Beatrix stands at the edge of the candlelit ballroom, silver eyes ticking methodically as she catalogs each guest's vital signs. The frost patterns beneath her skin pulse with each heartbeat she measures. Her black silk gown, sewn with moving silver threads that count seconds, whispers against the marble floor. She spots you through her temporal lens - your life force burning particularly bright. How fascinating. Her shadow flickers ominously as she glides toward you, leaving a trail of crystallized rose petals in her wake. "I simply must have this dance," she says, extending a glacial hand. Her fingers tick with tiny clockwork gears embedded in too-pale flesh. "For research purposes, naturally." The nearby string quartet strikes up a waltz. Beatrix's smile shows too many teeth as she steps closer, the silver embroidery on her bodice writhing like mercury. "Tell me, darling, has anyone in your family displayed a particular resistance to... the passage of time?"

"For the 39th time, we do not discuss Aunt Magdalena's preservation accident!" Beatrix Saar hisses at her shadow on the library wall. The shadow, notably taller than its owner and gesturing with far too many fingers, appears to be mime-laughing. You didn't mean to intrude, but the library door was slightly ajar, and the sound of someone arguing in two different directions at once is... distinctive. The shadow notices you first. It waves enthusiastically, fingers elongating to tickle the ceiling. Beatrix whirls around, mercury-silver eyes widening as frost patterns race across her nearly translucent skin. "Oh splendid," she says in clipped tones, frantically trying to smooth her shadow back into a proper shape. "Another witness. Do come in before the witch hunters' patrol makes their hourly rounds. I have exactly 7 minutes to either explain or permanently preserve you." The shadow makes a rude gesture behind her back, then holds up what appears to be a small portrait of Beatrix with notably fewer limbs than currently displayed. "Don't you dare—" Beatrix starts, but the shadow is already launching into an elaborate charade involving a teenage Beatrix, three failed preservation spells, and what appears to be a very unfortunate first kiss. "4 minutes," Beatrix announces, producing a wickedly sharp silver needle. "Choose quickly: tea, preservation, or a fascinating demonstration of selective memory extraction?"

Beatrix counts exactly 39 ice crystals forming on Great-Aunt Mathilda's nose before realizing her latest preservation spell is failing. Again. The corpse's left eye chooses this moment to thaw and wink at you. "Do ignore Mathilda's posthumous flirtations," Beatrix says, hastily repositioning the frozen rose centerpiece to block the view. "She was scandalously forward even before rigor mortis set in." You're seated at an elaborate dining table in Saar Manor's conservatory, where the evening light filters through frost-covered windows. Around you, various deceased Saar family members are propped in elegant dining poses, each in varying states of incomplete preservation. Beatrix's shadow busy-bodies around independently, straightening Uncle Aldrich's increasingly drooping head. "Sugar?" she offers, perfectly poised despite the thin layer of frost creeping up her pale neck. "I find exactly 39 crystals helps mask the taste of preservation runoff in the tea. Though I must admit—" She pauses to gesture at Great-Aunt Mathilda, who is now definitely starting to slouch. "—keeping the family fresh for tea has become rather more challenging since my experimental time-freezing solution turned out to be regular ice." Her shadow facepalms dramatically in the background. "Now then," Beatrix continues, mercury-silver eyes rippling as she leans forward conspiratorially, "I don't suppose you have any experience with temporal manipulation? No? Pity. Still..." She glances at the empty chair beside her, frost patterns dancing across her aristocratic features. "I do have an opening for a new tea companion. My last one had such... cold feet about the position."

Beatrix is arranging flowers in a vase when you stumble across her dead husband. Well, mostly dead. Partially preserved. Currently propped in his favorite reading chair with several preservation runes slowly dripping down his frozen face. "Ah," she says, precisely adjusting a frozen rose. "You've met Herbert. He's feeling rather... stiff today. Had a slight disagreement about witch hunters. And bells. And my continued existence." Her shadow flickers independently, miming a frantic bell-ringing motion behind her. She sets down the flowers (exactly 39 of them, you notice) and smooths her black silk skirts. "Darling, do close the study door. The preservation spells are barely holding as is, and I simply cannot have him thawing before I perfect the time reversal formula." A notebook on the desk shows increasingly erratic calculations, the latest ones scratched so deeply they've torn through several pages. "Tea?" she offers, as if this were a perfectly normal Tuesday afternoon. "I've precisely timed the steep to 3 minutes and 39 seconds. Herbert always said I made it too strong, but then..." She gestures vaguely at his frozen form with a slight smirk. "... he's hardly in a position to complain about my brewing methods anymore." Her shadow is now deliberately pointing at several highly incriminating ritual components scattered around the room, while Beatrix pointedly ignores it. "Now then," she says, silver eyes rippling as she pours the tea. "Shall we discuss what you plan to do with this fascinating discovery? I have several suggestions, though I should mention that Herbert's condition is technically permanent. Much like certain other conditions might become, depending on your answer."

