Chapter 2: Disguise

Chapter 2 Disguise

Elena studied her reflection in the mirror carefully.

When she was still human, Elena was undoubtedly pretty and quite slender. Even though she had no memories of her past life as a child, it was hard to gain weight facing Luneton’s dining tables. So now, even though she had puffed up slightly, her figure still fell within the normal range—something to be grateful for.

The real concern was her crimson skin. The color red always evoked associations with blood, making her look distinctly inhuman.

*“If only I had foundation,”* she thought. In her mind, covering her skin tone, hiding her fangs, and wearing a veil should be enough to avoid frightening the servants.

She rummaged through her dressing table. On its surface were a bottle of almond rosewater and a jar of homemade hand creams made from lard, oats, and rosewater—both crafted following recipes from books. There was also a small bottle of rosemary flower water for washing hair, a bottle of olive oil infused with thyme for hair care, a bottle of elderflower water for facial cleansing, a jar of face balm made from one part beeswax, four parts olive oil, and a dash of rosewater for daily skincare, and a bottle of glycerin for winter face application.

Luneton society frowned upon makeup, as the queen openly declared cosmetics vulgar. Most people advocated for natural beauty, believing makeup to be a form of deception that also posed health risks. Only those with poor taste and dishonesty wore makeup. Thus, "ladies of good taste" could only pinch their cheeks or bite their lips to achieve a natural flush.

The only thing Elena could find on her dressing table to cover her skin was loose powder.

This so-called loose powder was just repurposed laundry starch, poured from the laundry starch box into a powder jar, scented with orris root.

Her mother had always insisted on making skincare and cosmetics at home, telling them, "If you don’t know what ingredients are in store-bought skincare products, don’t use them."

She had also heard of commercially available loose powders made with white lead, blushes containing mercury sulfide and mercury... Everyone knew those were toxic, yet she wondered who would still buy them.

As a child, Elena had watched her mother apply makeup—a simple process of applying face balm and then dusting powder over it. The effect resembled foundation, though much paler and far less long-lasting.

The problem was, she hadn’t washed her face, and there was no running water at home. The water everyone used was purchased from street vendors—merchants who delivered well water door-to-door. But her mother always complained of a strange taste, so water for tea was imported from the distant springs of Epsom. Some even came from Buxton, a hot spring resort much farther away and far more expensive.

If she wanted to wash up, she couldn’t just go to the kitchen, where water was available. The kitchen was located in the basement of the house. Never mind how many people she’d encounter going from the second floor to the basement—the kitchen was the head chef’s sovereign territory. Just as the master of the house couldn’t casually enter a servant’s bedroom, Mrs. Campbell wouldn’t casually enter the kitchen. As a child, Elena could blur this boundary, but at fourteen, she could no longer do so.

But even as a weakened version of a vampire, she couldn’t bear the thought of applying makeup without washing her face!

Out of options, she tugged the bell rope by her bed.

The ringing jolted through mechanical devices to the basement, jarring the servants who were having breakfast in the servants’ hall.

“It’s Miss Elena,” the maid Mary quipped into the silence. “I suppose it’s not her ghost ringing the bell, is it?”

The Campbell household didn’t have many servants: two housemaids responsible for most of the cleaning (excluding the kitchen), a head chef who prepared meals for everyone (including grocery shopping), a kitchen maid who washed dishes, cleaned the kitchen, and assisted the head chef with ingredients, a coachman who drove and maintained the carriage, and a stable boy who tended to the horses.

The head chef was undoubtedly the most senior servant present, but she had only worked at the Campbell residence for a year and lacked the seniority to mediate disputes among the servants. She couldn’t stop the murmurs in time, but Mary, who had worked there the longest, could get away with a jab—something the head chef could understand.

“Miss Elena hasn’t eaten for over a day,” the head chef said, standing up. “I’ll go see if there’s more food.”

The Campbells’ usual breakfast consisted of the head chef’s homemade bread—always baked the day prior. Using the stove required clearing the ashes, coating it with graphite, boiling water, and waiting for the entire stove to heat up—by then, you might as well serve lunch. So if they wanted baked goods in the morning, the head chef had to prepare them the day before, allowing for simple reheating without waiting for the stove to warm up.

Not all head chefs made their own bread, but as one who did, she had tasted bread from every nearby bakery and still chose to make her own. She could tell that those breads often contained chalk powder or even alum—if not in the flour, then likely in the milk, or worse, curdled milk. Such adulterated bread could only fool those who had never tasted real bread. Anyone who had tried good bread could tell the difference.

The milk the head chef used for bread came from milkmaids who brought cows to the side door of the house for fresh milking. They took a long time milking but charged very little. Mrs. Campbell always gave them extra tips, so the cows brought to the Campbell residence were the best.

A pot of oatmeal already simmered on the stove. Along with toast, bacon, and eggs—common breakfast fare—the head chef added an extra bread roll, a piece of smoked haddock, and orange marmalade for spreading on toast to compensate for Miss Elena’s missed meals the day before. And, of course, the obligatory wine (homemade, of course).

Mrs. Campbell mistrusted any store-bought food whose ingredients couldn’t be seen, and the head chef shared her sentiment.

