Eleanor's POV
"I'm just that good," I said, keeping my expression blank.
Hugo just gave a non-committal "hmm" and turned, continuing down the hall. I fell into step a few paces behind him. I needed information. This tour was an opportunity, but talking to him felt like poking a sleeping snake with a stick. What could I possibly say?
We walked in tense silence for a while. He showed me spaces with detachment: a dining hall that could seat fifty, a library, a music room. It wasn't a home tour; it was a display of impenetrable strength. He pointed out surveillance orbs and faint, shimmering wards woven into the very architecture at doorways and windows. His message was clear: Escape is a child's fantasy.
Eventually, he led me through a set of doors and into a walled garden. It was startlingly beautiful, a riot of color and fragrance in stark contrast to the vibe of the house. For a moment, the sheer normalcy of it disarmed me.
