Twenty-Eight

“Marc—Marc—Marcus?” 

Lord Blackstone’s stutter turned into a fit of coughs. She rose from her chair and hurried to the table where a picture of water and glass sat. She poured him a fair amount and brought it back to him. “Here, drink this.”

He nodded and sipped the drink. Slowly, his coughs subsided and he breathed deeply.

“Forgive me for upsetting you, my lord.”

“Not your fault. I have a heart condition, and sometimes I cannot breathe well.” He took another sip out of the