Atticus couldn’t help but smile a little when Lessard steepled his fingers, much like Master Ryan when interviewing clients. It was a familiar, almost comforting gesture. His smile faded after a moment and his lips pressed together, paling them. “I know, I know I should trust him more. I try to.” Sometimes it was easy to just shut his eyes and obey, just think of nothing but the Master. It was what he had done that morning. Doing that was only simple when Master Ryan was there, his presence undeniable.  When not near, Atticus’ faith was eroded, by his own fears.<br/><br/>Weak.<br/><br/>His musing were jolted as the Housekeeper, the sweet-faced Emma, entered with a tea tray. Tea wasn’t exactly what he waned, and he felt a sullen pang that Master Ryan didn’t advocate opium. He craved a hookah to lay his knotted nerves to rest, but it was not to be. He nodded to her. “It would be much appreciated.”<br/><br/>Feeling unwilling to bare himself to an audience, he straightened and tried to draw his scattered calm back into himself. “I heard there was to be a lineup in a short while. I do wonder at the number of new clients we’ve had through our doors today. We must have been mentioned in some scandalous article again.”<br/>