BreadCrumb Trail (The Yellow Hoods, #2): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale by Adam Dreece

tightened, as it always did. He knocked on the door. An old, bald, sickly-looking man opened it. Cleeves was wearing his usual dark green and brown outfit with frills, which seemed more and more out of place compared to how those around Simon had been dressing recently.
    “Greetings, Cleeves,” said the Hound. He’d never had a conversation with the old man, but always did his best to show him respect. He still had no idea how the man might fit into the grand scheme of things.
    Cleeves looked him up and down, as he always did. It was remarkable to Cleeves how different the Hound looked and behaved now, compared with his unsightly first appearance. He liked the Hound better than he had LeLoup, but he kept that opinion to himself.
    “Would you care for tea and biscuits today, Mister Hound?” asked Cleeves drily.
    “Yes, thank you, I would appreciate that,” replied the Hound.
    Cleeves gave a look that showed he didn’t care for the over-the-top manners. He moved out of the way to let the Hound enter. “Mister—”, he started to announce.
    “I am aware he’s here, Cleeves, thank you,” snapped Simon, shaking his head. He was halfway up a ladder attached to one of the many thirty-foot-high floor-to-ceiling bookcases. “Do you think me deaf? Really, Cleeves, sometimes I wonder why I keep you.”
    “Tea, sir?” asked Cleeves to Simon, ignoring the attack.
    “Of course, tea. What a silly question. Have I ever said no?” asked Simon. He returned to hunting for a particular book. “Come in, Hound. Don’t leave the door open like that. You might let a stray animal or commoner in here if you aren’t careful.”
    The Hound stepped in and tried to imagine how a commoner could get through the guards and checkpoints that led up to the study’s entrance, let alone the mini-castle that surrounded. Simon’s patron was as paranoid about security as Simon was.
    Looking at the ceiling, the Hound noticed skylights had been added, and the enormous chandelier removed.
    “You noticed the natural light,” said Simon, climbing down the ladder with two books under his left arm. He wore a beige shirt and maroon pants, which the Hound was surprised to see. Simon’s salt-and-pepper hair was short and brushed, and he remained as clean-shaven as ever.
    Simon offered a half-smile. “If you’re wondering about the modern clothing and my lack of scholarly robes, you can thank Richelle Pieman and her minions. They believe—and they aren’t wrong—that we need to project a more modern presence on all fronts. After seeing everyone else adopt it, I decided to give it a try.”
    The Hound, unsure what to say, offered, “It looks… comfortable.”
    Simon looked down at his pants and black boots. For a moment, Simon sounded like a regular, down-to-earth guy. “Remarkably, it is. Lighter too. I hated pantaloons, which is why, as much as possible, I wore the robes. These are, honestly, an improvement. I don’t like agreeing with Richelle, but on this front, I think she’s right.” Realizing he had said something that might make him seem weak, Simon corrected himself sharply, “I know she’s right. It’s obvious, and once I was brought into the discussion, I whole-heartedly agreed. However, I think everyone can agree that fashion is not on the same level of importance as my work.”
    The Hound nodded, not because he agreed, but because he feared the consequences of not doing so. St. Malo had been good to him since the beginning, but he’d heard stories about what happened to people who got on St. Malo’s bad side—supposedly an easy thing to do.
    “Come,” said Simon, walking through a labyrinth of recently rearranged eight-foot-high bookcases that divided up the otherwise enormous room. The Hound was sure St. Malo enjoyed being one of the few who knew the way through.
    A moment later, they emerged to a newly set-up area. There were two dark wooden worktables covered with neatly stacked papers and brass tubes. Nearby stood a