The morning of the parent-teacher conference did not dawn; it erupted.
If the previous morning had been a "military operation," this was the aftermath of a supply line ambush. The estate, usually a place of ancient, brooding dignity, was currently a staging ground for a domestic crisis. The air was thick with the scent of burnt sourdough, lavender-scented laundry starch, and the faint, ozone-heavy crackle of eight children whose nervous systems were currently operating on a frequency usually reserved for lightning strikes.
"I can't find my left shoe!" Claire wailed from the top of the grand staircase, her body flickering so rapidly she looked like a glitch in a high-definition movie. "It was right here, and then I blinked, and now it's... it's in the ethereal plane!"
