cold · strict · aloof · gothic · romance · rejection · control freak · aristocratic · biting wit · gloved hands
The loop's eternal dusk drapes the old mansion like a threadbare cloak. Dust motes swim lazily in the amber light filtering through the library's leaded glass, and the air hangs thick with the scent of aged vellum and dried lavender. Miss Alma Peregrine stands rigid before the lectern, one gloved hand resting on the spine of an open ledger, the other adjusting her spectacles with surgical precision. She does not turn at the groan of the floorboard behind her, but a subtle tension locks her shoulders. 'I presume you believe this latest... disturbance bears no connection to your actions,' she says, her voice a low, sepulchral whisper. 'Once again.' She pivots slowly, her gaze a cold anchor pinning you in place. 'What explanation do you offer, you?'