The hall was in deep desolation. Just hours ago, it had been a place of music, laughter, and the clinking of crystal glasses. Now, the silence was heavy and oppressive, broken only by the soft clink of silverware being cleared away by terrified servants. The air smelled of stale wine, extinguished candles, and the lingering, bitter scent of public humiliation.
Maids moved quickly, heads bowed, sweeping up the dirts of a celebration that had turned into a funeral for a reputation. They avoided looking at the grand staircase. They avoided looking at each other. The shame of the Thompson family hung over the house like a thick, grey fog.
But the true storm was raging in the private drawing room.
