The final day of the Harvest Festival should have been a time of joyous celebration in the Holyfield estate.
Fireworks should have been planned.
A grand feast should have been prepared.
Laughter should have echoed through every corridor.
But instead, the mansion was shrouded in an oppressive silence.
The maids moved through the halls like ghosts, their faces pale and drawn.
No cheerful greetings. No playful banter. Just sad, distant eyes and heavy sighs that seemed to echo off the walls.
—
Portia stood in the dining room, a silver platter in her hands that she'd been polishing for the better part of an hour.
Normally, she would have finished this task in minutes and moved on to the next. But today, she just kept rubbing the same spot over and over, her eyes unfocused, her mind clearly elsewhere.
—
Outside in the gardens, Nala was lying on the grass, her massive snake tail stretched out behind her as she stared at the sky.
