The morning light was thin and grey when Stanley's car pulled through the castle gates.
Matt stood at his window, watching the black Chevrolet crawl up the long driveway, past the cemetery, past the gardens, past the guards who pretended not to stare. The car looked small against the ancient stone walls—a modern thing, out of place, like a wristwatch on a medieval knight.
He had known Stanley was coming. Arne had mentioned it at dinner three nights ago, casual as if he were discussing the weather. Your father will be joining us for a week. I trust you'll make him comfortable.
Matt hadn't argued. He had learned not to argue with the Ventrue.
But that didn't mean he had to be happy about it.
The car stopped at the main entrance. A servant opened the door. Stanley emerged—rumpled suit, wild hair, glasses slightly askew—and looked up at the castle with an expression of pure, unguarded wonder.
Matt turned away from the window.
---
The castle's mood shifted with Stanley's arrival.
