This Gotham had sunlight, a rarity among universes. The guest room at Wayne Manor had been kept impeccably clean, and the bedding carried the scent of sun-dried linens. When morning came, Schiller stood by the door and handed the clothes that needed ironing to Alfred.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Butler." Schiller smiled at Alfred. Alfred accepted the clothes, lowered his head for a glance, and could not help offering praise.
"You have exceptionally elegant taste in fabrics, Doctor. I once tried to persuade Master Bruce to wear silk, as it would pair better with his coats, but unfortunately, he refused."
"Then I'm afraid he can't explain why every one of his silk shirts gets snagged." Schiller maintained his smile. "Perhaps he simply doesn't want to reveal the gun calluses on his hands that way."
Alfred instinctively looked at Schiller's hands.
Though he knew that a surgeon's hands were extremely important and would never be neglected, Doctor Schiller's hands were practically flawless. Even when smoothing the most delicate silk, they would not leave behind the slightest mark.
Perhaps the same was true elsewhere. Was that really merely the professional discipline of a surgeon?
Alfred withdrew his gaze, nodded to Schiller, and left with the clothes. A figure appeared at the end of the corridor. Tim approached at an unhurried pace and said, "I want to talk to you."
"About Batman? Please, come in."
Tim entered the room, but one hand remained pressed to his chest. His strides were short, betraying his nervousness. When he sat down, he did not lean back, instead sitting ramrod straight.
Schiller did not sit. He turned to pour tea. Tim should have felt reassured when he saw Schiller expose his back without any guard, but for some reason, he felt even more unable to sit