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Katie’s Point of View
The library fire had burned low, embers casting a soft, amber glow across the room. The air carried the faint, comforting scent of aged leather bindings and slow-smoldering oak.
Our problems were locked outside, waiting for tomorrow. Now, it was time for us.
I felt at home. We had claimed the library as our living room now, and no one entered without knocking. That small ritual made the vast house feel intimate, ours. The staff had adjusted quietly—every one of them now calling me Katie without hesitation, embracing the American informality I hadn’t even asked for. It mattered more than I expected. I was grateful to them for it.