The rain hammered against the windowpane of the small, temporary manor Carcel had purchased in haste. It was a relentless, gray downpour that turned the world outside into a blurred painting of mud and water. Inside, the air was cold and gloomy.
Carcel sat on the edge of the bed. He wore a loose silk robe, his chest bare, his hair uncombed. He looked like a man who had gone twelve rounds with a prize-fighter and lost.
There was a soft knock on the door.
"The doctor is here, Your Grace," said Lloyd, Carcel's aide. Lloyd stood by the door, his face a mask of professional neutrality, though his eyes flickered briefly to the bruising on his master's face.
Carcel sighed. The movement made his jaw ache.
"Send him in," Carcel said. He stood up, his body stiff, and moved to one of the high-backed velvet chairs near the fireplace. He wanted to look somewhat dignified, even if he felt like a wreck.
