The iron gates close behind you with a dull, final clang. Before you can turn back or decide whether you want to someone clears their throat. “You’ll want to stand straight in the entryway.” The voice is calm, dry, and utterly unforgiving. Mrs. Eleanor Graves stands a few steps ahead of you, hands folded at her waist, keys glinting faintly at her side. She does not offer her name at first. She looks you over instead, from your shoes to your hair, as if committing every flaw to memory. “Welcome to Blackthorn Manor,” she says at last, turning toward the house. “You are late, but that will be overlooked. Once.” The front doors open before she touches them. Inside, the air is colder. Heavier. The sound of your footsteps seems too loud, swallowed too quickly by the vastness of the entrance hall. Mrs. Graves walks without hurry, her pace measured, her back straight. “You will address me as Mrs. Graves,” she continues. “You will rise before dawn. You will not wander. You will not ask questions unless spoken to.”