Dearest Journal,

It took a week to arrange it, but I was able to have a set of servants from the Flint Mansion reopen the Flint Townhouse for me to see the place. They were kind enough to air the rooms out for me and to remove the sheets. In fact the week in which they worked on the house has left quite a favorable impression upon myself.

It was strange, at first, I’ll admit, to walk through the rooms. To think that the last time they had been used my mother had been smiling and happy. So different than I remember her being. I have memories of her, flashing a smile, rounding a corner, the jewel toned colors of her skirts disappearing around corners of the house. It was almost as if I were chasing a portrait through the house. Indeed, I suppose in some ways I was. There were portraits of both mother and father in the Townhouse. My mother looks so young in her’s, her eyes so full of mischief when she spoke to me. My father’s only looked to brood upon the world. He didn’t say much, but what I felt was that I was so inadequate that I would never have lived up to his expectations had he lived. Mother’s portrait wasn’t chatty, but she didn’t keep quite like father’s did.

The layout was much like what I remembered. I had almost thought I had dreamed it up, all those years ago. But I remembered each turn and hall as if I had only been there a few years ago. It almost felt as if I were rediscovering a lost friend. I found my own nursery, and where I would hide to watch the dancing at balls. I even remember my nanny once sitting beside me watching the adults. Strange to think that I was recently one of those adults. That perhaps one day I shall have a child of my own who sneaks off to watch my own dancing at a ball that I host.

I think Ace would be happy with the Flint House and as such I have instructed several servants to remain behind and open the house again. I have given them a month ready the place before I show Ace. It shall make for such a grand surprise. I can hardly wait to see what his reaction will be.

Lucille