The serviette was folded edge to edge, corner to corner, with as jaunty a jerk of the wrist as the one executed when the linen had been Conjured. Quick, strong, idiosyncratic decisions. Smiling widely – it will soon seep into his muscles – he steepled his fingers and allowed a moment's pause. Involvement in tangled, consuming matters.
Good will and ambition in great men were as blurry as the Minister's speeches.
"So, then. Could you tell me something? Perhaps of what you see, good lady?"
She twisted her fingers with her skirt under the table. The night's chill was not sparing his tea, brandy-tinted, just like the way her father took it. Continuing compulsion to discipline silent indulgences. She could only wonder about notions of philanthropy.
With a gentleness that would have been restrictive to her childhood enthusiasm, the slight inquiring tilt of his head swayed his beard. An act of chivalry, kindness, including her.
Then the lamplight flickered and in the brief frolicking of shadows, she saw herself swinging off her father's arm and pleading for one more day to stay. The Express and excellent opportunities never waited for anyone, she had been told. Nothing significant happened, the letter she received the next day had said. Just an unexpected dry spell and an argument between the mild-mannered man two streets away and a rumoured werewolf.
It would not do. Not now.
"The Inner Eye does not See upon command, unlike laboring horses," she replied without rancor. "Though, incidentally, sherry prices will soon outrun us. Grand celebrations are to come."
"Perhaps…you are referring to the All Hallow's Eve celebrations?"
Ah, so sardonicism and benignity could co-exist.
She opened her mouth to reply.