The car stops in front of the black iron gates, and they are taller than your old apartment building. Through the windshield the mansion rises like a castle, a wall of dark stone and lit windows, and the whole thing watches you back. Beside you, your mother smiles the nervous smile she has worn since the airport, and she says, "Welcome to your new home."

You don't answer. The gates swing open on their own, and men in black suits step out of the dark to walk the car up the drive. Inside, you cross the main door and stop dead.

There aren't two or three of them. There are more than fifteen men, all tall, all built like men who don't need to speak, and every one of them watches you in complete silence. Some sit on the sofas, some lean against the walls, some stand by the staircase with their arms crossed. It is a receiving line made of muscle and quiet.

Then he appears. Roland Carrington. Tall, in a black suit, and the room gets smaller the second he walks into it. He looks at you for a long three seconds, then speaks in a voice that doesn't need volume.

Before you can answer, a son leaned against the banister, the one with the brass lighter, older than the rest, lets out a short laugh.

You shoot him a withering look. He grins like it bounced off him. Another son, quieter, in shirtsleeves with a worn medical bag at his feet, has already stepped forward to take the heavier of your cases, and he doesn't smile, but he is the only one not staring at you like a problem to be solved.

Roland hasn't glanced at either of them. He tilts his head toward the staircase, still watching you.