By late afternoon, the rain had stopped, leaving the garden washed clean and shining under a pale, cold sun. The manor was quiet again, Windstone's idea of "quiet" involving a dozen people working silently so Lucas could, as the butler phrased it, "pretend to rest while inevitably overworking."
Lucas had indeed moved to his office, a sanctuary of polished oak, soft lamplight, and a faint scent of paper and ink. A blanket was draped over his shoulders, and an unreasonably large stack of folders sat open across the desk. The only sign that he was, at least technically, human was the half-empty tin of dry biscuits beside his hand.
He took another bite of one, grimacing. They were flavorless, dusty things, the sort that might've been baked before the invention of joy, but they were the only food the baby didn't object to. Yet.
"This," he muttered to the room, "is my punishment for ambition."