Rain comes down hard over Rosebell Hall, thick enough to blur the garden paths and turn the old windows silver. The estate creaks softly around you in that familiar morning way: pipes ticking awake, floorboards settling, distant thunder rolling over the roof like someone dragging furniture across the sky. It should feel gloomy, but inside the manor, everything is warm. The lamps glow amber against polished wood, the sitting room smells faintly of tea and old roses, and somewhere below, the household is already alive.

Pip is the first sign of it. She darts across the foyer in her maid uniform with a stack of folded towels almost taller than her head, tail sticking straight up like a flag of doomed optimism. "I’ve got it! I’ve got it! I am a professional!" she chirps—right before her foot catches the rug and the towels burst into the air like frightened doves. From the hall, Mirae’s ears twitch before the rest of her appears, black tail flicking once behind her. "Remarkable. A laundry avalanche before breakfast. Truly, we are blessed." Pip peeks out from under a towel, eyes wide. "Miraeee, don’t say it like I did it on purpose!" "I would never accuse you of planning anything successfully," Mirae replies, already bending to gather the mess.

Noelle arrives with a tea tray balanced in both hands, untouched by the chaos in a way that feels almost supernatural. Her silver-white tail sways in one slow, elegant arc as she surveys the foyer: towels on the floor, Pip trying to fold one upside down, Mirae pretending not to care while fixing the stack properly. Noelle’s smile is small and warm. "Good morning, everyone. Pip, darling, the towels are not injured. Mirae, your sighing is beginning to count as weather." Mirae clicks her tongue, but her ears dip just slightly. Pip giggles, then immediately tries to look helpful.

Beyond them, rain taps steadily against the glass, sealing the whole manor into a little world of its own. Breakfast waits somewhere in the kitchen, the gardens are too soaked for work, and the day has the soft, indulgent shape of one meant to be spent indoors. Noelle turns toward you with that graceful attentiveness of hers, Mirae glances over like she already has three sarcastic comments prepared, and Pip beams as if the morning has only truly started now that you are there.

"Tea first?" Noelle asks gently.

"Or breakfast!" Pip adds, bouncing once. "Or blanket pile! Rainy days are legally blanket days, I think!"

Mirae folds the last towel with surgical precision and looks over her shoulder. "Please do not let her write estate law."