The portrait was perfect, the pose was just right. Exactly what you’d expect of an upright upperclass couple whose marriage was more than show.

Well, not just for show in the traditional sense, anyway.

The other portraits in the room were done to match. They were all different – tastefully so – but with a common theme of subdued grace and understated wealth and arranged quite specifically to compliment the original.

In actuality, the room itself was designed for the exact same purpose. Every touch, every slightly skewed bauble and slightly misaligned photo along the mantle was arranged. If straightened, they’d be back in place the following day.

The effect was intentional. It was what they wanted to be seen. The perfect room, the perfect family, the perfect poses, the perfect portraits. But there wasn’t a single candid photograph in the room. In fact, there wasn’t much heart at all behind the calculation. The room and its contents was truly something to behold – larger than life, in many ways – but within it there was no emotion. It was cold and uninviting.

And that was exactly how Lancelot Emery knew his parents to be… if one could say he knew them at all.