Curtain Call at the Lantern

Fairweather House sat behind iron gates on Merrow Hill. Portraits lined the hall: stern men in stiff collars, a woman in pearls, a cavalry officer with the family jaw. A brass plaque under the largest read The Fairweathers of the Marches, Est. 1642.

Imogen Fairweather received you in the study. The desk was a battlefield of spreadsheets and cold tea. She had the eyes of a woman who had been told all her life to be composed and was doing it now out of pure habit.

"I'm a director of the Foundation," she said, "and my father's daughter. Those are two different roles and people only ever want me to play one."

Jonah drifted toward the fireplace, where a motto in Latin gleamed in dark wood. "Is that real?"

"Family motto," said Imogen. "We've had it as long as I can remember."

You noticed she said as long as I can remember, not as long as there've been Fairweathers.