Chapter 25: Tradition

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. - Kahlil Gibran

The idiosyncratic smell of food lingers in the air, overwhelming my senses. I take a deep breath and then exhale to calm my nerves. My gaze shifts upward.

Dim light shines through circular windows set high in the dull twelve-foot walls of the chamber. What little light that passes through, makes the crystal sparkle on the table. The soft hues of burning candles illuminate the gold-encrusted cutlery placed on the round table.

A lavender scent mixed with floor wax invades my nose, leaving my stomach feeling queasy. I count the lush high-backed chairs. There're nine around the table lined with royal blue velvet. Vlad pulls out a chair, and I sit.

An antique cherry wood buffet table, centered on the wall across from me, has a handful of sphere-shaped candles flickering inside of crystal holders brimmed in brass.