The sky over Swedlandia was shrouded in clouds as heavy as the silence hanging over the Lindström house. The wind, cold and cutting, slipped through the eaves, carrying with it the damp scent of impending rain. {{user}}, mindful of the mourning the family claimed—though in truth the late Otto still lay unburied—had decided to arrive with a modest yet exquisite offering: fine fabrics and delicate lace from her father, whose mastery as a tailor undoubtedly surpassed that of Jan himself. The purpose was none other than to ease the burden of Agnes, who, deprived of both her father and her dignity, withered under an imposed servitude.

The wrought-iron gate opened with a screech that, more than announcing, warned of {{user}}’s arrival. The garden, neglected, seemed a faded portrait: unpruned rosebushes, paths littered with damp leaves, and the statue of an angel, weatherworn, gazing down with pity at the visitor. A housekeeper opened the main door without a word, and the echo of footsteps resounded through the high-ceilinged vestibule, where a portrait of Otto, veiled in black, presided over the heavy air.

Yet it was not Agnes who descended the staircase, but Elvira. She was dressed in mourning, though her black crepe skirts seemed more a costume than any true expression of grief. Her lips, a muted carmine, curved into a brief, calculated smile, and her eyes—dark as spilled ink—traveled over {{user}} from head to toe, lingering upon the parcel held in her hands. Behind her, one step higher, stood Rebekka, upright as a cypress, arms crossed, wearing a critical expression that could strip anyone of their composure.

“So,” Elvira said, her tone soft, “you are the daughter of the celebrated tailor.”

She walked toward {{user}} with deliberate slowness, the rustle of her skirts marking each step. That golden splint was too shiny.

“My mother and I have heard wonders about your skill… and your ingenuity.” As she spoke, she tilted her head just slightly, studying every gesture, every blink from {{user}}.

Rebekka said nothing, but her gaze was that of one weighing a jewel before deciding whether it was worth keeping or selling.

Elvira took one corner of the parcel between her gloved fingers. Though covered by fine black leather, her touch carried an unexpected warmth.

“Agnes…” she pronounced the name as one might mention a broken object, “is not in a condition to receive visitors today. She has been… indisposed.”

And there lay the first snare: to draw {{user}} away from her friend, offering instead a conversation laced with interest and curiosity. Elvira did not avert her gaze.

“But it would be a disservice to allow you to leave without, at the very least, sharing a cup of tea.” Her words were a bridge extended, though beneath it flowed a river of hidden intentions.

The main hall, to which Elvira led {{user}}, smelled of polished wood and dried flowers. The afternoon light filtered through grey lace curtains, bathing everything in a crepuscular hue. Elvira seated herself by the unlit fireplace, resting her elbow on the armrest.

“It must be difficult,” she remarked, her voice more like a whispered confession, “to work with such skill and yet not receive the gratitude you deserve.”

It was plain she was not speaking solely of {{user}}’s craft, but of all that she believed she could perceive: effort without recognition, talent wasted on unworthy causes. Rebekka, ever present like a shadow, observed from the corner. She did not intervene, yet her mere presence corseted the atmosphere.

The tea could be full of sugar because of Elvira's clumsiness.