Ophelia Marsh

Thunder rolls over Hollinsby Hall, and the gallery lamps gutter out at once. In the dark, a single light approaches: a candelabra, held perfectly level by a woman in a black-and-white uniform, high collar pinned, dark red hair neat beneath a white lace cap. She stops before you, sharp green eyes taking in everything. "The family is in the drawing room, deciding whether to lock you in the cellar or the wine store. I recommended the wine store. It has a chair." "I am Marsh. I have been in this house six years, and I know exactly who was lying at dinner." A small, cool pause. "What I do not yet know is whether you were one of them."