"To be statues," Adelle finished, promptly freezing in place with one arm mid-toast and an expression that could only be described as 'Michelangelo's Confused Niece.'
"She has a point," Shen murmured. "That doorbell had rhythm. Like it was rehearsed."
Flynn quietly tucked his napkin into his shirt like a makeshift battle bib. "If it sings, I'm out."
Lady Summers stood with the kind of grace usually reserved for queens or trained jaguars. "I'll get it. And if it's another interpretive dance telegram from Eva, I will not hesitate to unleash the garden hose."
The family watched with collective breathlessness as she glided to the door, heels clicking ominously like a countdown to chaos.
She opened it.
And there stood… a man in a velvet cape, holding a clipboard and what appeared to be a medieval lute.
"Good morning," he boomed with Broadway-level enunciation. "I am Dimitri Vivaldi, professional apology bard. I've been sent here on behalf of Eva Summers."
