Chapter 256:
“I aim for efficiency,” Aurora replied, reaching the bottom of the stairs. She didn’t curtsy, and she didn’t rush to shake hands. She waited, meeting the older woman’s gaze with equal weight.
“Posture like a young royal,” Madam Halloway murmured, almost to herself. Then, louder, “My son believes you are the salvation of his future. A heavy burden for one so young.”
“Sawyer tends to romanticize survival,” Aurora said, glancing at Sawyer with a small, knowing smile.
Just then, the double doors banged open.
Vivian Kensington entered. Or rather, she staged an entrance. She was leaning heavily on a cane, her left arm strapped to her chest in a sling. The nerve damage from the stabbing incident was real—her fingers curled uselessly against the silk of her sling—but the performance was entirely theatrical. She was wearing a white lace dress that screamed “innocent victim.”
“Oh!” Vivian gasped, limping dramatically, emphasizing the drag of her left leg more than necessary. “I didn’t know we had guests!”
Eleanor immediately rushed to her daughter’s side, guiding her as if she were made of spun glass. “Careful, darling! Your nerves! The doctor said any stress could impede the regeneration!”
Eleanor turned to Madam Halloway, beaming. “This is Vivian. The heart of this house. The resilient spirit of the Kensington legacy.”
Madam Halloway looked at Vivian. She looked at the cane. She looked at the dramatic limp. Her expression remained perfectly flat.
“Charmed,” Madam Halloway said, the word dropping like a stone in a pond.
They moved to the seating area. Tea was served.
This was the test. Again.
The butler placed the silver tea service on the low table.
Gal n o v el s . com is your destination for fiction
Eleanor reached for the pot, but Aurora was closer.
“Allow me,” Aurora said softly.
She lifted the heavy silver teapot. Her wrist didn’t tremble. She poured the amber liquid into the delicate bone china cups without spilling a single drop, the stream steady and silent. She added milk and sugar according to unspoken preferences she had observed during Madam Halloway’s last visit—no sugar for Cordelia, lemon slice on the side.
She placed the cup on the saucer without a sound. No clinking. No rattling. Just silence.
Madam Halloway watched Aurora’s hands. They were steady. Capable.
“You remembered,” Madam Halloway noted, taking the cup. “Most young people today have the memory of a goldfish.”
“Details matter,” Aurora replied, sitting back with a straight spine.
Vivian, sensing the attention shifting, cleared her throat. She pointed to a painting hanging above the mantle—a reproduction of a classical scene she had convinced Eleanor to buy.
“I’ve always loved this piece,” Vivian said, her voice breathy. “It really captures the essence of the Rococo period. So emotional.”
The room went quiet.
Sawyer bit his lip, looking down at his shoes. Eleanor nodded encouragingly.
Aurora took a sip of her tea. She didn’t look at Vivian. She looked at the painting.
“It is a lovely reproduction,” Aurora said gently. “But the heavy use of chiaroscuro and the dramatic tension… it’s actually Baroque. Likely inspired by Caravaggio’s school. Rococo would be lighter, more ornamental. More pastel.”
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