Chapter Text
“He's just through here,” Dr Clotho said, her tone hushed as usual as they turned off the metal staircase into the library stacks, hitting the timed light switch as she went.
The lights flickered on, illuminating dark rows of books.
While Oxford had the hallowed Bodelean, all dark wood and gold stone splendour, Cambridge had University Library, a sinister red brick tower-topped cavern, full of poorly lit stacks that echoed as your footsteps rattled the floor. It was far from her favourite place to study, but also by far the best stocked library in the city, on a par only with the Bodelean and the British Library in London. And it was where the man they had come to meet was basing himself for the day.
She followed Clotho through the stacks, turning a corner at the end to find a small desk tucked under a narrow window. The desk was piled with books and in the uncomfortable wooden chair before it sat a broad shouldered man in a dark linen jacket, his dark hair a mess of waves as he ran his hand through it.
He had heard their approach. How could he not have, the way even their soft footsteps seemed to shake the stacks as they passed?
Sliding his chair back, the man turned and stood, and Gwyn felt herself staring as she followed his movement. Gods he was tall! He towered over her own tall frame, slim but visibly strong beneath his well cut but rumpled suit. His face was beautiful; if his expression had been any less serious and jaw any less masculine you could almost call it pretty. Suddenly embarrassed, she consciously stood up straight and met his eyes - long-lashed, hazel and sharp - before he turned his attention to Clotho.
“Doctor Singer, allow me to introduce Gwyneth Berdera, the research assistant we discussed.”
He turned back to her now, face neutral, polite, but eyes intent and interested, extending his hand in greeting, “Please, call me Azriel. It's a pleasure to meet you.”
His voice was soft and deep, and his hand warm under fingerless gloves as she shook it. Her breath caught.
“You can call me Gwyn”, she said quickly, conscious to power through with what she hoped was a friendly smile as her cheeks heated. “Dr Clotho has been telling me about your research and I'm delighted to be able to help.”
It was a couple of days ago that Clotho first mentioned this potential role. Her academic supervisor was aware she was working several jobs to cover her costs, despite still having a subsidised room in college, and a paid academic post, however lowly, was preferable to other work. Even better, this one was thematically very relevant to her own research, so wouldn't be wholly wasted time.
When she'd heard a visiting fellow was in need of a research assistant to explore the folklore of the local fenland and beyond, she had pictured a fusty old man, eccentric, white haired and tweedy. It had never occurred to her she'd be working for a six foot four adonis, fighting back blushes when he glanced her way. How was this man a folklorist? And how had he achieved fellowship so soon? He looked a few years older than she was, but surely not that many.
“Excellent,” he said, with the barest suggestion of a smile, “Dr Clotho has told me a little about your work too and I think you will indeed be a huge help.” He was softly spoken but sounded genuine.
At this Gwyn couldn't help her smile. She loved her research and if this man was sincerely interested this could turn out to be an ideal solution to her financial woes.
Nodding to the stacks of books on his desk she asked, “What are you working on today?”
He glanced behind himself. “Oh, this is- no, this is something else. An undergraduate course I accidentally agreed to take.” He rubbed the back of his neck, almost shyly. “I thought perhaps we could take a walk and you could tell me more about your work? And then see if we feel this project of mine would be a good collaboration?”
Collaboration? That word implied more sharing of credit than Gwyn knew to expect as a young female researcher. She was surprised, though not unwise enough to show it. Her smile warming further, she answered, “That sounds fantastic.”
-
It had been without a doubt the best job interview of her life. Dr Singer seemed genuinely and intently interested in Gwyn's research into the historical traces of magic in the region, asking informed questions about certain sources and probing ones about details she believed she was the first to uncover.
In turn he told her more about his areas of enquiry, which aligned closely enough she was a tad concerned she hadn't come across his name before.
“Oh, I haven't published much in this area,” he said when she asked. “I'm more known for my work on political theory.”
Huh. Of course she had known of his other work, having looked him up herself yesterday. But she still didn't know what to make of the discrepancy.
“Methodology is the common thread through all my research,” he explained softly, in response to her unasked question. “Ethnographic, primarily. Immersive, practical fieldwork.” He looked up, gaze following the road. “That's what I'm hoping to embark on this year, while I'm here.”
“Ethnography of ancient beliefs in magic?” She voiced skeptically. “Wouldn't the subjects need to be alive for that to work?”
