Autumn evenings carried a distinctive coolness. The dense leaves of the London plane trees swayed gently in the breeze before drifting down. Thick fallen leaves had already accumulated in the garden, dew soaking the uppermost layer and pressing the others down into a soft, golden path.
Schiller was at the manor's desk, making one final check of the invitation responses. These were important letters used to confirm the actual number of attendees, and they had been neatly sorted and placed in the center of the desk.
The ones Schiller had finished reading were neatly stacked to his left, while the five or six he was currently reviewing lay spread out in the middle. He had to wear a monocle to switch between near and far vision, confirming the arrival times listed in the letter in his hand against those on the desk.
The guests could not all arrive at once, or someone would always be left waiting. The steps outside also had to be cleaned between arrivals, otherwise footprints would be left behind.
So Schiller noted the expected arrival time for each person on their invitation, and the guests told him in their responses whether they could arrive then. If not, they specified how many minutes early or late they would be, and Schiller adjusted the order accordingly and arranged the reception.
Most guests had no objections to the schedule. Some had prior urgent commitments and needed to arrive later, while others were coming together, and certain guests with poor relationships needed to have their arrival times staggered.
In fact, all of this had been completed three days ago. This was merely the final confirmation, because some people really would cancel their plans in the final few hours.
By the time he finished the last few letters, the sun had