The Ashford Mansion was larger and more imposing than the image Richard had pieced together from memory.
The four-story stone structure faced west, built from the limestone common in the Imperial Capital.
The main entrance was a pair of dark oak doors, and above the lintel was carved the Ashford family crest: an oak tree and a standing lion, identical to the one on the letterhead.
A doorman stood on each side of the entrance, staring straight ahead, motionless. They were no different from a pair of clothed pillars.
Three carriages and an old-fashioned motor car were parked against the wall in the courtyard.
The car was even more impressive than the Grey family’s Alves. Its deep black body was outlined in gold, the door handles were silver-plated, and its brass headlamps gleamed.
Richard quickly processed the environmental details.
This was an upper-class family of considerable standing. Perhaps not on par with the top-tier houses connected to the Royal Family by marriage, but their accumulated resources and connections were undoubtedly substantial.
His father paid the fare, and with a flick of the reins from the driver, the carriage clattered away down the gravel road.
The family of four stood before the Ashford Mansion.
The moment she set foot on the steps, his mother’s expression changed.
The change was subtle, but Richard saw it all.
She switched from the relaxed state she had with her family to a different persona.
It was a mask she had been taught to wear since childhood. Once she entered this house, the mask had to be firmly in place.
His father followed silently behind. He took his right hand out of his pocket, then put it back in, his thumb rubbing against the seam of his trousers.
Back at the factory in Brighton, he was the respected Rogers Williams, an engineer.
Here, he was just "the man Margaret married."
Evelyn stuck close to her brother, tugging on the corner of his coat. "I don’t like it here."
"Me neither."
The doormen pulled open the oak doors.
A butler in a black suit emerged from a side hall.
"Miss Margaret, the master is waiting in the drawing room." The butler turned to the side, gesturing for them to enter.
The family of four walked down a long corridor, its walls lined with portraits of past members of the Ashford Clan.
The subjects in the paintings were dressed in the fashions of their respective eras, from old-world nobles in wigs and high-heeled shoes to modern figures in suits holding canes, arranged generation after generation.
An old man was seated in the master’s chair, directly facing the entrance to the room.
He was rail-thin, and even while seated, his spine was as straight as a calibrated plumb line, stretched taut from the crown of his head to his tailbone without the slightest curve.
"Margaret."
"Father." His mother gave a slight bow.
The old man glanced her up and down. "You don’t look well."
"The weather in the North is rather cold. My old ailments are acting up again."
"Mm."
The difference in his attitude toward each of the four family members was stark.
He showed some consideration for his daughter, Margaret—after all, she was his direct bloodline—but that was the extent of it.
In his eyes, his son-in-law was no better than a roadside weed.
His gaze slid right past Rogers to land on his granddaughter.
"Good afternoon, Grandfather." The little girl’s voice was bright, her appearance endearing.
"Evelyn, you’ve grown so much." The old man’s expression softened slightly.
Richard also gave a slight bow. "Grandfather."
Gerald didn’t speak, his gaze locking onto his grandson.
A Coiner will flick a new coin on his fingertip, listening to its ring and feeling its weight to judge how much copper and silver it contains.
When the old man’s gaze fell upon him, Richard’s first sensation was that he was being weighed in just such a manner.
The Ether emanating from the old man was exceedingly controlled, contained so cleanly that its edges were as neat as pages trimmed by a paper knife.
But the moment that Ether gently brushed against him, he felt as if he were standing directly beneath a dam’s open floodgate.
The warmth in his chest trembled violently. His lungs felt as though they were being squeezed from both sides by an invisible hand, and his diaphragm spasmed.
But the pressure came and went in a flash, so quickly he had no time to mount any defense.
The old man’s gaze had already shifted away. The entire exchange had taken no more than two seconds.
Behind him, his father was quietly confirming with the butler where to put the luggage.
His mother had turned to fix the crooked bow on Evelyn’s shoulder. No one had noticed what he had just experienced.
"Sit."
Gerald raised a hand, gesturing toward the sofa.
After confirming the results of his test, a new weight of consideration entered his gaze.
The butler, standing by the door, took all of this in.
He had served in the Ashford Mansion for thirty years and was more skilled at reading his master’s face than reading a book.
When the master saw someone as a weed, the butler treated them like air. He would offer the requisite courtesy, not an ounce less, but never an ounce more of attentiveness.
When the master saw someone as a potted plant, he would offer a smile, serve a cup of tea, and maintain all the proper appearances.
But when the master looked at someone and leaned forward, away from the back of his chair...
...the butler silently moved the name ’Young Master Richard’ from the bottom of his mental list to a position much nearer the top.
Evelyn hadn’t noticed any of this. She just felt that they had all been standing for far too long.
Her grandfather’s drawing room was large, and there were plenty of sofas. All she wanted now was to find a place to take her shoes off.
Gerald watched his granddaughter’s fidgeting and seemed to recall something.
He retrieved a rectangular gift box from his side, printed with the logo of the famous confectionery, "Valentine."
It was unclear when the box had been placed there; perhaps it had been ready from the very beginning.
"Evelyn." The old man held out the box.
The girl, who had been engrossed in studying the tips of her shoes, jumped when her name was suddenly called.
"Ah? Oh, Grandfather." She looked up.
Seeing the box he was offering, she started to reach for it, then stopped.
Evelyn glanced sideways at her mother.
Margaret gave a slight nod.
"Thank you, Grandfather!" Evelyn accepted the gift box, her smile genuine and pure.
She had a rough idea of the price of these chocolates from what she had heard from her friends.
A gift box from Valentine started at five shillings for the cheapest variety.
This one, with its satin finish and gilt clasp, would only be more expensive.
The old man nodded, then instructed the butler at his side, "Arrange for the guest rooms."
The butler bowed slightly and turned to the family.
"If you’ll please follow me. You may rest in your rooms for a while. Dinner will be served at half past six."
As he turned to lead the way, his pace was half a beat slower than when he had greeted them at the entrance. At the corridor’s corner, he even made a point of bowing deeply as he turned.
Even Evelyn noticed, though her observation was a bit different:
"Brother, he wasn’t walking this slowly at the door just now, was he?"
"Maybe he has bad knees," Richard replied offhandedly.
"Then why are they suddenly bad?"
"He’s getting old. They probably act up from time to time."
Evelyn looked skeptical but didn’t press the issue, her attention completely captivated by the box of chocolates in her arms.

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