The pencil slowly came to a stop at the edge of the desk. There was a light thud as a finger pushed it back from whence it came. It rolled, then slowed, gradually stopping as it neared the other edge, the deitous digit descending once more to prod it into motion. It met its destiny at the hands of the wooden floor, clinking delicately, and Moist winced, readying himself to be met with a frosty glare, courtesy of his fiancée.
Thankfully, Adora Belle didn't even look up, ignoring the sound completely, and, a treacherous part of his mind pointed out, ignoring him completely too. He smothered it, swallowed, and reached down to pick up the pencil. He placed it between his teeth and hastily went back to the paperwork in front of him.
That morning there had been a mildly boring meeting with the Clacks committee board; whilst Mr Dearheart and his inventor friends had been beyond enthusiastic to take the business back and continue running it, there was no ignoring how they had met their downfall before. So Moist had volunteered his services in the finance and marketing department, surprised by his own willingness to help, until such a time where the Clacks had paid off its vast debts and was generating enough revenue to pay someone for the job. And who was better help out a struggling business's money issues than the head of the Ankh-Morpork Bank?
So he attended meetings and was, effectively, both clerk and business director at once. He'd been rather embarrassed by the Dearheart family's overwhelming gratitude, still unsure of the shaky moral grounds on which he'd won the battle of the Clacks for them, but it meant he knew he would, at least, be never troubled by his mother-in-law. Indeed, she appeared to be more excited about their (hopefully) impending wedding than Adora herself, and was probably looking forward to it more as well...
Moist felt the familiar acidic burn on his heart and pushed that thought away. There was no need for that, thank you very much. Was it grown up? Was it sensible? Was he an angsty teenager? No!
The Clacks meeting, then. Mr Dearheart always greeted him with a hearty slap on the back, or arm around the shoulders, the result of which usually made him stagger; he was sure that Reacher Gilt must have been a distant cousin of the Dearhearts, as Robert Dearheart carried something of the shaved bear resemblance about himself also. He'd often considered the irony of how two men that seemed so similar in appearance could be so fundamentally different in the moral department. Mrs Dearheart, on the other hand, was rapier thin and just about reached Moist's elbow, and although she was impossibly adoring towards him at the moment, he knew instinctively that if he stepped out of line, or was just generally irritating, he would see the source of his fiancée's temper and her skill for pointy glares.
Mr Dearheart was not particularly loud, but friendly in perfect moderation, a wonderful man with irritatingly catching enthusiasm, so much so that Moist found himself being far more interested during meetings than felt he had any right to be. The other senior members of the Clacks committee – Mr Mark Allothwaite, James P Miggins and Arthur "sliderule" Hammerton – were just as passionate, although less learned in the art of technobabble translation. Moist often zoned out for so long that it would sometimes take him a good five minutes to realise that the conversation had resumed in Morporkian.
And after the meetings, since the Grand Trunk could not yet afford to employ real clerks, he and Adora, as the both carried an aptitude for fast maths, would sort out the finance and resources side.
Moist's eyes travelled along the table to where she sat, twirling a pencil absently around her fingers, her lips moving silently as she carefully worked with the rows of neat numbers.
"Adora...when the hell are we going to get married?"
He turned around, startled, looking for the owner of the voice, before realising it was him. He glanced at Adora, strangely nervous.
She tapped her pencil against her lips twice, frowned, then the corners of her lips curled and she triumphantly scribbled down the correct calculations. She seemed to sense Moist's question hanging in the air and turned to him, eyebrows raised.
"Did you say something...?"
For a few seconds, Moist gaped in incredulity. He didn't often get angry at Adora, mainly because she was usually right, or convinced that she was, and there was no point, but irritation and insecurity had been bubbling in his stomach for a while now and they took this chance to present themselves.
"It's been nearly eighteen months since I asked you to marry me, Adora, and since the moment you said yes you have neither mentioned it again nor showed any interest in preparing or planning for it! Have you just forgotten, or are you genuinely this cold?"
