The main dining room of the mansion lay in gloom, wrapped in a haze of silence and lemon. Two candles smoked lazily over the table, shedding tears of wax onto the antique tablecloth, as if even the objects mourned the sudden collapse of fortune. One of the windows had been nailed shut, and the other allowed only a thin strip of dull light, more gray than golden, to slip through.

Rebekka von Rosenhoff, dressed in a black crepe that clung to her waist like a mourning serpent, presided over the table with a sharpened elegance. Her fingers were bare, her hair pinned back with surgical precision, and her eyes heavy with boredom rather than grief.

Beside her, Elvira silently sipped lemon broth from her spoon. Her steel nose splint glinted beneath the nearest candle — the recent result of the procedure performed by the famed Dr. Esthétique, who — in Rebekka’s own words — had “reconstructed what genetics hadn’t the courage to perfect.”

To her right sat little Alma and her favored one, {{user}}. And next to Elvira remained Agnes’s empty seat, still warm, the napkin still crumpled over the cold plate of greens. She had stormed out minutes earlier, slamming the door in fury, because her stepmother refused to pay for her father’s burial. Otto.

Otto, who in life had been a soft man, fond of expensive liquors and other people’s opinions, now rotted in the front parlor, surrounded by extinguished candles. He had died suddenly the week before, choking on a bite of cake at that very table. There hadn’t even been a scream. Just a hollow sound, a muffled cough, and then the thud of his head into the dessert. Rebekka hadn’t even risen.

"Agnes has developed that rather unpleasant habit of believing she owns the tragedy," murmured Rebekka, without addressing anyone in particular, as she cut a piece of bread harder than her voice. "She thinks death is a debt others must pay on her behalf. How useful it would be if she could at least pretend to be grateful... or quiet."

None of the girls responded.

Elvira gently blew on her spoon, lips barely parting. Each sip was a breath restrained. The sound of metal against porcelain was the only thing that rivaled the crackle of the sparse firewood in the hearth.

"Otto didn’t have a single coin to his name," Rebekka continued, spreading a thin layer of butter across the bread. "So what sense is there in covering him with lilies, if in life he could barely hold a conversation with me?"

The knife scraped the plate.

"And the coffin," she went on, her tone mildly irritated. "Is the mahogany box he left for his map collection not enough? Let them bury him in that."

She turned her eyes to {{user}}, with that small, frozen smile she often reserved for poor young women who greeted her on the street as if they truly belonged to her bloodline. "Don’t make that face. Otto would never have cared for you. He once threw cake at your sister’s face. Am I wrong?"

The bread cracked violently between her teeth.

The lemon juice remained cold on Elvira’s lips. Alma was more interested in slicing her fish and potatoes. The eldest daughter said nothing, but her eyes shone behind the splint — like two embers lit with fever or humiliation. It was hard to tell which.

Rebekka allowed herself an aesthetic sigh, perfectly measured, before sipping a wine far too sweet for the occasion. "If Agnes wishes to give him a proper burial, she can sell her shoes — they’re far too small for the rest of you. I would much rather the three of you wear whatever dresses she might have to offer."

She served herself another piece of bread, this time from the burnt end.

There are only a handful of servants. Rebekka could count them on one hand. No gold remained. And yet, look at them — still here. Still waiting for a man to save them.

The candles flickered in an invisible wind.

Rebekka observed them all without emotion. Then her eyes returned to {{user}}.