By Wednesday evening, 840 Fifth Avenue seemed to hold its breath.
A different kind of tension saturated the air—not the glittering, anticipatory buzz before a gala, but a heavy, velvet-wrapped undercurrent. The servants moved with quieter steps, their gazes more subdued, the clink of porcelain as they served almost inaudible. The entire mansion resembled a great beast, retracting its claws, watching intently from the shadows.
Emilia stood before the full-length mirror at the end of the third-floor corridor, conducting a final assessment.
She had not chosen any of the excessively dresses sent to her room. Instead, she wore a smoke-grey silk shirt-dress she had brought with her. Its design was minimalist, devoid of ornament, cinched only by a narrow self-fabric belt. The color was quiet, unobtrusive, yet carried an inherent resilience. Her hair was loosely braided into a single side plait resting over her shoulder. Her makeup was barely there—a sheer layer of foundation, a lip color so subtle it was almost imperceptible.
She needed to appear unthreatening, but never to be taken lightly.
Muffled voices drifted up from below—Matthew's low, clipped instructions, Isabella's slightly raised, socially polished laughter, and Kathryn's ever-bright voice, which always seemed stretched taut over some unseen wire. The family dinner: the battlefield had shifted to the most familiar, and therefore most brutal, terrain of all—their own dining room.
She took a deep breath. Her fingertips were cold, but her spine was straight as a rod.
When the dining room doors opened before her, the scene within caused her step to hesitate for a fraction of a second.
The long table was laid with immaculate white linen. Silver candelabra held warm, dancing flames. Crystal glasses refracted the amber light. But the seating arrangement had been subtly altered. The elder Winters's place at the head remained empty. Margaret sat at the left-hand head. To her right sat Matthew, Isabella, and Ian. To her left, the first seat was empty, followed by Kathryn, and then Theodore.
The empty seat intended for Emilia was positioned at the far end of the table, its back to the fireplace, the farthest from the head, in the relatively dimmer light. A marginalized, almost 'guest' placement.
Margaret was speaking softly to Matthew. Hearing the door, she turned. A smile bloomed on her face like spring blossoms. "Emilia, there you are. Please, sit. We were waiting." She gestured kindly toward the distant seat. "We thought you might appreciate the quiet there. Less overwhelming."
Such a thoughtful stepmother. Such considerate planning. Isolation, wrapped as care.
Emilia's gaze swept the room, calm and measured. Matthew glanced up, gave a brief nod, and returned his attention to the tablet in his hand. Isabella offered a standard, polished smile. Kathryn did not bother to hide her lifted chin, the smirk playing on her lips. Theodore lounged in his chair, idly turning a silver pepper mill in his hand. When his eyes met hers, one eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly. *See?* the look said.
"Thank you, Margaret." Emilia's voice was even, devoid of hesitation or resentment. She walked toward the seat, her pace unhurried, the smoke-grey silk swaying gently. As she passed Theodore, his foot nudged the leg of the chair beside him—a movement so slight it was nearly invisible. The heavy oak chair slid out half an inch, just enough to ease her entry.
A silent, minuscule act of solidarity.
Emilia sat, meeting Theodore's eyes with a faint, acknowledging glance.
Dinner commenced in an atmosphere of surface harmony over hidden reefs. The first course was a creamy asparagus soup, served at perfect temperature, rich and smooth.
"Matthew," Isabella initiated, her voice bright, "I heard there was a hiccup with the Asian new energy project? The board hasn't been difficult, I hope?"
Matthew set down his spoon, dabbed his lips with a napkin. "A technical delay. Being resolved. Howard flies out tomorrow." His reply was terse, discouraging further inquiry.
"Mr. Howard is such a stalwart," Margaret interjected gently, her gaze drifting toward Emilia. "We've been so fortunate to have him, and Ryan, supporting all these years. Speaking of, why isn't Ryan joining us tonight? I thought it was a family dinner." Her tone held a note of regret.
"A prior engagement," Matthew said. After a pause, he added, "With some European investors."
"Ah, business must come first, of course." Margaret nodded. Then, as if suddenly remembering, she looked at Emilia. "Emilia, you and Ryan seemed to get on rather well recently? He was quite attentive at the gala. He's usually so reserved with everyone. It's rare to see him take an interest." Her smile was brimming with benign, grandmotherly curiosity—as if merely noting a pleasant social development.
