The sun had dipped low by the time Vera descended the stairs. The house was quiet, holding that expectant kind of stillness that always came before guests arrived.
She made her way to the kitchen, ignoring the slight ache in her chest. The staff had already laid everything out—starters, main dishes, even desserts were arranged with polished precision—but Vera hovered near the countertop, inspecting each dish.
She couldn’t help herself. Cooking gave her a sense of control. So she rolled up her sleeves and made a few last-minute touches: a garnish of fresh herbs here, a light brush of olive oil there. She adjusted the lemon slices around the grilled fish and added a pinch more cinnamon to the warm pudding cooling near the window.
A maid watched from the doorway. “Ma’am,” she said gently, “you should get ready now.”
Vera blinked, as if pulled out of a trance, and gave a small nod. “Right.”
Upstairs, she chose a dress—something simple, but elegant. A muted shade of olive green that brushe
