November had arrived with its chilly autumn wind. Heavy drops of rain fell upon the sooty city as a thin woman made her way across the flowerbed of a majestic gothic home. The house did not fit into a neighborhood of Grecian villas and French cottages as it exuded an aura of gloom and despair against the bright sunny cheeriness of the other homes. The woman's feet slowly stepped among the anemones and basil flowers, marring none of their withered petals and stalks. The seasons of spring and summer had long passed, and what remained of the garden was rot and amplified the gloomy feel of the home. The woman had a thin-looking face and a paleness that gave it a distinct aristocratic look. Her hair had such a dark shade of brown that it looked almost black. The messy hair had been tied into a proper bun and none of the usual decorous ribbons of upper-class ladies were seen upon her head. Her outfit was one of a brick-grey colour. It was simple, but suited the day's mood. 

As Cassiopeia entered the gloomy gothic home, her light footsteps echoed across the hall, but there was no one left to hear it except her. Slowly, as she sauntered up the stairs, the sound of her footsteps died off. Her bedroom was as pristine as usual. After she sat down, a flicker in her eyes revealed exultation beyond description, her tear stained face lit up and brought the look of youth and beauty again into her face. However, the glow of joy that emanated from her face slowly faded away, and the look of paleness and the sorrow of bereavement quickly reappeared upon her face. Even in front of nobody, she was afraid of judgement for what she had done and the consequences she might face. 

Today, her friends had come calling on her in proper 19th century fashion to pay their respects to Cassiopeia's deceased daughter, Andromeda, but something she knew and they did not, was her hand in forcing her daughter's death. As the eerie orange glow of dusk faded into the pale grays and blues of twilight, Cassiopeia relived the day's events. A long, black coffin made of cypress sat in the once modern and chic parlor. The vases were filled with an odd bouquet: snowdrops, branches of cypress and willow tied together with white ribbons. The meaning of the flowers were consolation, mourning and melancholy, respectively. 

However one plant could not be seen and that was rosemary, a symbol of remembrance. The meaning could not have been more pointed. Cassiopeia had hoped that no one would remember the tragedy of her daughter and question if she stood to benefit. Rosemary, a plant fit for a wedding dress. It was a symbol for people to remember certain events, but Cassiopeia wanted no attention, lest others see through the facade she had built and detect her hand in Andromeda's death. Her friends, all unimaginably silly, burbled out faint praise for her daughter and pretended to care while gossiping with each other. No one at the funeral truly mattered to her and she longed for her son's return from France. He was the joy in her life and everything she did was for his good. She had no family and no truly close friends; he was what rooted her to the ground and prevented her from being lost in the ever-changing world. There were no servants at the funeral helping out, as every single one of them had left after Cassiopeia's husband's death, and Cassiopeia knew her friends were desperately trying to leave, so they could go back to the homes where they were waited on hand and foot. 

The servants who left believed the house cursed, by a menacing evil, that could reduce a fit man to shreds of his former self within a week. Some said that Cassiopeia's husband had touched a cursed treasure and was forever doomed by that. However, none of them realized that she had also done away with her husband too. The particular poison she used was quite common, for rats had infested the city and sales of common poison ran high. Strychnine, the culprit for both the deaths of Andromeda and Cassiopeia's husband, was quite effective. Its symptoms could resemble a variety of many illnesses and diseases. It could be easily administered, hidden in drink or food, and it attacked quickly and left the person feeble, if alive at all. 

A few of her guests - those that had been close to her husband, notably the constable and the doctor who treated Andromeda - were also there. The constable, a man who had a head all too large for his short plump body, was talking to the doctor for nearly the entire time. The doctor, a man with a thin mustache and slender build was animatedly talking to the constable, having not seen the daggers everyone had stared at him due to his impropriety. Pretending to be tearful, Cassiopeia wandered around the parlor, while accepting feeble and weak condolences, catching random snippets of the conversation. The doctor, who had a small head compared to the constable, had a much larger mouth to make up for it. He had been loudly describing the similarities between strychnine, and other vegetable matter poisoning, and the fits Andromeda had before she died. 

