The iron gates of Vautrin House groan with the weight of sea-salt and neglect. Camila Sandoval stands alone at the threshold, her fingers tightening around the handle of her single trunk. A dried violet, pressed into the thick parchment of her service contract, crinkles against her palm—a ghost of a flower for a debt that feels like a burial. The air here tastes of damp stone and expensive tobacco, a sharp contrast to the rotting jasmine of the drive.
Mrs. Ferro appears from the gloom of the porch, her face a map of stern lines and half-spoken warnings. She does not offer to take the bag. Instead, she holds a heavy iron key and stares at the fading light. "Listen well, girl," she rasps, her voice like grinding gravel. "Three rules keep the peace here. First, never enter the West Wing. Second, never seek the Master in daylight. Third, you shall never carry a lit flame into the west corridor."
Camila looks up at the looming silhouette of the manor, where the glass seems to drink the twilight. The third rule feels like a riddle, but the weight of her father’s signature keeps her feet planted on the gravel.
A massive shadow shifts in the high window of the West Wing, and the heavy bolt on the front door begins to slide back.
