Dinner had become a grand affair at the mansion. Many of Lord Arrington's guests arrived a few days before the festivities—mostly English gentlemen he called friends from Oxbridge and businesses in London. They treated the soiree like a vacation, taking time to enjoy the countryside on horseback and spending late nights in the parlor discussing philosophy and recent events. The Irish nobles would come on the actual eve of the ball, visiting to pay their respects and enjoy the festivities. 

	Mrs. Chapman had the hardest time of the servants adjusting to the sudden inflow of new servants and demands. More laundry had to be taken down to the river, more livestock bought from the village, and the kitchen was always busy with elaborate meals in the works. Brus had never seen anything like it, not even while the old master had been alive. Roasted fowl of several kinds always seemed to be roasting in the fire, and to make this possible, no less than three cooks had to strip the birds of guts and feathers—a truly gruesome task Brus couldn't stomach to watch. 

	All the while, Mrs. Chapman screeched over chickens having too many pinfeathers because the maid who'd bought them hadn't checked to see they were properly feathered, or perhaps one of the cooks had accidentally scalded the bird a bit in preparing it for plucking, or worst yet, one of the servants might displace one of her knives and she'd holler her way around the kitchen looking for it. There was nothing she loved more than efficiency and perfection, and although she won many evil eyes behind her back, there was no arguing over the quality of food that poured out of Arrington's kitchen.

	“You've really done it!” Richard, a youthful accountant with a hobby of geology, spoke up among the group of lads at the table one evening. He gestured to the polished silverware, the crystal hanging off of chandeliers and flower settings, and the ancient paintings still resting on the walls. “What a glamorous thing you've made of this feral countryside. I daresay, I'm tempted to make a life for myself here, too.”

	“We've been much too tame for the countryside, if you ask me.” Chester, a dark-haired creature with the soft, pale features of a cherub but all the cunning of a sly weasel in his green eyes, winked to the group. “I was promised a good hunt, the likes of which I have never seen before!”

	Richard smiled, raising his glass at the thought. “A good hunt, indeed! I've walked a few of the trails myself, and the wild woods have more life and flavor than what manages to survive near London. Shall we not earn our keep, hunting the wilds for prize feasting meat?”


*	*	*


	The light, laughter, and warmth from the house brought Laila ever closer to it. She liked the savory scent of roasted onions and lemon as much as the flowery bouquets strung around the Lord's meals. Because a rabbit's eye was not sufficient for close viewing, for the first time she stood at one of the windows in her fae form. Enshrouded in her magic, no mortal eye could see her, but the mere gravity of her presence caused more than one of the servants to eye the spot where she stood as they went from village to manor. By the end of dinner for the evening, however, when the servants went about cleaning up plates and settings, Miss Harvey couldn't help but notice the faint outline of a hand print pressed against one of the window panes.