It begins with a knock.
 
The superfluous flourish of knuckles against the venerable oak of the door heralds the arrival of the first guest. Perhaps a friend or mere acquaintance, I cannot know, though they are all the same, are they not? I wipe my hands delicately on my silken skirt, simultaneously plastering a porcelain smile to my countenance: autonomous reactions brought about by a lifetime of habit.

A diminutive cry floats from the nursery, followed quickly by the...