“There are three things that everyone expects of an aristocrat,” the valet replied, tugging firmly at the pig’s collar. “A country house, and a weak chin, and eccentricity.” He pushed and pulled at the pig with increasing determination, but the creature only sat more heavily. “I vow,” the valet wheezed, budging him only an inch at a time, “I’ll have you turned into sausage and collops by tomorrow’s breakfast!” Ignoring the determined valet, the pig stared up at Rhys with patient, hopeful eyes. “Quincy,” Rhys said, “look sharp.” He picked up a bread roll from his plate and tossed it casually in
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