The Mimesis Society

Nina arrived at Bellwether Hall four days before term began, her suitcase wheels stuttering across the gravel like a warning. The campus was quiet, except for the sound of crows and the wind whispering through old iron gates. She paused at the base of the main staircase, staring up at the building with its Gothic spires and narrow arched windows. Everything here seemed to tilt slightly upward, as if the world inside had never considered looking down.

She had been admitted on a full academic scholarship — a miracle, according to her mother — but the welcome packet might as well have been printed in code. What was *Michaelmas*? Who were *Form mistresses*? Why did the dormitory smell faintly of lavender and paper, like a library no one was allowed to use?

Her roommate hadn't arrived yet, so she unpacked slowly, noting the polished oak desk, the brass lamp, and the portrait of an unfamiliar woman above the bed — pale, unsmiling, and watchful.

Nina took out her only framed photo — her mum standing in front of their flat, holding a plastic shopping bag — and placed it beneath the portrait like an offering.

She remembered their last conversation before she left. Her mum had said, half-joking, "Don't let them turn you into someone else, love." Nina had smiled then, but now the words felt heavier — not quite a warning or wish.

---

In that night's dining hall, the girls sat in elegant clusters, all cardigans and French plaits, tossing phrases like *second chamber debate* and *Michel de Montaigne* across plates of poached salmon. Nina took a seat at the end of a long table and kept her eyes on her tray.

Someone passed behind her and murmured, "What do you think she'll become?"

The voice wasn't cruel — curious, almost. But when she turned, there was no one there.

---

Three days into term, Nina found an envelope between the pages of her annotated copy of *Frankenstein*. No stamp. No handwriting. Just a folded square of vellum sealed in wax — crimson, with a pressed impression of a laurel wreath.

Inside, it read:

*For those who admire what came before,*

*and dare to become what follows.*

Thursday, midnight. North Cloisters. Wear black.

She turned the card over. No name. No explanation.

She debated not going. Surely it was a prank. A test. But something about the script — fluid, antique — gnawed at her. It wasn't mockery. It was… exclusive. And Nina had spent her entire life on the other side of velvet ropes and closed doors.

So at five minutes to midnight, she left her room dressed in a black jumper and long skirt, her boots scuffed but clean. The hallway was cold, lit only by emergency lamps. She passed the chapel — dark. The library — locked. The portrait above the grand staircase seemed to follow her with narrowed eyes.

The North Cloisters were older than the rest of the building, with uneven flagstones and iron lattice windows. The air smelled faintly of melted wax and something older — dust, perhaps, or dried ink. As Nina walked toward the circle of candles, the soft hiss of the flames echoed against the stone. Five girls stood waiting — all in black, each holding a leather-bound book.

One stepped forward. She was tall, with silver-pinned hair and a voice as even as stone.

"You're early," she said. "That's a good sign."

"I wasn't sure if this was—"

"Voluntary?" The girl smiled faintly. "Of course. But you wouldn't be here if you didn't already know what you want."

Another girl offered Nina a book: soft leather, empty pages, initials pressed on the front. N.S.

"Nina, right?" said the silver-haired girl. "You'll be Mary Shelley."

Nina blinked. "Why?"

"Because you understand the cost of creation."

---

The girls led Nina to a narrow room in the North Cloisters — once a vestry, now repurposed. A ring of chairs sat beneath stained glass windows warped by age. In the centre stood a tall cheval mirror, shrouded in black silk.

"First rule," said the silver-haired girl — Margot — "you don't speak of the Society outside this room. Not to friends. Not to faculty. Not even to other members, unless we're convened."

She paced slowly around Nina, who stood in the centre like a student summoned for examination.

"Second rule: You must never break character once assigned. The self is pliable. If you fracture it mid-embodiment, you lose more than continuity."

Margot tugged the cloth free from the mirror. The glass caught candlelight in odd ways — warped, like old water. Nina caught her own reflection, slightly distorted. She lifted her hand, and for a moment, the girl in the mirror hesitated.

"You'll study Mary Shelley's letters, journals, and handwriting. You'll wear what she wore. You'll read what she read — and above all, write. Daily. As her. Thought becomes language, language becomes reality."

Nina opened the book with her initials. The paper was heavy, slightly yellowed, and unlined. On the underside of her chair, someone had scratched a name: *E.L. Browning*. The wood was old, the carving deep. She wondered where that girl had gone.

"Why Mary Shelley?" Nina asked again, quieter this time.

