Straight-backed in his chair. Pen in hand. Steel-gray eyes and a deep teal shirt with cuffs so crisp they could cut glass. Hair combed like the wind had been outlawed. And the expression of someone who'd just written the epitaph of someone important.
He wore a long blue coat with silver trim, pale gloves resting beside a stack of sealed papers. His hair was combed with painful precision. His face—too symmetrical not to be hiding some asymmetry of character.
The room had no windows. Just tall candles and heavy drapes, like light and sound were smuggled in through legally questionable amounts.
The air was dry, scented with something woodsy enough to offend. I stood near the door, technically inside the conversation—but also outside it. Pretending not to listen. Listening to everything.
