He shoots you a look, then glances over his shoulder and claws at his back with one of his gloves. "What? What is it?"
"It's your tabard."
The footman stares at you for a beat, then readjusts the teal garment over his shoulders and turns forward, walking more quickly than ever.
Got you, you think, enjoying the small triumph as best you can.
You hear babbled conversations and the clatter of glassware and platters in several of the rooms as you walk past. The servant's wing, you suspect.
You enter a winding staircase and ascend a level. Your heartbeat echoes mightily off the stone walls.
Midway through a brighter hallway lined with lush tapestries, the footman stops at a door and gives a series of precise knocks at moderate volume—as if following specific instructions.
"Well?" you hear a throaty voice call out from inside.
Onward