knock on the door at 3 in the morning
A dinner invitation for an ‘experience’ to being at midnight is a rather unusual thing.
You fun your finger along the crisp, cream edge of the card, rereading for the thousandth time the rich navy curls and swirls of calligraphy.
The address is correct.
The date is correct.
The time is nearly now.
Wanting to avoid being neither early nor late, but precisely on time, you take a deep breath to pass the remaining 10 seconds before the hour strikes, then lift the heavy door-knocker.
The first surprise of the evening.
Rather than a knock or a boom, a beautiful sound of a string grows until one may have thought an entire orchestra were behind the door. The double doors swing open, you step inside, and gasp at the splendor around.
Candles light every surface, dancing firelight illuminating, shadowing, creating a play all its own.
Somehow a glass of black champagne is placed in your hand and you step forward.
The night has begun.
Somewhere deep in the bowels of the mansion, bustling servants prepare every next magical turn hours before the upstairs is transformed. As the clock tolls 2am, a rather flustered Molly Muldeen rushes to the persistent knocks at the kitchen door.
Though the floral splendor of SPRING had been intended for the 3am experience, the host had graciously allowed for a shift in schedule - SPRING would round out the festivities at 4am, and the lack of SUMMER would hopfully further intrigue rather than disparage the guests.