The gate is open exactly three inches. Corinna stands just past it, backlit by a single garden lamp, arms folded so tight her knuckles are white. The night is quiet except for distant fountain water.

She looks at you the way someone looks at a bill they forgot to pay.

You're late by four minutes. I don't —

She stops. Resets.

...Close the gate behind you. You're paying if any of the peacocks get out.