The peculiar aroma of dish soap permeated the dimly lit Victorian mansion as Eleanor meticulously scrubbed the antique porcelain plates. Her delicate hands, now red and raw from the harsh detergent, moved in hypnotic circular motions.

“My dear Eleanor,” whispered Charles from the doorway, his voice carrying both affection and concern. “You’ve been at this for hours.”

She didn’t look up, her raven hair cascading over her face like a mourning veil. “They must be perfect, Charles. She always insisted they be perfect.”

The ‘she’ Eleanor referred to was Margaret Winchester, Charles’s late wife, whose mysterious death six months ago had left the household in perpetual shadow. Eleanor, once the manor’s head maid, had since become Charles’s confidante and, recently, something more.

“The plates shine like mirrors now,” Charles said softly, approaching her. “Perhaps too much like mirrors…”

Eleanor finally raised her head, revealing eyes that gleamed with an unsettling intensity. “Do you see her too, Charles? In the reflections?”

His breath caught. In each pristine plate, Margaret’s face seemed to materialize - smiling, accusing, knowing. Charles had never told anyone about these visions, believing them to be manifestations of his guilt.

“The soap,” Eleanor continued, her voice taking on an eerily dreamy quality. “Margaret always used this particular brand. Said it made everything… exciting. The way it sparkles in the light, how it reveals what lies beneath the surface.”

Charles moved closer, drawn by some inexplicable force. The dish soap’s iridescent bubbles danced across the plates’ surface, creating phantasmagoric patterns that seemed to whisper secrets.

“I know what happened that night, Charles,” Eleanor’s words cut through the heavy air. “The night Margaret died.”

His heart thundered. “Eleanor, please…”

“She saw us,” Eleanor continued, her hands never stopping their circular motion. “In the garden. That’s why she started using so much of this soap. Said she needed to clean away our sin.”

Charles remembered: stolen kisses behind rose bushes, passionate embraces in shadowed corners, and Margaret’s knowing looks across dinner tables.

“But the soap revealed something else entirely,” Eleanor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It showed her true nature - how she planned to destroy us both.”

In the plates’ reflection, Margaret’s face contorted into a malevolent grin. Charles finally understood - the poison in Margaret’s evening tea, the convenient accident report, the perfect alibi provided by endless hours of dishwashing.

“The soap never lies, Charles,” Eleanor turned to him, her eyes now clear and loving. “It cleansed us of her darkness.”

Charles gathered her in his arms, dish soap dripping from her hands onto his expensive suit. In the last plate’s reflection, Margaret’s face finally faded, replaced by their own intertwined figures.

“Let’s put these away,” he murmured against her hair. “We have a wedding to plan.”

Eleanor smiled, setting down the final plate. The dish soap’s bubbles caught the candlelight, transforming into tiny prisms of hope. Together, they left the kitchen, leaving behind the ghosts of the past and the faint, exciting scent of absolution.