The Conway estate hadn't changed.
The gates were the same iron. The ivy was the same dead tangle on the stone. The fountain in the courtyard was still dry, had been dry for years, would probably be dry for more.
The butler opened the door before she could knock. He was older now, thinner, but the same man. He inclined his head. "Ms. Arianne. Madam is in the study."
She didn't need directions. The study was where it had always been. She walked through the foyer with its high ceilings and its dark wood and its portrait of her grandfather above the mantel. The same stern face. The same eyes that followed you around the room.
Evelyn Conway was behind the desk. The windows were amber with late afternoon light. The clock on the mantel was ticking — too loud, like it always was in this room.
Arianne sat down. She didn't wait to be offered the chair. She'd taken it the first time, and the second. She took it now.
Evelyn looked at her across the desk.
"Arianna Brennan."