He huffed another quiet laugh. “Well, I still need to identify my communities, of course. This was something I thought you might be able to help me with.”
She blinked at him. They'd drawn to a halt on the Backs, not far from the closed gates of Clare College. The late summer sun was low in the sky, painting the gardens beyond the gate a golden green.
“Right…”
“So what do you think?”
She carried on looking at him. A slight frown shadowed his face, cheekbones sharp in the harshly angled evening light. She blew out a breath.
“Well I can't lie, this is a bit of a dream job. I would need to take my supervisor's advice on the overlap with my thesis, and-” she took a deep breath, channeling her friend Nesta, who would have a keen eye on risks like this one, “and maybe that's something we would need to agree in writing.”
“Of course. I have certain… parameters we would need to discuss with respect to publishing too.”
“Great. Well, great.” Gwyn could feel herself grinning again, holding out her hand for him to take. “In that case, I look forward to hopefully working with you Dr Singer.”
He shook her hand, that slight suggestion of a smile softening his face again. “Please, just Azriel.”
-
After that they had parted ways, Gwyn turning back towards Newnham, while he carried on to St Johns. He had offered to walk her back, but it wasn't late yet and she wanted the time to mentally sort through what had just happened.
A political anthropologist, now interested in the memory of magic use… Wanting to do current day fieldwork to understand, what? How that memory was experienced? How it was enacted? And how did that relate to his work on modern politics? Surely there was more to it than methods; if nothing else how would he have got the project funded? Fascinating.
Then there was the fact of… well, the sight of him. Gwyn hid her face in her hands. She had gotten much more comfortable in the company of men these last few years, as the distance between her and that awful night grew, enough that panic was pretty rare when everyone was sober and well behaved. She could often relax enough to even enjoy a conversation, as she had done today. But the blushing and staring, that was new. Something she would absolutely need to get a handle on if he was ever going to take her seriously in this job!
Head full of ideas, she hurried into college, absently greeting the porters as she passed and jogging up the stairs to her room two at a time. She had just enough time to shower and dress before she was due to meet Nesta and Emerie.
Re-braiding her hair and newly clothed in a modest but elegant-enough blue dress, Gwyn ran back over what she knew of tonight's event. Formal, but not a college event. Free food, which had been a major factor in her agreement to attend. Nesta's brother-in-law, his friends, a swanky restaurant-bar on a street she had only ever cycled down. Wear heels, Nesta had said, so she was; her only pair, well cared for navy blue leather, not too high.
Gwyn's reflection sighed at her. She shook her head back at it. Tonight would be fine. She had Nesta and Emerie with her, and if she couldn't support Nesta at an event she didn't want to attend, after everything that woman had helped her through these last years… No, tonight would be fine. She'd be anonymous in the crowd, not drawing anyone's attention, and when Nesta ran out of steam they would leave. And that wouldn't take long, given her track record with family events.
Nodding at the mirror, Gwyn gathered up her bag and coat and headed out to meet her friends.
-
When they stepped through the doorway into the dimly lit restaurant the maitre d’ ushered them through to a private room at the back. Emerie and Gwyn exchanged a surprised glance. The room was small and the table already occupied by just a handful of guests.
One of them stood, a strikingly handsome man with dark hair and clothes, and intelligent eyes. Rhys, the brother-in-law. He smiled at them, open and friendly. “Nesta, Gwyn, Emerie, I'm so glad you could make it.”
“Thank you for inviting us,” Gwyn replied, returning his smile. Then turning so her back faced the table she mouthed to Nesta, “What. The. Fuck.” Nesta ignored her.
Quietly mortified, Gwyn removed her coat, passing it to be hung. This was clearly a dinner between close friends and family, hardly the busy party in a bar she had been led to expect. Such an intrusion to be here, having met their host a grand total of once! And that meeting very much in passing, as Nesta called him every unpleasant name under the sun and they attempted to bundle her away.
Swallowing she turned back to the table, taking the empty chair nearest to her, Emerie to her left. An evening to be endured then.
“I hope the three of you have had good days?” Rhys enquired, the picture of politeness, while Nesta made a point of not looking at him.
After an awkward pause, shooting a quick glance at her friend, Gwyn answered at the same time as Emerie did:
“Yes, thank you-”
“It was great, and you?”
