A faint mist crept like a veil between the tall windows of the mansion, tinting the daylight with an almost sickly pallor. The great hall, decked in oppressive old luxury, breathed an artificial calm that barely contained the tension. It was like a pressure cooker at boiling point.
A few murmurs floated in the air, low enough not to form complete sentences, but persistent enough to stick pins in the ears of those present. In a corner, next to a table with glasses and jugs covered by fine cloths, three adult figures were talking in low voices. They were not mere guests. Their postures, their costumes and their attitude placed them on another level, one reserved for those who had been called not only by blood, but by the promise of something more tangible: an inheritance.
One of them held his arms tightly crossed, his brow furrowed and his brow hardened as if his very presence was a protest against everything around him. His voice sounded clipped and harsh, as if every word was a stone that refused to leave his mouth. Beside him, another man paced back and forth with impatient steps, glancing at clocks and paintings, visibly uncomfortable with the wait. The third, however, remained relaxed, leaning against a marble column with a glass in his hand and an ambiguous smile. His eyes played with the scene as if it were a particularly entertaining play. His tone was mocking, but not malicious: the kind of humour that only someone unafraid of the outcome can indulge in.
The three of them exchanged broken sentences, with a clear undertone: money. Inheritance. The reason hidden but shared by all those gathered in that mausoleum disguised as a home.
-And he still hasn't turned up? -mumbled the first one with annoyance.
-They keep us waiting as if we were servants," snorted the second, turning around sharply.
-Oh, come on... -Did you expect a warmer welcome from our lovely niece?
Meanwhile, at the other end of the room, young eyes scanned the surroundings warily. The boy - the same one who had arrived with his mother a short while ago - stood tall and straight, his back erect as one would expect of someone brought up with strict rules of etiquette. Yet his gaze wandered here and there, taking in details, absorbing the atmosphere as if it were his first time in a place so alive and dead at the same time.
It was then that three figures caught his attention.
They were not exactly together, but there seemed to be a kind of invisible bond between them, an unconscious formation, as if fate had arranged them in a meaningful configuration.
First, his gaze stopped on a boy. He had a small build, even for his age, and his short hair was a metallic silver that, far from looking fanciful, blended strangely naturally into the scene. His eyes were such a cold, clear blue that they hurt to look into. There was no emotion in them. None at all. But on his face, very subtly, a small smile was forming. It was not gentle, not mocking. It was the smile of someone watching a storm from the shelter of a tower.
On his right side, somewhat behind him, a young woman stood with a posture that combined grace and authority. She was somewhat taller, perhaps a year older. Her hair, too, was silver, long as a cascade of snow, and her eyes had the same coldness... but with something more. They sparkled, not with warmth, but with intelligence, mischief and a touch of genuine curiosity. His gaze was fixed on the people arguing and murmuring, as if he were assessing the pieces of a game that was just beginning.
And finally, at the opposite end of the trio, a young maid with bright red hair tied in a ponytail stared at the screen of her mobile phone. She didn't seem to be paying attention to anything going on around her. In fact, if anyone had been watching her without context, they would have sworn she was anywhere else in the world but there. She arranged her fringes with her fingertips, tilting her head slightly, as if the slightest mess in her hairstyle would be a tragedy. The young nobleman could just barely see her face reflected in the glass... but not her eyes. They were too far away.
This disinterested attitude puzzled him. Even for a servant girl, her behaviour was... wrong. Out of place. There was no bowing, no attention, no tension. Just a carefree beauty.
For an instant, she regretted not bringing her own maid with her. He thought it would not be allowed, or that it would be inappropriate. But looking at that scarlet maiden, he understood that the rules here were less rigid than he thought.
The murmur rose in pitch again for a moment, as if the air was filled with electricity before a storm. It was then that a deep voice, with wrinkles in its timbre, tore through the silence. It was an elderly, straight-backed, stern-faced servant girl who had just entered through a side door. Beside her, a childish figure walked with a slow, graceful step, completely covered by the shadow of the corridor from which they had just emerged.
-Silence, please! -commanded the maid with an authority that seemed impossible for someone her age.
They all turned to them.
-The lady wishes to make an important announcement.
And so the murmuring ceased, as if muffled by an invisible cloak. The tension did not ease, but became stiller, like the surface of a lake before something huge emerges from the deep.