Discarded things, when sharpened properly, cut the deepest.
That was quite a fine line.
Very villainous.
I almost considered writing it down somewhere, perhaps on a plaque. Then I imagined my mother reading it, smiling that terrifyingly elegant smile of hers, and saying something dreadful like,
"How poetic, my son. Are you finally admitting that you have a tender heart?"
Hence, I discarded the idea immediately.
Some words were meant to remain thoughts. It was safer that way.
After returning from the Chapel of Saint Orwen, the estate entered a state of quiet activity.
There was no chaos. Never chaos. Chaos was what lesser households did when trouble knocked on their doors.
The Elysian Estate operated like a sharp blade being drawn from its sheath: silent, smooth, and deeply concerning for whoever stood on the wrong side of it.
The chapel's ledgers were brought into my study.
