Talking It Through

"Master Breen!"

Lawrence, who had looked utterly exhausted just moments ago, shot upright in bed, staring at Amosta in delighted surprise.

The old butler thought he was hallucinating. He rubbed his eyes vigorously, then widened them and scrutinized the young man beside the bed several more times in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

"It really is you, Master Breen!"

Lawrence threw back the covers and prepared to get up, but Amosta pressed a hand to his shoulder and pulled the blanket back over him.

"Since you're ill, stay in bed and rest properly, Lawrence."

Amosta spoke calmly.

"And there's no need to call me 'Master Breen.' Just call me Amosta."

"But that would be far too disrespectful, Master Breen."

Lawrence blurted it out, but when his gaze met that young face in the shadows—calm, yet filled with authority—his heart trembled, and he fell silent.

It seemed Master Breen was not as simple as he had imagined.

Lawrence suddenly realized this.

Having served the previous two heads of the Breen Family and spent most of his life among London's upper class, Lawrence had never considered himself an important man. Yet through constant exposure, he had become quite confident in his sharp eye. The bearing Master Breen displayed in every gesture simply could not be concealed.

Those in positions of power were still those in positions of power. Even when approachable, the confidence and authority they revealed unintentionally were not something ordinary people could imitate.

Yet strangely, when he had investigated the name "Amosta Breen," he had found no outstanding young figure in any field who bore that name.

"As you wish, Amosta—"

Unable to resist Amosta's tranquil gaze, Lawrence could only remain in bed. Though there was a soft pillow behind him, he still held his back ramrod straight.