As Philip passed one of the windows in the long hall between the kitchens and his master’s study, he looked out and shook his head again. Three weeks ago, in one of his senile fits, Motey had begun placing orders for replacement windows, roofing supplies, and miscellaneous construction materials. This bizarre obsession had, in fact, been the last straw for some of those who’d considered remaining.
When those members of the staff left in a huff; Philip had tried to plea for the master, to remind them of those moments of crazed brilliance he used to possess, once upon a time. Lord Moterey was once a genius, though you wouldn’t believe that now. In his youth, the Motereys had been a paupered house – it was the current Lord Moterey, bless his heart, who had made a miraculous series of investments in fringe intellectual property that had paid off stupendously, making Lord Moterly the eighth richest man on earth.
And now he was about to die, a crazy old man nearly alone on a remote island.