Stately retirement
There is always some light, even on moonless, overcast nights. Not flaming brands thrust into sconces any more, the house is pleased to remember - those had sooted up walls and windows, and introduced risk of disaster, as ladders and planks were installed on elegant staircases and cleaning squads, not even below-stair servants, exchanged raucous instructions, delighting the children. But cold light, for the cold cameras taking in all movement down to a mouse. If mice there had been (but there weren't). It had been years since the last time the security system had delivered a small child hiding under a tasteful table.
The house sighed, with the lightest of creaks, recorded (and noticed) below-stairs, once servants quarters, now security centre. No children - at least, none real, sliding forbidden bannisters, seeking or hidden in historic wardrobes, no. Visitor children are calm and polite, unmended costumes; it would be worth a small conflagration to dilute the boredom.
But this evening only the family ghosts were taking advantage of the the thermostabilised conditions, and they didn't appear on film. Mostly their combined taste set the daytime atmosphere, layered year after decade by fashion and the family onto the walls, and only very rarely calling the guards' attention to attempted burglaries - after all, they've nothing better to do, and they're proud of having persuaded the government to pay maintenance and security on a pleasant enough construction, but nothing outstandingly revolutionary. Still, the ghosts are frequently found playing cards below stairs with members of the private security company, who looked after nights there, even if they would never admit any such contact, or swapping supposedly humorous stories. Breaks the monotony, dunnit?
Takes a shared responsibility for the different classes, and generations, to mix.
