The clanging of glass tubes echoed through the lab. A pair of wrinkled hands placed the salvageable ones in their holder; the rest were discarded in the bin.
Finally, the lab emerged spotless. The diligent tifflings had covered up traces of damage or wear. Even the lingering corpse was promptly disposed of, neatly folded into a pitch-black box. Its destination was likely the ground.
As four tifflings departed with the crate, an observing Alistair trembled. He morbidly gazed at the pale arm flailing out of the edges.
Alistair looked at Madam Petri and said, "Sometimes, I feel these Tifflings are too efficient."
"Shut up, you paranoid brat," Madam Petri shot back, her wrinkled hands dumping the last tube. "I don't know who is worse, the emperor or you."
"The empe—oh, occasionally I forget you know the man." Alistair frowned. "What is the emperor like?"
Madam Petri paused, contemplating her answer.
