Perfectly Content

[Tom Cooke]

♟
the vauquelin house · uptown

☙ 2718 · 14 ophus · early evening ❧

Constable Inspector Monica Delacore,

My husband and I would be truly honored if you would join our household for dinner, should your duties permit, on some evening in this extraordinarily cold Ophus. I am hopeful that we can find some time and date which is convenient for all of us.

I will preface this invitation by admitting that we do not know one another; it is chance – or perhaps fate, or the hand of Alioe – that has given us some association by proxy. Although it must be strange to receive such a missive from a relative stranger, you will, if you remember him, know my husband, Anatole Estienne Vauquelin, who has sat for many years now on the Vyrdag and, until recently, cooperated with his peers in leading the galdori (and subordinate races) with gods-honoring wisdom and a love for his nation and for the Six Kingdoms. It was with great distress that we lost him in the summer of this year, but now he is returned to us and is recovering from what we all know now to be a particularly traumatic and mind-altering backlash of the Perceptive Conversation.

My husband has told me that your most recent encounter with him was less than friendly, and, if you would permit it, we are determined to mend relations and to clarify any strange behavior you may have observed. This is largely at my husband’s urging; now that he is somewhat recovered, Anatole is deeply troubled by his treatment of you and others during his darkest hour, and he hopes that in the coming months he can begin to repair what has been damaged or broken. I will leave it to him to explain himself more thoroughly, should you accept our invitation.

Regardless of your decision, you have the Vauquelin household’s best wishes for the remainder of this year and the beginning of the one to come. Benea light your path.

Diana Elise Alarin Vauquelin

The fourteenth of Ophus already. Much as it felt wrong, Tom was glad he wasn’t in the Dives.

He’d just about gotten used to this. It wasn’t a surprise anymore, at least, when he woke up in a four-poster bed, swaddled like a babe in blankets and silk; when he went to sleep, it wasn’t with the expectation of waking up in the dingy tenements, trembling and ready to hurl, going through cheap cigarettes by the pack. The world turned: the leaves had long fallen off of the trees, and now their boughs were freezing, growing brittle and petrified like the veins of a corpse. Now Tom woke up to fine glass windows crusted with frost. The heavy brocade drapes didn’t keep the chill from crawling into his joints, but at least he wasn’t out in it, blue and black and numb like so many humans and wicks.

If he’d still been in the Dives, he might’ve been dead by now. Being realistic, it was a wonder he wasn’t dead – dead again, that was – well, disembodied. Whatever counted as “dead” now, in this bang moony life of his. (At least he wouldn’t have to be Anatole. Still, he preferred being Anatole to being whatever the hell he was between hosts, and he wasn’t in a rush to murder some other poor sod.)

Diana had had to remind him about five times that tonight was indeed when the Constable Inspector was coming to dinner, and he couldn’t say he was looking forward to it. They had started sleeping in separate beds shortly after he’d come back – his request, but she happily complied – and he’d slept scandalously late, alone in the Incumbent’s bedroom and paralyzed with dread; he was still nursing a whole hell of a lot of confusion, and more than a little resentment. Going through the motions had gotten a lot tougher when “the motions” started constituting galdori high society. For the latter half of Achtus and Ophus so far, he hadn’t had a lot to do, thankfully: he’d been injured, he’d had a break, he’d had to take a break, and right now everybody wanted him about as far away from a podium or an official document as Tom Cooke had ever been. But it was a looming specter, this recovery. They did expect him to get better.

(And then – when would Hawke’s business come a-calling? What was expected of him here? Not to cut any throats, that was for sure. He suddenly had a little more respect for a certain Wynngate.)

It didn’t help that he looked so… clean. He was thinking about that now, standing in front of the mirror in the Incumbent’s study, locked into place. If he hadn’t recognized himself before, he certainly didn’t now. An Anaxi politician’s distinguished browns and severe blacks, the well-polished shoes, the silk scarf. A barber had given him one of the neatest haircuts and closest shaves he’d ever had, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it; looking a little disheveled, a little rough around the edges, was all he’d had of who he used to be.

He knew he ought to go downstairs, but he just couldn’t bring himself to move his legs. Every inch of him rebelled, tightly-wound and ready to collapse. He kept swallowing dryly, swallowing bile, trying to look anywhere but the mirror, trying to get his eye to stop twitching. This was why he avoided mirrors: it was easy to get caught, get startled. See somebody else following your motions, looking at you exactly like you looked at him. Then the panic would start to rise, then the bile, then his stomach would flip and his jaw would start tingling and –

“Sir,” somebody was saying. A soft voice. “Sir? Sir. I’m sorry – sir?”