Rhys chuckled pleasantly, nodding. “Yes, a lovely day, thank you. My brothers and I were just reminiscing about how wonderful it is to be back in town.
“You've not met yet, let me introduce you all. This is Amren, an extremely old friend of mine,” he gestured to a glamorous, petite lady, dark haired and elegantly bored in a stunning silver dress, “and Mor, my cousin”. His cousin was even more beautiful than him, with long blonde hair set in waves and a deep red dress that matched her warm smile. Gwyn felt suddenly appallingly underdressed. “And you know Feyre, of course,” his wife, Nesta's youngest sister beamed at them, “and Elain”, the other Archeron sister smiled kindly too. “And these are my brothers, Cassian and Azriel.”
At that Gwyn's eyes widened, she had been so focussed on their host she hadn't noticed she'd slipped into a chair alongside Dr Azriel Singer.
“Gwyn and I met today actually,” he said with that slight smile of his. “She is deciding whether to come in on my latest project.”
At that Rhys's gaze zeroed in on her. “Well, that is great news. I didn't realise our interests overlapped so closely.”
“Me neither,” said Nesta, frowning slightly as she looked past Gwyn to Azriel.
“Well, Gwyn and Emerie are good friends of Nesta,” continued Rhys, addressing the room again, “Delighted you were both able to join us.”
After that the table settled, Mor offering them wine and pouring Gwyn some water when she declined. She quickly engaged Emerie in conversation, leaving Gwyn to observe the dynamics around her. Rhys and Amren had resumed a heated discussion, with Feyre interjecting at intervals. Nesta was speaking with Cassian, wary eyes not leaving his face, while Elain and Azriel watched their conversation, she with interest and he impassively.
Noticing her attention, Azriel turned to her. “I didn't realise you and Nesta were friends.”
“Since our first week here,” she responded. “We still have rooms side by side in college. Her and Emerie are like family to me.” She smiled, ”I had no idea you were Rhys's brother.”
“In every sense but blood. We grew up together. And we studied together here, at John's.”
“Where you now have a fellowship.”
“A visiting fellowship, yes, just for this year.”
“It must be nice, being back in your old college again.”
“Yes, nostalgic.”
“Nothing ever seems to change in this city. It's part of its charm I think.”
At that he nodded once.
“So what is this undergraduate course you agreed to teach, and how did they dupe you into signing up by accident?”
At that he laughed quietly and answered as if unused to talking about himself. They carried on chatting from there as food was ordered, starters eaten and mains delivered to the table. Azriel told her about his course, then about his PhD fieldwork on the continent. She shared how she, Nesta and Emerie had met and bonded during the weekly self defence class they still attended, and how close she was now to finishing her own PhD. Across the table she noticed Elain watching them with a small frown.
It was only when the waiters came to clear the table of desserts that Gwyn realised they had spent the whole night talking almost exclusively to each other. Nesta raised an eyebrow at her as she tugged on her coat but said nothing until they’d parted ways with the rest of the group on the street outside.
“You and Azriel were cosy tonight.”
“I might not have been as hostile as you were to Rhys, but that hardly makes me cosy.”
“Oh please,” interjected Emerie, “you were practically flirting!”
Gwyn’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? I was not! He is - hopefully - my new boss! We mostly talked about our PhDs.”
“Well it ruffled Elain’s feathers, whatever it was to you,” chuckled Nesta.
“Is there something going on between them?” Gwyn had wondered, though it seemed surprising. Elain had only recently had an engagement broken off, which had left her desolate for months. She had moved to be nearer Feyre recently, but hadn’t seemed like she was ready to go looking for anything new.
“Certainly nothing official, but Feyre seems to think she’s got Azriel and poor old Lucien hanging around waiting for her to make up her mind.”
“Wow,” said Emerie, impressed, “I didn’t think Elain had it in her!”
Gwyn was inclined to agree, but then the middle Archeron sister was undeniably, stunningly pretty, and seemed not to have the sharp edges her other sisters possessed. She’d always come across to Gwyn as thoughtful, generous and kind, which both Feyre and Nesta could also be, but only when you got past their armour. The real mystery was how she wasn’t settled down already, not how she could have multiple eligible men pursuing her.
“Well, she could do far worse,” she said. Emerie and Nesta exchanged an entertained and knowing look, so Gwyn swung her bag at them, laughing.
