Us. He noticed it, but it didn't matter in this privacy of the drawing room in a house with no servants. Except it did matter. For even Mr. Meijer scattering his comforting illusions was better than handling the inevitable despair on his own. "They murdered us up until a few decades ago..." he admitted grimly. Us, because it didn't matter anymore, and a dangerous 'us' was better than a lonely 'I'.