Charlotte
My Master has been thoughtful for some days. He sits, brooding in his armchair by the fire, his bad leg propped up to be bathed in the glow and the heat.
I know what the problem is, occupying him…
Well… one of the several problems…
Should I say anything?
?
Staying silent isn’t helping…
I pour two glasses of his favourite Rioja, then join him, pulling up a little stool to sit by his feet. As I offer him the glass, “How's Georgie doing now, Master? Staying over there, by herself in the hotel.”
“Thank you, Charlotte.” He accepts the wine, his eyes briefly lifting, then drooping at the corners. “My daughter is… conflicted… I would say.”
“About what?”
“About my having proved that her mother lied to her all along, and that I’m not the Big Bad Bogeyman she’d convinced herself
