Evgenia Caranelli stood in the doorway of her mansion. She eyed her unexpected visitor, a mere child who appeared intimidated by the elderly woman’s manner. Most people were intimidated by Evgenia, for reasons they could not put to words. She was a thin, towering figure with immaculate posture. Her steel blue eyes were the highlight of her pale, striking face, which showed no hint of her old age. Her cheek bones were high and distinguished, and her nose was thin and sharp. Every aspect of her seemed absolutely defined and sophisticated. Her long silver hair was pulled back, and her gaze was stern and orderly. “Hello, Louise,” Evgenia said in her captivating, whispery voice, her well-enunciated english coated with a faint accent. “What brings you here?” “Hello, Grandmother,” the little girl muttered, shoving a long strand of brown hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I had a question.” Her eyes darting around nervously. “Well?” Evgenia boomed. Louise looked up tentatively and frowned. “How exactly did my father die?” Evgenia’s eyes widened, and her stern gaze faded. At the mention of her only son, she appeared shrivelled, shrunken, and small. It was as if her age had finally caught up with her. Evgenia stumbled back and took a seat on the doorstep before burying her head in her hands.