“Oi! Don't think I've forgotten you made me think this was a big anonymous drinks party, not an intimate family dinner.”
“Intimate, huh?”
“Oh stop!”
Their laughter bubbled over again. Emerie threaded her arms through Gwyn and Nesta's, leading them towards home.
-
It had been several weeks since the dinner, and with Michaelmas term just about to start Gwyn felt rushed off her feet in a city newly heaving with people.
Young men in suits and black academic gowns milled absolutely everywhere in the centre of town. She battled through the market square to buy the fruit she'd come in for, dodging boys and their parents, smiling encouragingly at the smaller numbers of young women looking terrified as she'd felt first arriving here or as fierce as Nesta had looked. The university admitted more women every year through its two women's colleges, but they were still vastly outnumbered.
With Clotho's guidance she had agreed all the details of her research assistant post with Azriel. Anything they found in the historical record via her contacts was hers to publish first, but all fieldwork findings belonged to the project, which Azriel had assured her would have them both as co-authors. The pay was better than she had expected too, and she'd been able to quit her job in the tea room as a consequence. Between the research, the remains of her stipend and the odd shifts in her college library she was confident she'd be able to cover her costs for the year. All in all it was an incredible opportunity; she couldn't believe her luck.
And as though thinking of him had summoned him, she found herself face-to-face with- “Dr Singer!”
“Hello, Gwyn,” he greeted her with that trace of a smile tugging at his lips, snagging her attention for longer than was strictly appropriate. His hazel eyes were gold and green in the crisp October sun. She looked down.
“You're in your gown,” she blurted stupidly, and he was, dressed like the students around them, formally in a suit and gown.
“Helping with matriculation this morning,” he said.
“Oh, of course.” Gods she felt awkward. Her face was warm, flustered.
“You're shopping?”
“Yes, for fruit.”
She gestured to her bag of pears and apples. He nodded.
“Are you finished?” He paused, as if uncertain whether to go on. “If you have the time, you could join me for tea. I've been working on our project and have pulled some texts I'd love you to look at.”
Oh. She didn't feel at all prepared for that, but with her shopping completed she had nothing else scheduled until her late library shift, so it was as good a time to get started as any.
“Alright. Let me grab my bike.”
Wheeling her pale blue bicycle along the cobbled streets, fruit bag bouncing in its wicker basket, Gwyn followed Azriel as he led the way along Trinity Street to St John's College. She locked her bike out front and he took her bag for her. The porters greeted them cordially as they passed through the lodge.
Gwyn had always found St John's intimidating. One of the two richest colleges in the university, it was huge in comparison to her own home at Newnham, grand and imposing with red brick courts and golden spires spanning both sides of the river. Today the courts were busy with undergraduates, hurrying towards Hall for what she assumed must be their matriculation dinner, welcoming them to the university.
Azriel ignored the crowds, leading them across the river and up a quiet, wood panelled staircase. He unlocked a heavy wooden door on the top floor and ushered her in, before leaving her alone as he ducked out with a teapot. “Make yourself comfortable, I'll be back in a sec with tea.”
The rooms were cosier than she expected; dark wood panelling only coming half way up the wall and softened by the books, artefacts and artwork that covered every surface. Lead-paned windows looked out through red leafed creepers over perfect green lawns to the river Cam. The last embers of a fire glowed comfortingly in the grate.
To her left was a dark door, standing ajar and no doubt leading to his bedroom. In front of the window was a tidy desk, with books and papers stacked neatly alongside a small jar of pens. On the windowsill was an ancient looking pot fragment, covered, she now recognised, in the same occult runes her sources often referenced. She wondered where he had obtained that.
Looking around with sharper eyes now she noticed other references to a magical past. An etching of fae creatures in a dark cedar forest, a dark bladed knife with an inscription she couldn't read, a tapestry of stars hanging over a mountain. So this wasn't a new area of interest for him at all.
She turned to see Azriel slip back into the room, teapot in one hand, two cups and a small bottle of milk in the other. He placed them in a small table between two wingback armchairs and nodded her to sit in the one nearest the fire.
“You've got quite the collection here,” she said, gesturing to the nearest shelf of artefacts.
He nodded, shrugging off his gown and jacket to sit in the chair next to her. “A long held interest of mine and Rhys's.”
“I didn't realise he was in the field.”
“He's not. He is funding us though.”
“Oh! What?”
