Pollux Worthington stood at the base of the once-grand marble steps leading to the doorway of Worthington House. He'd been gone a long time. Despite that, the house seemed unchanged, though the façade appeared cleaner and more well-tended. Poll saw that removing the London soot and dirt had actually revealed the shabbiness all the more clearly.

It wasn't just a house. It was Worthington House, containing both haven and heartache for every Worthington — himself most especially.

It had been rather diabolical to have it be Miranda who summoned him from his sojourn with the traveling theatrical troupe. He likely would not have responded for anyone else, not even Iris herself. He suspected the machinations of his youngest sister, Attie. All things diabolical usually boiled down to fourteen-year-old Atalanta Worthington. Attie would stop at nothing to get her way, for she was the most Worthington of all the Worthingtons.

But Miranda never lied, or exaggerated, nor even embellished. Therefore, the situation must be every bit as dire as the letter had described.

Miranda. Beautiful, unattainable Miranda. I found her first. That fact always flashed across his consciousness whenever he thought of Miranda married to his twin brother Castor. He had found Miranda first.

Then Cas had come along and swept her away from him. In that moment, Poll had not only lost the finest woman he'd ever known but he'd lost his twin, his closest friend, his brother.

Before then, he'd scarcely spent a day of his life without his brother at his side. Now he was returning after months away from his family. Had it really been over a year?

Poll took a deep breath and hefted his rucksack over one shoulder to mount the steps to the door of Worthington House. There was no such thing as a butler, nor even a footman here. One either knocked and was let in by member of the family, or one simply walked right in. The door was never locked, for the Worthingtons were always at home.

The door swung open at his touch and Poll noticed that the hinges hardly creaked at all. Yes, someone had been very busy. The foyer was still cluttered but vastly less jumbled and he noticed that there were actually a couple of places one could sit down. However, it was clear from the rectangular impressions of piles of books on the tatty velvet upholstery that the two spindly gilt chairs would never recover.

The house was so quiet that Poll actually felt a chill of foreboding. This house was never quiet.

"Hello?" His voice rang oddly through the empty downstairs. Poll walked through the foyer and down the hall. He moved quickly, only pausing to cast an uneasy glance into each open darkened room. Part of his mind noticed the fact that there was now a rather posh jumble of comfort rather than the chaotic spill of years past. The rest of him became more alarmed the farther he searched while finding no one.