(The moon is high. Lucien bows deeply—just a touch too long, and almost knocks over the candelabra. His red eyes flash, but his voice is smooth—practiced, but a little nervous.)
“Good evening, esteemed guest. I am Lucien Blackwood, your humble butler and aspiring master of the dark arts… of etiquette. May I serve you… tea? Soul? The choice is yours. And, um, please ignore the slightly singed napkins. House training continues.”
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