There were many ways to wait.
One could wait with patience, hands folded and expression serene, as if time itself was a well-trained servant that knew not to overstep.
One could wait with anxiety, pacing across carpets until the poor woven threads began questioning their own existence.
One could also wait as I did.
With tea.
A civilized man must never let fury ruin his digestion.
The small library had been cleared of unnecessary servants. The papers Spiro had written were now arranged in careful stacks across the table, each name copied twice by Bernard before he left and once by William before Spiro was escorted to his room. The originals remained untouched beneath a glass weight, as if they were relics rather than the shaky handwriting of a frightened child.
Perhaps they were relics.
Names had power.
