The marble floor of Blackmoor Mansion's corridor echoed with the steady rhythm of Ophelia's footsteps, clashing softly with the squeak of the food trolley wheels behind her. She walked with her back straight, fingers brushing the folds of her deep-blue morning gown now and then, as if trying to soothe the unease crawling beneath her skin.
"Careful with the turn, Martha," Ophelia murmured without glancing back. On the trolley, porcelain teapots and silver plates clinked together, their rhythmic chime breaking the stiff silence of the hallway.
This morning, the dining table felt too wide, too cold. Her father's absence from the seat of honor, usually filled with the scent of coffee and the rustle of newspapers, was a bad omen. Ophelia already knew exactly where to find the man who had raised her.
The heavy door to the study creaked open, releasing the scent of old paper and burnt-out candles. Ophelia gave her servant a subtle signal to stop at the threshold.
