Unforgiving, icy rain drummed on the rooftop of Thornthrob Manor. Lightning crackled in its spidery dance in the heavens, and the thunder growled like unfed beasts of prey.

The Detective gladly entered the manor and hung up his drenched raincoat. Uneasiness sparked in his honest brown eyes. It was an ominous sort of night to match this ominous sort of party. He was late because of the storm. The party was supposed to have started at 6:30. It was now 7:00, but to his surprise, he was informed by the small child playing in the hall that her grandfather had not come downstairs yet. The host was late, and the Detective smiled. He had two tasks now--meet all the guests as soon as possible, and ensure all was well. There were just a handful of people--six in total--to celebrate the fifty-three years of August Smither's life. Who knew why they'd come--the Detective was sure that some of them would rather not be celebrating this event at all. August had contacted him earlier to warn him about it. Not only that, but Smither also pleaded for the Detective to attend the party as well.

"Slippery, all of them!" August had avowed. His bushy eyebrows drew down over his mismatched eyes. "Slippery as eels ... sharp as knives! I don't trust any of them."

"Then why invite these people at all?" the Detective had inquired narrowly. "Why not invite your family? Your friends?"

"Ahem!" said August. "You're missing the point. I don't trust these guests... and they don't trust me either, the scoundrels!" he laughed uproariously.

"I don't follow."

"What kind of a detective are you? I wish to heal the divides between me and my ... honored ... guests. But I wish you would come. To see that all goes as it should."

The Detective suspected there was far more to the story, but he agreed. Now, as he wandered around the manor, he was attracted by the sound of music. He tracked the faint sounding notes all the way to the ballroom, and he cracked open the door to glance inside.

Miss Iris Sonata was the only guest there. She sat at the piano, her skilled fingers dancing over the keys with almost feverish haste. The Detective had to admit that she played brilliantly. Her back was turned to him. He couldn't see her expression. But he could hear it, so to say. Her music rose, swelled, became a fury of pounding notes--then suddenly, she looked over her shoulder. A side door had creaked opened, and another guest glided into the ballroom. Miss Sonata's music immediately stopped.

The newcomer was Lady Rachel Maroon. She was dressed in her trademarked colors of crimson, and her dark hair and steely eyes gave her a cold appearance. She wore a ring that was clearly from the Medieval Era. That confirmed her identity. Only she would have such a love of the ancient.

"What interesting music," observed Lady Maroon, unaware they were being watched. "Pray, what is it called?"

"I thank you," said Miss Sonata. "It has no name."

"No name? How intriguing." Lady Maroon's steel-colored eyes suddenly darted around the room. Miss Sonata noticed.

"Are you looking for someone?"

"No, in fact, I am avoiding all someones. I shall make an exception for you--your music was simply dazzling. Oh, and by the way, will you let me know if you see anything out of the ordinary while we are here?"

Miss Sonata looked extremely interested. "Out of the ordinary? Such as what?"

"Thank you very much." Lady Maroon started towards the second side door--and the Detective quickly darted through a nearby door to avoid being seen. He found himself in the spacious dining room, furnished in a classical style. He got the impression of green--emerald green walls, light green trim, and forest green table runners. Dinner was spread out, but the steam was long gone. It was sitting cold and uneaten.

"You must mark what I say, mi amigo--" a woman's voice, ornamented with a strange accent, shut off. The Detective realized that he'd stumbled into the middle of a conversation between two guests.

The first was a short Spanish woman with luxurious curly hair. Her eyes shone with a reddish glow through her silver-lined glasses.

"Ah, qué pena, you do not know who I am! I am Miss Thara Bode," she announced with a smile, seeing the Detective's vacant look. "And this rascal here is Thomas Williamson, a good friend of mine."

"It's a pleasure," said the Detective, joining Thomas's smile. Mr. Williamson leaned back in his chair, quite at ease. His brown hair was neatly arranged and his garb was of good appearance. Tidy and polite, but with a weary smile in his pale face--that was Mr. Williamson at first glance. His fingers were sensitive and dexterous--at the moment, they were busily stacking cards into a card castle of impressive height.

"Has Mr. Smither decided to come down yet?" asked Miss Bode, smirking, and glancing at the heavy books she was poring over. "He's beyond fashionably late now."

