1999, May 31st - London, England

  The dining room of Tudor Manor was a monument to old money. Crystal chandeliers cast cold light over the mahogany table, polished to a mirror shine. Oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors lined the walls. The room smelled faintly of furniture polish and old leather, completely sterile, preserved, and lifeless. Seven people sat around the table, separated by careful intervals of space. Not close enough to suggest warmth. Not far enough to suggest open hostility. Just the precise distance that propriety demanded.

  At the head of the table was Lord Richard Tudor. He was seventy years old, and his white hair was combed immaculately. His posture was rigid, as if someone was holding him at knifepoint. He cut his roast beef with mechanical precision, each slice exactly one centimeter thick. He had not looked up from his plate in five minutes.

  To his right sat his wife, Lady Margaret Tudor, sixty-eight years old. She wore pearls necklace. She sipped her wine with practiced elegance, her other hand resting delicately on the table. She had not said a word since the meal began.

  The two uncles William had met when he was an infant, along with another one, sat along one side. Harold, fifty-two, the eldest son and heir, his face perpetually arranged in an expression of mild disdain. Beside him, Edmund, forty-eight, who handled the family's investment portfolio. And finally, Arthur, forty-five, the youngest son, who spent most of his time at the Scottish estate, avoiding the others.

  Across from them sat Eleanor's sister, Beatrice, forty-seven, who had married a German industrialist and rarely visited. She looked uncomfortable being back. The aunt, Constance, fifty-one, was the aunt who had gone to America with Lord Richard and the others, two decades ago, to meet William. She was essentially useless, providing nothing of value to the family.

  Servants moved like ghosts, afraid that they would disturb the dinner. It hadn't gone well for the last one who did so. They quietly replaced courses and refilled glasses, their footsteps quiet across the carpet.

  "The pheasant is adequate," Lord Richard said. It was the first words spoken in twelve minutes.

  "Yes, Father," Harold replied automatically.

  Margaret dabbed her lips with a napkin. "The Brussels sprouts are overcooked."

  "I'll speak to the cook," Constance murmured.

  After that brief 'conversation,' the room returned to silence. The only sounds were the forks scraping against porcelain, crystal clinking against crystal as they drank their wine, and the grandfather clock in the corner that ticked in metronomic monotone that could make a man go crazy.

  Arthur cleared his throat. The sound seemed too loud in the quiet room.

  Edmund didn't look up from his plate. "Yes?"

  "I've been reviewing some financial reports from the American tech sector." Arthur's voice was quiet, almost apologetic. "There's a new company called Quantum Innovation. Founded by Eleanor's-"

  "That subject is not appropriate," Margaret said softly, her voice edged.

  Arthur went pale. "Of course. I apologize. I merely thought... the company had captured 30% of the US operating system market in less than five months. I thought perhaps-"

  "The internet bubble," Edmund said dismissively, cutting into his beef. "It's overinflated. The entire sector will collapse within eighteen months. Anyone with a rudimentary understanding of market fundamentals can see it."

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  "Yes, but-"

  "Arthur, that's enough," Harold's tone carried a warning.

  Arthur looked down at his plate. His hands trembled slightly as he picked up his fork, "Of course. My apologies."

  Silence fell again, and Arthur didn't speak again.

  After several minutes, Lord Richard set down his knife. "Edmund, I believe you had the quarterly reports?"

  He nodded, "Yes, father. Overall portfolio performance is up by six percent. The Edinburgh properties have appreciated nicely. Rental yields are stable."

  "And what about the overseas holdings?"

  "Singapore continues to perform well. The manufacturing interests in Malaysia are profitable. We've divested from the Hong Kong positions as planned before the handover just a few days ago."

  Harold added, "The banking consortium investment has matured. We're positioned well for the next quarter."

  "What's the projected annual?" Lord Richard asked.

  "Conservative estimate is around ￡2.8 billion across all holdings," Edmund said. "Aggressive estimate is ￡3.2 billion."

  "And our position relative to others?"

  Edmund's expression shifted subtly, something that might have been satisfaction on a face that was not perpetually cold. "We've made significant progress. By our calculations, combining all private assets, offshore holdings, and the various trust structures, our total net worth now approximates ￡308 billion."

  "So we're approximately matching Vestalis public disclosure," Harold said. There was something cold and hungry in his voice.

  "Their public net worth," Edmund corrected. "￡320 billion as of last reporting, but that was a few years ago. Though naturally, they have substantial private holdings we cannot account for."

  "Still," Harold pressed. "We're closer than we've ever been."

  "On paper," Lord Richard said flatly. "And only counting what they choose to disclose publicly. The Vestalis family has been accumulating wealth and influence for fifteen hundred years. We've been at this for six centuries. The comparison is... premature."

  "Nevertheless, it represents significant progress. Grandfather would have been pleased."

  "Ancient history," Beatrice murmured. She had been silent until now. "Feuds that should have died centuries ago."

  Harold's fork paused, "Some things don't die simply because time passes. The Vestalis represent everything wrong with European aristocracy. Their meritocratic pretensions. Their adoption of commoners. Their pagan religion." He sneered.

  "Via Aeterna has its merits," Beatrice said quietly.

  The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

  "We are a Catholic family," Margaret said, each word crisp and sharp. "We have been for four hundred years. We will not entertain discussion of pagan sympathies at this table."

  Beatrice wanted to say something, but decided not to. It would not matter anyway.

  Lord Richard continued cutting his beef, "The Vestalis are not our concern tonight. Edmund, continue with the portfolio review."

  "The telecommunications investments are performing above projections. We've taken positions in several European carriers before the privatization wave. When deregulation completes, we'll be in excellent-"

  Lord Richard interrupted him, "What are the returns?"

  "Estimated twelve to fifteen percent annually for the next decade."

  Lord Richard nodded.

  The conversation continued in this vein, with numbers, percentages, projections, assets, liabilities, market positions, and strategic acquisitions.

  Constance attempted once to mention her daughter, that Catherine received honors at university, but the comment was met with such profound disinterest that she didn't finish the sentence.

  Arthur said nothing more about William. He kept his eyes on his plate, spoke only when directly addressed, and excused himself as soon as propriety allowed.

  By the time dessert was served, a perfectly adequate crème br?lée that no one complimented, Beatrice had already decided she would leave in the morning and not return for at least another ten years.

  The dinner ended at precisely nine o'clock. Lord Richard stood, and the table rose with him like puppets on strings.

  "Good evening," he said to no one in particular, and walked out. A roasted chicken was still left on the table, turning cold.

  Later that night, Arthur sat alone in his room, looking at the folded paper in his jacket pocket. Thirty percent market share. In less than five months. And they were worth a billion dollars in some aggressive estimates. It was unbelievable, really. He doubted whether even Edmund or Harold could achieve that much success, even if they were given more money than that pup.

  He thought about bringing it up again tomorrow. But then he thought about the way Harold had said his name and the way his father had looked at him.

  He paused for a second before deciding to throw it into the fireplace in his room. The fire crackled, throwing heat he did not feel. Some battles weren't worth fighting, especially in this family. But he kept the number of William. Just in case.