Part Thirty Three – The Eltons' Mansion
Detectives Raleigh and Albert arrived at the gates of Vaughan Elton's estate, a sprawling manse of cream-stone walls trimmed in pink marble, its windows draped with long curtains embroidered in gold thread. Even before entering, they could hear the rhythmic sound of shoes on stone, the rehearsed march of servants moving in flawless order.
The Eltons had been here for centuries — one of the oldest council families in Iron Clover — their fortune originally baked, quite literally, in bread. Generations ago through three wars, the Elton patriarch had been the wealthiest flour and sugar merchant in the city. He supplied half the council with cakes for their festivals, biscuits for their tables, sweetmeats for their children.
Where others trafficked in steel, blood, or arcane dealings, the Eltons trafficked in sweetness. It was said a single loaf stamped with the Elton crest could open doors at court that even a purse of silver could not.
But Vaughan Elton was not content with bread. He had grown up one of eight brothers, a loud, bustling household of bakers and merchants. He broke from them, choosing politics over ovens, climbing council ranks not by flour but by feasts. Parties became his weapon: grand, excessive gatherings where alliances were baked as carefully as his father's cakes. And in that, he excelled.
His wife, Amelia Elton, was stranger still. A high-born woman from a family renowned for their mastery of fashion and their brewing of fertility draughts, she had always walked the line between society and the mystic. Amelia was — and still was — a priestess of the old ways, a devout follower of the moon goddess Ansuviah, whose cult whispered of blood arcane rites.
No evidence of these practices had ever been found, but the rumors never faded. They clung to her like perfume.
Together, Vaughan and Amelia were an oddity among the council elite: a man of jovial flour and public festivals, a woman of silken veils and moonlit prayers. Odd, but powerful. Politically they ranked just behind Lady Morgan Lulough and the Madeiyas.
And they had influence in places no others could touch — among the common folk who ate their breads, among the women who drank Amelia's potions, and among the nobility who depended on their endless banquets.
The Elton crest reflected this duality: a golden crescent moon cradling a loaf of bread, stamped in cream and pink enamel. Their colors — cream, pink, and gold — seemed soft, almost frivolous, until seen in excess. In their halls, those colors became overwhelming, a world of sugared hues hiding something sharp beneath.
The detectives were led through a wide marble corridor by a retinue of near-perfect boys and girls, youthful servants with flawless skin, styled hair, and movements so synchronized they seemed choreographed. There were hundreds of them — too many for mere household staff. Some whispered it was Vaughan's fetish, others that it was Amelia's ritual devotion, surrounding herself with youth as votive offerings to Ansuviah. None dared ask aloud.
They were brought into the banquet hall. Before them stretched a long table heavy with food — breads of every shape, biscuits stacked in towers, scones glistening with cream, honey jars shining under lantern light, and endless pots of steaming tea. The aroma was so rich it pressed against the air, dizzying in its sweetness.
One of the servants smiled politely, his tone rehearsed:
"Lord and Lady Amelia Elton will be with you shortly."