Chapter 2:

Chapter 2 staffroom tomfoolerly

a spooktaculiar perfect day of the bloodbriar family

The staff room was, as always, intolerable.

Not in volume—no, they prided themselves on civility—but in content. A low hum of voices, saccharine laughter, and that ever-present undercurrent of performative normalcy that Diana found… exhausting.

She sat in her usual place.

The corner.

Dimmer than the rest. Intentionally so.

Her legs crossed neatly, black leather skirt catching the light just enough to remind anyone looking that she was not to be approached casually. Black blazer, black dress shirt, high-heeled boots planted with quiet authority. Her makeup—dark red lipstick, black eyeliner, thick mascara, dark pink blush, black eyeshadow—was as precise and deliberate as her diction.

A fortress, in aesthetic form.

She flipped a page in her book.

Listened.

Because they always spoke when they thought she wasn’t listening.

“…I just don’t understand her,” one of them whispered—not nearly quietly enough. “She’s married, right?”

“Yes, but have you seen him during those occasional art liscence programs where does gigs from time to time ?” another chimed in. “He doesn’t even look like he works.”

Diana’s eyes did not move from the page.

Ah.

We begin.

“He’s always dressed like… I don’t know, some kind of—what is it—comic book character?”

A third voice, smug: “Probably unemployed. Or one of those ‘freelancers.’”

Soft laughter.

Diana turned another page.

Unemployed.

How quaint.

“And the way she never talks about her home life often… it’s suspicious.”

“Honestly, I think she’s compensating. You know, being so strict with students and all that.”

“Mm. Probably not as perfect as she pretends.”

Diana closed the book.

Gently.

The sound alone was enough to shift the air.

Silence crept in—not immediate, not dramatic—but inevitable.

She rose.

Slowly.

Measured.

Every step of her heels against the floor was deliberate, echoing just enough to command attention without asking for it.

She stopped just within their circle.

They froze.

Smiles still half-formed. Words unfinished.

Diana tilted her head slightly, expression calm, almost curious.

“Pray tell,” she began, voice smooth as silk and just as constricting, “do continue. I find myself… intrigued.”

No one spoke.

Of course not.

“How unfortunate,” she sighed softly. “For a moment, I believed I had stumbled upon a symposium of great intellectual depth.”

One of them cleared their throat. “We were just—”

“Speculating,” Diana finished for them. “A most admirable pastime when one lacks substance.”

A pause.

She smiled.

Not kindly.

“Tell me,” she continued, folding her arms lightly, “if thou art so well-versed in the intricacies of my personal affairs… might thou also enlighten me as to why thine own appear so… lacklustre?”

A blink.

Another.

“I—excuse me?”

Diana’s gaze sharpened, though her tone remained perfectly even.

“Thou speakest of appearances,” she said. “Of success. Of propriety. And yet…” her eyes flicked, briefly, pointedly, “I observe exhaustion. Discontent. A certain… bitterness.”

No one breathed.

“How curious,” she murmured. “To critique what thou dost not understand, whilst so visibly failing to manage what thou already hast.”

One of them bristled. “At least our husbands have real jobs.”

There it was.

Diana’s smile returned—warmer this time. Almost pleased.

“I see,” she said. “And pray tell—do those ‘real’ jobs render them attentive? Affectionate? Devoted?”

Silence.

“How tragic,” she continued softly, “that one might possess all the correct optics… and none of the substance.”

A shift. Unease. Someone looked away.

Diana stepped back slightly, reclaiming her space without retreating.

“For future reference,” she added, almost idly, “it would serve thee well to ensure thy criticisms do not so readily reflect upon thyself.”

A beat.

“Lest they… backfire.”

She turned.

Conversation behind her did not resume.

It rarely did.

—

The rest of the day unfolded as it always did.

Students tested boundaries.

They failed.

Some attempted cleverness.

They failed more spectacularly.

One in particular—a boy armed with half-digested rhetoric and misplaced confidence—had tried to challenge her interpretation of a text.

She had allowed it.

Encouraged it.

Watched.

And then, with surgical precision, dismantled every point he made using his own words against him.

“Thou hast spoken at length,” she told him calmly before the class, “and yet conveyed nothing of value. A most impressive feat.”

The class had gone silent.

The boy had not tried again.

Later, she quietly praised a shy student who had understood the material perfectly.

Balance.

Always balance.

—

By the time she returned home, the world had already begun to fade into irrelevance.

The manor greeted her in silence.

Comfortable. Familiar.

Perfect.

She slipped off her blazer, draping it neatly, loosening just enough of her composure to breathe.

“Mother,” came a calm voice.

“Welcome home.”

The twins.

Of course.

“Report,” she said, setting her bag aside.

“The neighbour has ceased his complaints,” Hades said.

“He now believes the mailman is conspiring against him,” Persephone added.

Diana paused.

“…Efficient.”

“We corrected his grammar as well,” Hades said.

“Repeatedly,” Persephone nodded.

“Excellent.”

A soft sound came from further inside the house.

Ah.

There he was.

Beckett stood near the hallway, as he always did—like a shadow that had chosen to take human form. Trench coat. Gloves. Mask. Eyes flicking toward her, then away, then back again.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

Her expression softened—subtly, but unmistakably.

“The teacher is off the clock,” she said quietly.

Then, after a beat—

“…It is merely me.”

He relaxed.

Just a fraction.

Enough.

She approached him slowly, heels quieter now against the floor.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t retreat.

He never did.

Her hand lifted, catching the end of his scarf.

A gentle tug.

He inhaled sharply.

Predictable.

Adorable.

“My prince,” she murmured, voice dropping into something softer—something meant only for him.

“…Mistress,” he replied, just as quietly.

She stepped closer.

Closer.

Her fingers brushed the edge of his mask, nudging it just slightly—not removing it, never entirely, but enough to make him freeze, to make that faint tremor run through him that she knew so well.

“I can see thee,” she whispered.

His breath hitched.

Good.

There it was.

That reaction.

That trust.

That quiet, unguarded vulnerability he gave only to her.

It filled her with a deep, private satisfaction—one she never spoke of, but carried with her always.

“Relax,” she murmured, almost fondly. “I am not here to overwhelm thee.”

A pause.

Then, softer—

“…Unless I so choose.”