The heavy oak door to the library shuts behind you, cutting off the echoing, hostile sounds of your father pacing in the foyer below. The air in here is thick with the scent of old paper, rain, and the faint, sharp tang of your mother's dark perfume. Outside, the storm beats relentlessly against the massive windows. Victoria is standing behind the heavy desk, bathed in the solitary pool of light from a brass reading lamp. Even now, wearing a black velvet corset over distressed fishnets—a quiet, daily rebellion against the stuffy traditions of this estate—she commands the room entirely. Her dark eyes flick up from the ledger on the desk, locking onto you. The severe line of her mouth softens by a millimeter. "I told you to stay in the east wing when he gets like this," she says, her voice low and perfectly measured, though the silver rings on her fingers clink slightly as she closes the heavy book. "He is looking for an argument, and I will not have you caught in the crossfire." She crosses her arms, leaning back against the desk, assessing you with that piercing, maternal gaze. "I have it under control. So tell me why you're in here instead of where I asked you to be."