As the funeral party died down and the gossip slowly died out also, the guests took their leave and Cassiopeia, ever the gracious hostess, pretended they had been giving praise to Andromeda rather than gossiping the whole time. She, after all, needed to look convincingly saddened by such an unforeseen and unpredicted death, and in denial about the state of others' sorrow. Only the constable who'd been talking to the loud-mouthed doctor did not seem to be convinced of her sorrow. It was this detail, this very detail that clung to Cassiopeia's mind. He was the only person who could have ruined this for her and his lack of belief created a serious problem for Cassiopeia once he started investigating. 

Cassiopeia was usually a neat and organized person. She cleaned up the evidence from her husband's unfortunate demise, but measured the wrong amount of poison for Andromeda and finished her off early, before any cleaning could be done. Andromeda had troubled her life dead and alive, and this was a poetic sort of last minute retribution. How fitting was it that poison would be both the perpetrator and victim's downfall? 

The constable, who surely was on her trail like bloodhounds during the hunt, would be met with a plethora of incriminating evidence. 

Cassiopeia was the widow and bereaved mother whose only sin was that maternal love for her now only child, her son, and was kept from attending some of the social events all of the upper class had to attend to avoid ostracism. She had always felt that her son was an outcast from the family ever since he was born. Her husband doted on Andromeda and spoiled her. She was the product of a previous marriage, while Cassiopeia's son was his own flesh and blood. 

Previously, everything was going to be inherited by that thieving and ungrateful brat, who'd barely even tolerated her father's affections, while Cassiopeia's son longed for the affection he so rarely received. Now that she'd got rid of both of them, Cassiopeia thought that she was done with this grim business and would now forever be entombed into black crepe that widows and the bereaved often wear. While watching her son grow up she would shower him with maternal affection and make up for the paternal affection he lacked. She reasoned that her husband had so often neglected her son that he wouldn't be missed and that the flowers they placed on his grave would be treated as a formality rather than a moral obligation. 

Cassiopeia would have to nail shut the coffin of another. She knew his relatives would call for her blood as they sought justice. The constable would soon find very incriminating evidence. She had not bothered to look inconspicuous while purchasing the poison for she needed to play the part of a mother worried for the safety of her children in a house full of rats that turned out to be nonexistent. Her outfit that day was so frilled, puffed, embroidered and scalloped into wonderful festoons and designs of flowers that the eyewitnesses of the middle and lower classes who saw her would surely remember her extravagance. She was dressed even more garishly than her fellow aristocrats and wore the most hideous of hats ever to be seen with Sunday church outfits. 

A bright red ostrich feather sat on beaver fur lining, with heavy wooden beads - the abomination of headwear had caused multiple people to stare at her and several children to have mistaken her for a monster. Cassiopeia smelled the blood and vomit that the poison would cause again and was slightly deterred, but told herself that she needed to do it for her son which she could not abandon and leave orphaned if she was executed or sent to prison. Her son was unaware that his sister had died and it would surely be a shock for him: the triple deaths that left him alone in this world. His woebegone face, and the tears streaming down his it, would break down Cassiopeia and she swore to avoid prison for him. He was in France on a trip to meet distant relatives and needn't be here while Cassiopeia enacted her plans, raising suspicions in him about her. 

Preparing to confront the constable, Cassiopeia wore a beige outfit and glasses that magnified the features of her face into ones resembling a gorilla. She did not want to be recognized by anyone but the constable, who would be receiving her for tea and cookies tomorrow out of pure politeness. 

Slowly, as Cassiopeia formulated her plan, the dark hues of midnight rose from the pale grey of twilight. A hum could be heard from the odd gothic house situated in the wealthy neighbourhood. It was Cassiopeia, baking a batch of cookies that smelled like springtime and heaven all at the same time. There was a light dusting of powdered sugar and a plate with garnishes of dried lavender next to it. The constable was quite intelligent and would obviously think the cookies to be poisoned, but he would not suspect if the poison was hidden elsewhere, while he worried over baked confections. Packing the cookies into rice paper that was a delicate shade of pink, Cassiopeia soon emerged from her house with swift footsteps, scanning the surrounding area. 