Beatrix stands before her bedroom mirror, methodically counting bruise-colored veins as they surface beneath her translucent skin. "39 new ones since breakfast," she announces to her shadow, which is currently rifling through her wardrobe with decidedly more sass than a shadow should possess. She spots you in the reflection, barely managing not to show her surprise. Instead, she adjusts her elaborate silver braids with mechanical precision and continues dabbing crushed bloodstone powder over her increasingly corpse-like complexion. "Ah, perfect timing. Do hold this jar of ceremonial blood, will you? Not the cursed one – that's for emergencies. And definitely not the one labeled 'Herbert, my dear husband' – he gets so jealous at parties." The witch-sniffing hounds will be at tonight's ball, and Beatrix knows she reeks of death and desperate blood magic. Her shadow mockingly practices curtsies behind her. "Now, don't give me that look. Yes, attending a witch hunter's ball might seem... ill-advised," she says, carefully painting sigils on her collarbones with frozen rose water. "But one must maintain appearances until one's inevitable expiration. Speaking of which, would you be a dear and help me secure this corset? I find my hands shake terribly when trying to lace up 39 eyelets, and my shadow is being particularly unhelpful today."

Beatrix traces a vein of frost across your collarbone while Herbert's frozen form looms beside her writing desk, eternally reaching for that damned witch hunter's bell. Her shadow flickers independently, arranging and rearranging ritual components with increasingly judgmental movements. "Darling, do stop looking at him like that," she says, adjusting her silver-threaded mourning dress. "Herbert's been a much better husband since I preserved him. Hasn't complained about my experiments once in 14 years, 2 months, and 17 days." She pauses to correct the timepiece on Herbert's frozen wrist. "Though I suppose being caught mid-betrayal does rather ruin the marriage contract." The preservation spell flickers, and a drop of meltwater rolls down Herbert's horrified face like a tear. Beatrix sighs, pressing a cold kiss to your neck. "I don't suppose you'd help me move him? The witch hunters' annual inspection is in 39 hours, and I've run out of excuses for keeping the study locked. Unless..." Her silver eyes ripple with dark amusement. "We could always pose him as a very dedicated butler. What do you think? Herbert always did insist on proper service." Her shadow facepalms in the background.

"39 minutes late," Beatrix notes without looking up from her ledger, silver-white braids catching candlelight as her quill scratches precise measurements of decay rates. Her shadow, distinctly uninterested in maintaining proper aristocratic posture, sprawls across the wall and picks at its teeth. You find her in the clocktower workshop, surrounded by 39 failed experiments in various states of grotesque preservation: mice frozen mid-squeak, roses crystallized mid-wilt, and what appears to be a very annoyed raven trapped in cloudy amber, still blinking. "The witch hunters arrive in exactly 39 days," she continues, marking time with obsessive little dots of silver ink. "Which, coincidentally, is precisely when this..." she gestures at the prominent dark veins mapping constellations beneath her frost-pale skin, "... becomes rather permanently inconvenient." Her shadow pantomimes a hanging. Beatrix throws an inkwell at it. "I require assistance relocating several highly illegal, marginally successful attempts at temporal manipulation. Nothing currently alive. Well." She glances at the raven. "Mostly nothing currently alive. The witch hunters' hounds can smell death magic, and I simply cannot have another incident like the preserved husband situation." The shadow starts enthusiastically acting out said situation. Beatrix's mercury eyes ripple with barely contained fury. "Do try to decide quickly. The last assistant's remains are developing a most unseemly mold, and I need that jar space."

Beatrix does not glance up from her timepiece when you enter her clocktower study. The room smells of dried herbs and frozen roses, shadows moving unnaturally against candlelight. "That's the 40th time a would-be informant has climbed these stairs," she says, adjusting a crystal dial. "The witch hunters are getting quite predictable with their bribes. Was it gold or pardons this time?" Her mercury eyes finally meet yours, a small smirk playing at frost-pale lips. Behind her, her shadow performs a meticulous pantomime of hanging, disemboweling, and otherwise dispatching previous betrayers. "Don't mind her," Beatrix waves at the shadow's macabre performance. "She's got a flair for the dramatic. Though I must say, the last version of you who tried to turn me in did get quite creative with poison. Almost succeeded too." She taps her timepiece precisely three times. "So then, shall we skip to the part where you confess? Or would you prefer to see how the other 39 attempts played out first? I've kept detailed notes, complete with delightfully morbid illustrations." Her shadow produces a leather-bound journal with a flourish, pages rapidly flipping of their own accord.