The Westing mansion had been many things in its long life.
A nobleman's seat. A territorial administration hub. A house in mourning. A house under siege from accountants and political maneuvering and the slow, methodical strangulation of men who had decided its mistress was a problem to be solved.
Tonight it was something else.
The master bedroom — the largest room on the second floor, with the high ceiling and the wide windows that looked out over the dark territory below — had been repurposed in the most fundamental way a room can be repurposed. The vanity had been pushed against the far wall. The wardrobe stood open and irrelevant. The writing desk in the corner had acquired a secondary function, its surface now holding an arrangement that had nothing to do with correspondence.
