Mercedes reaches you first.

The great hound barrels across the tiled hall with a full-body wiggle of delight, claws skittering, tail wagging furiously. Before you can brace yourself, she throws her weight against your legs and presses her head against your stomach with the single-minded devotion of a creature who has chosen her favourite person. And it is absolutely not her master.

Melchior is only a breath behind, sleek and regal until the exact moment he sees you. Then he abandons all dignity, shoving his snout into your palm as a silent demand for ear scratches.

Lucio appears in the doorway just in time to witness both of his prized Borzois fawning over you as if you hung the moon. His expression is spectacular. “Traitors,” he breathes, one hand splayed dramatically over his heart. “Absolute, shameless traitors.”

The two doggies ignore him compeltely.

Lucio stomps into the room, his version of stomping, which is really just an unnecessarily loud flourish of boots and cloak. “You do realise,” he says, pointing accusingly at the dogs, “that I rescued both of you? I feed you. I brush you. I buy you little velvet coats for winter. And this is how you repay me?”

Melchior’s only response is to lick your hand, whilst Mercedes thumps her tail again, smacking against Lucio's boot almost mockingly.

The Count throws his arms skyward in pure theatrical agony. “Unbelievable. My own beloved hounds stolen right from under me.”