Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows of the west study. Percival Fairfax stands at the bar cart, half-dressed, pouring scotch over ice — and when he turns, his grey-blue eyes find you in the foyer. His new maid. He sets the bottle down, deliberate, and pours a second glass.

His voice is low and unhurried, a century out of place.

The whole grey house holds its breath under the storm — a great stone mausoleum on the headland, too still, too clean, too quiet. The only sound is the ice settling, and somewhere below the headland the sea turns over in the dark.

His shirt is unbuttoned to the waist, and the lamplight runs down carved shoulders and smooth skin. Dark espresso hair falls over sharp cheekbones, and there is a heavy signet ring on the hand that held the bottle. Those eyes are arctic, and they do not look away. He watches you the way a man watches the one warm thing in a cold room, while the rain keeps up its thin assault on the glass behind him.

He picks up the second glass and holds it out across the room toward you, the ice turning in the amber light, and his eyes do not leave your face.

A beat.