The hallway stretched into infinity, lined with portraits of ancestors who all shared the same disapproving expression. Evan felt like he was walking through a gallery titled Centuries of Disappointment: A Family Tradition.
Every step produced a faint groan from the floorboards, like the house itself was complaining about his existence. Tapestries fluttered as he passed, as if trying to get out of his way. A suit of armor in an alcove actually leaned slightly away from him, its gauntlets rattling nervously.
"Are they... afraid of me?" Evan asked Elara, who walked slightly behind him and to the left—close enough to guide, far enough to flee if necessary.
"It's not fear, milord," Elara said, though her trembling hands suggested otherwise. "It's... respectful caution."
"Right. Because nothing says 'respect' like inanimate objects trying to escape my presence." He paused in front of a particularly stern-looking man with a beard that could house small birds. The painted eyes seemed to follow him, judging his posture, his hair, his very existence. "Who's Grumpy over there?"
"That would be your great-great-grandfather, Lord Alistair Carter. He defeated the Shadow Dragon of the Western Marches."
"With that beard? I believe it. Looks like it could strangle a man on its own." Evan leaned closer to the painting. The painted eyes narrowed. He could swear they actually narrowed. "He doesn't like me."
"He doesn't like anyone, milord. Family legend says he once criticized a baby for having poor form while crying."
"...I respect that, actually. Terrible, but I respect it."
They continued down the hall. At the end, a man in impeccably tailored robes waited with the expression of someone who had just bitten into a lemon and discovered it was also on fire. His posture was so straight it looked painful. His hands were clasped behind his back at exactly the angle prescribed by some etiquette manual Evan had never read.
"Lord Carter," the man said, bowing exactly deep enough to convey respect without actually meaning it. The bow was measured, precise, and utterly devoid of warmth. "I am Chamberlain Finch. Your schedule—"
"Let me stop you right there," Evan said. "I woke up twenty minutes ago in a bed I destroyed by existing. I'm currently being judged by oil paintings that have opinions about my posture. I am wearing a nightshirt with approximately forty-seven buttons and not a single cup of coffee in sight. I am in no mental state for a schedule."
Chamberlain Finch blinked. Once. Slowly. Like a lizard processing unexpected information. "But there are matters of estate, appointments with the guilds, correspondence from—"
"Can we correspond via 'not doing it'? I'm very good at that kind of correspondence. Expert level. I've been practicing my whole life."
Finch's eye twitched. It was small, almost imperceptible, but Evan—veteran of countless budget meetings where people said "we're on track" while everything burned—recognized it. The twitch of a man whose entire worldview was being gently dismantled by a force he couldn't control.
"Perhaps," Finch said through gritted teeth, "a tour of the grounds? The morning air is... bracing."
"Does 'bracing' mean 'won't cause me to accidentally destroy priceless artifacts'?"
"One can only hope, milord."
"That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be, milord."
Evan stared at him. Finch stared back. Something passed between them—a mutual recognition that they were both trapped in this situation and would have to make the best of it.
"I'm going to like you," Evan said. "Against my will. But I'm going to like you."
Finch's eye twitched again. "I shall endeavor to survive the experience, milord."
***