“It's an area his family has put money into for several generations actually. He has a significant collection of artefacts and an excellent library in his family home. I hope to get you access to it.”
“Wow. I knew he was well off but that's another level. I hadn't even heard of the collection.”
“Yes. An old family. And a private one.”
“Right.”
Stranger and stranger. Gwyn sorted back through what she knew of Rhys from Nesta. Rich and arrogant, eloped with her younger sister after a very short engagement. Nebulously powerful and well connected, though not actively involved in either politics or government. Could swing from charming to icy cold in the space of one conversation. No living parents. Large home in London.
“You've come across the daglan in your research?”
“Yes, of course,” Gwyn responded. The old stories often made reference to these beings, greatly feared and typically associated with the demise of magic, and the ushering in of the new non-magical age.
“They are why I’m back here," Azriel stated. “Stories of them have been resurfacing all over Europe in different forms these last few years. My fieldwork last year in Hungary was looking at something completely different, but the references kept cropping up, and I heard several accounts connecting directly back to old British folk tales. I don't think the stories could have originated anywhere else.
“Cambridge was the obvious base for the project, so I reached out to my old college and my old supervisor and it was her who recommended speaking to you.”
“You were supervised by Clotho?” Gwyn was shocked. Clotho rarely taught outside her own all-female college.
“Yes, as an undergraduate. ‘Myth, magic and memory’; it was my favourite paper. That's why your work is so interesting to me. You're finding new sources, ones that haven't surfaced for hundreds of years. And not just in one place, across the region. Just as the stories are returning elsewhere as well. Where are they coming from? And why now? I was hoping we could revisit some of the places you've been studying, speak to local people who were able to direct you to your sources, understand what else they might believe or think in relation to the stories.”
He was looking at her intently. She swallowed.
“Wow. Well, of course. So you'd like me to come with you on fieldwork and make introductions?” She laughed a little nervously. “I had imagined I'd be writing literature reviews for you or transcribing your interviews.” In short, she'd expected to stay safely in Cambridge.
He smiled his familiar half-smile at that, “Well, you'd be very welcome to, but that could be quite dull for you.”
He poured the tea, now perfectly brewed and pushed the milk her way. “I hope you don't take sugar, I realised I don't have any in yet.”
She laughed again, thinly. What was wrong with dull? “No sugar is fine.” She stirred in her milk and took a sip. It was delicious, smokey and smooth, far higher quality than the stuff she bought herself. She took a breath. “So you said you had some things you wanted me to read.”
Azriel was watching her closely, a slight frown furrowing his brows. “Mhmm.” Azriel stood, crossing to his desk and shuffling through his papers to pull out two roughly bound folios. He handed them to her.
“They're accounts of the daglan and the passing on of magical creatures from around the third century. From Rhys's library.”
Gwyn's pulse picked up. If these sources could be verified… They were completely new to her. She stared at the papers.
“You can take those with you. I hoped you might be able to go through them, alongside your existing research, and see what we can surmise about the daglan from that era? I have teaching I've committed to here the next few weeks but I'm hoping to make my first trip out for All Hallows. I have some villages in mind from what I read in your notes, but if there is anywhere you would prioritise, I'd love to hear it.”
Apprehension forgotten in the face of interest, Gwyn stared at the folios. “Wow. Of course. I can't wait to get started.” She wished it wasn't too impolite to start reading them now. Reluctantly she tucked them into her bag, returning to her tea.
“And if you would feel comfortable accompanying me on that trip, I believe your presence could be extremely beneficial.” He was still watching her intently, having clearly noticed her nervousness. “But I have no expectations, if you would prefer to focus on the written material.”
Right. The fieldwork part of the job. She had felt nothing but comfortable with Azriel in all their interactions to date, her own blushing awkwardness aside, but leaving Cambridge with only him for company, going into the countryside to talk to people who potentially still believed in magic… But no, she had done this for her own fieldwork. Admittedly only daytrips and always with others for company, but she wouldn't be alone this time either, and she had come such a long way since her first week in the city. This could be good for her.
“I'd need to understand the details better, but in principle, yes, I'd be happy to accompany you.”
He sat back, looking quietly relieved, or even pleased. “Great.”
Gwyn sipped her tea, suddenly tired and at a loss for things to talk about.
“So, do you sing?” She heard herself blurt.
“Sing?” He was surprised, eyebrows raised.
