Julian wanted to improve the family's image with linen, storytelling, and smiles. He called it a luncheon of "human interest," while I saw it as a four-course exercise in apology. Either way, I had to perform acts of contrition with small forks.
The dining tent on the east lawn looked like a stage set Julian would love. white tents and linens, with faces perfectly lit for photos. Photographers were ready to "accidentally" stroll by, and volunteers were coached to cry just enough.
I adjusted my sleeve and tried to feel humble.
Sebastian appeared next to me like he had just been summoned. He moved with an elegance that seemed unfair, making an empty room feel instantly lively. "Miss Hartwell, the schedule calls for a brief speech and a sincere expression," he whispered. "I've noted where to applaud."
I met his gaze. "Helpful. For the tabloids' choreography."
"Tabloids enjoy choreography and sincerity. Staged sincerity is the hardest to pull off," he replied.
I didn't ask how he knew this. I just reminded myself to pay attention.
The cameras prowled gently around us. Julian acted as the eager director, whispering cues to the volunteer organizer. I stepped forward, smiled with the right amount of remorse we had practiced, and said the words about redemption and growth. Applause followed, along with a few polite questions and smiling faces. Meanwhile, Sebastian stood in the background like a good prop visible but not in the way.
Then, a man in a sober suit laughed too loudly at a joke that wasn't funny. He had the air of someone who expected to be listened to. I watched him instead of focusing on my speech. His laugh sounded familiar, the same rhythm I had noticed in the photograph Sebastian showed me. It took a moment for my stomach to register the possibility.
After the luncheon, while volunteers cleared tables cheerfully, I wandered with a cup of lukewarm tea and the intention to listen. Small talk hid my true intent.
"Lovely event," the suited man said as he came closer, as if we were old friends. "A good bit of theater for a good cause." His eyes moved toward my lapel, where the faint outline of the Hartwell crest caught the sunlight.
"Good causes and theaters often need careful directors," I replied. "Who are you with?"
He introduced himself as a trustee for a charitable foundation that, interestingly, Hartwell had donated to in the past. He casually mentioned the name "Rosegate," which surprised me. My heart started racing.
Rosegate. The ledger had no clear entry labeled as such, it hid names like fossils. I forced my face into a look people call "interest" and asked him more about Rosegate. He smiled like a man who was both casual and purposeful but offered no helpful information.
After he walked away, I found a quiet bench and pulled out my phone. The photograph Sebastian had given me lay open in my gallery, my father younger, Sebastian younger, and a street sign half-visible. The back had faint writing, Rosegate 2015. The date matched a year my father called "noisy and useful." I tucked my phone away and felt the house tilt slightly closer, as if it were listening to what i said.
Back inside, the staff moved swiftly, Mrs. Dalloway reprimanded someone about crumbs with the precision of a surgeon. Julian organized the press schedule into neat boxes. Sebastian watched me with the same quiet patience he used when folding napkins.
"You saw him," he said softly when I returned to the library. It wasn't an accusation, just a confirmation.
"I did," I replied. "Rosegate." The word lingered between us.
He nodded slowly. "Rosegate is in one of the ledgers, but not under that name. Your father liked to use aliases."
"Why?" I said.
"Because power moves easier when it hides behind paper," he explained. "And people follow paper more than they follow people."
That night, he felt more like a teacher to me than a servant. I looked at him and, for the first time, saw the boy in the photograph, not the smirk, but someone who had kept a secret ledger of his own. "You said you owed a favor," I said. "Do you think Rosegate is the reason?"
He gazed out the window. "I believe Rosegate is part of it. I think your father used it to settle debts and form alliances. Someone else benefited from it, and that someone might want to keep benefiting from it."
The library felt colder. I wanted to express everything I didn't understand.
I gripped the ledger page tightly, it felt soft from years of use. "Who?" That single word came out sharper than I meant.
Sebastian's silence lasted so long that it felt like an answer.
Before I could ask him more, I heard a low creak from the hallway, too heavy for the usual nighttime sounds of Hartwell. We both turned to listen. The house settled again, but the quiet felt different, it felt... alive.
Sebastian moved quickly to open the library door. The corridor was empty. No footsteps. Just a thin draft bringing the faint scent of cedar and rain.
Then I heard a soft tap, metal on wood, from the west wing. Once. Twice. It sounded like a secret knock.
My father's dressing room.
Sebastian looked at me. "You're not the only one following a trail tonight."
Before I could reply, the hall light flickered and steadied. Somewhere beyond the dark portraits, another door closed quietly.
I set the ledger on the table, my heart started racing. Whoever made that sound was already in Hartwell.
Sebastian returned to the room, his voice low. "If you go after that, Miss Hartwell, you can't pretend you don't want the truth."
I swallowed, tasting cold paper and adrenaline. The west wing called to me, shadows stretching like an invitation.
For the first time that evening, I wasn't sure if I wanted to find the answer, or if the answer was already coming for me.