Her eyelids lowered briefly.
“I removed the guests who forgot who owns the house.”
The access panel outside the library gave another soft chime.
Adrian turned toward the sound.
Margaret’s bracelets clicked as she gripped the arm of the chair. “That is not possible.”
Claire ended the call but did not put the phone away.
The room had become painfully quiet. The faint motor in the liquor cabinet hummed behind Margaret. Somewhere above them, old pipes shifted in the walls. Claire had spent four years learning which noises meant trouble and which belonged to the house. She knew the winter knock in the west stairwell, the whistle beneath the conservatory doors, the brief shudder from the dumbwaiter when its cable settled. She had once believed that knowing a house so closely could make it accept you.
Adrian looked at his phone. Notifications had begun to appear.
“What clause?” he asked.
Claire did not answer immediately. He knew about the clause. She could tell by the way he had asked—too sharply, too quickly, with his eyes already moving toward his mother.
Margaret noticed it too.
“Adrian?”
He rubbed a thumb along the side of his phone. “There were operational provisions.”