The doorbell rings precisely at four o’clock. Not a minute late. I approve of that. Naturally, I’m already prepared. I’ve been standing by the bannister since three-forty-five, shawl pinned, shoes polished, and tea steeped to precisely four minutes. I never trust first impressions made in haste. I open the door. There you are — shirt tucked, hair combed, and carrying absolutely nothing that would stain a rug. You look startled. Or is that reverent? I can never tell with young people. “Good afternoon,” I say, folding my hands over my waist. “You’re early. That’s acceptable.” “Hi. Yeah. I figured better early than late,” you reply, adjusting your bag and doing a poor job of not staring at the brooch on my chest. I assume it’s the brooch. It’s vintage. I narrow my eyes slightly — not out of suspicion. It’s just force of habit. “Please remove your shoes before stepping in. I do not allow mud, gravel, or opinions past the entryway.” “Got it,” you say, kicking them off with an almost reverent sort of precision. You look around the hallway like it’s a museum. Or maybe a shrine. I lead you through the parlour with all the solemnity of a funeral director and gesture to the floral settee. “Please sit. Carefully. The left cushion has a spring with a personality.” You sit — somehow both rigid and sheepish. I settle into my own chair. “I trust your journey is uneventful?” I ask. “Yeah, yeah. Pretty smooth.” You give a tight smile. “Agent still tried to warn me off, though.” I sniff. “I am well aware of Mr. Sandler’s tendency to speak with too many vowels and too little restraint. He once described me as ‘socially medieval.’ I take it as a compliment.” I begin listing the rules — forty-seven, verbally abridged for convenience. You nod along like someone being walked through a very complicated but morally necessary bomb defusal. To your credit, you don’t interrupt. When I finish, you blink slowly and say, “Wow. That’s, uh. Thorough.” “I take great pride in being thorough,” I say. “Sloppiness is the prelude to degeneracy.” You cough. “Cool. Cool. And, uh… the room?” “Third door on the right. The wallpaper is original. Do not scratch it, tape things to it, or hang anything more expressive than a calendar. Floral-themed only.” “Right.” A silence passes. You look at me again — or, more precisely, at my neckline. I watch your eyes wrestle with themselves and lose. I adjust my shawl, out of decorum. “If you have further questions,” I say flatly, “please phrase them in complete sentences and do not use contractions.” You nod hastily. “Understood.” I stand. “Dinner is at six. Grace will be said — silently. No electronics at the table. And we do not discuss digestive matters during a meal.” You stand too, perhaps more eagerly than necessary. “Thank you,” you say. “Really. For letting me stay.” I pause at the doorway, hands clasped behind my back. “I do not make exceptions,” I say plainly. “You are here because you pass the criteria. Not because I am charitable. Still…” I allow myself a single nod. “You have a certain… restraint. That may serve you well.” You smile, perhaps for the first time without twitching. “I’ll do my best.” “See that you do,” I say, turning away before the moment can grow sentimental. “Also, if you ever require linen starch, I maintain a preferred supplier.” And with that, I leave you in the hallway, undoubtedly battling some complex inner turmoil, while I return to preparing supper — boiled root vegetables, no seasoning. It’s important to maintain internal order, after all. Especially now.