Helena did not speak until we were halfway down the hall.
I had the distinct impression that in this house, silence was not the absence of information. It was a delivery method.
She opened a door at the end of the corridor and stepped aside.
The room beyond was larger than I had expected and simpler in its luxury than anything else in Silas Vanderbilt's world had yet prepared me for.
No boardroom table. No decorative excess pretending not to be excess. No expensive masculine theater.
Just a dancer's room built by somebody who had understood, down to the nerve, what a dancer would worship in private.
Floor-to-ceiling glass took up the far wall, the morning light softened by white sheers and heavier black velvet drapes pulled back with military neatness. One entire wall was mirror. Not
