Once again, we don't own any rights to Crimson Peak or the characters from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. More's the pity.

Chapter 1

The morning had dawned with a strange sense of hope that Natasha wasn't entirely used to. Last night had been mostly spent tossing and turning, disturbed by dreams and half-forgotten memories, though for once it was the promise of the future that set her heart pulsing a thousand times faster. Her manuscript, piled safely, lovingly, on her desk, had stared at her every time she turned onto her side to face the door. Every time it had come into sights her fingers had itched to start revising it, to look over it and feel the ink beneath her hands. She was so sure there was more that could be tightened up-but no. Sleep needed to take precedence. She felt like a small child again, not a grown woman of 23.

She couldn't have been any happier when the sun had shone through her window, sitting up in bed with a newfound enthusiasm as she pushed off the covers and slid her feet into her slippers, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. She hastened to press her hands to the top of her manuscript, to reassure herself that it was still there. There, and waiting for her to present it to Ivan's friend, a publisher that would see it and love it and want to give her an advance and an estimated date for publication-.

Natasha shook her head with a smile on her lips. She was getting ahead of herself. Just because things were good for them now didn't mean that she had any right to be so flippant about something like this. The manuscript was, in no way, shape, or form, perfect, so there would be edits required. That she could handle. She dressed with the help of Annie, her servant fighting back yawns as she did up the lacings on Natasha's corset, pulling it just tight enough to allow her to sit and breathe comfortably before they slid on the clothes she'd picked out the day before. Wearing red would imply she was confident, wouldn't it? She had selected her garnet skirt, a white blouse, and a black tie to wear on this auspicious occasion. The skirt most closely matched her auburn hair, which she had wound into a smooth chignon and topped with a smart new hat adorned with a modesty veil that ought to identify her as something more than a fashion plate, yet something less than a Bohemian. A bright young woman with ambition. With talent. She worried at her bottom lip as the blouse was pulled over her head, her breathing shallow but not impossible, and closed her eyes to try and calm herself down.

"Beware of Crimson Peak..."

She jolted forward, the memory of her mother's withered and shadowed face coming at her from just behind her lids, her heart rabbit-quick in her chest. Her many-layered clothes felt tight, heavy, weighing her down and pulling her through the creaking floorboards and into the welcoming earth, which reached out with bony fingers-.

"Miss? Are you alright?"

Her eyes lit on the drawn face of the woman in front of her, Annie staring on in thinly veiled concern as Natasha latched onto her own shoulders for want of help staying upright. She'd come to their family after Mama had died and had never known the woman. Her shoulders were not pulled upon by the dead, her mind not burdened by the loss of such a wonderful woman. Not that she would have believed what Natasha said if she'd told her what it was that had come to her mind. Natasha hadn't been visited by her mother in years. Why was it, then, that the memory came back then to haunt her on this day, when she ought to have been triumphant, or hopeful at best? She nodded quickly, forcing a smile onto her face that didn't feel wholly natural but mollified Annie at the very least, allowing them to get back to finishing dressing her. If Annie noticed Natasha trembling she didn't say anything, perhaps assuming it was due to her nerves and anxieties about the day. That would be the simplest explanation, she supposed.

Breakfast was hardly a more stirring affair, Ivan having already left to go to work. Natasha would meet him after going to town to visit with his editor friend, and though she'd hoped to have good news in hand, right now she'd settle for just making it without losing what little food she could take in.

It was market day, and puffy white clouds laced the sky as Natasha made her way over the muddy yard in her high-buttoned shoes. For the first time in her life she had something she had created, a product to sell - and a potential buyer. She hefted the heavy parcel and smiled secretly to herself. It might not have been a building like her father's, but it was still of her own devising, written with her own hands. She'd still crafted something out of nothing, and she let herself feel a swell of pride at her success. Now, if she could sell it, she'd feel even better. She hastened to enter the building where she'd find Jameson's office, keen to keep the mud from splashing onto her clothing, but more than that wanting to settle herself in to make some last minute additions she'd thought over on her walk.