The question floated over lightly, but hooks lay beneath. It was a probe, and a reminder to the table—especially to Kathryn—of Ryan's 'particular' attention.
Kathryn's knife scraped faintly against her plate.
Emilia lifted a spoonful of soup, slowly tasted it, swallowed. Only then did she raise her eyes to meet Margaret's. Her tone was as ordinary as discussing the weather. "Mr. Donovan is a gentleman. He merely wished to prevent an awkward scene from lingering. The Winters and Vanderbilts are old friends, after all." She deftly elevated Ryan's intervention to the level of 'preserving family alliances,' stripping it of personal implication.
"Yes, Ryan is always considerate," Margaret conceded smoothly, shifting focus. She turned to Kathryn. "Kathryn, darling, how are the piano studies progressing? I heard you're preparing the third movement of Beethoven's *Appassionata*? That presto section is quite the challenge."
The topic landed squarely in Kathryn's domain of pride and sensitivity. Her face instantly lit up, a blend of performative zeal and genuine arrogance. "Yes, Mother! It's terribly difficult, but my professor says my touch has improved tremendously, especially the right-hand octave runs…" She launched into a detailed account, her fingers miming the motions on the tablecloth.
Margaret listened with rapt attention, nodding, her eyes shining with approval. Isabella wore an appropriately interested expression. The focus of the table was successfully, if temporarily, diverted.
Emilia ate her steak in silence. The meat was tender, succulent, but she tasted little. She observed—with peripheral vision, with her ears, with her skin—the currents flowing around the table.
Theodore seemed bored by the 'masterclass,' idly prodding a piece of broccoli on his plate. Matthew occasionally offered a brief, knowledgeable comment on a musical term Kathryn mentioned (he knew them, it seemed), displaying his broad, utilitarian intellect. Ian played the attentive husband, refilling Isabella's water, asking in a low voice if she'd like to try his cod.
As Kathryn's monologue wound down, creating a brief lull, Margaret suddenly emitted a soft, remembering "Oh."
"My memory," she chided herself gently, tapping her temple. She turned to Emilia, her smile apologetic. "I was so caught up in Kathryn's music. Emilia, your mother—Elizabeth—was also very fond of music. Not a specialist like Kathryn, of course, but she had excellent taste. I recall she particularly loved Chopin's nocturnes. The one in E-flat major, especially. She always said it was like a sigh under moonlight."
She invoked Elizabeth, her tone nostalgic and tender. Emilia's nerves drew taut.
"Was she?" Emilia responded softly, her grip tightening on her cutlery. "I… don't remember much."
"You were so young," Margaret nodded understandingly, but her eyes were probes. "But now you're home, the melodies your mother loved can fill the house again. Emilia, do you play? Even a little? Perhaps you and Kathryn could play a duet? It would be lovely, sisters making music together." Her eyes sparkled with hopeful anticipation, as if envisioning a perfect family tableau.
A trap. Another seemingly gracious suggestion. If Emilia said no, she'd be found lacking in 'cultivation' compared to Kathryn. If yes, she'd be forced into a collaboration on Kathryn's turf, subject to public comparison and judgment. Kathryn would find a way to make it humiliating, regardless of outcome.
The table's focus returned to her. Kathryn's lips were already curling upward, the excitement of a hunter seeing prey step into the snare.
Theodore stopped prodding his broccoli, looking at Emilia, a trace of concern in his grey-green eyes.
Emilia set down her knife and fork. She picked up her napkin, patting her lips gently. The action bought her two seconds.
"I had some lessons as a child," she began, her voice clear and frank, without embarrassment or bluster. "But it's been years. My fingers are rusty; I doubt I could manage a simple scale now." She disarmed the expectation of public failure by admitting deficiency upfront.
Then she shifted, her gaze turning to Kathryn, sincere. "However, I do love listening to Kathryn play. I missed the chance at the gala and have regretted it. If Kathryn wouldn't mind, perhaps after dinner she could play for us? The E-flat major nocturne you mentioned, Margaret, or anything she prefers. The beauty of the music itself matters more than who plays it. To hear a professional interpretation would be my privilege."
