The gates were iron lace, black and gold, towering twenty feet into the air. They swung open silently, admitting the convoy into a world that didn't obey the laws of physics Estelle knew.
Here, leaves didn't seem to fall. Dirt didn't exist.
The driveway was two miles long. Estelle counted the seconds. It took five minutes just to get from the gate to the front door.
When the car finally stopped, it was in front of a fountain. A marble statue of a woman pouring water stood in the center. The water was crystal clear.
"Come on," Eleanor said, opening the door.
Estelle stepped out. Her sneakers looked like insults against the paving stones.
A double line of people stood on the steps. Maids in black and white uniforms. Men in suits. They stood rigid, hands clasped behind their backs.
"Welcome home, Miss Estelle," a man at the front said.
He was older, with silver hair and a tuxedo that fit him perfectly. Winston. The butler.
Estelle panicked. She didn't know what to do. In the foster homes, when adults lined up like this, it meant inspection. It meant you stood still and hoped they didn't find lice.
She bowed. A clumsy, jerky motion. "I... I'm clean. I mean, I will be. I promise."
A ripple of shock went through the line of staff. A maid near the back covered her mouth.
Winston's face softened. His professional mask slipped, revealing deep, aching pity. He stepped forward, ignoring protocol, and offered her a hand.
"You are perfect, Miss," he said gently.
Just then, the second SUV pulled up. The back opened.
Buster jumped out.
The staff gasped and scattered. Two maids shrieked. The dog was a scarred, muscular brute in a world of porcelain and silk. He let out a low, rumbling bark, confused by the smells.
"Buster!" Estelle cried.
She broke away from Winston and ran to the dog. She dropped to her knees on the driveway, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"It's okay, boy. Shhh."
Under her hands, the dog went limp. He sat down, leaning his heavy weight against her thigh. He looked at the terrified servants and yawned.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A sound came from the top of the stairs. Heavy. Rhythm.
The massive front doors opened.
An old man stepped out. He leaned on a cane with a gold handle shaped like a lion's head. He wore a three-piece suit, even though he was in his own home. His white hair was swept back, revealing a face that was severe, lined with power and age.
Alistair Bridges. The patriarch.
The air seemed to get thinner. Even Arthur straightened his spine.
Alistair stood at the top of the stairs, looking down. His eyes were like lasers. They swept over the cars, the staff, his son, and finally landed on the dirty girl kneeling on the pavement with a fighting dog.
Estelle felt the weight of his gaze. It was heavy, like a stone.
She knew that look. It was the look of a judge.
She instinctively tried to hide. She shifted her body, trying to put Buster between her and the old man. She used the dog as a shield, peering over his scarred back, waiting for the order to leave.
