The clinking of glassware had faded, and the last of Serathine's staff was dismissed for the night. Lucas had retired upstairs under Serathine's gentle insistence and Windstone's efficient supervision, leaving Trevor alone with his thoughts and the echo of laughter from the dining hall.
He had just poured himself a finger of whiskey in the sitting room when a voice as cool and imperious as polished steel reached him from the doorway.
"Trevor Fitzgeralt. My study. Now."
He turned, unsurprised, one eyebrow lifting at the sight of his grandmother framed in the amber light of the corridor. "Technically, Serathine's study and you know, most people preface that with 'please.'"
Cressida arched a perfect white brow, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Most people," she said, "aren't me. And Serathine isn't foolish enough to stop me from borrowing her study when necessary."
