We arrived at the mansion just as the sky deepened into a bruised purple wash, the last sliver of sun slipping behind the iron spired towers that jutted from the estate like the ribs of some ancient leviathan. The convertible rolled through the wrought-iron gates, headlights sweeping across manicured hedges and the low, bubbling lullaby of the fountain.
The moment we stopped, Thomas gave a crisp, almost theatrical signal. Servants in immaculate black livery surged forward, silent and efficient, their gloved hands flicking open the trunk of the G Wagon. They began offloading the dozens of shopping bags and neatly boxed groceries from its trunk—items we'd picked up halfway through the drive, courtesy of Aria's dispatch detour.
