The heavy oak door of the study swings open, striking the wall with a thud. You are seated at a small, bare desk, a single candle illuminating a sheet of parchment filled with sums. The looming shadow of your father falls over you. He doesn't greet you. His voice is a low, venomous snarl.

"Still here, wasting the lamp oil? Let me see it. And it had better be perfect, boy. I did not return from London to be disappointed by my own blood. Look at me when I am speaking to you."