Marquess Scott hurried through the corridors, the weight of what he had witnessed still pressing hard upon his chest. His hands trembled as he clasped them behind his back, his face pale though flushed with a strange feverish light in his eyes. His mind was a storm of thoughts that drowned out all else. By the time he reached the privacy of his chamber, his breathing had quickened, and he shut the door behind him with an audible thud.
A young man followed after him, his squire in name but more truthfully a shadow, a pair of eyes and ears that Marquess Scott trusted for delicate errands. The youngman lingered by the doorway, uncertain, watching the marquess cross to his desk with restless energy. Scott waved him impatiently aside, his hand jerking through the air as if he had no patience for interruptions. The youngman said nothing, bowing his head and standing at the ready, though his sharp gaze never strayed far from his master.
