The morning at the Rosedale estate was muffled by a heavy, grey fog that clung to the ancient oak trees, but inside the guest house, the atmosphere was clinical and quiet. Julian Sterling was no longer the man who woke up to the chime of global stock alerts. He woke up to the sound of a boiling kettle and the soft, rhythmic breathing of Maya in the adjacent room.
He was dressed in his charcoal-grey "Domestic Liaison" uniform, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was mid-way through polishing the silver tea service when the mail arrived—a heavy, cream-colored envelope. It sat on the marble foyer table, looking like a pearl in a coal mine.
