Two days had passed since the funeral. Eira sat alone in her office, sunlight filtering through the tall windows, casting a pale glow over the mahogany desk before her. Papers lay scattered across its surface—reports from various branches of the family business, each one marked with annotations in her neat, precise hand.
As she turned a page, there ca a knock at the door.
"Enter," she said without looking up.
The door opened, and Emma stepped inside, giving a respectful nod.
Eira raised her eyes. "So?" she asked, voice sharp with expectation. "Did you find that so-called uncle of mine, Emma?"
"Yes, my lady," Emma replied. "He’s been inside his manor the entire ti, with his lover Josh. He hasn’t left the estate for days."
Eira leaned back in her chair, fingertips pressed together in thought. "That’s not a good sign," she murmured. "He’s planning sothing. Now that Grandfather has passed... he’ll try anything to get to ."
She straightened. "Have you checked every worker connected to the family estate?"
Emma gave a slight bow. "Yes, my lady. I uncovered several suspicious individuals—long-ti staff who, as it turns out, were feeding information to rival families. They’ve all been dealt with. The ones who raised even minor concerns were dismissed as well. We gave them severance—one year’s wages."
"Good," Eira said. "And what about France? Did you conduct the sa purge there?"
"I did, my lady," Emma confird. "The French staff have also been reviewed and cleared. But... sothing unusual happened. In the past two days alone, we’ve received an influx of job applications—far more than normal."
Eira narrowed her eyes. "It’s been less than a week since Grandfather’s funeral. And suddenly we’re drowning in eager applicants? You think they’re spies?"
Emma nodded. "Most likely. From rival houses, no doubt."
"Then send out an announcent," Eira ordered. "Make it clear that we are not hiring. Let’s see how many of them back off."
She paused for a breath, then continued, "Also—I heard that before Grandfather passed, the Ministry of Magic requested funding for the renewal of the magical thread detection system. Do you know how much they asked for?"
"Ten thousand Galleons," Emma replied promptly.
Eira scoffed softly. "The Ministry doesn’t have ten thousand Galleons in their own vaults? How do they even pay their workers, then? And yet they co begging to the White family for charity?"
Emma offered a small smile. "It’s beco common practice, my lady. Whenever a new project arises, the Ministry reaches out to old pure-blood families, asking for donations under the pretense of prestige and honor. It helps them preserve their own reserves."
"So they hoard their own funds and glorify themselves using ours," Eira muttered. "Of course."
Emma gave a small nod. "It’s not just here. Ministries across Europe operate similarly."
Eira leaned forward, picked up a quill, and idly tapped it against the rim of her inkpot. "Fine. Ten thousand isn’t much. Approve the donation—quietly."
"Yes, my lady."
"Is there anything else I should know?" Eira asked, glancing at her with calm authority.
Emma shook her head. "Nothing else for today."
"Good," Eira said, then added, as if rembering sothing, "Oh—send a house-elf to keep watch on my dear uncle. Discreetly. I want every letter he writes or receives intercepted and delivered to . I want to know who he speaks with, what he plans, and when he breathes."
Emma bowed again, her voice cool and steady. "I’ll see to it imdiately, my lady."
As the door closed behind her, Eira leaned back once more, gaze fixed on the distant horizon beyond the glass.
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