The old man standing in the doorway was dressed impeccably in a crisp white shirt and a long black tailcoat that nearly touched the ground. White gloves covered his hands, and everything about his appearance screamed precision and order—the kind of person who would probably have a heart attack if he spotted a single speck of dust anywhere in his vicinity.
He stood perfectly still, waiting patiently for Renard's response with the practiced composure of someone who had spent decades in service.
Renard blinked, pulling himself back from his excitement over his recovered abilities. The Providence display vanished from his mind as he focused on the present.
"Yes, you are?" Renard asked, though the question was more formality than genuine curiosity. One look at the man's immaculate appearance and professional bearing made his identity fairly obvious.
