The morning after the banquet, Winters Manor resembled a giant nursing a hangover—subdued, sluggish, and clinging to a certain reluctance to face reality.
Sunlight slanted through the east-facing French windows, carving bright squares onto the oak floorboards of the hallway. The air still held traces of last night's perfume and floral scents, now mingling with the overly pungent lemon of cleaning agents, creating a strange odor that hovered between opulence and the mundane.
Vivian—now Emilia—was leaving the dining room with a breakfast tray when she practically ran into Theodore.
To be precise, it wasn't a collision. She had just turned the corridor corner to find Theodore Winters leaning casually against the opposite wall, hands shoved into the pockets of his dressing gown, eyes sleepy, his hair a chaotic mess resembling a bird's nest after a storm. His dark blue silk robe was rumpled, the belt tied loosely, revealing an equally crumpled white shirt collar beneath. He looked as if he'd just rolled out of bed—or perhaps never made it there at all.
"Morning, Emilia," Theodore drawled, yawning with a voice still rough from sleep. "Up so early? I thought the victor from last night would sleep till noon at least."
Vivian paused, raising an eyebrow.
"Victor?" She shifted the tray to her left hand. "I don't recall any war yesterday."
"Oh, of course not," Theodore pushed himself upright, the hem of his robe trailing on the floor. "Just a regular, heartwarming, sisterly birthday celebration. Except for someone nearly turning into a pincushion from fiberglass, someone being publicly accused of murder—oh, wait, *attempted* murder—and the hostess's meticulously perfect party ending up in shambles..."
He stepped closer, squinting at her, a faint, crooked smile slowly curving his lips.
"Other than that, it was flawless."
Vivian met his gaze. Theodore had the Winters family's characteristic dark brown eyes, but unlike old William's sternness, Matthew's aloofness, or Catherine's haughtiness, his always held a glint of irreverence, like embers smoldering beneath ash.
"Well," she said calmly, "was it a good show?"
"Absolutely," Theodore nodded as if it were obvious. "How could I miss such splendid drama?"
"So you were there the whole time, just watching?" A subtle hint of amusement colored Vivian's tone.
"How can you call it 'just watching'?" Theodore feigned innocence. "I was conducting artistic observation. Dramatic conflict, character arcs, climax reversals... This play could run for three months on Broadway." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Goodness, I nearly stood up and applauded you."
Vivian couldn't help but laugh.
It was probably the first genuinely heartfelt laugh she'd had since becoming "Emilia." Not the meek, cautious smile fitting for a "bastard daughter," but one tinged with resignation, irony, and a touch of genuine mirth.
"So," she shook her head and continued walking, "you were just there for the spectacle?"
Theodore fell into step beside her, his gait as lazy as a stroll.
"Silence is golden," he grinned mischievously.
They reached the top of the stairs. As Vivian was about to descend, Theodore reached out to lightly stop her.
"Wait."
He pulled a small metal tin from his robe pocket, opened it to reveal several irregularly shaped pieces of chocolate, dusted with gold flakes and edible flower petals. He picked one up and offered it to her.
"Try it. Dark chocolate, 70% cocoa, with a bit of orange peel and sea salt." Seeing her hesitation, he added, "Don't worry, it's not poisoned. I have no interest in killing you."
Vivian chuckled, accepting the chocolate. It gleamed a deep brown in the morning light, the gold flakes sparkling. She took a small bite.
Bitter.
Then the bright fragrance of orange peel, a hint of salt from the sea, finally giving way to a sweet aftertaste. The layers were surprisingly complex.
"Well?" Theodore watched her expectantly.
"Better than I expected," Vivian admitted honestly.
He popped another piece into his own mouth, chewed twice, and closed his eyes in satisfaction.
"Life needs a little sweetness. Especially in a place like this—" he gestured at the opulently cold corridor around them, "—where even the wallpaper reminds you to 'be proper, elegant, and act like a Winters.'"
Vivian didn't reply, slowly finishing the rest of the chocolate.
Bitter. But with a lingering sweetness.
Much like her life now.
"Speaking of which," Theodore leaned against the stair railing, relaxed as if in his own living room, "you played it ruthlessly. Letting Margaret propose the room search herself, then watching her pawn get exposed... Tsk, I could practically hear her molars grinding."
"I merely told the truth," Vivian carefully folded the chocolate wrapper and tucked it into her robe pocket. "Unlike some who just watched from the sidelines."
"The show was too good to miss!" Theodore declared righteously.
His eyes remained fixed on her as he spoke. Beneath that irreverent smile lay something deeper, an unspoken understanding.
Vivian understood.
She held his gaze.
Morning light filtered through the stained-glass window on the landing, casting dappled patterns on the floor. Tiny dust motes danced in the sunbeams, drifting lazily, like time itself.
"Theodore," she said suddenly, "why don't you ostracize me?"
The question was direct, almost abrupt.
Theodore blinked, then laughed. This laugh was different—less exaggerated, less deliberate. Just a slight upturn of his lips, the irreverence in his eyes receding to reveal something more genuine, slightly weary, beneath.
"Why?" he repeated, tilting his head in thought. "Maybe because... in this house, we're both outsiders?"
He turned, leaning his back against the railing, looking up at the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling.
"You're the illegitimate daughter, sent to the west to 'recuperate' for five years, only to return and find no place for you here." His voice was soft, almost talking to himself. "Me? I'm the son of a mistress. My mother was French, could barely speak English. The first thing Margret did the year father married her was send my mother to Paris—'to let her return to a familiar environment,' she called it. So I became the most awkward presence in this family: not the legitimate heir, not the secret bastard, just... nothing."
He turned to look at her, his gaze startlingly frank.
