Derrick was in remarkably good spirits that morning. Seated at the conservatory table with his parents, he looked nothing like someone who had been found unconscious on a theater washroom floor the previous evening.
Marchioness Avery, sitting directly across from him, hovered over her plate with a look of delicate, persistent anxiety. She reached across the tablecloth for the fourth time that morning, gently patting Derrick's forearm as she inspected his face under the clear light.
"Derrick, my son... are you truly feeling alright?" she asked, her voice tight with lingering maternal concern. "No dizziness? No lingering nausea from that awful substance? The house physician said sleeping powders from the lower city can leave a terrible haze in the brain..."
"Mother, please," Derrick chuckled playfully, leaning back in his chair with a wide, reassuring smile. "I'm totally okay. I swear. I literally just took an unexpected nap on the washroom floor."