“What?”

“I am sorry for – for the disrespect, but –”

“What?” He glanced away, blinked about a dozen times. His vision came into focus on a little slip of a girl, dark-haired and dark-eyed, in blue. Cecile. “I’m – sorry, what –”

“The Constable is here, sir. She’s just arrived. I’m sorry, sir.”

“No, I’m s—” No fuckin’ use in that, thought Tom wryly, stopping himself and taking a deep breath. We’ll be apologizing to each other ‘til the Resistance burns this house down. “Any – er – well, that’s good. That’s fine.”

“Sir?”

“I mean – I’ll be right down, eh? Let Di know? I’m coming.”

Cecile bowed her head and curtsied deeply. Then she was gone into the darkness of the hall, and Tom could hear soft steps pattering down the stairwell. He didn’t dare look in the mirror again before he left to join them.

♟

“Constable Inspector!” he said, a little out of breath, stepping into the foyer.

It was quiet, other than the tick, tick, tick of the grandfather clock – an expensive piece, well-polished and with a little mechanism that showed you what phase each moon was in, if you set it right. (Of course, it was always set and wound. So many invisible hands in this house.) It was just getting dark outside, and the big front windows showed an Uptown street slick with sleet that glistened in the low lamplight. Inside, the Vauquelin house was warm, although this year’s Ophus was determined to penetrate even the strongest and golliest of brick houses.

Diana had her hair pinned up on her head in an elaborate pile; Tom couldn’t make sense of where one braid ended and another started, but he reckoned it was pretty. She was wearing a white dress in a fashionable asymmetrical style, one side covered in embroidered roses, high-collared but slit to show a length of leg covered in patterned black hose. Fetching, Tom imagined, if you were into womenfolk. She turned to greet him with a well-practiced smile; her field was equally well-practiced, unsurprising for a Perceptive Conversationalist of her skill. It was smooth and stable and strong, but subtle, like an expensive perfume.

Tom couldn’t get his field to do jack shit. The closest thing he could think of to what it felt like was being surrounded by peevish gnats. Least it wasn’t itchy, but sometimes it made his skin crawl.

A servant offered to take the Constable’s coat.

“Good to see you again, Inspector Delacore,” he started, then paused. He’d made a lot of progress with his speech over the past month; he didn’t sound like himself anymore, but he reckoned he didn’t quite sound like Anatole ought to, either. “Well – good, and – strange. For both of us, I think.”

Diana smiled. “I believe the two of you have met.”

“Sadly.” Tom forced what he imagined was a friendly smile, moving to extend his hand for a shake. “I’d better reintroduce myself. Anatole Vauquelin. At your service, this time.”

[Monica Delacore]

ophus 14, 2718
vauquelin house ⋆ evening

Respected Mrs. Vauquelin,

I am beyond pleased to hear of your husband's safe return and wish him the best in repairing his monic relationship. I have seen backlash firsthand and know that they are an incredibly difficult experience for everyone involved, and it is wonderful to know that you and your family now have the opportunity to support him through this journey.

I admit I am shocked to receive such an invitation, but I am honored nonetheless, and I would be a fool to turn you down, Mrs. Vauquelin. I very much look forward to setting things straight between myself and your husband, as my intention was never to part on bad terms. As it so happens, my duties permit the 14th of Ophus free, and I will plan for dinner with you and your family if this date works as well for you.

Best of wishes for your husband's speedy recovery and your family's continued luck,
Constable Inspector Monica Delacore

⋆

Communication of any kind had never been the constable's specialty, as evidenced by the lack of friendships or worthwhile relationships of any sort throughout her years, but as an officer of the Seventen one was expected to handle relations with the public decently enough. There were a handful of reasons why she was hardly chosen to deal with the public in general, all of them valid, but she was far from incompetent. That being said, with the way things had went with one Incumbent Vauquelin moons ago, she certainly hadn't expected a dinner invitation from the man's wife to arrive at her humble Viendan apartment.