"So I paint. Because a canvas doesn't ask 'Who are you?' It doesn't look at you with that 'Oh, you're the French mistress's son' expression. Paint, canvas, light... they're much simpler than people."
Vivian listened quietly. She didn't speak, just set the tray down on a nearby side table and leaned against the opposite wall herself.
The morning light gilded her face with a soft, golden edge.
"So," she said after a long moment, "we're comrades in misery?"
"Comrades in misery?" Theodore laughed. "No, that's too sentimental. I'd rather say we're... strategic partners. You need allies in this house, and I—" he spread his hands, "—need a reason to make watching the spectacle even more enjoyable. Watching a play alone is boring. With two, you can discuss the plot. Much better."
The words were light, but Vivian heard what lay unspoken beneath.
She nodded.
"Well then, *strategic partner*," she used his term, "any inside intelligence to share?"
Theodore's eyes lit up, as if he'd been waiting for this.
"Of course," he lowered his voice and beckoned her closer. Vivian took a few steps forward. He leaned close to her ear, his breath warm. "Watch out for Helen."
Vivian didn't move. "Helen?"
"Margaret's head housemaid. The direct superior of Susan, the maid who 'found' the real gift box in your room last night." Theodore's voice dropped even lower. "On the surface, she's just a dutiful head maid. In reality... she's Margaret's eyes, ears, and occasionally, her extended hand."
He leaned back slightly, looking into her eyes to ensure she understood.
"Last night, Susan was the scapegoat, we all know that. But have you thought about it? Who prepared the swapped gift box? Who had the chance to slip that fiberglass padding in under everyone's noses? And who could produce a perfect scapegoat the moment things went south?"
Vivian remained silent.
She had, of course. From last night until now, she'd turned these details over in her mind countless times.
"Helen," Theodore continued, "has been with Margaret for twenty years. Since Margaret was a Miss Harrington. That woman... is not simple. Outwardly deferential, inwardly ruthless. And most importantly—she's loyal. Absolutely, blindly loyal and devoted to Margaret."
He paused, adding, "That kind of loyalty is terrifying. Because it's not for money, not for status. It's pure... faith. She believes everything Margaret does is right, even if it means sending an innocent girl to prison—oh, sorry, a *sanatorium*."
Vivian caught the irony in his words.
"So," she said slowly, "last night, Helen was the executor."
"Most likely," Theodore nodded. "Margaret devises, Helen executes. That's been their pattern for twenty years. So be careful, Emilia. You've bruised Margaret's pride, which means you've shaken Helen's faith. And that kind of person... doesn't count the cost when they seek revenge."
The corridor fell quiet.
Faint footsteps sounded in the distance—maids beginning their day's work. The smell of lemon cleaner in the air seemed to grow stronger.
Vivian was silent for a long time.
Then she looked up at Theodore, a faint but clear smile slowly curving her lips.
"I see," she said. "Thank you for the warning."
Theodore studied her for a few seconds, then suddenly grinned.
Vivian picked up the tray, ready to descend.
"Oh, one more friendly tip," Theodore called after her.
She looked back.
"After breakfast, Margaret will 'invite' you to the small drawing room for morning tea." Theodore winked. "Says she wants to 'apologize for last night's misunderstanding.' I suggest you go, but don't drink the tea she pours—especially if Helen serves it to you personally."
"Why?"
"Because," Theodore's smile widened, but no warmth reached his eyes, "three years ago, when my mother came back from Paris to visit me, Margaret also invited her for morning tea. After that, my mother was bedridden for a week, said it was 'allergies from the change of environment.' But she'd lived in Paris for thirty years and never had allergies before."
Vivian's fingers tightened slightly around the tray.
"I understand."
Vivian nodded.
She looked at Theodore—this nominal "brother," this "outsider" in the family, this ally who watched from the shadows but knew when to blink a warning.
In the morning light, his messy hair, rumpled robe, and the out-of-place silver chain on his wrist all seemed starkly incongruous with the cold, opulent mansion.
Yet it was precisely this incongruity that made him the only real thing here.
Vivian tightened her grip on the folded wrapper in her hand, the sharp edges of the gold flakes pressing into her palm.
She nodded, turned, and walked downstairs.
Her footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell, steady and clear, one after another.
Halfway down, she heard Theodore begin to hum a tune softly upstairs—a light French melody, carefree and casually.
She didn't look back, but her lips curved upward despite herself.
The stained-glass window at the end of the hallway let in more sunlight, bathing the entire stairwell in a warm, golden glow.
In the air, the scent of lemon cleaner seemed to fade, replaced by the aroma of coffee drifting from the kitchen and the faint scent of flowers from outside.
A new day had begun.
And deep within the manor, countless invisible threads were weaving, pulling, tightening.
***
Upstairs, Theodore watched her figure disappear around the bend in the stairs, the smile slowly fading from his lips.
"Strategic partners," he murmured to the empty air, as if mocking himself. "Sounds so nice."
The truth?
The truth was, he didn't know why he was helping her either.
Perhaps it was because seeing her stand her ground last night reminded him so much of himself years ago—freshly brought to the Winters house, facing a house full of strangers and hostility, forcing himself not to buckle.
Or maybe it was because... he was tired.
Tired of being invisible in this house. Tired of watching Margaret win, again and again. Tired of the deep, cloying, suffocating sense of powerlessness.
He wanted to see something different.
He wanted to see someone stir the stagnant waters, even if it was just a ripple.
From downstairs floated Margaret's voice, sweet enough to drip honey:
"Emilia, darling, you're here? Come, the tea is freshly brewed."
Theodore turned, a smile already on his face.
The play was about to begin again.