“Your name,” she offered with a laugh. “Singer!”
He chuckled at that. “Oh. Yes, I do.” He answered. There was a pause. “So, tell me how you like working with Dr Clotho,” he followed with, firmly changing the subject.
She laughed again but took the opening. She stayed for another cup of tea after that one, chatting about Clotho, how different the city was in term time, how insufferable undergraduate men could be, Azriel relaxed and smiling in the chair beside her.
-
That evening, settled into a desk at Newnham library, Gwyn pulled out the folios.
She had completed her shift, shelving returns and directing a couple of postgrads to the books they needed, and couldn't wait any longer to see if these texts were really as exciting as she suspected.
“The daglan came to the lord's house the day after Beltane. He asked for tribute and we each of us went. The tithe was high that year and every family returned home spent. It would be a hard summer then and men would fall down in the fields. The harvest was abundant but with few to work it crops spoiled, bringing rats that polluted our homes into the colder months. The daglan left not long after Beltane more splendid than he had arrived.”
Eyes wide, Gwyn stared at this direct account, more explicit than any other she'd read about the daglan's feared tithe. And the timing, Beltane fell on the first of May, marking the start of summer. Called Calan Mai where she grew up, and still celebrated as May Day locally today, it was an ancient fertility rite, where magic and nature was thought to be replenished for the year ahead. She'd never read that detail before, the clue of timing. She wondered if anything else in the account would help date the year… a celestial event perhaps, or references to known occurrences in the historical record.
Sure enough, many pages later amongst a detailed description of a later harvest, there was reference to a planetary alignment. Hauling a giant almanac over to her desk she set about trying to date it.
Azriel had said this text was third century. If her interpretation was correct the account itself though was older still, perhaps by a hundred years. ‘The lord's house’ then was unlikely to be a church as she had first guessed, too early. The home of the local lord then, the daglan working through the prevailing power structures of the time.
She sat back to think. This source might be the latest she'd read. Third century… recording events of the second. All stories agreed magic was gone from the world by the end of the third century. Old beliefs fell out of fashion, new religion embedded, and tales of magical creatures became rare fables, stories to frighten children. And contemporary accounts from those final centuries were vanishingly rare.
Absolutely fascinating.
Buzzing with energy, Gwyn pulled out her notebook and pen, thoughts flying faster than she could get them on the page.
–
The sun was rising low over the surrounding fields, the silver mist turning pink as the blades of his oars sliced through the water. Sliding forward for one, two, three and driving back on four, gliding steadily upriver against the current.
He had missed rowing in his time away from Cambridge. He had no time or inclination to join a boat now he was back, but looked forward to the mornings he was able to book one of the college sculls to train alone. When the river was silent and fields misty like this it felt like he was flying.
Breathing in as he slid forward and exhaling with a strong push from his legs as he drove the blades back, he let his mind wander. It had been a successful reentry to academic life, all in all. His first lecture had gone well and he had managed to dodge any other teaching responsibilities for now. And his plan for the year was starting to take shape.
The postgrad researcher, Gwyn, was an unexpected delight. He had laughed more in her company the past month than he had in gods know how long. She was at once shy and irreverent; keenly intelligent, chatty and quick-witted one moment, then quietly watching and reserved the next. Her knowledge and contacts would give the project a huge head start. The analysis she'd provided already was extremely beneficial. He was grateful to Clotho for the introduction.
Eyes on the river back to town he watched smoke from the sleeping narrow boats twining past the willows, disappearing into the sky above. A flock of geese flew past overhead, their V shape precise. Breathing steadily, he kept pushing the slim boat further upstream.
He was seeing her again tomorrow and looking forward to it. He wanted to give her the full story behind this ‘project’, a compulsion he wasn't used to. He would have to talk to Rhys about it. If they were going to be travelling together, working together as closely as seemed likely… he didn't know why but he didn't feel comfortable misleading her, treating her as just another source. Her friendship with Nesta was another complicating factor, probably the one that would sway Rhys to his side.
He kept going until he reached the lock. He could picture it easily, the two of them working together. Debriefing after challenging interviews. Working through ideas, paper notes spread messily across a desk. Her coat on the back of his door, red hair bright in the firelight. Connections drawn in conversation rather than long late nights alone…
Turning the scull smoothly, he shook his head and reoriented himself for the journey back into town.