wondering if I voiced the thought out loud, though I’m pretty sure that I didn’t.

“Besides,” she adds, “it’s not like you’re goin’ out or anyone’s comin’ in—at least not anytime soon. So if it’s bein’ seen that’s got ye worried, forget it. Even though it’s still dark out, I’m afraid the mist has rolled in so thick now, he won’t be burnin’ off fer days, maybe even a week. Everything’s been delayed because of it, so you may as well enjoy the free time.”

“But what about the other students?” I ask, wondering who I feel worse for, them or me? I mean, yeah, it’s kind of cool to get a head start and poke around on my own, but a little artistically inclined company wouldn’t hurt either.

“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t know about that, miss. But I will say, they won’t be coming by today, that’s fer sure.”

She heads for the armoire and removes a red silk gown with a deep plunging neckline, tight bodice, and full, trailing skirt. Gazing at it in such an admiring, covetous way, I’m about to suggest she wear it herself when she turns to me and says, “Didn’t you ever play dress-up, miss? In your mum’s clothes?”

I squint, thinking about my mum, a no-nonsense, no-frills, hardworking third-grade teacher who didn’t really have many occasions to dress up for, or anything to really dress up in—unless you count cotton cardigans and pleated khakis, that is.

“No,” I say. “Not really.”

She looks at me, her eyes glinting with excitement. “Well then, I’d say now’s as good a time as any.”

“Now normally, I’d be slipping you into a corset and pulling the strings so tight you’d be screaming for mercy, but nowadays, you’re all so skinny and muscled from athletics, a corset’s no longer necessary, at least not in your case.”

“Nowadays?” I turn to look at her, wondering if I need my eyes checked, as she appears even younger than she did a few minutes ago. Shaking my head as I gaze at the mirror, knowing I’m somewhere on the side of thin-ish, but not skinny. Definitely not skinny. Nor sporty, for that matter.

She bites her lip tighter and fastens the long row of tiny, covered buttons that line all the way up the back. Her fingers moving so quickly and nimbly, you’d think she did this sort of thing all the time. “So, what do you think?” She pushes me before the full-length mirror as she stands off to the side, just out of view.

I gasp, astonished by the way my normally way-pasty complexion is practically transformed, providing a lovely contrast to the deep, gorgeous red of the gown, and the way my chest practically heaves, appearing far more abundant than I know it to be, thanks to the ultra-low neckline. And as I run my hands over the severely nipped-in waist and soft folds of the extra-full, bustled skirt, I can’t help but think how it suits me.

Even though I never thought of myself as this kind of girl—the shiny, fussy, sparkly kind—even though I’ve always preferred neutral colors and clean, simple lines, maybe I’ve had it all wrong. Maybe this is who I really am. And it took just one day at an art academy in England to discover it.

I turn from side to side, unable to stop mirror gazing. Wondering if it’s possible to really start over, start fresh, and completely reinvent myself.

Wondering if it’s possible to wipe away the memory of Jake and Tiffany and Nina, simply by discarding my old look for this dazzling new one.

I gaze at my hair, admiring the way it dries in soft, wavy tendrils that curl around my face, and the way my normally unremarkable brown eyes now seem to sparkle with life. “I think—I think I’m looking at someone else!” I say, my fingers lost in the deep, silky folds of the skirt as a smile widens my pink, flushed cheeks.

“Maybe ye are?” Violet whispers, her gaze somber, far away, as though lost in another time and place. Then, shaking her head and returning to me, she adds, “But you’re not through yet.”

I cock my head, taking in my reflection and counting so many jewels, ribbons, and special effects, I’m wondering what we could possibly add that wouldn’t send this dress straight over the top. Then I turn to see her heading for the dressing table and lifting the lid off a silver-plated jewelry box, retrieving a beautiful velvet choker with a gorgeous, shiny, black-beaded pendant hanging from its front that’s very similar to the one she wears.

“It’s made of jet,” she says, answering the question in my gaze, as she fastens it around my neck. “The fossilized remains of decaying wood often found right here in these very cliffs.” She nods, grabbing a few more pieces she secures in my hair before standing back to survey her handiwork. “The Queen often wore it as mourning jewelry.”