The great dining room, the main heart of the old mansion, was lit by crystal chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceiling like ordered constellations. The echo of conversation filled the thick air, and each word seemed to measure its weight before it was spoken. The walls, decorated with tapestries recounting old family deeds, provided a solemn backdrop to a scene fraught with veiled tensions.
Everyone was there. Every chair ready to be occupied, every glance carefully arranged. It was the first time since their arrival that the whole family had gathered under the same roof, sharing not only space but a false politeness that was thicker than the perfume wafting between people. Murmurs intertwined like silken threads, and each group formed a small theatre of well-rehearsed masks.
The three brothers, those who had quarrelled acrimoniously on the first day, were now conversing with feigned friendliness with a woman of unflappable bearing: Riku's mother. Her voice was low, formal, perfectly measured.
-Sister, how has your husband been feeling lately? -asked one of them, barely bowing with a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes.
-Has he been successful in his new job? -added another, with a tone of concern in his voice.
She responded with a polite coolness, as if politeness were enough to cover decades of emotional distance.
-My husband is well. The city he was transferred to has offered him extraordinary opportunities. And my daughter has adapted herself without difficulty there. -Her eyes were unblinking, and her voice, though soft, allowed no retort outside the social script.
Her composure was admirable. Everyone knew she was not a woman of empty words. Her coldness towards others was not synonymous with contempt, but a form of respect. She was known for her honourability, her strict adherence to duty, and her role as a mother, reserved only for her inner circle: Riku and her younger sister, who was absent at the time.
Despite her aloofness, none of her interlocutors managed to make her uncomfortable. She had perfected the art of appearing present without giving ground, of smiling without showing her teeth.
The servants glided around the room with timed efficiency. With subtle gestures and barely whispered words, they began to guide the guests to their seats. Perhaps by chance, or by a hidden decision, Riku, Takashi, Hazuki, Claire and Rika ended up seated similarly to that morning, though now they shared a much longer table, like a river of white marble laden with delicacies and glittering goblets.
The contrast between the faces was remarkable. Some, more relaxed with the wine, were beginning to show an impromptu humanity; others, more cautious, maintained their composure. In the centre of the room, the elderly maid who led the service watched silently, like a spectre maintaining the invisible balance of the event.
The dishes followed one after the other in precise rhythm: pheasant, fresh seafood, vegetables roasted with eastern spices, warm soups, meats just right, fruit in sculptures carved by invisible hands. The banquet was not only a celebration of reunion, it was also a demonstration of power, of living heritage.
But beneath the conversations about wines, climates and art, there were other words that went unsaid. Fleeting glances between some cousins, strategic silences behind innocent questions, and that glint in the eyes of the older ones: a greed that good taste could not conceal.
Riku did not speak. Nor was he the only one. Some, like him, simply watched. But his eyes, attentive, picked up every little gesture. The hands that trembled before taking a drink. The smiles that died before they were born. The backs that were too straight. The words that came a second too late. Everything was information. It was all part of a larger board.
Takashi, for his part, kept his eyes down. As if the entire banquet was just a necessary formality. Only at certain moments, like when the wine was served in a different glass from the others, did his eyebrow barely rise. Claire noticed. Hazuki too.
Hazuki made little conversation. Occasionally she exchanged words with Claire, and her sentences were soft, neutral, as if she was careful with every syllable so as not to give any advantage. Rika, sitting not far away, would interject from time to time with complimentary remarks, always directed at someone, always polished. Her laughter was soft, but her gaze was sharp.
At times, the conversation rose in general tone, as when someone mentioned the lost jewels of the east wing, or when an elderly aunt recalled the patriarch's death with an exaggerated sigh. Then the atmosphere became tense, as if everyone remembered why they were really there.
And at the centre of it all, the table was still overflowing, like an altar where family ties were sacrificed in the name of what was to come.
The evening had only just begun.