Zephariel walks out of the dining room when it is already late in the evening. Behind the heavy oak door, the old butler and ten footmen are waiting with an enduring patience. On the aging, time-beaten, and rule-stricken face of the butler, there is a tiny hint of worry and anxiety. Zephariel can't ignore the unusual sign as he watches the butler tighten his lips, no doubt measuring the words he is going to say, and the row of footmen shuffling their feet as if ants were crawling underneath their socks and shoes.
"What's wrong, Mr. Søren?" He demands in a cold, commanding tone. Normally, he would act nicer, for Yuri's sake. But he had had far too tiring a day with all the plots and schemes, and Zephariel couldn't care less if these puny humans think he's taking control of their rightful owner's house or anything worse for that matter.
