A week passed, a blur of paperwork, random commands from Dormand, and more Valentine than Percy could handle. Not that he ever realized it. He woke and ate and worked and slept, doing whatever he was told. It wasn't a bad existence; he still knew why he had enjoyed such a life before. He hadn't meant to slip back into it, and perhaps he hadn't fully done so. Yet that was all there was, and he could easily hide in that life. After all, it was the only option for him now.
There was something else, though. The week passed by without any word from Penelope, but he still felt her kiss on his cheek. It was a silly thing to think about; they had kissed before, and those kissed had been more than friendly pecks on the cheek. But it had been several years. . .perhaps that was it.
And, surprisingly, Dormand was on his mind. Percy had almost begun to believe that the conversation he and Penelope had overhead wasn't real, for Matthias Dormand had slipped back into the comfortable persona he had shown upon their first meeting. As for the letters Percy had seen, he didn't hear so much as a whisper about them. For all intents and purposes, they did not exist and never had.
So that was his week. The usual work that probably mattered little, Dormand coming and going as he did, no sign of Penelope, and Valentine running in and out with lots of noise. Sometimes Winston Morsley would appear, varying between obnoxious sociability and cold glares as greetings for Percy. After a few days, Percy learned to expect such behavior from the man, and even found himself playing a little game where he would try to guess Morsley's nature-of-the-day. There was probably a pattern to it. As no one seemed ready to kill him, he let the letters and the conversation between Dormand and Jason slide.
Penelope reappeared on the eighth day, barging into the office with one other healer and a blonde-haired man Percy had never seen before.
"Hello," she said, giving him a somewhat friendly nod.
Good sign. She didn't seem to hate him anymore.
"This is my friend Pearl Hatch," she continued. "And this is Brogan Marchent. Pearl and Brogan, this is Per—this is Mr. Ignatius."
Marchent approached the desk and shook Percy's hand, actually grabbing it before Percy was able to extend it. "Pleasure to meet you. How are you enjoying working for Dormand?"
"Stimulating," he replied vaguely, still surprised about the handshake.
Marchent smiled, but didn't show the same jovial spirit. "Good to hear, Ignatius. Well, I guess that makes me your co-worker."
Marchent. The name stirred up a memory that took a few moments to place. His first day. Morsley and Dormand had been talking. They had mentioned a Marchent. It had sounded as if he had disappeared.
"I've been. . . out on business for the past while," Marchent continued. He grinned and gingerly touched a small burn on his forehead. "Ran into a little trouble." He exchanged a long glance with Penelope. Percy felt a shiver of jealousy. "You didn't get that scar here, I hope." According to Dormand's command, Percy had left his hood down. "I doubt you'll now be exposed to so much yourself, though, sitting at a desk."
Percy laughed. Rather dryly, but at least he didn't have to push it. "I hope that's true. I take it that these two women are escorting you back to work."
"Yeah. I told them I could manage a walk down the street, but they insisted on coming along." His smile faltered as he glanced towards Dormand's wall. "I should probably go speak with him now. Pearl and Penelope, thanks." He approached the wall and opened the door that subsequently appeared.
"Interesting friend you have, Penelope," Percy said tersely.
Pearl shrugged. "He was injured saving those dragons the lot of you are obsessed with." She laughed. "I find it quite appealing. Penelope, I'll head back now." With a toss of her hair, she was out the door.
Percy watched Pearl until she had disappeared down the road. He only registered that Penelope had not gone with her until he reached for his quill. It was in the hands of Penelope, who stood right next to the dance.
"I want to talk to you, Percy," she said.
He stood up and pulled the quill away from her. "Isn't that what you want to do every time you come in here?"
To his surprise, she actually laughed. "Very true. But I actually wanted to talk about that kiss."
Why did women always want to discuss such things? He felt his face go red. "It was just a kiss on the cheek. You did it."
"I know." Her face was red as well. "I gave you that kiss because, well, you were acting at that moment how you used to act."
He nearly dropped the quill. "I never used to act like that."
"Well, no. But close. I suppose it was just nice to know that you weren't involved in something wrong. For once." She finished with a sudden and snappish rise in tone.
"Hm. So it's nice to know you don't completely hate me."
Her expression and voice softened. "Too bad you're so easy to hate. Have a nice day." She dashed to the door.
He had blotted ink everywhere at that line. Easy to hate? What was that supposed to mean? Did she or did she not hate him? Despite the ambiguity, he couldn't help but feel hopeful.
Dormand's door sprang open, and out stormed Brogan Marchent, muttering something under his breath. He marched to Percy and, after a fleeting look back at the already-gone door, said "You really need to be careful. I don't even know what's going on around here.
Percy blinked. "Excuse me?"
But Marchent's temper was swelling. "They always teach you, when you're a kid, to give people second chances. They even go as far to tell you that you are worth a second chance. And later they tell you that even if you are forgiven, you're still changed. The mark never completely goes away. Well, that may be the only true thing. Good luck, Ignatius." With a loud pop, he apparated.
Percy froze, heart pounding, eyes fixed on the spot where Marchent had just been. Something had happened in that office. Maybe Marchent hadn't shown any emotion until he had left the office, but something had happened. And it wasn't any of his business, he told himself firmly. He dove back into the papers he had, working furiously and subconsciously waiting for the sound of an opening door. Sure enough, about forty-five minutes later, Dormand emerged.
He glanced briefly at the papers on the desk—there wasn't even enough time to take in what they even said—and grunted a "Good work, Ignatius."
"Thank-you, sir."
"I take you already met Brogan Marchent?" There was a note of pride in Dormand's voice. "He's one of my best men. A brave one, very resourceful."
"Yes, sir. I hear he's been out for awhile."
Dormand sighed and shook his head. "Very true. Was attacked by a dragon. Happens sometimes. Just like you and that hippogriff. Well, I hope you don't me wandering around this room. I've really nothing to do."
"Not at all, sir." Percy suddenly wished he'd go away.
"Just don't mind me. Continue on like I wasn't here."
A very difficult thing to do. Dormand seemed to prowl the room, yet his expression was innocent, almost oblivious. Percy was almost glad when he heard Valentine's voice shouting for Winston Morsley an hour later.
"What is she whining about this time?" Dormand asked with a nonchalant chuckle.
Valentine appeared on in the doorway. Her blonde hair was as frizzy as always, but there was something different. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying. "Where's Winston?" she demanded. She noticed Dormand's presence. "Oh. Mr. Dormand." She seemed to shrink back, fear clouding her face.
"Miss Munk," Dormand replied calmly.
"I. . . need to speak to Winston."
"I haven't seen him all day. Sorry. I'm guessing it's quite urgent."
"My allergies are acting up," Valentine muttered. "I might as well drop this off." She approached the desk and flung a stack of parchment at Percy, along with an almost pained glare. "I'll be back later."
Whatever was her problem? Percy wondered, picking up the parchment. It wasn't another report, as he expected. At least, not all of it was. They seemed to be random notes, thrown haphazardly together. He flipped through them, looking for some logic. He then saw something that made him drop the stack. The envelope he had found in the desk.