She took it for a good omen when Steven Rogers, now Dr. Steven Rogers according to the newly installed plaque on the entrance floor, caught her attention as they met on the staircase, he on the way down, she up. They hadn't seen each other in ages, Steve having been in England as he studied to become a doctor. He had been sickly as a boy, and his parents had taken him to a spa in Switzerland where he had undergone an experimental treatment which left him a perfect specimen of health. More than that - Steven was the strongest boy she knew, by far. But the doctor who had helped to create the treatment had died under mysterious circumstances shortly after, and Steve had sworn that he would devote his life to the study of medicine in the hopes of rediscovering the process that had changed his life.

She was rather startled to realize now that he was truly all grown up, his face angular in that way she'd grown familiar associating with other men - his weak chin and pouty lips gone - and his shoulders had grown quite broad beneath his coat. His hair was the same gold as a field of ripe wheat, though, and his eyes just as bright a blue as she remembered.

"Natasha," he said delightedly, "you know I'm setting up my practice?" He seemed to assume that she'd been told at all about him coming back.

Nancy never said a damn word to me, she thought, irritation bubbling. Then again, Natasha hadn't been visiting the Rogers family while Steve was gone. She hadn't been calling on anyone, which was, she supposed, rather rude. One was supposed to ask after one's friends. Except that Nancy was not friendly, not in the least. One called on one's acquaintances, then. One was supposed to inquire after their health and kept up with the important events in their lives - which in Nancy's case would consist of the minute details of parties, balls, and galas.

How incredibly dull, Natasha couldn't help but think.

"Congratulations! It's lucky I'm here early, then. At ten I'm going to see Jameson," she informed him, regaining her sense of excitement, fingers beating against the front of her manuscript as though she was breathing life into it. "He's going to look at my manuscript and see if he wants to publish it."

She had begun the book before Steven had left for medical school, often reading sections to him when they spent long afternoons together. He had been the one to whom she had confided her mother's ghostly visitation. Nancy, as it turned out, had eavesdropped and blurted the same story to the whole world, and the whole world had mocked and ridiculed Natasha in return. As much as she'd hated Nancy then, as badly as she'd wanted to sink her fists into her grubby little face, it'd taught Natasha a valuable lesson. She'd decided to exploit the wild imaginings of her grief-stricken ten-year-old self, for that was what they must have been, as the grand, overarching metaphor for loss in her novel. Terrifying though the occasion might have been, some small patch of her heart was grateful for the experience as it had provided her with an opportunity she might have missed out on. Perhaps it was no shock, after all, that the apparition had been at the forefront of her mind that morning.

Steve's smile grew at the mention of her book's completion, and there was the boyish grin she had known so well. "You do know that it's only nine o'clock," he ventured, teasing her as surely as if they were ten again.

She could hardly help herself as her smile grew, too, her cheeks aching. It'd been so long since she'd had an excuse to let go the way she could with Steve "Yes, but I have a few corrections I want to make first." She cut herself off from going through mental checklist of her revisions as Steven asked her to stop by his new office soon. While in London he'd procured a set of uncanny pictures he wished to show her, and his smile turned expectant.

"I'd really love to," she assured him. "Perhaps later in the week? I'll be sure to let you know in advance, so I don't disrupt your practice."

He shook his head. "You could never be a disruption, Natasha. You know that. Anyway, I'm to help Mother," he was saying. "She's throwing a party tomorrow for Nancy's suitor. Why don't you come? We could steal away, look at them then?"

As if on cue Nancy, one of her social-climbing hangers-on, and her mother Mrs. Rogers, appeared on the stairs. All three of them were dressed to the nines, and Nancy was practically glowing at the attention. Steve turned, his proposition forgotten in the arrival of the women in question. What was it about trouble coming in threes?

"We met him at the British Museum," Mrs. Rogers announced, like she was proclaiming she'd finally found a cure for the common cold. Natasha couldn't help but wonder just whose triumph the supposed match was; Nancy's, or Mrs. Rogers'. "Last fall, when we were visiting Steven."