It would have been rude to refuse, and Monica had found herself intrigued by the idea of seeing the incumbent again. His wife seemed to indicate that he had returned home willingly, and that he was on the way towards recovery--some form of it at least--but the state of him in Dentis had been far from content. What had happened to make the strange man change his mind and return to the family he'd claimed wasn't even his? Still his words confounded her, and had left their impact on the woman in the time since their meeting.

Not that the officer had had much time to dwell on such things as of late. Problems within the Seventen had taken over far too much of her mind than she ever would've liked, her fellow officers and superiors stirring problems within her own division as well as the Patrol division and distracting them all from the real problems uprising in Vienda. It was nonsense to her; how she ever could've been swayed and believe herself in love with a firestarter such as Sergeant Valentin, she would never know, and the dirty little D'Arthe girl at his side was nothing but trouble for the Seventen. Nonsense, absolute nonsense, and it had consumed far more of her time and attention than it should have.

Such was her hope that this curious dinner with the Vauquelins would go well and provide suitable distraction from work-related matters. It wasn't often that she was invited to someone's house after all--never, actually--and it was an excuse to make herself wear something besides her uniform, an excuse to almost... look forward to something. She hadn't looked forward to anything in a while.

Monica arose early in the morning of the fourteenth. It was routine for the strictly-structured and tidy galdor; a shower to wake herself and start the day properly, scrubbing at porcelain skin as if there were always dirty patches unseen by anyone else's eye, soaking and cleansing blonde hair and taking care to retain the color whenever red roots threatened to show. Another remnant of a young girl's devotion to something that would only twist and turn in her naive grasp; now only retained out of the spite and hatred born of it.

Her day was largely uneventful, the constable lived alone and without the company of servants or roommates, the apartment was ever silent. It was a peaceful place for the woman, one safe structure that no one and no thing could ruin.

The journey to the incumbent's home, however, brought the blonde a measure of stress; having no passives to assist her with a carriage or friends to make the walk more comfortable made Monica's walk a cold one. Not to mention the unrelenting sense of danger the woman always felt while out of her uniform; dressed as she was, she was just another galdor, but in uniform she was one to be respected. One to be feared. In spite of knowing that hardly anyone would dare lay a finger on a member of the ruling race, she kept herself on guard for the entirety of the journey, light eyes watching each passerby with barely-disguised suspicion and hostility.

By the time she reached the manor, the cold had settled into her bones, her coat doing little to ease the discomfort provided by the evening's winds and unforgiving temperatures. A slight redness had ascended to her cheeks and nose, only beginning to fade once she was in the warm and comforting home of the Vauquelins.

For a moment she debated telling their servant to leave her and her coat alone, but settled to ignore the woman's presence entirely, handing her coat off while her eyes fixed upon the far more interesting sight of Diana and Anatole Vauquelin. A smile found its way across painted red lips, the constable stepping forward and bowing her head in greeting.

Blonde hair was pulled tightly back, a sprinkling of white snowflakes atop her head, while her outfit was just as pure and stainless. In favor of a dress--they often were more uncomfortable to the woman than anything--she had opted for a white, asymmetrical pantsuit, a lighter white jacket covering her shoulders that clearly would've done nothing without her coat. Polished, pointed black shoes added an inch to her height; her field a collected wall of Clairvoyant mona and confidence as she smiled to the husband and wife.

"I'm glad to see you're doing better, Mr. Vauquelin," offered Monica, reaching out to accept the handshake with a firm grip, "at your service as well, sir, as always."

She threw a glance towards the man's wife, "and it's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Vauquelin. I must thank you both for inviting me to your home, it's an honor."

The company of other galdori, while preferred to that of the lower races, still served to make the woman feel on edge. She was far from the lower class, but Monica found the uptight and formal nature of such meetings a bit overwhelming. The Perceptive mona that surrounded Mrs. Vauquelin's form, as well, made the constable bristle with a perfectly-disguised distaste, her smile standing strong.

"I admit I'm still surprised to have been invited, but it was a pleasant surprise."

[Tom Cooke]

♟
the vauquelin house · uptown

☙ 2718 · 14 ophus · early evening ❧

Thomas had never been able to picture the severe constable inspector out of uniform; when he stepped into the foyer and laid eyes on her, it felt like something out of a dream. Something surreal. The chill wind had put some color in her cheeks – it reminded him that she did, in fact, have blood and not ice in her veins – and her pointed black heels put her at eye-level with him. It had never occurred to him that Anatole was actually taller than her: in the Stag, she had seemed to tower over him. Now, standing alone in his host’s foyer, looking reluctant to give up her coat, there was something different about her. Awkward. Not wholly in control. Welcome to the clocking party.

