Two weeks later the manor no longer felt like a house; it felt like a staging ground. Garment bags hung from doorframes. Stylists and caterers came and went in soft-soled shoes, murmuring into phones. Every time Lucas passed through a hall someone pressed a clipboard into his hand, or a schedule, or another list of names to approve. The scent of polish and espresso had been replaced by starch, perfume, and nerves.
In the middle of it all, the binder sat exactly where he'd left it: on the nightstand beside his bed, a pale block of paper with a crease in its cover where his thumb had run weeks ago. The dustless square beneath it was the only sign anyone still lived in the room. He hadn't touched it since the bath. Each night he returned late, too wired or too exhausted to read, telling himself tomorrow as he dropped into bed. Tomorrow never came.