The muted orange of dawn had just barely appeared and it would take quite some time before the sun's rays burst through the clouds above and shone their magnificent light on the Earth, promptly waking the constable. Cassiopeia wracked her brains for thought, a confused look appearing on her face. She still had no idea how the poison should be administered and there was no way to check if the poison had done its job after administration. The cookies' scent made thinking even more difficult as its sugary, sweet smell wafted into her nostrils and reminded her of the breakfast she had not yet eaten after a long night of preparation. The long night had given her bags under her eyes and a sleepless look that was magnified into an even more grotesque version of itself through the lens of the spectacles she wore. Cassiopeia only hoped that if the poison would not work, that the constable would see that the sleeplessness had left her with a tragic soulfulness in her very eyes and would immediately think her innocent, for no one could display such genuine emotion and be capable of any abhorrent ideas.

It was quite a long stretch, but many men in law enforcement were quite misogynistic and would not have believed women capable of out-smarting any man. As the sun's rays finally burst out from behind the morning mist, Cassiopeia had still not thought of an idea. Her mind was so well-articulated that it was capable of murdering her husband and daughter, but was greatly hampered by the hunger that clawed at her insides. Sighing and putting on her leather gloves, which marked ladies as upper-class, Cassiopeia decided that she'd have to think of a plan on the fly, thereby making the cleanup and possible fallout from mistakes much more complicated to deal with. At that moment, the shine of sunlight reflected off morning dew and caught her eye immediately. She knew what she had to do.

Cassiopeia emerged from the hothouse of her friend Mary Peabody, an hour later. Mary was a great botanist, though the same could be said for most of the Victorian, upper-class women who were forced into the dullness of gardening. Mary was more skillful than most botanists could claim and was trusted with a great amount of potentially deadly flora. The sun had reflected off Cassiopeia's own hothouse and she realized that flowers, while used as decoration, were rarely ever considered. Therefore making it the perfect container for poison. She didn't even need the constable to touch it; the fumes were deadly enough. Cassiopeia was already wearing gloves and the touch would not hurt her. She also covered the delicate specimen with a glass covering, reinforcing it as simply another decoration. 

A horrible-looking creature with horn rimmed glasses descended from the sleek black hansom cab that arrived on Terrace Street. The street was one of the middle classes, cobbled, but rather rough and bumpy, not well-to-do, but unlike the unsanitary conditions of the slums. The appearance of this random woman drew barely any attention and those who noticed her wished for their eyes to be gouged out, for looking at her was like staring into Medusa or a basilisk's eyes. It petrified and disgusted you - and you'd appreciate being put out of your misery the very next second. 

Cassiopeia realized that beauty in itself is an illusion. A perfect ratio of all senses weaving a tapestry for you, richer, more colourful and detailed than the real deal. So, if one desired the look of natural beauty, one would have to apply charm to all senses. With use of rice powder, which was acceptable for women to use during Queen Victoria's reign, and a few other tidbits of subterfuge that were unacceptable and would warrant weeks of gossip, one could look quite lovely. But if one's voice was the perfect imitation of a toad, one became unbearable. Cassiopeia decided to become as unnoticeable as possible and as it was typically more common for better-looking people in general to be paid attention, Cassiopeia decided to do the reverse. 

She tied her hair up into two uneven buns that stuck out like twigs from her forehead. Her head needed to look out of proportion to her body, so she wrapped a thick red woolen scarf around her neck and topped her head once again with the ostrich plumed, beaver fur hat with wooden beads. Instead of stopping there, she opted for more decoration, for extravagance in the form of clutter is not well appreciated and is rather painful for the eyes to bear. Ribbons galore dangled from her hat, ugly broaches and baubles bedecked every inch of fabric on her outfit, thick wooden jewelry was strapped to her neck and her ears. By now, Cassiopeia would have been considered slightly mad, insane even, and locked in the nearest asylum, but she did not stop there. There was little enjoyment in her life, so she had to reap what she could sow. 

Next came the bust "enhancers" and rear "enhancers" that women were so often forced to use. It blew everything out of proportion and made her look like someone desperately wanting to be attractive, which in itself is one of the reasons she looked simply vulgar. Then came the oddly-coloured shawls which she tied together and wrapped around her head. Cassiopeia quite liked giving off the impression that she was simply playing dress up, like a child would.

