The smell of pine furniture wax hung heavy in the air, mixed with the damp autumn draft coming in off the front lawn.

Christopher sat alone in the middle of the fourteen-foot mahogany table.

A single sheet of heavy white parchment lay beside his crystal water goblet.

“Sit down, Nora,” he said, pointing a gold-trimmed pen at the tall carved chair across from him.

“Theodore needs his afternoon bottle,” I said, standing by the mahogany door frame.

“The child can wait two minutes,” Christopher said, sliding the white parchment across the dark wood until it stopped four inches from my silver tray.

“Read it now.”