Second floor of the mountain villa, dining room.
The fluorite lamp on the ceiling was dim. Through the window, you could see the lush Central Park and the sparkling lights of the ry Court Barracks in the distance.
In the dim dining room, only the silver candelabra in the center of the table held three burning white candles.
The flickering flames cast the shadows of Horn and Catherine on the wall, one tall and one short.
Catherine gently moved the silver fork over the pan-seared foie gras on her plate, the smell of melting butter wafting into her nose.
Yet, she couldn't bring herself to eat this mouthful of foie gras for ages.
She glanced at Horn on the opposite side, the young Pope absent-mindedly cutting his steak with his knife and fork.
The dining knife screeched against the porcelain plate, making a fine, ear-piercing sound.
