She was still thinking as she and the servants began to prepare dinner. It wasn't much of a dinner—that Earl Grey was the biggest glutton that ever lived—but they were trying their best.
She was still thinking when there was a knock on the door. She was still thinking when she went to answer it.
Some old man was standing there, holding a briefcase. He didn't look happy to see her, but maybe he just had one of those faces—where the features seemed inclined to frown.
"Good evening," he said in a stiff, polite voice. "And who might you be?"
"Depends on who's asking," Eleanora said, matching his bored tone. "And just who the hell are you? And why the hell are you prowling around this manor in this weather?"
She figured that she was allowed to use such language; he was entering through the servants' door, which meant that either he was an equal or beneath her. She hoped that he would get the message and then leave, muttering apologies, but instead he just cracked a grin. His skin didn't seem to like it; it was the weirdest skin she had ever seen—more like a mask than anything else.
"Fiery one, aren't you?" he said. "I admire a fine woman with spirit. But I was summoned here by the Earl of Phantomhive."
"Oh really? And could you prove it?"
"I could, but only to the Earl."
"Why? Why not to me? And here I thought that we were getting along so smashingly…"
"My delight would know no bounds to be acquainted with such a lovely young lady like yourself, but I'm afraid I can only disclose myself to the Earl of Phantomhive."
"Then I'm afraid I can't let you in," Eleanora said, "and if I have to let you in, you're going in as a suspect."
She stepped aside and allowed the cook and the gardener to do their duty.