In the kitchen, warmth from the stoves chased away the mansion's evening chill.
The chef worked with practiced ease, arranging ingredients for the special dinner—fresh herbs, aged cuts of meat, and delicate pastries waiting to be baked.
Two maids moved briskly but quietly, carrying polished silverware and folded linen toward the dining room.
Another checked the crystal glasses one by one, hold up to the light to ensure not a single smudge remained.
The entire household was preparing, the kind of gentle rush that only happened when a truly special guest was expected.
Far from the bustle, in a quieter wing of the mansion, Silas Chavan sat in the parlor, half-leaning back in the leather armchair. A hardcover book rested open on his lap, untouched for a while.
"Is someone coming over, darling?" came the gentle voice of his wife from behind. Marce took the armchair beside him.
Silas closed the book softly, slipping a finger between the pages.
"Yes, it's Mia's friend," he answered.
