In the afternoon, the sun was setting over New York. It was autumn, and the evening wind had already begun to feel cold, blowing the leaves on the streets, rustling and rolling along the road.
Jenny supported herself on the carriage doorframe and stepped out. Standing at the entrance, she looked toward the street. The setting sun hung directly above the road, dyeing the sky a patch of red.
She had returned from New York University with a heavy, somber expression. Turning around, she walked back toward the mansion.
The butler in the foyer, seeing no joy on her face, knew that the writer had not agreed to cooperate with her.
"Miss, dinner will be ready soon. There's your favorite roasted squab..."
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