Nobody liked being interrupted while they were concentrating on something, and Kraft was no exception.
The status that came with his growing reputation had once given him the right to be willful, to refuse without worrying about the consequences when people wasted his time on pointless matters. Everyone else would simply assume he was being the usual ivory-tower scholar: socially inept and absorbed in his studies.
The stereotypical medical school professor was supposed to spend six and a half days a week tinkering in the lab with things that were either gory or downright sinister, then spend the remaining half-day lurking outside a cemetery with a shovel and a sack. It was only natural that he didn't want to see anyone.
Some people tried to change that perception. They must have discovered, to their dismay, that quite a few of their colleagues—and even their own behavior—fit the stereotype rather well. In the end, they resigned themselves to enjoying the small conveniences it brought.
Unfortunately, after taking over the Monastery, Kraft had lost that privilege. Official business didn't care about stereotypes when deciding whether to come knocking, and he still had a sliver of conscience left before he started dumping every trivial task on his subordinates.
Kup pushed open the lab door just as Kraft finished fiddling with the pile of bone fragments he'd already sorted through. After washing up thoroughly and changing clothes, he'd reluctantly sat down to go through the paperwork.
Most of it concerned reimbursement for the Monastery's repairs. Heaven knew how many safety hazards the building had accumulated over the past twenty years, or how many hidden dangers had yet to be discovered.
The Priyell Domain's stockpile of building materials had all been exchanged for coins from the baron's treasury. There wasn't much point in keeping those