Summary
A celluloid footman in white gloves ushers us into the gilded chaos of the Treadwell mansion, where chandeliers tremble like guilty consciences and the soup tureen hides a letter that could guillotine a dynasty. Arthur Nowell’s manicured valet, Crichton, glides through corridors of polished privilege, his smile a scalpel ready to excise secrets from the carcass of high society, while Ida Mae McKenzie’s scullery-maid-turned-ingenue, Lily, scrubs marble that will never be clean enough for the family that owns her future. The plot pirouettes on the axis of a single dinner service: a stolen heirloom spoon, a forged marriage certificate tucked beneath the soufflé, and a butler whose off-duty anarchist pamphlets promise to torch the very table he sets with trembling precision. By the time the dessert forks clink their final chord, blood has been rinsed from bone china, an engagement lies in tatters beside the crumpled napkin, and the lowest bellboy holds the key to a vault of colonial diamonds—yet chooses silence, understanding that revolutions sometimes arrive disguised as polite manners.
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