"He still is," said the Detective.

"What on earth can be taking him so long?" asked Mr. Williamson. "Perhaps someone should go find him."

"I'm on my way up there right now. I'll go drop in and see where he's at."

The Detective left the dining room and wandered up the hall. He went up a flight of stairs towards the chambers, and accidentally bumped into the last two guests heading up towards Smither's office.

"I wouldn't be surprised," the younger one was saying.

"No! His wallet is quite large!" the older one answered. "I tell you, it is the size of a dinner plate--"

"I don't think I've met you two yet," said the Detective, as they noticed him.

"Ahem!" said one, taking off his aviator hat. He was middle aged: his hair was going grey. A ceremonial silver sword hung from his belt. "I am Colonel Ashton Silvertip."

"And my name's Kofi," chimed in the second, a young man in a white suit. He was athletic, long-limbed, and tall enough to change pretty much any lightbulb with ease. "Kofi Hansen." He brushed some golden dog hair off of his sleeves.

"Colonel, Mr. Hansen," said the Detective. "What brings you up here?"

"The old man's taking his sweet time," said Mr. Hansen.

"Yes, he's unpardonably late," frowned the Colonel. "I can't understand it."

"I can't either," said the Detective. "Do you mind if I join you?"

The Detective and the two guests went down the hall, and then promptly got lost in the winding halls. They argued for a while, and then Colonel Silvertip suggested they ring the bell for a servant.

A bell could be in any room, but though they sought for a room that wasn't locked, they found unlocked doors were a rare commodity here. The halls were open--the rooms were sealed shut.

"He really doesn't want anyone prying around," scowled Mr. Hansen.

"I wonder," said the Detective.

Eventually, Smither's granddaughter wandered past them--a small girl of maybe seven years old. The Detective asked her if knew where her grandfather was. She nodded.

"Grandpa said ... said he was gonna sit in the library," she yawned sleepily. "He said not to bother him."

"And which way is the library?" asked the Detective. She told him, and then staggered off to find her room.

The three visitors followed her directions all the way to the library door. It was shut and locked, just like the others.

"Mr. Smither," he called, pounding on the door. No answer. "Smither!" he shouted even louder.

No answer.

"Maybe he's not in there," said Mr. Hansen.

"Balderdash!" said Colonel Silvertip. "Where else could he be? Everything else is locked up! I vote we bomb the door."

"Good idea," said the Detective, and he set his shoulder against the wood. Mr. Hansen kicked it, and Colonel Silvertip went and got a chair to ram against the solid wood. Finally, the door gave in. The Detective ran inside with the others, and they cried out in terror and stared.

August Smither was there, slouched over in his chair. His eyes stared vacantly in front of him. The Detective ran to check his pulse, and sighed when no spasm of life touched his fingertips. August Smither was dead.

Dinner was ate in silence.

Everyone kept on giving funny looks at each other.

Thara Bode sat next to Thomas Williamson who was just swirling his mashed potato and mushy peas into one disgusting slop.

After dinner, Thara decided to snoop around Thornthrob Manor. She found a door with the name August Smither on it. She decided to look inside.

A vault was on the bedside. It was unlocked. Ms Bode snuck her hand inside and grasped £50. Stuffing it inside her pocket, she looked around the room. A body was lying on the bed "¡Es August Smith! Debería esconderme" she yelled. But as she ran out the door she noticed a single ginger hair on the bedside...

The storm battered Thornthrob Manor without mercy.

Rain clawed at the tall windows while thunder growled above the ancient roof. Inside the manor, however, another storm brewed entirely; one of suspicion, secrets, and fear.

Vivienne Hart arrived precisely at 8:17 PM.

Not a minute earlier. Not a minute later.

The heavy front doors creaked open as she stepped elegantly into the entrance hall, emerald silk skirts whispering across the marble floor. A servant should have greeted her.

There were none. Only silence.

Vivienne removed her black gloves slowly, her striking green eyes sweeping across the dim hall. Thornthrob Manor looked exactly as she remembered it: grotesquely expensive and desperate to impress.

Very much like August Smither himself. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of him.

A clap of thunder shook the chandeliers overhead.

"Charming weather," she muttered.

