The air on Friday morning was thick with the promise of a storm, both meteorological and metaphorical. A low, bruised sky pressed down on the Sterling estate, the humidity making the vibrant gardens seem overly lush, almost febrile. Inside the house, the calm was a thin veneer over a hive of frenetic activity.

Lara stood in the grand foyer, a box of delicate, hand-blown glass lanterns at her feet. Her vision, twinkling lights strung through the ancient oak, these lanterns glowing like captive fireflies along the garden paths had been summarily vetoed. In their place, the event designer, a man named Claude who spoke in whispers and wore all black, had installed a series of stark, geometric LED sculptures that emitted a cold, blue-white light. "Sophisticated," Evelyn had murmured in approval. To Lara, it looked like a spaceship had crash-landed in their mother's prized rose beds.