The Master laughs heartily, rows of flawless teeth flashing; it’s easy to see how this face, in another life, was a politician.
“Everyone’s mentioned me before,” he proclaims. “White wine, sure, how’s a Pinot sound? Nice and dry.”
He strides over to a small steel refrigerator, and pulls a chilled bottle from within. Fetching two glasses, he uncorks and pours with panache. He hands the girl called Ophelia–child of his oldest and dearest friend–her glass.
“To new beginnings: and to answer your first question, your father and I are married. And I’m going to have a word with him for not mentioning that straightaway. As for your other question: what d’you want me to be working on?”
“Ooh, sophistocated.” Ophelia replies, smirking as she keeps looking at the invention as he gets their drinks. “Apparently dad’s been mentioning me though, hasn’t he?”
“Wait, married? That’s why you said stepdad!” She grins, looking over at him. “I… I guess it’s cause I’ve been talking about mum a lot or that it’s still close to home but… wow, congrats!”
She takes the glass and clinks it against his. “To new beginnings, yes. I don’t know what I would want, but it’s certainly interesting.”
She takes a sip of the wine, more used to Moscatos and dessert wines, but supposes she can find an acquired taste for it. “What is it?”
The Master, who is poor at empathy–which is a different thing entirely from compassion, at which he is capable, when he really puts in effort, for those few beings he deems on his level–clicks his tongue at himself and nods.
“Yes, close to home, of course it would be. Do forgive me, did your mum, ah, er … “
He pauses, to sip his Pinot Grigio, and scramble for a polite euphemism.
Icarus 