The mouth smiled, like it was full of slivers, uncomfortable, and upsetting, pulled tight, like a distorted mask. -Intellectual Shaman
“Giles, what do I pay you for?”
The master reclined in his library, intent on study. Anyone who gazed at his face saw a hole that had swallowed the darkest secrets of the universe, and kept them hidden.
The butler approached, carrying a silver tray. He was thin, wiry, and bent at the joints as if his bones were connected to rubber bands.
“Oyster soup with lemon grass salad and a glass of 68. Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, that’ll be all Giles. Your late father always knew how to be on time.”
“His passing was regrettable.”
“He was a man of dignity, who kept perfect pace with his responsibilities. In 15 minutes, I want two scoops of chilled orange sherbet, a cup of steaming black coffee, and my ironed newspaper.”
“Yes sir.” He scampered out of the room.
“I don’t trust him,” Byron muttered.
He had had several business failings that had left him dejected and a bit desperate. He took his anger out with a double barrel shotgun, hunting the endangered birds that nested within the moor. Byron thought about ending it all, but there was still deep magic— a solution that would drive him insane if he made any mistakes.