Still brittle, of course, still hard as a rock, cold as ice. As she handed off her coat to Cecile, he had to admire her choice of attire. Tom liked a woman who could pull off a suit, and what a suit it was; it was nothing like the frothy, ornate vodundun that most of the golly chips he’d met wore, Diana included. It was almost like a uniform in and of itself, punctuated by that damned perfect painted face. Not a bit of smudged eyeliner in sight.

When she shook his hand, he let out a cracked – but genuine – laugh.

“Firm handshake,” he remarked. “I thought I remembered that. Good quality in a Seventen.”

“I certainly believe so.” Diana inclined her head. Something told Tom she absolutely did not believe so, but if she had any issues with handshakes and chips wearing trousers, she wasn’t voicing them. “As for pleasant surprises – I think we are all pleasantly surprised by how these last few troubled months have resolved themselves.” She glided a few steps toward Monica, clasping her hands; the hems of her dress hissed softly around her heels, just grazing the carpeted floor. The mona in her field seemed to stir and warm to Monica’s field in greeting. “We are grateful to have you. I know your job cannot have been made easy by recent – events – in our capital. It is truly an honor that you have spared the time to visit the Incumbent and I.”

“It’s good to meet you again, Constable. Really.” Like fucking hell. Once this is over, I’m going to go up to the study and get plastered on the cheapest whisky Anatole’s got. And hopefully not wake up until I’ve put about a dozen hours between me and this stop-clocking dinner. Nevertheless, he bowed deeply, this time in accordance, as he was learning, with proper galdori custom.

At that moment, a footman in blue – a short, rather elderly man with a dusting of white hair around the crown of his oddly-shaped skull – appeared. “Dinner is served,” he said, his tone low and respectful.

Tom glanced back at Constable Inspector Delacore with a friendly, if ironic, quirk of one eyebrow.

♟

Dinner was indeed served, and if you could make heads or tails of it, you were better off than Cooke. There was some sort of celery au velouté, with olives and some other leafy little garnishes he hadn’t figured out yet; thankfully, this wasn’t one of those confounding thousand-course meals to which he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of being subjected, but he reckoned nevertheless that they were going to have to wait a bit on the red meat. Still, the whole thing smelled good, if a bit rich.

Diana was the first to sit, sliding into her chair with catlike grace. “Please, Ms. Delacore, do sit. The girls are at Brunnhold this winter; we thought that… the best course of action. And I’m afraid that between my husband’s recovery and our responsibilities, I have found little time to plan –”

“I’m sure it’s quite all right, my dear.” As it happened, “quite all right” worked for a hell of a lot of circumstances.

The footman, meanwhile, was already uncorking an expensive-looking red.

“That’s, er, Edelagne – ’49, isn’t it?”

“’44, love.” For the first time, Diana seemed a little short of patience. Her smile seemed to flicker by a hair, though nothing about her field was out of place. She turned to Monica: “It’s genuine, bottled in Edelagne before the incident. ’44 is a particularly good year, although not as rare as ’65; so far as we know, there are only a handful of them left, and my husband procured one just before…” A heavy pause. “Well, in any case. It may never leave our cellar. Anatole joked that he was – saving it for his deathbed…”

Tom seated himself at the head of the table, feeling rather like the chair was a sort of deathbed. “I’ll catch up, Diana. I promise.” He glanced at the constable and tried to smile, but he figured it must have looked terribly tired. His head was starting to hammer again, as it always did; as much as he tried to stave it off, he was starting to get that floating feeling, that out-of-body, surreal, something’s-gone-wrong feeling. “As you can see, I’m still not – back to myself.” He took a deep breath. “For what it’s worth, I apologize for my behavior in Dentis, and for the, er – uncouth things I said. I’ll be frank about this; you’ve seen me at my worst, and there’s no need to stand on formality about it. I’m just glad you’ve given us the opportunity to mend things.”

“He still remembers very little,” Diana said, “if anything – of his life, his family, his career. I’m sure you know how these things can be. The backlash from Perceptive conversation is –”

“– unique,” finished Tom with a frown. “It was true, what I told you that night. I didn’t recognize my own family. Or myself. Still don’t, not really. And repairing one’s monic relationship – that’s a long road. But we are hopeful.” He brightened. “But enough about me. How have you been, Ms. Delacore? Busy, I’d wager?”

