Liam led her through the Palace's labyrinthine interior, his flashlight beam cutting swaths through the gloom, revealing the scale of Maya's inheritance not just as property, but as a vast, forgotten archive.
The kitchen was, as Liam had warned, a terrifying blend of eras. A gigantic, coal-burning range from the 1920s sat next to a commercial stainless-steel fridge from the 1990s that hummed with a death rattle. Copper pots hung from hooks, coated in grease and cobwebs.
"Chef Antoine runs a tight ship," Liam said, giving the fridge a gentle, warning kick. "He just runs it on his own schedule, and only for the five of us still on the books. We'll need a full-scale overhaul just to pass a health inspection."
"I see the problem," Maya said, her voice tight with professional anxiety. "We don't need a renovation, we need an exorcism."
From the kitchen, they moved into the Ballroom. It was a massive, high-ceilinged space where generations of Driftwoods had danced and celebrated. The floor was a parquet disaster, warped by ancient river floods that had seeped into the ground level. A grand piano sat in the corner, its ivory keys yellowed and silent.
"This is the money," Maya murmured, running her hand along a cool, cracked wall. "A perfect setting for weddings, corporate retreats, jazz festivals... once we stabilize the floor and restore the chandeliers. We could charge a premium."
"It's a beautiful room," Liam agreed softly, lifting his flashlight beam to the ceiling where remnants of gold leaf peeled away. "It hosted the last Governor's Ball in the state before the Palace was closed up five years ago. My grandfather played violin here for thirty years."
This small, personal detail gave Maya pause. "Your family is part of this place's history?"
"The O'Connells have been here since the Palace was built," he confirmed, his tone measured. "We're groundskeepers, handymen, bartenders. We're part of the silt, Maya. Unlike the Driftwoods, we don't leave."
The barb landed exactly where he intended it to, reminding her of her own five-year absence. She pivoted away, walking toward a small, unmarked side door. "Where does this lead?"
"The old Conservatory."
The air shifted as they entered. It was warmer here, wetter, smelling of damp earth and aggressive foliage. The Conservatory was a towering dome of grime-caked glass, now cracked in several places, allowing the wild Mississippi climate to reclaim the space. Vines had snaked through the breaks, wrapping around stone statues and choking the remnants of what must have been rare tropical plants. It was a ruin, beautiful and dangerous.
"This is breathtaking," Maya admitted, despite herself. "And completely compromised. The glass dome needs replacement. The humidity is destroying the structure."
Liam stepped around a fallen marble urn. "It used to be your mother's favorite spot. She'd sit here even after it started to fall apart. Said the outside world couldn't touch her here."
"My mother was good at surrounding herself with beautiful, decaying things," Maya said coolly, pulling her jacket closer. She didn't want to talk about Eleanor. She wanted to fix the dome.