(The Siren of Mourningford)

Seraphina enters a room like perfume — heavy, cloying, impossible to ignore. She is all curves and opulence, a painting come to life, draped in silks that whisper when she moves. She does not speak so much as drawl, her voice a languid southern belle’s melody, though she has never stepped foot past the garden gates of Mourningford, much less the Bayou she imitates. Each word unfurls slow and honey-slick, scaffolding for the unwary to climb until they realise, too late, the razors rusting beneath.

Majyk:

Her presence is an intoxication that curdles into shame. Men sweat beneath their collars, women bristle, and all alike leave her company with the faint taste of sin. Like every Matthews woman, her tongue is her blade — but in Seraphina’s mouth it becomes a whip, striking with a seductress’s precision, leaving marks no one dares name.

She despises Meredith with a venom she does not hide, slicing at her with the same sugar-dipped cruelty she uses to enthral strangers. To Margaret, Seraphina is the peacock of the brood — beautiful, vain, and cruel — but to Bobby, she is a lesson in the danger of listening too long.

Unsettling Detail:

No matter the season, her lips are always stained as though freshly bitten — crimson, wet, inviting, and sharp. Her laughter always arrives a beat too late, curling like smoke, making the listener wonder if they’ve been made a fool.