"A dream, milady?" He said, sweeping the curtains open, picking up the fluffy pillows and setting them in a pile by the foot of the bed and proceeding to tidy up the sheets quickly. "Breakfast will be available in the tea room shortly." Once the sheets were placed by the window in a folded pile, he clasped his hands behind him. "Today, you have violin and arithmetic classes. Shortly after that, Lord Brenton has an audience with you. You granted it last week." He reminded her.<br/><br/>There was a knock on the door and he retreated towards, "I will let you get dressed and will be in the tea room with breakfast." He bowed and left the room, a pair of maids entering with several dresses in tow.<br/><br/>He left, tasting something. Was it fear? Was it worry? Something told him that his foster father, Leon Brenton would be the bearer of bad news again. Thing was, politics. She could not afford to order the man's death because he was too valuable and controlled the support of the public.<br/><br/>He took the breakfast trolly and pushed it into the tea room, just opposite the bedroom doors in the antechamber. His hands moved deftly, a quick inspection of utensils and a swipe of a cloth before he set the table. After that, he waited.