Chapter 23 - THE EMPTY STUDY
Back at the Valente estate, the grand hall was bathed in the pale, cold light of late November. The marble floors had lost their high gloss; without the constant daily friction of dozens of couriers, enforcers, and supplicants tracking through the front doors, the stone had taken on a dull, dignified gray, like the floor of an old church between services.
Mrs. Gately, the housekeeper, moved through the corridors with a silent, methodical grace, dusting the bronze figurines and turning off the chandeliers that no longer needed to burn at midday.
She stopped outside the study door.
The door stood open an inch. Inside, the mahogany desk was entirely bare. The shipping reports were gone. The crystal paperweight had been packed away in a cardboard carton by the federal receivers. Only one thing remained: the small green clay flowerpot sitting precisely in the center of the green leather blotter.
The mint plant had flourished. Five long, vibrant green stems now arched over the rim of the pot, their leaves catching the thin autumn sunlight that filtered through the tall west window.
May you like
Mrs. Gately reached out and touched the edge of the pot, then glanced instinctively toward the corner by the door where the small wooden chair with the scuffed back legs still sat in quiet isolation. For four years, she had watched a three-year-old child drag that chair across the floor to watch the rain fall on the boxwood hedges. Now, the chair remained untouched, its worn front edge shining faintly in the dim afternoon light.
She didn't clean the desk. She didn't move the plant. She simply pulled the study door half-closed, locked the brass latch from the outside with a soft, definitive click, and walked down the long, empty hall toward the kitchens.