"You wouldn't believe it. He's so handsome," Nancy gushed, cheeks growing rosy.

In part, Natasha was happy for Nancy's success. It would at least afford her some peace if the woman traveled overseas. The other girl's dream was to be well married, as was the dream of most women of their time as the world would have it. Things in America were supposed to be so different, but she couldn't help but wonder why it was they clung to the ideals of their ancestors rather than create a new slew of expectations and ideals for themselves.

Of course, these thoughts weren't popular. She'd learned quickly to keep them to herself, and it was all she could do to cast them out. Nancy would lead a husband on a merry dance, that was for certain, and if Natasha was to have a chance at happiness then it was only fair Nancy had one, too, no matter what it might have been.

"And he has now crossed the ocean with his sister only to see Nancy again," Mrs. Rogers continued, preening.

"Mother, he's here on business," Nancy protested, though it was clear her words were for show alone.

"Or so he says," Nancy's sycophant trilled, and Nancy's blush deepened. If she'd been carrying a fan she'd have fluttered it to cool herself.

Mrs. Rogers continued. "It seems he's a baronet."

"What's a baronet?" Nancy's companion asked, and Mrs. Rogers shrugged with studied nonchalance, as though it mattered not what sort of title he held, so long as Nancy could marry into it. What great regard she must have held for her daughter.

"Oh, well, an aristocrat of some sort, of course -"

"A man who lives off land that others work for him. A parasite with a title." The sharp words tumbled out before Natasha had a chance to stop herself. They felt familiar, as though she was reciting something she'd long since learned and had forgotten the source.

Steven grinned behind his hand, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but Mrs. Rogers arched her brows. Natasha's chin rose, refusing to back down, though she knew Mrs. Rogers could clearly hold her own when any sort of challenge was raised regarding a matter close to her heart. Or more accurately, her pride. Natasha could all but see the woman's claws come out.

"Well, this parasite is perfectly charming and a magnificent dancer. But that wouldn't concern you now, would it Natasha?" she added, and the smile with which she addressed Natasha was so sweet it nearly turned her stomach.. "Our very own Jane Austen."

"Mother," Steven berated her, though he was smart to keep his tone gentle, his smile gone.

"Though I believe she died a spinster," Mrs. Rogers' gaze was flinty, her mouth now set in a tight, insincere line. A warning, if Natasha had ever seen one, to back down. Pity, she'd never learned how to. They didn't teach the art of an apologetic retreat in Russia, nor was it taught at home.

"Mother please," Steven said.

"It's quite all right, Steven," Natasha assured him. She met the older woman's gaze full on. What was there to be afraid of from a peacock with pretty words, and an ugly heart? It was amazing Steven turned out as good as he did. "I would much prefer to be Mary Shelley," she said sweetly. "She died a widow." She didn't allow the woman a chance to retort, turning instead to leave. Let her make what she cared to of that.

Natasha found a space in one of the larger reading rooms, set aside for patients and those waiting for their appointments. There she laid down her manuscript, took out her pen and ink, and set to making her changes. Unknown to her, the ink from her pen leaked and smudged the tips of her fingers, so when she smoothed back red tendrils of hair, she unknowingly left faint fingerprints on her forehead.

She had no idea of her disheveled state when at last she made her way to Mr. Jameson's office. Early, of course. Waiting just wasn't a speciality of hers. Of course the publisher pointedly commented on her lack of timeliness as she took a seat before his desk. Internally she churned with anxiety, but kept a perfectly composed expression as page by page he flipped through her magnum opus.

She could have sworn she heard the clock ticking. Or was that her heart in her throat?

He sighed. Again. The sound was heavy and put upon and most decidedly not a good sign.

"A ghost story. Your father didn't tell me it was a ghost story." Each syllable was laden with disappointment.

She determinedly sat up a little straighter. "It's not, sir. It's more like a story with a ghost in it."