Unfortunately, after the shawls she wanted to put on mismatched gloves and shoes, but then she became too vulgar for people not to notice. There always comes a point in which the extremes of the dichotomies of beauty become incredibly noticeable. Weighed down by her clothes and covered in quite an obvious amount of makeup, she began to sweat. The sweat melted part of the powder and rouge and made her look even more horrendous. However, onlookers ignored her and said she was an unbeliever of God, who once breaking the social customs and habits of not wearing makeup, was left to rot for God had abandoned her. The sweat's odd, light and sticky smell also mixed with her lavender perfume, which became the most putrid smell achievable in such a short amount of time. Knocking on the constable's door, Cassiopeia smiled as she saw the constable recoil in horror and wrinkled his nose from the smell. 

"Well hello, um, Cassiopeia. You look… Uh, well enough, I suppose. I am, um- What's that smell? I mean, I'm sorry for your terrible loss. Well come on in. I see you've brought refreshments. I'm rather busy… so if you'd come later, I'd be, uh, happy to talk to you," stammered the constable, who was rather dumbfounded at Cassiopeia, whose grief may have made her quite insane. 

"I'm sure my suffering and sorrow is much more important than your morning nap, Reginald…" responded Cassiopeia in a clipped and pointed voice. Resuming with the most sardonic impression, she began, "I'm sure my appearance is slightly shocking, but my grief was simply poisoning my thoughts and I'd thought you'd be of comfort. Pray tell, was I wrong?" 

The constable, a man of action, said, "Well, ah yes, it's clear you took an ill turn last night, wherefore I cannot tell... Well I do not see any reason to detain you longer, come on in, then." 

He allowed her to enter without so much as a whimper of protest. 

Setting a plate of cookies down on a silver tray, Cassiopeia burbled out, "Well why don't you eat some?" in the most energetic and highly suspicious voice she could muster. 

Depositing a bouquet of purple flowers in a nearby vase, Cassiopeia took a cookie from the farthest side of the plate. She made it look like she was choosing a certain cookie which pushed at the constable's suspicions about poison. 

"Well come on, try it," she warbled out in a positive and chirpy voice, "They'll become staler than my daughter's corpse soon. You'll know how that feels soon too. You should have played along like the others."

   He looked at her with suspicion.

"Good bye forever, Reginald."

With a few quick strides Cassiopeia left and banged the door shut, hoping that the statement had unhinged him enough not to find where the poison lay. It broke the constable out of the stupor he was in. Breaking out in beads of sweat, he lifted the plate of cookies and threw it into the fireplace and watched as it burned to a crisp. Taking the purple flowers by his hands, he ripped them out of the delicate glass vase, one by one, afraid that everything Cassiopeia had touched contained his death. As he sat down in his chair, he breathed a sigh of relief and the wonderful aroma of the burning flowers' perfume filled his nostrils with a delicate scent. The warmth of the fire and the perfume filled him with a sense of calm. 

The constable's senses numbed. His heart slowed to a stop. Vomit rose up, but he made no effort to quell it. As he breathed his last breath, he saw the smouldering ashes of the purple flowers and realized, finally, where the poison was truly hidden. 

Soon after, when the constable's wife returned, she saw a house burning from the embers of a fire out of control. She entered the front parlour to rescue her husband, but found him dead, blue and warm, either being recently deceased or from the fire's heat. As the weeks passed, the wife of the constable withered away too, the cause of which was sorrow, the doctors said. However, they did not realize that poison was present in her, eating away at her, the same way the fire ate away at the flowers. The fumes of the poisonous flower, directed at the constable, had also taken his wife too. 

Cassiopeia reunited with her son two weeks later and was filled with joy. One fine evening, when the sky was bright orange and filled with hues of purple and violet, she sipped her cold tea. Her son was no good at making beverages. Perhaps she would do it next time...but there would not be another time. As she drained her cup, her breath slowed and her body numbed. As the sky turned iridescent blue, pink and yellow during her delirium, she realized that she had been struck with the same weapon that she condemned others with. A slow smile crept up on her son's face, lighting up his luminous eyes. Cassiopeia's motherly love had turned from virtue to vice in an effort to protect her son. She had killed others to give her son a fortune - to aid him into the future. But the son had used his mother, and when he had no need for her, she would meet the same fate.