4193.161 · June 10, 1873 AD
A Light Beneath the Door
A good butler notices everything and says almost nothing. It is, in its way, a form of devotion — the silent, watchful kind that asks nothing in return except the dignity of being trusted with what it sees. Jameson has served the Killerton household for decades and thought he understood its rhythms. Then Francis came home from Mesopotamia. The library door has been closed for three weeks. And what Jameson is hearing through it at five in the morning is not something he has a name for yet.
Every great enterprise begins somewhere nobody thinks to look. Not at the signing table, not in the moment the documents are filed and the world is given its official version of events. It begins earlier — in private, in the dark, in the weeks before anyone else knows there is anything to know.
A household is operating under a particular kind of strain. Francis Killerton has returned from an expedition to ancient Uruk and retreated immediately to the family library, from which he has not emerged in three weeks. The dinner trays come back untouched. The lamp burns through the night. The wall above the fireplace is being covered in charcoal. And Jameson, butler to the Killerton household for thirty years, is managing the situation with the professional composure of a man who has seen a great deal and is beginning to suspect he has not seen anything yet.
Two perspectives. One closed door. The beginning of something that will outlast everyone in the building.
