He pulled a silver pocket watch from his waistcoat, checked it, and snapped it shut with a click that echoed through the empty hall.

The question hung in the air, answered only by the crackling of the fire. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly through his teeth.

He stopped. His jaw tightened.

He turned, pacing a slow, deliberate circuit before the hearth. The list of names in his head was depressingly short. Every single one of them was ruled out within seconds—too chaotic, too drunk, too indifferent, too themselves. And then there was you.

He resumed pacing, but slower now. The thought lingered, stubborn and unwelcome. You were reliable. Practical. You'd never once looked at him with that mixture of pity and morbid curiosity that the rest of society seemed to have perfected since the divorce.

He crossed to the fireplace, seized a handful of green powder from the ornately engraved pot on the mantle, and paused. His reflection wavered in the flames.

The flames crackled in the silence, the connection shimmering with possibility as he waited on the other end.