Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Yes, Percy.”
“The apple pie,” he begins, each word delivered with a careful enunciation that suggests he has already weighed the phrasing for maximum effect, “is cooling at a pace that may compromise its structural integrity.”
A faint smile touches my mouth. “We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
“Indeed not, sir.” A measured pause follows. “Additionally, your companion has taken the liberty of adjusting your place setting no fewer than three times, which I interpret as a signal of escalating impatience.”
I glance toward the corridor leading to the dining hall, where warm light spills across the polished floor. I had briefly forgotten about Svetlana waiting for us to have dessert. “Has she?”
“She appears eager,” Percy confirms diplomatically, “to prevent the ice cream from reaching a regrettable state of liquefaction.”
Percy’s diction and formalized way with words is a never-ending source of amusement for me. He’s been in my life long enough to anticipate not only my preferences but the exact times at which I might require gentle redirection. His delivery, though… it’s what makes Percy uniquely Percy. For example, he knows that I prefer two scoops of vanilla ice cream rather than one, that maple syrup—lightly warmed—is superior to caramel in both flavor and nostalgia, and that I like the crust to absorb just enough sweetness before I take the first bite. He has memorized the rhythms of my habits for the past thirty-one years and knows me probably better than I know myself. When my father first hired Percy, I was an impressionable thirteen-year-old, and since his passing four years ago, Percy’s been the steady rock amid the turmoil I’ve faced personally and professionally in this last decade.
“Thank you, Percy,” I say, pushing myself fully out of the past and into the present.
“Shall I inform Ms. Smirnova that you are on your way,” he asks, “or would you prefer to make an entrance unannounced?”
I smirk at him. “I think I can manage the walk on my own.”
A subtle lift of his brow suggests he finds this optimistic but acceptable. “Very good, sir.”
“You know you don’t have to call me sir, right, Percy?”
His tone is as droll as ever. “So you’ve told me at least a hundred times.” His eyes twinkle as a smirk spreads on his face, before he adds, “Sir.”
I chuckle as I leave him, moving down the corridor toward the dining hall, my footsteps echoing softly against the parquet floors. The house reveals itself as it always does in the periods of quiet—not ostentatious, but undeniably grand. The original crown moldings curve along the ceiling in elaborate sweeps of plasterwork, hand-carved garlands and cherubic faces frozen mid-celebration. The walls are paneled in deep walnut, polished to a subdued sheen that reflects the chandelier light in muted waves. Every archway bears the faint flourish of gilded detailing, a remnant of the era in which permanence was not only desired but expected.
This townhouse was built in a time when ambition was expressed in cornices and ceiling medallions, when wealth insisted on being both seen and remembered. Even now, it carries that air of Gilded Age confidence.
I step into the expansive dining hall. I’ve had countless meals here, both professional and personal. It has seen times of despair and times of exuberance. I hope the future holds more of the latter than the former.
The chandelier overhead casts a honeyed glow across the long mahogany table, illuminating the gold-leaf accents along the ceiling’s ornate medallion. Heavy velvet drapes frame the tall windows, sealing out the November chill and cocooning the space in warmth.
At the far end of the table sits Svetlana.
She’s already halfway through her first bite of pie. A single, pristine slice rests on delicate porcelain before her, unaccompanied by ice cream. She once informed me that proper pastry requires no embellishment.
Opposite her, my place setting awaits.
The slice is generous, the crust golden and precise. Two perfectly rounded scoops of vanilla ice cream lean gently into the warm filling, already beginning their slow surrender. A thin ribbon of warmed maple syrup glistens across the top, catching the chandelier light in amber streaks.
I take my seat, noticing that the ice cream has reached precisely the point of softness I prefer—no longer rigid, not yet dissolved.
“Apologies for the delay,” I say, reaching for my fork.
Svetlana’s gaze lifts to meet mine, assessing and faintly amused.
“I wondered,” she replies, her voice smooth and accented, “whether you might have followed him into the street.”
We eat. Not in silence, but in the easy rhythm of two adults who understand the choreography of evenings like this. The silverware moves in counterpoint against porcelain. Outside, the city seems distant, muffled by velvet drapes and thick glass.
Svetlana asks about the Vipers’ upcoming home game, and the media chatter surrounding a potential trade rumor that’s been circulating for weeks. She follows the business of the league more closely than most assume and does so with genuine curiosity rather than social obligation.