She reached out for the manuscript with her ink-stained fingers to show him, if she could. He pulled away. Undaunted, she pressed, "The ghost is simply a metaphor for the past."

"A metaphor." He could not have sounded less enthusiastic. He read on a bit. "It's... rather violent. Excellent handwriting, though. Firm loops."

Oh, damn. He hates it.

He put the manuscript down and rearranged it slowly, his face composed enough to keep hidden the disdain that he clearly felt for it

"So, Miss Romanova, how is your father?" he asked. "In good health, I hope?"

"He said it should have less violence, and needed a love story. Can you believe that?" She stabbed the cut of fillet in front of her, wishing instead to be stabbing the man's composed face to show him what she felt about that. "He only said it because I'm a woman."

Natasha couldn't help but become incensed all over again. She leaned forward in her chair, just to the left of Ivan's in the dining room of their home. It was sunset, and scarlet light spilled over the damask wallpaper and alabaster sconces, making the silver dishes shine.

"Everyone falls in love, dear," he ventured, his smile understanding. Bemused, even. "Even women." He was dressed for dinner with every hair on his head carefully combed, his beard immaculately trimmed. Though Ivan was nearly sixty no one would've been able to tell given the effort he put into looking a good decade and a half younger. And it was thought that women were vain, shallow creatures.

Natasha frowned, quieted by the unshakeable feeling that what her foster-father said was wrong. She deeply distrusted romance, and suspected that she would never fall under its sickly-sweet spell. "Why? Why must a woman always write about love? Stories of girls in search of the ideal husband - being saved by a dashing young prince? They're droll lies dressed up as fairy tales."

An expression she couldn't read flittered across his face. Then he said, "Well, I'll have a word with Jameson on Monday morning at the club."

Natasha's expression hardened. "You most certainly will not. I will do this. Alone."

The look he gave her was gentle, and she braced herself for his objections - which she had no doubt he would intend as fatherly concern and nothing more, but which could certainly not move her from her decided course. Then he frowned slightly and leaned toward her, as if examining her under a microscope.

"When you met Jameson, were your fingers ink-stained like that?"

She quickly pulled her hands below the table, hiding an irrational surge of shame and fear. At least he hadn't seen the smudge on her forehead as well. She had only discovered it after her appointment. Sloppy, she chastised herself. Strange how her internal voice sounded so much like her old dancing master, back in Russia.

"I see," he said solemnly, then set a small package before her on the table. For a moment she was vaguely terrified, but then she caught the ghost of a rueful smile on Ivan's face. "I was hoping this would be a celebratory gift but..."

She opened it and lifted out a beautiful gold fountain pen. It was the most magnificent writing instrument she had ever seen, and evidence of his faith in - and support of - her ambition to become a writer, to make something of her wickedly overactive imagination. Deeply touched, she leaned over to kiss his cheek. Though he was flustered, the color in his face assured her that he was equally pleased.

"I'm a builder, dear. If I know one thing, it's the importance of the right tool for the job."

"Actually, Father," she said carefully, choosing to call him that because she knew he liked it, "I was hoping I could type it in your office," she asked, keeping her voice as demure as possible without drawing too much attention.

She caught the minute flash of disappointment as he regarded the gleaming pen, rendered obsolete by her request. "Type it?"

"I'm submitting it to The Atlantic Monthly," she said. She'd made up her mind after Jameson had rejected it. "And I only just realized when Jameson was looking over it that my handwriting is far too feminine. I could try to change it, but -"

"Too feminine?" Ivan balked.

"It gives me away. They won't take me seriously if they know I'm a woman. I've decided I'll sign it N.A. Romanoff, too. That will ensure they treat it fairly." Most importantly it would prevent them from telling she was a woman. Romanova was as much a give away as her first name.

He looked pensive but clearly decided against putting up a fight. "Without a doubt, dear."

A/N: That's all for tonight, folks. As you can see, for right now it's pretty close to Crimson Peak (except Natasha being a bit more interesting than Edith). Once the players are all in motion then you'll start to see the real differences. ;)