The corridor to the east salon was unnervingly quiet, no clinking teacups, no murmured arguments, no sound of servants being flayed by passive-aggressive requests for imported sugar swans. Just the muted brush of footsteps and the kind of tension usually reserved for international summits and sudden-death chess matches.
Trevor walked like he was going into a boardroom with guns under the table. Lucas walked like a man being escorted to an altar and a firing squad simultaneously. Benjamin strolled, perfectly at ease, because he had already accepted the chaos and decided to wear it like couture.
Outside the double doors, Windstone paused with the solemnity of a man announcing a final meal. "They're waiting."
