The doors creaked open with the shudder of long-rusted hinges.
"Is the Count not here?" asked Harker.
"Oh, no, sir," said the bedraggled servitor. His skin was red and welted, and his shoelaces undone and partially shredded. "The Master never rises before dark. He will meet you in the dining chamber."
"Any chance of a good glass of wine?"
"The Master does not drink... wine." The servant blinked. "We have milk, and water. Dinner will be tuna tartare, and..." He paused, rolling his red-rimmed eyes before sneezing powerfully. "The Master prefers to be scritched behind the ears, but no belly-rubs."
Rich on Capitalism, Culture, and Language
6 hours ago