[Monica Delacore]

ophus 14, 2718
vauquelin house ⋆ evening

Monica focused on the odd sound that was the incumbent's laugh; strangely out of place to the blonde as compared to the rather dark, bitter laughs she had grown accustomed to during their initial meeting. Naturally a genuine laugh was a better sound, a lightening of the mood and the heavy formalities that she felt were crowding around her, but it was new.

Was it forced, or was the older man really on the road to recovery? She couldn't tell, not from such a quick assessment. On any note, she was distracted from the man when her hand was released, the woman's gaze flicking to the man's wife as she spoke again and approached her. Again it was but a temporary struggle to hide her displeasure, smiling brightly to the older woman and her delicately-gathered field; bowing in return in favor of a curtsy.

"It was no trouble, really. I trust my peers can keep our streets safe while I attend dinner with one of our most respected families, don't you?"

A servant's signalling of dinner's arrival caught her gaze, side-stepping quickly away from the incumbent's wife while their attention was elsewhere, and glanced to said incumbent just in time to catch a quirk of the eyebrow. Monica raised one in return.

⋆

Upon entrance into the dining area, Monica allowed her eyes to wander; examining the table and chairs as well as the fanciful foods placed upon it, each item an unknown curiosity for the blonde. Never had she attended a dinner quite so formal, her dinners at home were often either spent eating at her sofa or skipped entirely, and she wondered for a moment if her table etiquette was up to par for the politician's family. Before she had the chance to find out, the incumbent's wife had seated herself, something Monica only noticed upon being addressed and told to sit as well.

For a moment there was clear surprise on the constable's face; light eyes widening briefly and turning to the still-standing incumbent as if expecting a reaction from the man. She was offered none; no explanations for the woman's sitting and requesting for Monica to do the same before Mr. Vauquelin had even reached his chair. What was she doing; was she moony or simply disrespectful?

Their interactions led her to believe neither true; Mr. Vauquelin's guess an incorrect one, much to his wife's displeasure. It was hardly a long-lasting reaction from the older woman, but still the constable noticed the shortness to her tone as she corrected him, and Monica cleared her throat uncomfortably in some attempt to refocus herself.

"A good year, you say?" repeated the galdor, figuring she might as well participate in their wine-talks, "I'm sure it was, Mrs. Vauquelin," she offered with a nod and a smile, her implications clear. The constable's distaste for the other woman was veiled, but there.

This dinner was off to a strange start. It was nothing like the dinners she'd known with her own family, and she wasn't entirely sure how to act now that she'd realized this fact.

Still she waited for the incumbent to sit before she seated herself, sitting across from his wife and letting her gaze fall upon him again as he spoke up once again, this time uninterrupted. Monica was perhaps more polite in her interactions with Mr. Vauquelin himself, less withdrawn or flippant, although she didn't return the man's weak attempt at a smile.

"Of course, Mr. Vauquelin, I understand. Backlash is not something I ever wish to experience, and I'm sure it's been incredibly difficult for you to handle. I think your behavior during our first meeting was hardly unexpected from such an incident, although it was certainly jarring."

The realization that the incumbent, as well, was a Perceptive sorcerer was perhaps just as jarring for the blonde, her field twinging with momentary surprise despite her expression remaining the same.

"As for myself, sir, you're quite right. The Seventen is always busy, I'm afraid, what with all the trouble that's been stirring in this past year, but I'm optimistic that things will change soon. My work is my life, if I'm being honest, and although I do love the chase, I do hope for a day when perhaps we aren't needed quite so much," offering the smallest of shrugs, Monica allowed herself to smile, the gesture a genuine one yet foreign upon her face as she spoke of her job. Truly it was her life, the woman hardly had much of one outside of it.

"I wont bore you with any of the details; I'm sure it's not as thrilling as our politics in Anaxas can be. I admire anyone for going into the field; I certainly couldn't make it as a politician. Have you been able to get back to your work, now that you've returned home? I imagine your backlash is still having quite the expanse of effects on you, if you've not fully recollected your memories?"

