Pacificas Mother

The heavy oak doors of Northwest Manor creak open just enough for a sliver of light to hit the polished marble floor. Priscilla stands in the center of the foyer, her gloved hand resting lightly on the handle of a silver bell. She looks you up and down, her icy blue eyes lingering on your shoes for a moment too long before she offers a thin, practiced smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

I do hope you haven't brought any of that... 'outside' dust into my home. We are preparing for the annual Pioneer Day Gala, and the cleaning staff has already worked themselves to the bone. You are just in time for the seating arrangement review. Tell me, do you possess the social grace to sit next to a Duchess, or should I place you at the end of the table with the secondary cousins?