May 24, 2440 – 11:30 AM
She stood, brushing the dust off her jeans and steeling herself for a very specific kind of patience. This had been her idea, her email, her promise to the house that a summer on the Freehold would be “transformative.”
She stood, brushing the dust off her jeans and steeling herself for a very specific kind of patience. Greeting her sorority sisters in the most plebeian way these people preferred had not been on her bucket list, but the High Lord had asked her to help with integration. That meant putting on a smile. She wasn’t pretending for them. She was performing for the system—earning credit, staying relevant, walking the razor’s edge between leadership and babysitting. They wouldn’t know the difference. But Matt would.
By the time she entered the kitchen, the girls were already inside—a bit wide-eyed, a bit out of place—standing beneath the polished beams and string lights of what Matt still called his kitchen, even though everyone knew it belonged to Angelina.
She had been indignant, at first, to learn she would be sharing a bedroom after their arrival—and not just with one other, but a bathroom with three. She almost wished she had kept her mouth shut about wanting more field engagement. The Old Barn had been a comfortable, if rustic, place to stay. Now she was back in the main house, where community meant company at all hours.
She recognized most of them from house events and alumni functions, the ones Exec had decided were photogenic and “on message” after she pitched the trip.
Angelina was already in full orientation mode.
“Welcome to the Marmaduke Freehold. I’m Angelina, one of the senior program managers for Matt Marmaduke. This is both a home and the operational headquarters for a quarter-billion-dollar-a-year business operation. You are here as guests, but be advised—there are no servants, this is not a hotel, and you are not on vacation. She didn’t raise her voice, but her pause between “guests” and “not a hotel” carried the same weight as a locked door.
Your backgrounds have been verified. Your team contacts have been assigned. Breakfast is open to family and guests in this kitchen. Breakfast and lunch are open to all staff, with longer hours in the dining room way back there. If you have dietary needs not in your file, please let me know, and I will try to accommodate you as quickly as possible.
My office is over there,” she gestured, “but I’m not in it all that often. Don’t expect to find me there. Use the Marmaduke App if you need to reach me. Other than that, you have free run of the public spaces in the house and on the grounds—which include the second floor, most of the first floor, and all outside facilities.
Now that I have that out of the way, let’s go grab some coffee and cobbler and get to know each other a bit.”
The group had already begun to arrange themselves into the subtle hierarchy that made Angelina tired just watching as Julia made introductions.
Meghan Caldwell was the first to claim a barstool, a Columbia Political Science major and self-declared cultural envoy, already recording a vertical video with the caption: “Rural Renewal: First Morning on the Freehold.” Her earrings matched her blazer.
Sloane Whitmore hovered by the island counter, Greenwich polish and influencer poise indistinguishable, already calculating the lighting under the antique fixtures. Her scarf was deliberately messy. Her smile, perfectly framed.
Kaitlyn Prescott wrinkled her nose at the faint smell of goat cheese and compost, then caught herself and quickly added, “It smells so… organic. That’s good, right?” Her reusable bamboo coffee tumbler was clutched like a security blanket.
Brittany Hanover waved awkwardly and nearly dropped her annotated paperback of Pedagogy of the Oppressed before quoting something about communal kitchens and radical empathy.
Lindsay Brookstone slouched against the pantry door with her camera bag, scanning for something to document. “Where can I get unfiltered footage of how the V’ren are really living?”
Ashley Stratton had already cornered a junior logistics coordinator and begun asking about comparative birth outcomes. The woman looked increasingly alarmed.
Courtney Blake had stopped to touch a handmade potholder. “Do you know what this is? This is symbolic. It represents a reclamation of domestic tradition. It’s tactile resistance.”
And finally, a step behind, came Priya Deshmukh, trailing with quiet amusement. She was noticeably shorter than the others, sturdier, and wore practical flats instead of statement boots. She didn’t reach for her phone. She watched.
Angelina caught her eye and gave the faintest nod. She moved with the steadiness of someone used to being overlooked and had long since made peace with it.
Priya smiled. “Let me guess. I’m the only one you’re not mildly allergic to already.”
Angelina raised a brow. “So far. But the day is young.”
A few hours later, the common room of Julia’s suite had begun to feel like neutral ground. The stillness felt rehearsed. Like everyone had sensed they were being watched, and slipped into the performative quiet of campus group housing before a house meeting exploded.
The morning sun had shifted, throwing angled light across the wide-planked floors and the overstuffed couch someone’s grandmother had definitely once loved.
Meghan had taken over one end of the couch, laptop open and microphone clipped to her collar. She wasn’t recording, just rehearsing phrasing aloud. “Rural doesn’t mean regressive… no, too defensive. Maybe: bridging progress and place? Hmm…”
Courtney and Kaitlyn were deep in debate over whether freehold culture was a reactionary construct or a post-capitalist experiment. Neither had yet spoken to an actual V’ren.
Ashley was scrolling through comparative gestation charts and muttering something about “preliminary observations.” Sloane was taking photos of the exposed ceiling beams. Julia tried not to laugh as they were a facade in this part of the house.
Priya, mercifully, had not spoken until spoken up and Julia had noticed. She filed that away. If this went sideways, at least one person here might actually understand what she was trying to build.
“You adjusting okay?” Julia asked quietly, settling into the armchair opposite her.
Priya nodded, folding her legs beneath her. “The coffee helps. The anthropology less so.”
Julia smirked. “They think they’re studying a culture. They’re missing that they’re inside one.”
“Exactly,” Priya said. “It’s like watching people take field notes on a bonfire while sitting in the flame.”
“You’re the only one I’ve seen actually listen today.”
“That’s what I’m here to do.”
Julia looked at her for a long moment. “Good. Because when this house moves, it moves fast—and it doesn’t pause for a think-piece.”
From across the room, Brittany raised her voice. “Hey Julia, are there discussion spaces scheduled? Like, for unpacking emotional impacts?”
Julia didn’t turn. “Sure. It’s called ‘dinner.’ Show up, chew slowly, pay attention.”
Priya stifled a laugh. “You’re terrible at diplomacy.”
“I’m not here to be diplomatic,” Julia replied. “I’m here to keep this place from turning into a case study in elite blindness.”
She stood and stretched. “Come on. Let’s go talk to some of the V’ren. I have a friend you’ll want to meet later, her name’s L’tani.”
Priya stood. “Lead the way.”
