Drained, Amelia stared at her rejected designs. Alistair's words echoed, cold and dismissive. *Art must serve a purpose, not merely express a fleeting emotion.* His disdain for anything beyond profit gnawed at her. She prided herself on instinct, on feeling the soul of a space. His estate, despite its grandeur, felt hollow, stripped of history. Curiosity, sharper than usual, pricked at her. How could a family with such a long lineage, one so steeped in collecting, possess so little artistic passion? It felt wrong. Something was missing. Resolved, Amelia marched to the estate manager's office. Mr. Finch, a man as stiff as his starched collar, looked up from his ledger. "Ms. Thorne?" "I need access to the estate archives," she stated, her voice firm. "For historical context. My design work requires a deeper understanding of the Vance family's legacy." A flicker of something—hesitation? alarm?—crossed Finch's face. "The archives are extensive, Ms. Thorne. And not... entirely organized." He adjusted his spectacles. "What precisely are you seeking?" "Anything and everything related to the family's artistic pursuits," Amelia replied. "Past commissions, private collections, family members involved in art. Even personal correspondence that might shed light." Finch sighed, a thin sound. "Very well. I'll arrange for a key and limited access. The basement level, section C. Mind the dust." His tone implied she wouldn't find much. Descending the stone steps, Amelia felt the air grow cooler, heavier. The basement hummed with an ancient silence. Section C was a cavernous space, poorly lit, lined with towering metal shelves. Boxes, labeled and unlabeled, stacked precariously. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of weak sunlight filtering through a high, grimy window. Her fingers brushed along faded spines. Most were business ledgers, property deeds, investment portfolios. Alistair's world. She pulled out a heavy volume, its leather binding cracked. *Vance Enterprises: Quarterly Reports, 1920-1921.* Not what she sought. Hours blurred. Her back ached. Her eyes stung from the fine dust. Disappointment began to set in, a creeping sensation that Finch had been right. This family truly was all commerce, no soul. Then, tucked away on a lower shelf, behind a stack of tax documents, she found it. A small, unlabeled wooden crate. It looked out of place, forgotten. Prying open the lid, she was met with the sweet, musty scent of aged paper and dried ink. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed tissue paper, lay a series of sketchbooks. Carefully, she lifted one. Its cover was worn velvet, its pages filled with exquisite charcoal drawings of landscapes and portraits. The style was distinctly late 19th century, delicate yet powerful. A name was scribbled on the inside cover: *Eleanor Vance*. Heart hammering, Amelia flipped through another. This one held vibrant watercolor studies of flowers and birds, signed *Thomas Vance, 1888*. A third contained architectural blueprints, elegant and imaginative, for a grand, unbuilt conservatory. This was it. A hidden trove. A completely different narrative than the one Alistair presented. The Vance family wasn't just industrialists. They were artists. Creators. Patrons. Excitement surged, banishing her fatigue. She started pulling out more boxes. Old letters, tied with crumbling ribbons, detailed commissions for stained-glass windows and elaborate tapestries. A diary, its ink faded but legible, described the frustrations and triumphs of painting during wartime. *My soul aches for the canvas, even as the world burns.* These weren't fleeting emotions. These were profound expressions of human experience, passed down through generations. These were legacies. She found a small, leather-bound journal. Its pages were filled with elegant script, dated early 20th century. *Entry, October 14th, 1912: Father insists I cease my studies at the École des Beaux-Arts. The family name, he says, requires 'practical engagement,' not 'idle artistic pursuits.' The shame of abandoning my true calling weighs heavily. The portrait of Aunt Beatrice remains unfinished.* Amelia felt a pang of sympathy. The pressure, the expectation to conform to a business-first mentality, wasn't new. It had clearly stifled generations of Vance talent. Alistair was simply the latest, and perhaps most extreme, iteration. Hours later, surrounded by her discoveries, Amelia felt a growing unease. Why was all this hidden? Why the deliberate erasure of such a rich creative history? Alistair's cold dismissal of art now seemed less like personal taste and more like a carefully maintained facade. She delved deeper into a pile of loose papers. Most were mundane. Bank statements. Receipts for lumber. Then, her fingers snagged on a brittle sheet, folded multiple times. It was a newspaper clipping, its edges frayed, its newsprint yellowed with age. The headline, stark and bold despite its faded ink, screamed: *THE VANCE LEGACY BETRAYAL*. Below it, the details were a blur. The ink was smudged, as if someone had deliberately rubbed their thumb across the crucial lines. Key names, dates, and descriptions were unreadable, lost to time or perhaps, to a careful act of concealment. Amelia traced the smudged words, her heart racing. What legacy? What betrayal? The silence of the archives pressed in, suddenly feeling ominous.

Chapter 7: Unseen Depths