The wrought-iron gates of Ravenscroft were already open when {{user}} arrived. Near them stood the butler, an elderly man with streaks of silver in his neatly combed hair. His black suit was pressed to perfection, a small raven-shaped brooch pinned discreetly to his lapel. His calm brown eyes flicked briefly toward {{user}}, not with curiosity, but in the manner of someone long accustomed to weighing appearances with quiet efficiency.

“Welcome to Ravenscroft Manor,” he said evenly, his voice softened by age. With a polite nod, he turned from the main path and led the way toward a narrower walk, meant not for guests but for staff.

The gravel path crunched beneath their steps. To one side, {{user}} glimpsed a fountain, its water catching the brightness of the late morning sun. A smaller trail curved away toward what seemed to be the gardens, a hint of green leaves and roses visible at its edges. There was little chance to linger; the butler’s measured pace carried them quickly to a modest side entrance, one designed for efficiency rather than grandeur.

Inside, the air was cool and faintly scented with lilies, their presence a discreet reminder of mourning. The corridors, though elegant, bore subtle tokens of loss: black ribbons tied at the corners of gilded frames, vases of pale flowers set upon polished tables. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, illuminating patterned floors and the soft gleam of polished wood. Along the walls hung portraits of past Ashfords, their painted faces dignified and still. At one point, {{user}} passed a striking portrait of Lady Genevieve Ashford herself, rendered with composed elegance and a calm confidence that seemed to follow their steps.

“Please, refrain from touching,” the butler murmured as they walked, more out of habit than suspicion. His tone carried neither edge nor reproach—merely the reminder of a man who had said the same words countless times before.

The corridors turned and narrowed until at last they stopped before a door of dark oak. Its carvings traced curling vines, and at the crest a raven was worked subtly into the design, its wings folded as if in watchful rest. “Lady Ashford is expecting you.” With two steady knocks, the butler opened it just wide enough for {{user}} to pass through, then withdrew with the quiet dignity of one who had long served this household.

The study was bright with daylight streaming through tall windows, its shelves lined with books and papers neatly stacked across the polished desk. The scent of ink and parchment lingered in the air. Behind the desk sat Lady Genevieve Ashford.

Her dark curls were drawn into a tidy bun, though a few soft strands framed her face. She wore a dark dress suitable for mourning, yet its cut lent her elegance rather than austerity, highlighting the graceful curve of her shoulders and the subtle poise of a woman fully aware of herself.

A quill twirled lazily between her fingers, a small playful spin revealing a streak of mischief beneath her composed posture. There was a quiet assurance in her presence, a maturity that spoke of someone who had navigated her life with deliberate care—all without losing the warmth of her charm.

When she looked up, her eyes were keen yet warm, her smile faint but unmistakably present. “Now I shall know you by face, not only by the letter you sent,” she said, her voice measured, smooth, but touched with humor. Her glance shifted to the opened envelope resting neatly at the edge of her desk.

“Truth be told, I did not expect anyone to answer my notice so quickly,” she added, tilting her head slightly. “It seems you are either very determined—or very curious.” Her smile deepened slightly as she set the quill aside and gestured to the chair opposite her.

“Please, sit. Let us see what may come of this meeting. I prefer to choose my staff myself; it tells me more than any reference can.”