"Your writing was excellent," he remarked. "The grammar, the penmanship, all faultless. The standard I'd expect from someone who's been reading all his life, not just a few weeks. Not just in terms of correctness, but in tone. You have a poetry to you, Hermes."
He was silent for a while, the only sound in the room the slave's quiet breathing and the crackle of the fireplace. Outside, the wind was mournful, bearing with it the first chills of oncoming winter.
"Your late Mistress sounds like a very confused woman. She had no idea what she owned."
He looked down at Hermes, impassive. "And she bred from you. You have a daughter."