He took a slow, delicate sip of his chamomile tea, set the cup back down on the porcelain saucer with a tiny, crystalline clink, and lifted his eyes to mine:
“Your daughter has remarkably clean phrasing, Sebastian,” the Admiral said.
His voice was a deep, velvet baritone that resonated through the twenty-foot timber rafters of my living room like an organ pipe vibrating against old oak:
“Her wrist posture is slightly low on the descending arpeggios, but that is easily corrected by six months with a master at the New England Conservatory.”
The Admiral steepled his manicured fingers over the grip of his Walther:
“I am prepared to establish a four-million-dollar irrevocable educational trust for both girls at the Northern Trust of Chicago before the banks close at three o’clock.”
He pointed his gold signet ring toward the kitchen table:
“Full tuition. Private residential quarters on Beacon Hill. A permanent trust fund that guarantees they will never spend an hour of their lives worrying about mortgage interest or corporate restructuring.”
