The holidays had come and gone, and Doyle was chafing to get back home to London, so as to start being productive, again. Acton's hereditary estate was grand indeed, but there was something a bit off-putting about the grandeur, and all that tiresome peacefulness. After all, Trestles hadn't always been a peaceful sort of place; for hundreds of years, it had housed generation after generation who were consumed with ruthless ambition, and who were willing to sail very close to the wind, in their quest for material gain. Best to whisk Acton away, before this troublesome atmosphere seeped into his very bones. . . .