The house in Belgravia had the stillness of a cathedral that had learned to charge admission.
Its walls—ivory, unblemished, faintly disdainful—held the scent of beeswax, old money, and something metallic beneath, like a blade wrapped in silk. The chandeliers were lowered to a conspiratorial glow, as though the light itself wished not to be overheard. Outside, London murmured politely, unaware that its future was being sipped from crystal tumblers.
“I find it vulgar,” said Lady Aurelia Finch-Harrow, touching her glass without lifting it, “that people still believe power announces itself.”
Her voice was cultivated to the point of unreality—an accent sharpened by finishing schools and softened by contempt. She sat like a painting that had learned to speak.
Sir Malcolm Reeve smiled, not because he agreed, but because disagreement was an indulgence one could afford only in private. “Power,” he replied, adjusting his cufflinks with surgical precision, “has always preferred to dress as necessity. Kings used God. We use algorithms.”
Across from them, Matteo Ricci—Italian by birth, Swiss by inclination—watched the fire rearrange itself in the marble hearth. His face bore the untroubled pallor of men who observe history rather than suffer it.
“You are both sentimental,” Matteo said mildly, “power no longer persuades. It administers.”
Lady Aurelia turned to him, amused. “Administration is persuasion in its final, perfected form.”
A pause followed, dense as velvet. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed, though no one had wound it in years. Time, here, was decorative.
Sir Malcolm leaned forward. “Tell us, Matteo. You’ve been circling the continent again. Advising presidents who pretend they still matter. What is the newest heresy?”
Matteo’s fingers traced the rim of his glass, leaving a crescent of condensation. “The heresy,” he said, “is the belief that chaos must be conquered. In truth, chaos is far more useful unmanaged. One need only curate it.”
Lady Aurelia laughed, a sound like porcelain tapping porcelain. “You make it sound like flower arranging.”
“Exactly,” Matteo replied, “one does not command the roses. One trims.”
She regarded him keenly. “And who, pray, is being trimmed?”
Matteo met her gaze. “Everyone who believes they are choosing.”
Sir Malcolm exhaled. “Still the same thesis, then. The people are not governed; they are nudged. Like cattle with degrees.”
“Degrees are ornamental now,” Matteo said, “like titles.”
Lady Aurelia stiffened, though her smile remained intact. “Careful. Even ornaments can cut.”
Matteo inclined his head. “That is why they are kept.”
Another silence. This one felt intentional.
Sir Malcolm rose and crossed to the window, peering at the darkened square below. “Do you know,” he said thoughtfully, “that this house was requisitioned during the Blitz? Strategists slept in these rooms. Maps were spread on this very floor.”
“And yet,” Lady Aurelia murmured, “no bombs fell here.”
“Of course not,” Matteo said, “the city protects what it needs.”
She turned sharply. “And what does it need now?”
Matteo smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Narratives. Fear, elegantly rationed. Outrage, delivered in manageable doses. Above all—plausible villains.”
Sir Malcolm frowned. “You speak as if this were a theatre.”
“It is,” Matteo replied, “the mistake is thinking there is an audience.”
Lady Aurelia stood, her silk gown whispering like a confidence being betrayed. She walked to the fireplace, examining a small bronze sculpture—a Roman general without a face.
“I invited you here,” she said slowly, “because I was told you understood collapse.”
Matteo’s eyes flickered. “Collapse is merely a change of management.”
“And yet,” she continued, “the markets tremble. The streets grow restless. Even my gardeners have begun asking questions.”
Sir Malcolm turned. “Gardeners always do, eventually.”
Lady Aurelia ignored him. “I want to know,” she said, fixing Matteo with a stare sharpened by lineage, “whether we are approaching the end of something—or merely its refinement.”
Matteo considered this. The fire sighed. The clock, traitorous, chimed again.
“You are asking the wrong question,” he said at last, “the end is not coming. It has already been distributed.”
Sir Malcolm laughed uneasily. “Distributed?”
“Like a virus,” Matteo said, “or an idea.”
Lady Aurelia’s voice softened. “And our role in this distribution?”
Matteo stood, smoothing his jacket. For the first time, he looked almost weary.
“You are not distributors,” he said gently, “you are proof of concept.”
The room seemed to contract.
Sir Malcolm’s smile faltered. “Proof of—what, exactly?”
“That governance can survive without belief,” Matteo replied, “that legitimacy is optional. That luxury itself can be weaponised as a distraction.”
Lady Aurelia felt, absurdly, cold. “You speak as though we are expendable.”
Matteo picked up his coat. “Expendable things are destroyed. You will be preserved.”
“For what?” she asked.
“For contrast.”
He moved toward the door. Before leaving, he turned back, his reflection briefly multiplying in the gilt mirrors.
“Oh,” he added, almost kindly, “one more thing. The conversation we are having—it has already been leaked.”
Sir Malcolm stared. “To whom?”
Matteo’s smile returned, thin as a razor. “To everyone who thinks it confirms their suspicions.”
The door closed with a sound like a verdict.
Lady Aurelia sank into her chair. The bronze general seemed to watch her now.
“Well,” Sir Malcolm said softly, “that was… illuminating.”
She looked at him, eyes bright with something between fury and awe. “Do you realise,” she said, “that we may no longer be the architects?”
Sir Malcolm returned to his seat, lifting his glass at last. “My dear Aurelia,” he said, voice steady, as outside, London continued breathing—obedient, restless, unaware that its most luxurious rooms had just been demoted to footnotes, and somewhere, far beyond Belgravia, chaos was being trimmed into shape, “architects were always a myth. We are merely the scaffolding.”