Rinaldi House was built in 1911.
Too large.
Too expensive.
Beautiful in the exhausting way old family estates become beautiful when five generations refuse to sell anything.
The grand staircase led to the principal upper floor.
Not bedrooms only.
The formal dining room sat on the upper gallery because the estate had once been designed around receiving rooms above the winter draft.
There was also:
Portrait corridor.
Library.
Small council room.
Music room.
Two guest salons.
The family archive.
Children had used the floor for decades.
I had.
My sisters had.
My cousins.
Then my father became patriarch.
He created rules.
No children upstairs during formal council dinners until dessert.
Why?
Noise.
Sensitive business conversations.
Old objects.
Fair enough.
Then the rule expanded.
Children under seven ate in the downstairs breakfast room during formal dinners.
At seven, they attended an “introduction dinner.”
Etiquette.
Formal dress.
One hour with adults.
Ridiculous.
Mostly harmless.
I ended the rule after taking over estate management two years earlier.
Children did not need ceremonial admission to sit with relatives.
We still kept them out of confidential meetings.
Of course.
But upstairs itself was not sacred.
Sophie had been on that floor hundreds of times.
She read books in the library.
Played piano badly.
Hid under the dining table once.
My father hated the reform.
He called it:
“Turning a house into a playground.”
I called it:
“Allowing children to use stairs.”
We argued.
Then moved on.
Or I did.
Vittorio apparently did not.
The dinner where Celeste pushed Sophie was the annual St. Michael family dinner.
Formal.
Thirty-two relatives.
No business agenda officially.
Some older men met in the council room before dinner.
Sophie was invited to eat beside me.
Her place card existed.
SOPHIE.
Gold ink.
