A grey dining jacket was put on him, over the top of a brilliant white shirt, with a ruffled cravat, of the sort that Lombard had been wearing earlier. The maid had cut his hair that very afternoon, and combed it, all the while tutting at the unfairness of it all, for someone of Beam's – or Oliver's – station, to have spent so long living in the woods.
"It was for training," he told her, carefully, unsure of what Lombard himself had said.
"Oh, I heard all about your training, and I see it on your skin, more easily read than a book. A boy your age shouldn't be covered in so many scars," she said. "It makes me wonder just what your father was thinking."
Oliver had looked at her dangerously then, for his reaction was more of this 'Oliver's' than Beam's. He had merely needed to look at her to display his dissatisfaction. She gasped, when she saw the gold light up his eyes, and quickly apologized, continuing to do his hair in silence.
