He felt vaguely uncomfortable resting his hand atop Darius’. What had those hands touched recently? Dead things? Living things? He did look cleaner than Zechariah thought he could ever get, like some maid had disassemble him, polished him, and thrown him into the real world as a respectable gentleman.

Oh, the beauty of appearances: they could fake anything in passing.

“Oh,” Zechariah acknowledged, not particularly certain where Darius was going with this.

At Darius’ admonishment, Zechariah finally withdrew his hand and poured the last of the kosher wine into his cup.

“My apologies, Mr. Carrington. I did not mean to distract.”

He folded his hands on the table before him, a glance at the folder enough to get him back on track.

“To reiterate: you are aware that by default, the eldest son inherits all at the time of the patriarch’s passing.” He doubted he was. “Is there a reason you believe he might wish to subvert this convention?”