The flight passed in a hush of white noise and muted light, a cocoon of leather seats and low conversation. By the time the jet banked over Fitzgeralt's private fields, the sun had climbed high, throwing long gold bars across the floor. Lucas pressed a palm to the window and watched the estate unfurl beneath them, green rolling up to the cliffs, the slate roofs glinting like coins. The sight pulled something loose in his chest.
An hour later the convoy rolled through the high gates and up the curved drive. The manor waited exactly as they had left it: pale stone, dark shutters, and front steps wide enough for a small army. Inside, cool air carried the faint smell of waxed wood and fresh linen. Staff melted out of the hallways as Trevor passed, nodding once and disappearing again. Windstone murmured a few final instructions to the head of security and fell in behind them.
