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…
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