07-06-2019, 06:39 PM
[CW: Rich people-style exotification, misogyny.]
The goyish butler that their mother would never approve of blinked, furrowed his brow, and then gestured her in.
“My apologies, ma’am. I’m certain he’ll be glad to see you.”
Ugh. Meijer was going to have his hide.
The butler would gesture to a chair in the parlor, and hurry off to fetch Zechariah. It was difficult to say how much of the décor was Zechariah’s doing, and how much of it simply came with the summer home. There were bookshelves and novelties from countries he had probably never been to. There was a destination guide on the coffee table beside the elegant looking but wholly uncomfortable chair, and coffee bags from exotic locales that may well have never been opened. There was a rifle on the wall, and The Picture of Dorian Gray underneath it with a bookmark halfway in.
If she happened to peek at it, there was a strangely vague advertisement.
There were no signs of the disarray Muter had guaranteed by way of the descriptions of some doctor’s ravishing daughter he was chatting up. Not a single child-sized fingerprint on the tables, nor even in the dust – the place was lacking any woman’s touch.
Before long, the click of posh shoes sounded long before he was in view. Zechariah had his hands clasped behind his back as he stepped in.
“Penina.” His tone was more stilted than she was probably used to. “I did not expect you.” And then, once that was exhaled: “Welcome to Whitby. You must be tired.”
The goyish butler that their mother would never approve of blinked, furrowed his brow, and then gestured her in.
“My apologies, ma’am. I’m certain he’ll be glad to see you.”
Ugh. Meijer was going to have his hide.
The butler would gesture to a chair in the parlor, and hurry off to fetch Zechariah. It was difficult to say how much of the décor was Zechariah’s doing, and how much of it simply came with the summer home. There were bookshelves and novelties from countries he had probably never been to. There was a destination guide on the coffee table beside the elegant looking but wholly uncomfortable chair, and coffee bags from exotic locales that may well have never been opened. There was a rifle on the wall, and The Picture of Dorian Gray underneath it with a bookmark halfway in.
If she happened to peek at it, there was a strangely vague advertisement.
There were no signs of the disarray Muter had guaranteed by way of the descriptions of some doctor’s ravishing daughter he was chatting up. Not a single child-sized fingerprint on the tables, nor even in the dust – the place was lacking any woman’s touch.
Before long, the click of posh shoes sounded long before he was in view. Zechariah had his hands clasped behind his back as he stepped in.
“Penina.” His tone was more stilted than she was probably used to. “I did not expect you.” And then, once that was exhaled: “Welcome to Whitby. You must be tired.”
