The dining table was approximately the length of a bowling alley and just as welcoming. Silverware gleamed in precise arrangements. Crystal goblets sparkled with refracted light. A centerpiece featuring what appeared to be actual gold fruit sat in the middle, looking both expensive and entirely impractical—the kind of thing you couldn't eat and couldn't move without causing an international incident.
Evan eyed the chair at the head of the table. It was carved from dark wood and featured lions' heads on the armrests. The lions looked judgmental. Their stone eyes followed him as he approached.
"Will it...?" He gestured vaguely at the chair.
"The chair is reinforced, milord." Elara's voice was carefully neutral. "With... several reinforcements. Multiple layers of reinforcement. We've been very thorough."
"That's not reassuring. That's the furniture equivalent of 'we've done everything short of praying.'"
"We've also prayed, milord. The household chaplain blessed it this morning."
"...Great. Fantastic. I'm sitting in a miracle."
He sat. The chair held, emitting only a polite squeak of protest. The lion heads on the armrests looked slightly less judgmental now—more like they were cautiously optimistic about his continued existence.
Evan allowed himself a moment of triumph.
Then the first course arrived.
It floated.
Literally. The plate—bearing what looked like a poached egg wearing a tiny hat of hollandaise sauce—drifted through the air with the casual grace of something that had never heard of gravity. It settled before him with a soft click. The egg wobbled gently, its yolk glowing with soft golden light from within.
"It's enchanted," Evan said flatly.
"Yes, milord. For optimal temperature and presentation."
"The egg is wearing a sauce hat and glowing. 'Optimal presentation' is doing a lot of heavy lifting here."
"The chef takes pride in his work, milord."
"The chef has issues, Elara. Delicious, glowing issues."
He picked up a fork. It was heavier than expected, the silver cold against his fingers, engraved with tiny scenes of what looked like happy farmers harvesting wheat. He poked the egg. It jiggled merrily and made a sound like a tiny bell.
From the doorway, Emma appeared, leaning against the frame with the casual grace of someone who owned the place. Which, Evan supposed, she sort of did. She'd changed out of whatever she'd been wearing earlier into something that looked comfortable but expensive—a dark green dress that probably cost more than his old monthly rent.
"Enjoying your breakfast?" she asked. "The eggs are from sun-touched hens. They lay exactly one egg per day, at dawn, while singing."
"That's the most pretentious thing I've ever heard," Evan said. "And I once attended a wine tasting where they described a pinot noir as 'having notes of existential despair and a finish of quiet regret.'"
Emma's grin widened. She sauntered over and stole a piece of toast from his plate without asking. "You're fun. Everyone said you'd be all broody and tragic, like the last three Carter heirs. They wrote terrible poetry and died dramatically. One of them actually named his horse 'Sorrow's Lament.' The horse was very embarrassed about it."
"I can do dramatic," Evan said. "Watch."
He picked up a salt shaker. It was crystal, cut into facets that caught the light like tiny diamonds. He set it down gently.
The salt shaker didn't break. It didn't transform. It didn't even wobble. It just sat there, being a salt shaker, minding its own business.
Evan stared at it. Emma stared at it. Even the glowing egg seemed to hold its breath.
"Huh," Evan said. "Maybe I'm getting the hang of this."
He reached for the pepper mill. The moment his fingers touched it, the mechanism inside spun wildly, peppercorns shooting out like tiny black bullets. They peppered (pun fully intended) the tablecloth, the plate, Emma's stolen toast, and the centerpiece gold fruit, which now looked like it had developed a very aggressive seasoning.
Emma looked at her now thoroughly coated breakfast, then at Evan. Then she burst out laughing—a genuine, unguarded laugh that echoed off the too-fancy walls.
"Okay," she said, wiping a tear from her eye. "Definitely more fun than the poetry. The last heir just stared at walls and wrote sonnets about the moon. You're a one-man disaster show."
"That's... not the compliment you think it is."
"It absolutely is." She took a bite of her peppered toast. It was probably terrible. She didn't seem to care. "Welcome to the family, cousin. You're going to fit right in."
***