She subtly transformed 'competition' into 'a request for a private performance,' elevating Kathryn to 'professional artist' and positioning herself as 'appreciative audience.' It avoided direct conflict, gave Kathryn the exclusive attention and stage she craved, and respectfully acknowledged Margaret's reminiscence about Elizabeth.
Kathryn was stunned. The anticipated had not materialized; instead, she received a humble, complimentary request. Her prepared barbs stuck in her throat. She looked at her mother. Margaret's smile remained perfect, but a flash of surprise and reassessment crossed her eyes.
"I… suppose I could," Kathryn said, her voice a bit flat. Her vanity was stroked, but the expected satisfaction was absent, replaced by a vague irritation.
"That would be wonderful," Emilia smiled, picking up her cutlery again as if the exchange had been nothing more than pleasant dinner chat.
Margaret studied Emilia for a long moment, her gaze like soft spider-silk, brushing lightly yet clinging with a chilly dampness. Then she reanimated her smile, turning to Matthew. "Matthew, any progress on the Townsend acquisition? I heard the competing bid is quite aggressive."
The conversation was steered back to business. But the undercurrents at the table had been subtly rerouted.
After dessert, the group adjourned to the smaller drawing room. A fire crackled in the hearth, dispelling the autumn chill. The aroma of coffee and tea filled the space.
Kathryn was, predictably, ushered to the piano. She took a breath, and her fingers descended. The strains of Chopin's E-flat major nocturne filled the room. She played well indeed—technically assured, emotionally nuanced. The light fell on her focused profile; for a moment, she was just a girl lost in music, her sharp edges softened.
Emilia sat in a corner armchair, sipping black coffee, the bitterness spreading on her tongue. She watched Kathryn, listened to the beautiful melody, but her mind wandered to the unfinished portrait in Theodore's studio, to what Elizabeth might have felt listening to this same piece.
The final notes faded. Polite applause followed. Kathryn's cheeks were faintly flushed. She looked toward Emilia, a hint of challenge in her eyes. *Well?*
"It was beautiful," Emilia said, with genuine appreciation. "Thank you, Kathryn."
Kathryn gave a faint, dismissive sniff and looked away, though the slight upward tilt of her mouth betrayed a sliver of gratification.
Just as the atmosphere seemed to thaw, Carlson entered silently. He bent slightly, murmuring to Margaret.
A perfectly measured look of surprise crossed Margaret's face, followed by resignation and apology. She turned to Emilia, her voice gentle yet clear enough for all to hear.
"Emilia, dear, Carlson says a parcel has arrived at the gatehouse for you… it appears to be from Illinois. Addressed to your former name and address. Perhaps an old friend or neighbor? Shall we have it brought in?"
*Illinois. Former name. Former address.*
The words were ice picks, abruptly puncturing the drawing room's fragile warmth. Every movement in the room stilled.
Matthew looked up. Isabella's eyebrow arched with curiosity. Theodore sat forward. Kathryn's eyes ignited with intense focus, locked on Emilia.
Emilia felt her heart clench violently. Blood seemed to rush to her head, then freeze solid a second later. But the hand holding her coffee cup remained steady in mid-air, not a single ripple disturbing its surface.
Margaret watched her with those pale blue, 'concern'-filled eyes, as if merely conveying a message and体贴地 seeking her preference.
Emilia met that gaze. Slowly, deliberately, she set her coffee cup back on its saucer. It made a soft, clear *ting*.
Then she lifted her face, allowing a look of mixed surprise and appropriate puzzlement to surface.
"Illinois?" She tilted her head slightly, her tone naturally hesitant. "I notified everyone I needed to when I left… Could it be misdirected? Or perhaps a renewal notice for an old subscription?" She looked to Carlson, her manner polite. "Mr. Carlson, would you be so kind as to check the sender information first? If it's from someone or some organization I don't recognize, please have it returned. I wouldn't want to impose on the household."
She deftly deflected. She neither panicked in denial (which would seem suspicious) nor showed eager curiosity (which would suggest guilt). Instead, she proposed a reasonable course of action that demonstrated a 'considerate' reluctance to burden the family.
Something flickered in the depths of Margaret's eyes, too fast to catch. She smiled. "How practical of you. Carlson, please do as Emilia asks."
"Yes, Madam." Carlson bowed and withdrew.