The older man sat where he always did: in an overstuffed chair with a wall of candles behind him. Such pretenses. Moragh shook his head at the impression of a halo created by the older man’s mass of white hair bathed in the candlelight.
“Sir?” he repeated.
The gray-haired man looked up from the book before him on the heavy wooden desk. “Yes, thank you, I’m fine. How are you?” He sat back and tapped a clawed fingernail on the arm of the chair. Blue eyes shone in the dim light, brighter than his age should have allowed. “You never do spend enough time on pleasantries.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Well, then, I have to ask, is the situation becoming critical? Or has it already become critical? The verb tense is important.”
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