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Drake’s breakfast is nearly done. Today it’s crepes with raspberries, brie, and honey. I can
have it plated in a jiffy.”
“Thank you, Emma.” Finch got Hugh’s breakfast tray and spread a linen cloth over it. He set it
with cutlery, a glass of orange juice, hot cocoa, and a small carafe of black coffee, then added
a folded napkin and a copy of the morning paper. Finch dreaded the day that the newspaper
ceased to be published in physical form. Hopefully, it wouldn’t occur until after he’d retired.
After taking Hugh’s covered plate from Emma, Finch placed it on the tray, which he carefully
lifted. He’d had to develop muscles in order to do this. When he’d aged out of the cloister,
Finch had been pale, thin to the point of emaciation, and as delicate as a piece of bone china.
He was still pale, but he’d put on a tasteful amount of muscle in his arms and legs—enough
that he could do his duties and look properly correct in his suits. Lifting heavy objects wasn’t
the struggle that it had been in his mid-twenties. He thought of those first few months after his
release and gave a mental shudder. While he’d been happy to leave the cloister, Finch didn’t
want to ever have to relive those first six months of living on his own in London. It had been a
nightmare of culture shock, ill-preparedness, and bone-deep loneliness.
This was better. This was what he’d always wanted. Finch had been trained to serve dragons
from the age of thirteen. It was all he knew, and he did it to the utmost of his abilities. That he
served with labor rather than as a dragon’s semen receptacle was immaterial. It was the
service that was important, and Finch took great pride in offering it to the very best of his
abilities, no matter what the task.
Technically, Hugh had a butler—Francis—whose responsibility it was to see to Hugh’s flights
of fancy, but he was over seventy and refused to retire. He did little these days but putter
around and open the door for visitors and tradesmen. On paper, Finch was Hugh’s secretary,
but he also acted as major-domo, referee, and disciplinarian for the rest of the staff. It was his
job to make sure that Hugh’s life ran on tracks as smooth as silk, and so it did. Hugh didn’t
have to worry about a single thing, and he didn’t.
Except for one.
It was the one thing Finch couldn’t fix, and it was the thing that plagued his employer the most—
Hugh wanted a clutch, and he wanted it badly. Finch would hazard to say he was obsessed
with the idea, and had been for longer than Finch had been alive. He’d been trying, without