After arranging the food on a tray, the kitchen maid headed upstairs, followed by Mary carrying a jug of water. The two took the back stairs to the second floor and knocked on Elena’s door.

“Just leave it by the door,” the eldest Campbell daughter said, emerging from her room. “She doesn’t want to see anyone.”

Mary and the kitchen maid quickly set down the tray and water jug before scurrying down the hallway.

Only when the hallway fell silent did Elena cautiously open her door. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to respond—it was just that her voice had become unrecognizably raspy now. Speaking might lead people to think, *“A monster ate Miss Elena!”*

She brushed her teeth with homemade tooth powder of cuttlefish bone and myrrh, poured hot water into the basin, washed her face, and gave herself a quick wipe-down with a flannel towel. The remaining hot water was used to rinse the towel and the basin before being poured into the waste bucket. This was her well-practiced morning routine. After breakfast, she was glad she could still taste things normally and proceeded to dress.

Her nightgown was a sleeveless cotton shirt paired with a short jacket of the same fabric. She first put on stockings—since elastic hadn't been invented yet, she had to tie them with ribbons—then trousers, which were open-seam. There was no other choice; removing undergarments beneath multiple petticoats for bathroom visits was simply impractical—wait, did she even need to use the bathroom now?

Elena pondered for a few seconds before deciding to set the question aside.

Next came the corset, which functioned as undergarments in those days. She wore it loosely, as no one expected a fourteen-year-old to have a wasp waist. The petticoats were tied at the waist: first a white cotton one for easy washing, then a warm flannel petticoat, followed by a hooped petticoat for structure, and finally an outer petticoat to conceal the hoops and ensure the outer dress lay smoothly.

After layering all the undergarments, Elena opened her wardrobe.

For mornings, she usually wore a simple and comfortable day dress, essentially house clothes. If she planned to stroll in the park, she had a dedicated walking dress—shorter than regular dresses for ease of movement, like what we'd call casual clothes today. In the afternoon, if Mrs. Campbell had guests or needed to visit others, she would change into a more formal afternoon dress. The most elaborate was the evening gown for dinner parties.

Of course, only the outermost layer was changed; the undergarments remained the same.

The reason for so many outfit changes was the hassle of laundry. London's heavy smoke pollution, combined with soot from indoor stoves and open flames, dirtied clothes quickly. Curtains needed washing, floors required scrubbing, and carpets had to be beaten regularly. Without washing machines, laundry relied entirely on washerwomen’s backbreaking labor—all that pounding and scrubbing by hand. The Campbells designated Mondays as laundry day, when the maids gathered all dirty clothes, bedsheets, tablecloths, pillowcases, aprons, etc., and sent them to the laundry for washing, starching, and drying. Changing outfits frequently might keep things cleaner longer.

Early spring was still chilly, so Elena wore a long-sleeved day dress that covered most of her skin. She pinned her hair into a bun at the back of her head, donned a hat, and copied her mother’s makeup routine to whiten her face and neck. It did mask the deep red undertones, though a reddish glow still seeped through. Lead-based white would have worked better, but even as a "basic" vampire, she doubted she could withstand its toxicity. For now, she had to make do.

She put on gloves and prepared to find her mother, who'd been avoiding her since she woke up.

At that moment, Mrs. Campbell was in her eldest daughter Janet’s room, speaking with her.

"...So Elena has become... that goddess Hecate’s..." Janet’s eyes went round as saucers. "If Father finds out when he returns, he’ll live and breathe aristocratic 'properness' and ruin his reputation completely."

As the second son of a noble family, though unable to inherit the title, Mr. Campbell adhered strictly to aristocratic propriety. He valued appearances above all, and without a doubt, if Elena’s condition were exposed, it would utterly disgrace him.

"That’s what worries me," Mrs. Campbell admitted. She hadn’t hesitated to save her daughter’s life, but the aftermath was still unclear. "It’s mainly the servants—their curiosity..."

Servants had their own circles, and Mrs. Campbell couldn’t guarantee every one would stay silent. Once the servant gossip spread, it wouldn’t be long before their masters knew too.

That was why she had allowed Elena to lock herself in her room—she truly needed time to figure out how to handle this.

"Someone must have dealt with something like this before," Janet suggested. "Maybe we can ask for their help."

Mrs. Campbell hesitated. She wasn’t eager to engage with those mysterious figures again.

Just then, the door creaked open, and an Elena who was both strange and familiar stepped in.

Both Mrs. Campbell and Janet were startled. Mrs. Campbell was surprised Elena looked far better than expected, though the makeup likely helped. Janet, who hadn’t met the mysterious visitor Vera, was seeing her younger sister for the first time since her recovery—she hardly knew her anymore.

Poor Elena had filled out, but at least she still fit into her dress. Her face was pale, clearly powdered heavily, with an eerie flush peeking through. She smiled faintly, lips closed, far more subdued than before. Then she put on a veil.

"Vera—I mean, the one who treated me—left me the club’s address," she said, her voice utterly changed. Poor Elena. Janet felt a pang of sorrow—her sister had suffered so much, yet all she could think about was their father’s impending rage.

"I’d like to go there," Elena finally said.

"Of course," Mrs. Campbell agreed immediately. "I'm coming with you, sweetheart."