"I said I would marry you, didn't I?" Adora interjected coolly. Her expression was one of mild surprise, but there was no concern or remorse in her face. Rage leapt in Moist's throat once more.
"That's not the point!" he snapped. "It's been a year and a half and we're still no closer to getting married! Money is no object, I'm head of the bank for heaven's sake, and your parents are already discussing grandchildren's names! I love you, Adora, and the only thing we're waiting on is you. It just feels like..." Moist trailed off as he saw his fiancée's quizzical expression, realising he had probably over-reacted. He sighed and waved a hand dismissively, "It doesn't matter. It just...sometimes it feels like you don't even care."
Ashamed of his uncharacteristic outburst, Moist dropped his head, bit down hard on the pencil and attempted to ignore the clenching in his throat, his eyes rebelling as he tried to carry on with the paperwork in front of him.
The silence was not awkward, but he was delicately aware that if Adora was planning on saying something to contradict his claims, the moment for it had well and truly passed. He choked back his anger, scribbling down a calculation that he was well aware was incorrect, but he was too damn miserable right now to think it through again. Okay, so he was acting like an insecure teenager, but was it really too much to ask for a simple, 'Of course not dear, don't be silly' to put his mind and heart at rest? He considered himself an expert now on Adora's various moods and reactions, and he was genuinely sure that she was...warmer than this. No human being would let that sort of accusation pass without some sort of response!
His gaze drifted back and time seemed to stop for a few seconds as his brain attempted to make sense of what she was doing; she was sitting up in her chair, quite casually flicking through a small filofax that Moist knew contained all the dates and times for her appointments for the Golem Trust. He watched her, dumbfounded, until she snapped it shut and turned to him, saying quite seriously.
"How about today?"
Moist blinked three times, but still did not quite grasp her meaning, "...I'm sorry?"
"You said I had no interest in planning the wedding." She shrugged, "Well, what about today?"
"Today." Moist repeated, "You want to get married...today?"
"That's what I said, yes. I have no more meetings for the Golem Trust until next month, the inquest into the bank funds is chugging along nicely, and I daresay Groat and Stanley can spare you for a few weeks. Today is the ideal time to get married."
He gave her a long look, and considered; many chapels in Ankh-Morpork did last-minute weddings, but they were always a tacky affair and he didn't much care for them. He knew a place in Pseudopolis that did short but sweet weddings at sunset, terribly romantic, and if they caught the next coach, which departed in about an hour, he would have time to send a clacks ahead and-
And there was no way she hadn't already thought this all through.
"You're doing this entirely to spite your mother, aren't you?"
"Of course not." said Adora Belle, but there was a smirk playing on her lips and her dark eyes were dancing.
Moist thought of how Sacharissa and De Worde had been pestering them for a big wedding story, and their frustration when they would find none. He thought of the flicker of fleeting surprise that would cross Vetinari's face as he was informed that his Postmaster General had disappeared, how Vimes would curse him for wasting Watch time when the clacks would arrive after week of searching, informing all that he had not vanished without a trace, merely eloped, and would be back when he pleased. Although, knowing Vetinari as well as he unfortunately did, there would probably be a note waiting for him at whichever inn they decided to stay in that evening, full of congratulations, and with an address at the bottom of a small business in Genua, where they would undoubtedly be heading for their honeymoon, that needed a helping hand whilst he was there.
Damn that man.
And then he thought about how the general public would love him for doing exactly the sort of thing they had come to expect of him, and he thought about how beautiful and intelligent and hard-working and, sometimes, when she really put the effort in, how kind Adora could be.
Moist made up his mind and grinned at her. She nodded back, unable to hide a small smile of her own.
"I'll go and pack, then. We can meet by the coach-house, incognito."
"Adora."
She turned back to him.
"Don't scare me like that again. I genuinely thought that you couldn't care less."
Adora smiled, softly this time, and there was as much tenderness in her face as he'd hoped for. She kissed him briefly on the cheek and slipped her small hands into his.
"Of course not, dear, don't be silly."