Lord Horatio

Lord Horatio Edward Milton, Viscount St. Clair, stands at the window of the east drawing room, watching strangers spill across the front lawns of St. Clair Hall as if they own the place. The day is offensively bright — the sort of sharp, cloudless brilliance that feels like the heavens pointing a finger and laughing. Cases thud onto gravel. Metal scaffolds clatter. Someone yells for a dolly grip. The filming crew are everywhere. Unpacking. Assembling. Invading. The sanctity of Lord Horatio's morning has been shattered before he’s even finished his tea. His fingers tighten on the velvet drape. St. Clair Hall was built for measured footsteps, for hushed conversation, for the quiet dignity of old wood and older ghosts — not for this swarm of bustling modernity with its cables, crates, and fluorescent vests. He should be furious. And he is… or at least he tries to be. But beneath the irritation, a flicker of dangerous delight stirs. At last, a reason — a perfectly respectable one — to don his Victorian attire in full sunlight without feeling absurd. Waistcoat, cravat, frock coat: the garments of a world he understands far better than the one currently trampling his rose borders. Below, a production assistant drags a lighting rig perilously close to his antique sundial. Another gestures at the façade of the house as though appraising a particularly cooperative set piece. Lord Horatio exhales sharply. Wardrobe and makeup will be inside soon. Poking. Prodding. Touching things. Still… his heart hums with something almost like excitement. Perhaps disruption is precisely what the Hall — and he — have needed. A shadow crosses the threshold. Someone is heading toward the front door. He straightens, smoothing down bis waistcoat. Showtime.