She moved deeper into the manor, diamonds glimmering against her pale throat. But beneath that polished exterior, her thoughts churned violently.

August had ruined her.

Three months ago, she had been engaged to one of the wealthiest men in England. She had attended galas beside him. Traveled with him. Endured his moods, endless lectures and unbearable arrogance because eventually, it would all belong to her.

Then he discovered the truth.

Or thought he had.

Vivienne still remembered the last argument they'd had in this very manor.

"You don't love me," August had snarled.

"Of course I do."

"You love my money."

"Don't flatter yourself."

But August had flattered himself. Enough to rewrite his will and remove her entirely.

Humiliating her in the process.

Now she had one final chance.

The key.

Rumors whispered that somewhere inside Thornthrob Manor was a hidden key that unlocked August's private safe; a safe containing cash, jewels, and documents so dangerous that August trusted nobody with them.

Vivienne intended to find it before anyone else did.

Especially before the Detective.

She passed the dining room and heard muffled voices inside. Guests. Arguing already.

She quietly chuckled to herself. This was too easy.

She took a quick glance inside to identify the guests. She knew most of them: the Detective, Thomas Williamson (who looked rather nervous, fidgeting with his sleeves), Kofi Hansen, Iris Sonata, Rachel Maroon, and Thara Bode. Another man she did not recognize stood towards the back of the room, dark eyes staring at his champagne glass. He had a sword strapped to his belt, and a small tag on his right shoulder read "Col. Silvertip".

August Smither was nowhere to be seen. Odd, but she didn't investigate.

She continued up the grand staircase.

The upper halls were dimly lit by flickering wall lamps. Lightning flashed through long windows, illuminating rows of stern-looking ancestors glaring down from their portraits.

She ignored them.

She knew exactly where she was going.

August's bedroom.

The old fool always hid important things close to himself.

Vivienne reached the door. Unlocked.

Interesting.

She slipped inside silently.

The large room smelled faintly of cigar smoke and expensive cologne. Moonlight spilled across polished furniture and crimson carpets. A fire crackled weakly in the hearth.

August wasn't here either.

Her eyes shifted toward his desk. A small open vault sat beside it.

Unlocked.

Vivienne quickly crossed the room and searched inside. Empty.

Almost empty.

Someone had already taken money from it recently. One space in the dust stood out clearly where bundles of cash had rested before being disturbed.

Her expression darkened.

Another thief in the manor.

How delightful.

Then she saw it.

A single ginger hair resting beside the vault.

Vivienne picked it up carefully between two fingers.

Ginger.

Thomas Williamson.

Vivienne smiled faintly.

Perhaps this night would become useful after all.

A nervous man with evidence against him could be manipulated easily.

Suddenly-

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Vivienne extinguished the bedside lamp instantly.

Voices approached.

Men.

One sounded like the Detective.

Vivienne slipped silently behind the enormous velvet curtains near the window just as the bedroom door creaked open slightly.

"...still no sign of Smither," came an unfamiliar, irritated voice somewhere outside, probably Colonel Silvertip.

"We've checked almost every room," said another voice: Kofi Hansen.

The Detective sighed. "The library next."

Footsteps retreated.

Vivienne remained perfectly still until silence returned.

Then she stepped carefully from behind the curtain and remembered something.

Vivienne crossed toward the fireplace slowly, studying the carvings along the mantle. August loved hidden compartments. Hidden safes. Hidden passages.

Hidden games.

Her fingers brushed against one of the carved roses.

CLICK.

Vivienne's eyes widened.

A small panel slid open beside the hearth.

Inside rested a brass key.

Her pulse quickened instantly.

She reached for it, then froze.

Voices again.

Closer this time. Too close.

Vivienne snatched the key and slipped it quickly into her jeweled purse just as shadows appeared beneath the bedroom door. The handle began turning.

Vivienne moved instantly, gliding toward the side exit hidden behind the wardrobe. August himself had shown it to her once after too much wine.

"Every manor should have an escape route," he'd laughed.

She slipped through the concealed doorway moments before the bedroom door opened behind her.

As Vivienne disappeared into the darkness of Thornthrob Manor's hidden passages, one thought echoed triumphantly through her mind: Now nobody will ever take my future from me again.