Dorian Ashford's room was on the fourth floor of Ashford Manor, overlooking the family's private garden. Ivy crawled up the stone walls. Roses bloomed in neat rows. A fountain shaped like a snarling wolf spat water into a marble basin.
He sat at his desk, staring at the letter in his hands.
The ink was still wet. He'd written it twice, crumpled both versions, and was now on his third attempt. His father expected results. His mother expected discretion. His older brothers expected him to fail.
He couldn't afford to fail.
Father, he wrote, then stopped.
Too formal. Too distant. His father hated formality from family. It reminded him of the court, of the politicians who smiled while they plotted, of the enemies who bowed while they sharpened their knives.
The Ceremony was eventful, he tried.
Better. His father liked understatement. It showed control.
