Reporter: Lyn Tolbert (Gen 11)
Location: The Resident’s Suite, West Wing
Time: 2:45 AM
Celeste didn't look at me like a stranger. She looked at me like a teammate she’d been waiting for since the 10th generation.
Lyn: If I put this on the blog, Alicia’s 'Empire' folds by breakfast. She can’t claim to be the 'Steward of the Lineage' if she’s literally erasing a member of it. Why let me in now?
Celeste: (Putting down her brush, her eyes reflecting the moonlight) Because you’re a Tolbert. You’re outside the 'Imperial' circle, but you’re the only one with a loud enough voice to reach the Greyson Branch. I’ve been watching Theodore Vance through the attic telescope. He’s the first of Gen 12, Lyn. If Alicia gets to him before we do, she’ll turn the final chapter of this family into a mausoleum.
Lyn: So we’re an alliance now? The Ghost and the Historian?
Celeste: We’re the truth. You provide the platform, and I provide the records Alicia thinks she burned. We protect Nadine, we protect Leslie, and we make sure the 12th generation belongs to the people, not the crown. Do we have a deal?
I reached out to shake her hand, but before our fingers could even touch, the heavy silence of the West Wing shattered.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound of sharp, rhythmic heels on the hardwood hallway. It wasn't Tybalt's heavy boot or Addyson's soft slippers. This was the "Imperial" march.
Celeste: (Her voice dropping to a sharp, terrified whisper) Alicia. She’s not supposed to be out of the parlor for another hour. Your diversion failed.
Lyn: I... I must have underestimated her vanity. She probably finished reading the 'Hates Children' post and came looking for blood.
Celeste: (Grabbing my camera and shoving me toward the heavy oak bedframe) Get under. Now. If she finds you here, she won’t just exile you—she’ll lock this wing down so tight not even a ghost will get in. Hide, Lyn!
I scrambled. The space under the bed was cramped, smelling of cedar and old paint. I pulled my legs in just as the door handle turned with a slow, agonizing creak. From my spot on the floor, all I could see were a pair of pristine, silk-wrapped shoes stepping into the room.
Alicia’s Voice: (Cold, smooth, and utterly terrifying) Celeste, dear... why is the window unlatched? You know how I feel about the 'drafts' of the outside world.
The Historian’s Tactical Sidebar (Written from under the bed):
The Panic: My heart is hitting my ribs so hard I’m worried Alicia can hear it through the floorboards.
The Sight: From down here, the "Empress" looks even more imposing. Those shoes cost more than my entire apartment, and they’re currently three inches from my nose.
The Realization: Celeste didn't just hide me; she stood up and moved toward Alicia to block her view of the bed. She’s practiced at this. This isn't the first time she's protected a secret from the "Architect."