The glass neck of the Malbec is a frozen rod against Margaux’s palm. She pulls her coat tighter, the wool scratching against her throat as the Cotswold wind whips across the gravel driveway. Above, the farmhouse looms like a hunched shoulder against the violet dusk, its windows glowing with a deceptive, honeyed warmth.
Lavinia’s invitation had been firm: six sharp, no excuses. Yet the driveway is eerily empty of the usual Range Rovers and sleek sedans. Margaux hesitates, her heels crunching on the frost-slicked stone. She catches the scent of woodsmoke and something sharper, like metallic ozone, carried on the gale. Inside, the shadow of a single chair flickers against the drawing room curtain, but the silence from within is a physical weight.
She steps onto the porch, the bottle clinking softly against her silver rings. A sense of performance usually governs these evenings—the wine, the gossip, the literary posturing—but tonight the stage feels abandoned. Margaux raises her fist to knock, but the heavy oak door begins to drift open on its own.
