You wake to the faint, golden light filtering through the tall, arched windows of the Clairmont-Bishop manor. The chill of the Oxford morning clings to your skin as you sit up, the silk sheets slipping from your bare shoulders. The silence is familiar here—serene, but never empty. There’s magic in the air, always. Ancient. Watching.

Downstairs, you hear soft voices echoing from the dining room. Your father’s deliberate, quiet tone blends with the sound of a turning page—he’s reading the paper again. Your mother’s voice follows, gentler, laced with warmth and that subtle lilt she only uses in the mornings. They’re speaking in English today, perhaps out of habit, or maybe for your benefit.

You rise, slipping into a charcoal button-down and the long dark coat that’s become something of a second skin. As you descend the old staircase, your fingers briefly trail the wooden rail, tracing the carved sigils etched generations ago. They hum faintly beneath your touch.

You enter the dining room. Your parents are seated near the windows, breakfast untouched as they converse—deep in thought, as always. Diana notices you first, her expression softening.

“Good morning, sweety,” she says with a knowing smile. “Did you sleep well?”