[Tom Cooke]

♟
the vauquelin house · uptown

☙ 2718 · 14 ophus · early evening ❧

The footman was pouring the wine. Tom found himself gritting his teeth, rolling his shoulders and trying to loosen the tension in his back; it was everything he could do not to mutter a quick “thank you” to the old passive, and he knew that if he did that, the two younger women would gobble him up like piranhas. (Younger? Diana was at least six or seven years older than him, and he was roughly the same age as the constable. The thought made him a little nauseous, and he fought himself not to think too hard about it – not now, at least.) The cheery, wavering candlelight warmed the Edelagne to a raspberry light-red-purple, and when he took a tentative sip, glancing around to make sure he was allowed to, he found it light and a little sweet.

And disconcerting as hell. He’d never been able to taste the difference between a “good” wine and a bad one – or he’d never paid attention – but nowadays, more than ever, he found himself aching for the cheap shit you drink purely to get guttered.

He’d noticed the look on the constable inspector’s face, and he’d certainly noticed her waiting until he’d sat down; he’d thought little of it, but now, as he sat listening to the two women talk, he found himself wondering, watching the Seventen’s face a little more closely. Paying attention, for once, to her field. There was something going on here that he couldn’t quite figure out. He didn’t know if it was a golly thing or if it was a Delacore thing or both, but she was more uncomfortable than he’d ever seen her, and she sure as hell didn’t want to talk wine with the incumbent’s wife. Didn’t seem too keen to reply when he said it’d been Perceptive backlash, either.

Interesting.

But then she was talking to him, and he was picking at a bit of celery with his fork and trying to pay attention. He’d just taken a sip of wine when the constable said, I’m sure it’s not as thrilling as our politics in Anaxas can be – and he snorted hard, nearly spilling the expensive Edelagne on the expensive white tablecloth. “Oh,” he said after a moment, putting down his glass, “oh – er –”

To his surprise, Diana laughed. It was a practiced laugh, a laugh as coiffed as her hair, but it was a laugh nonetheless. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t call politics ‘thrilling’, myself,” she replied, flashing Constable Inspector Delacore a white smile. “Perhaps during the rainy season, although – how was it you described Hamis last year, my love? During the trade negotiations with, ah –”

Thomas, who had just speared a bit of celery and half of an olive with his terribly small fork, frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t remember.” He took a deep breath.

“—of course. I apologize.” Diana took a sip of wine, hiding a momentary twitch – tremble? – of her lip. Her field was smooth as ever, but seemed a little wilted, discouraged. After a moment, she seemed to gather herself, perking up. “But my husband is always drowning in paperwork. Your line of work, Ms. Delacore, is quite – eventful.”

“Dangerous. As for politics – I don’t know how I do it, frankly.” Really. I don’t. No fucking clue. Tom glanced up at the constable, essaying a congenial smile. The memory of the Seventen staring down the serving girl at the Stag lingered in the back of his mind, though; he swallowed a little bile. “One does one’s duty for the Kingdoms and for the gods. To answer your question, ah – we’re not so busy at the moment, given it’s only Ophus, and I owe my staff my life, but… I’ve taken some leave to recover – it’s for the best. This is a delicate situation.”

An uncomfortable pause.

“Jarring’s a good word for it,” he went on after a sip of wine, frowning. “To be honest, the effects are – extensive. Since we don’t know –”

“We don’t know,” put in Diana softly, and Tom, fumbling with his words, thanked Alioe for it, “if he will ever – fully – recollect some things. On his own. But Dr. Amel’s prognosis was quite positive; with time and effort, we expect a full recovery.”

Tom glanced at her, then back at the constable. “Yes. I don’t plan on stepping down, and I should be back to my duties before Bethas – in time, at least, for when the Vyrdag convenes again. I’ll be taking a trip to Brunnhold sometime in Intas, to see what the bright minds there can do for me. In the meantime, I’m just regaining my footing.” His smile grew a little tired. “I may not take Perceptive conversation back up, though. Being honest.”

Diana frowned, but Tom shifted in his seat, lifting an eyebrow.

“Constable Inspector, I’m told you’re a Clairvoyant conversationalist of – some accomplishment. What made you want to study that?” He waved a hand. “Not, er – not – I’m only surprised. It’s just not what I would’ve expected.”

Diana pursed her lips.

“Forgive the informality,” he added. “I’m not yet used to, well – all this. I hope we can speak freely. You treated me decently when I was – indisposed. I haven’t forgotten that, and I won’t.”