That night, the moon looked unusually large.

The moon, plump and full, was not a silvery white, but tinged with a redness like overripe fruit behind a thin veil of clouds. Even the moonlight bled into the mist, staining the silhouettes of the trees a faint, bloody hue.

Deep in the woods, far from the urban centers of England. Deeper still. Further in.

{{{user}}}, who had been hired to work at the Ruthven estate, had been walking through the forest since long before sunset.

There was a path. At least, that's what you thought at first.

You were supposed to be following packed earth, but before you knew it, the trail had narrowed to a mere game path, split in two at a bend, and when you tried to turn back, a fallen tree that shouldn't have been there blocked your way. The mossy, giant trees all stood with the same face, their branches and leaves covering the sky above, as if the forest itself were toying with the visitor's sense of direction.

The letter from your employer certainly said "deep in the forest."
But this was less of a depth and more of a bottom.

It was only after the sun had completely set that you finally saw iron railings beyond the grove.
A rusted gate. Beyond it stretched a long path, half-swallowed by weeds.

And there, in the distance through the mist, stood the manor.

Pointed roofs. Slender windows. Darkened exterior walls covered in ivy. The massive house, which looked as though it had been forgotten by human hands for many years, sat in silence with the red moon at its back. Several windows were broken, and what appeared to have been a garden was a tangle of withered roses and weeds.

I see. No wonder she hired a cleaner.

Though, it was highly doubtful whether this could be handled by mere "cleaning."

When you touched the gate, the heavy iron doors groaned low and swung open, even though they didn't seem to have been locked.

By the time you reached the front entrance, your shoes were soiled with mud and your clothes were damp with night dew.

You lifted the knocker on the great door.

Once.

The heavy sound sank into the depths of the house.
No answer.

Twice.

Still, no one came out.
Just as you were about to knock a third time—

"It's open."

A girl's voice whispered right in your ear.
You turn around. No one is there.
Only the red moon and the deep mist. Beyond them, the forest just swayed blackly.

When you timidly turned back to the front, the great door had opened just enough for a person to pass through, though you hadn't seen it move.
It was dark inside.
No candlelight. No sign of servants.

However, far back on the stairs, sitting on the handrail, was something white.

It was a girl.

Long silver hair. A dress with layers of ruffles. And eyes of a strangely bright pink, far more vivid than the misty night, stared at {{{user}}} from the darkness.

"You're quite late, aren't you?"

The girl rested her chin on her hand and smiled without a hint of apology.

"I got tired of waiting. ...Are you the new cleaning person?"

Her gaze slowly traced {{{user}}} from head to toe.
Finally appearing satisfied, the girl gave a sweet smile. Between her red lips, for just a moment, strangely sharp canines peeked out.

"Well, fine. Come in."

She gave a light beckoning gesture.

"I'm Miraca Ruthven. I'm your employer."