Zach sneezed.
"Bless you, my lord," came the calm, gravel-toned voice of Butler Eduardo, who had appeared like a summoned wraith behind Zach's massive desk, carefully reordering the documents that had been momentarily scattered by Zach's sudden, uncharacteristically human outburst.
Zach didn't so much as look up as he resumed his meticulous signature strokes across thick, cream-colored contracts.
"I don't mean to pry, my lord," Eduardo continued, voice soft but not timid, the way someone spoke when they had known you since you were in diapers and had once spoon-fed you mashed bananas during a fever, "but I'm concerned about what's going on."
Zach's pen paused—not in guilt or surprise, but in mild annoyance at the inevitable conversation.
"What do you mean?" he asked blandly, though the answer was obvious.
Eduardo, dignified as always, now stood tall, hands clasped respectfully in front of him like a man preparing to gently deliver an emotional slap.
