Chapter 67:


    Isolde reached over and lifted the heavy ornate water goblet from the ce setting. She didn’t threaten Seraphina with it. Instead, she held the crystal up to the light, turning it slowly, her voice perfectly conversational.


    “This table is magnificent. A single, solid piece of mahogany. It would be a shame if something unfortunate were to happen to it.”


    She set the goblet back down with a precise, resonant click that echoed through the silent room. Her gaze remained locked on Seraphina — cold, unblinking, and utterly without hesitation.


    “I am Effie’s guardian,” Isolde continued, her voice dropping lower. “Effie is the future of the Lancaster Education Trust. That makes me the most important person at this table. Now I will have your seat.”


    Seraphina looked at the goblet. She looked at Isolde’s eyes. There was no hesitation there. Only cold, hard resolve.


    Seraphina scrambled out of the chair, knocking her wine ss over in the process.


    Isolde pulled the chair out. She sat down and spread the napkin across herp with unhurried precision.


    “Thank you,” Isolde said to the stunned room. “Pass the bread, please.”


    The dining room at the Lancaster Estate was silent, save for the rhythmic scrape of silver against fine china. Isolde sliced her steak with surgical precision, ignoring the heat of Seraphina’s re burning into the side of her face. The air smelled of roasted garlic and old, dusty velvet.


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    Beatrice Lancaster wiped her mouth with a linen napkin, the motion slow and deliberate. She ced it on the table, signaling the end of the meal.


    “Isolde,” Beatrice said, her voice rasping like dry leaves over stone. “Come to the study. I have some old things for you.”


    Grayson pushed his chair back immediately, the legs screeching against the hardwood. “Grandmother, Isolde is tired. Her mental state has been… fragiletely. She needs rest.”


    Beatrice didn’t look at him. She grabbed her cane, lifted it an inch, and brought it down onto the Persian rug. The thud vibrated through the floorboards.


    “She is in my house, Grayson,” Beatrice snapped. “It is not your ce to arrange her schedule. Sit down.”


    Grayson’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering near his ear. He sat back down, defeated by the matriarch he was too afraid to cross.


    Isolde followed as Mrs. Higgins pushed Beatrice’s wheelchair down the dim hallway. The study was a cavern of dark oak and leather, smelling of pipe tobo that hadn’t been smoked in twenty years.


    The heavy door clicked shut behind them, sealing them inside. The silence here was different — heavier, filled with history.


    Beatrice wheeled herself to a deskrge enough tond a ne on. She unlocked a drawer with a small brass key drawn from her cardigan pocket. Her hands, usually trembling with age, were steady as she lifted out a worn wooden box. The varnish was peeling, revealing the gray grain of the wood beneath.


    “Your grandmother,” Beatrice said, her eyes unfocused, gazing at some point in the past. “She was the best housekeeper this estate ever saw. Or so everyone thought.” She slid the box across the leather blotter.


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