Part Thirty Four – The Elton Banquet
Raleigh, never one to turn down free delicacies, piled small biscuits and sugared buns onto his plate. "An opportunity of a lifetime," he muttered, licking crumbs from his moustache.
Albert, however, kept his hands folded neatly on the table, content to wait and watch.
The room itself reeked of excess. Pink and cream draperies cascaded from the ceiling like layers of cake icing, trimmed in gold tassels.
The air was sweet with honey and cinnamon, almost cloying, and the servants — boys and girls so perfect they seemed sculpted rather than born — moved in strict patterns, their eyes vacant, their steps measured like dancers in some grotesque ballet.
Then came the masters of the house. Lord Vaughan Elton entered first, his outfit layered absurdly: a velvet coat embroidered with tiny moons, silk gloves, and shoes so polished they reflected the ceiling lights. Beside him floated Lady Amelia Elton, pale as ivory, her gown of rose-gold satin shimmering as though woven from moonlight. She did not walk so much as glide, her eyes locking on Albert. The weight of her stare made his throat dry, as if she saw through him, probing for weakness.
"Detectives," Vaughan greeted, his voice buttery and false. "You honor our table." He clapped twice. A servant appeared instantly with a steaming teapot. "A special brew today, Master Albert. The Silver Petal Infusion — said to calm restless spirits."
Albert raised a hand politely. "No, thank you. I prefer—"
Amelia interrupted, her lips curling into the faintest smile. "Nonsense, It is not offered as a choice." She nodded, and one of the flawless servant girls leaned close, pressing a porcelain cup into Albert's hand with fingers that lingered too long. The tea was pale pink, almost glowing, perfumed with something floral and metallic.
Albert hesitated. Raleigh, already stuffing his mouth with sugared almonds, gave him a nudge and whispered, "Just drink it,They'll take offense."
So Albert lifted the cup, touched it to his lips — and immediately sputtered, choking as the taste hit him. It was wrong, sharp and metallic, like rust and perfume mixed together. He spat it back into the cup, coughing violently.
The effect was instant. Amelia's eyes widened as though he had just committed murder. Her pale hands trembled, then with a sudden shriek she seized the teapot and hurled it across the floor. It shattered, porcelain shards skittering, the liquid steaming as it spread.
The servants froze — then dropped to their knees all at once. Like animals, they pressed their faces to the floor and began licking the spilt tea, tongues dragging across the marble in long, synchronized strokes. The sound was hideous: wet slurps echoing in the cavernous room.
Albert pushed back in his chair, horrified. "What the devil—?"
Raleigh's mouth hung open, a half-chewed bun falling to his plate. "Sweet God…"
Amelia rose, her voice trembling but sharp. "He spat it out. He spat out the offering."
Vaughan Elton's face broke into a thin, satisfied smile. He did not move to stop the spectacle. Instead, he tapped his fingers against the table and cleared his throat with theatrical gravity.
Instantly, every servant froze mid-lick. They rose in perfect unison, their mouths smeared pink with tea, their eyes glassy. Without a word, they gathered the broken porcelain pieces, swept the crumbs, and even plucked the food from Raleigh's very fingers, retreating with eerie grace. Within moments, the table was bare — stripped clean of every plate, cup, and crumb.
Silence fell. Only Vaughan's smug voice lingered:
"Now," he said smoothly, his eyes gleaming as though he had orchestrated the entire grotesque performance, "we may begin."
Albert sat rigid, pulse racing, still tasting the metallic tang on his tongue. Raleigh swallowed hard, his appetite gone, his earlier enthusiasm curdling into dread.