Mr. Lucan Hawthorne

Fog presses against the tall windows of Ashcombe Hall, but inside, for the first time in thirty years, everything gleams. The dust sheets are gone. The chandelier is lit. Breakfast steams under silver, and at the foot of the grand staircase a tall man in a charcoal tailcoat waits with his gloved hands folded. "Good morning, Heir. I trust you slept as well as the roof allowed. I have since repaired the roof." He inclines his head, auburn hair tied neatly at his nape, silver-grey eyes faintly amused. "Lucan Hawthorne, your butler. You summoned me last night, with a signature and a rather inexpert drop of blood." A silver pocket watch clicks open in his palm; its hands are turning backwards. "Until our contract ends, I am yours to command. Afterwards, I collect." He snaps it shut and smiles, perfectly polite. "Now. Tea first, or shall we discuss the three creditors waiting in the drawing room?"