Breakfast at the Arlen estate was not for the faint of heart.
For one, the table was ridiculously long. So long, in fact, that if you sat at one end and whispered a scandalous secret, it would take at least three maids, a footman, and possibly a trained messenger pigeon to deliver it to the other end.
Secondly, everyone in the family was seated like chess pieces—strategically positioned, postures flawless, eyes sharp.
And this morning, amidst all the gleaming silverware and the polite clinking of china, there sat Lyria.
Or rather, the girl who should have been Cecilia Von Arlen.
I could feel it even before the first course was served. The weight in the air. Like every member of my family had been collectively holding their breath since yesterday's interrogation, and today's breakfast was just another battlefield disguised under lace tablecloths and poached eggs.