Margot tilted her head. "Because you carry something unfinished. She'll help you finish it."

She stepped closer. "Some girls took on roles too large for them," Margot added softly. "They disappeared… into themselves."

Another girl smiled and handed Nina a quill.

"Sign your name," she said.

Nina dipped the pen, hesitated, then wrote: **Mary N. Shelley**.

Margot nodded approvingly. "Good. Remember, you're not erasing yourself. You're refining."

But the letters of Nina's real name, already faint, seemed to fade further in her mind.

---

By the second week of term, Nina's handwriting had changed.

She'd always written in upright, slanted caps — legible, efficient. But now her notes curled in a neat 19th-century hand, elegant loops trailing off like echoes. She hadn't meant to change it. It just… happened.

Her English tutor praised her "remarkable voice" in a recent essay. The next day, one girl in her seminar copied her skirt. For the first time in her life, Nina felt watched in a way that didn't sting.

In the library, she found herself drawn to biographies, journals, and letters—not just Mary's but those of other women, too: Ada Lovelace, Anne Brontë, and Louisa May Alcott. She copied their marginalia into her notebook without knowing why.

During Society meetings, the other girls referred to her only as *Mary*. They corrected her gently if she broke diction. Once, when she said "okay," Margot placed a hand on her wrist and said:

"Mary wouldn't use that word."

Nina didn't correct herself again.

One night, she called her mother but paused when voicemail picked up. For a moment, she couldn't remember what name to use. "Hi Mum, it's… me," she said instead.

She hung up before leaving a message.

---

It started with the yearbooks.

Bellwether's archives were housed in a locked room off the main library, accessible only with permission — or a well-timed distraction. Nina waited until the librarian ducked into the supply closet and slipped through.

The room was silent, lined with oak shelves. She ran her finger along the spines: *1960. 1961. 1962…* At random, she opened one.

Faces stared out in sepia rows, glossy and posed. But something felt wrong. A few pages looked… altered. Cropped edges. Smudged ink. Entire names redacted under what looked like water damage — or deliberate erasure.

In the 1979 edition, a photo of a group standing before the cloisters caught her eye. Six girls in black. One had hair like Margot's.

She flipped back. No caption.

No names.

She flipped further, scanning for annotations or a mention of "E.L. Browning." Nothing. It was as if the girl carved into her chair had never existed.

A chill settled over her. For the first time since joining the Society, Nina felt less chosen than trapped.

Later that night, she brought it up during a Society meeting.

"What happened to the girls who came before us?" she asked, careful not to sound accusatory. "Are they still around?"

A moment's silence. Then Margot: "Some are."

"And the others?"

Margot tilted her head. "They completed their transformations."

"But their real names—?"

"Names are accidents," said Margot gently. "You become who you choose to perform. Permanently, if you're perfect."

Nina didn't ask more. But as the candlelight flickered against the mirror behind Margot's head, she thought — just for a second — she saw seven girls reflected instead of six.

Back in her room, Nina opened her Society notebook and tried to write her old name at the top of a fresh page.

She couldn't remember how it started.

---

The invitation came on the final night of Michaelmas term.

They gathered again in the vestry. The mirror gleamed. The books were stacked neatly in a circle. Outside, snow fell silently, layering the cloisters in white.

Margot stood at the centre.

"You've done well," she said. "Your voice is consistent. Your presence, convincing. There's one final step."

Nina stood very still. Her breath clouded the cold air.

"To remain with us," Margot continued, "you must let go of the name that brought you here. Entirely. Speak it aloud, and then never again. Not even in memory."

A flicker of resistance stirred in Nina. She thought of her mother's voice, the plastic bag, the photo under the watchful portrait. But even those were blurring.

She opened her mouth.

A dozen names flickered behind her eyes — hers among them — and slipped away like leaves in water.

Nothing came out.

"Good," said Margot, not unkindly. "You're ready."

The other girls opened their books in unison. Blank pages fluttered like wings.

Margot stepped aside, gesturing to the mirror.

"Walk through," she said.

Nina stepped forward. Her reflection met her gaze — Mary's gaze — calm and certain.

She touched the glass.

It gave way.

---

The mirror stood behind her.

From the shadows of the vestry, the girls waited.

When she emerged, her posture was straighter. Her voice, when she spoke, held the lilt of another century.

"Shall we begin?" she said. Not Nina's voice. Not quite.

Margot bowed her head.

Outside, the snow kept falling. But inside the mirror, the faintest echo remained — a girl's outline, hand pressed to glass, trying to remember who she was.