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I hear him move toward the shelves, the clink of crystal touching crystal. I take a match and strike it against the side of the box, the flame blooms, small but efficient.

I bring the tip to the cigarette. I inhale. I close my eyes for a moment. The smoke warms my chest more than any of my grandfather’s words.

Laurence places the glass on the small table to my right. The crystal touches the wood with a short, sharp sound. I open my eyes at that sound. I shift my gaze to the heap of letters on the desk; I pull them closer with one hand, the other holding the cigarette between two fingers, the ash hanging. One envelope stands out immediately.

It is completely crumpled.

I pick it up and turn it over. The creases do not lie: it was crushed, perhaps squeezed in someone’s fist.

“Laurence,” I say, without looking up, “have you perhaps been playing with my correspondence?”

“No, sir.”

Who is so insolent as to send a letter reduced to this state?

With the hand holding the cigarette, I grab the glass of vodka. I take another slow sip, enjoying the heat as it descends and spreads. Only then do I turn the envelope.

The seal stops me.

Rochefort.

“It cannot be.”

“Is everything alright, sir?”

I set the glass down with a sharper thud than I intended. I break the seal. It was pressed with too much force, the wax snaps into irregular fragments, like a chipped tooth. The inside is... worse.

“Laurence,” I say without taking my eyes from the paper, “what is an ‘inauguration of the winter garden’?”

“Usually, sir,” he responds, “those who own significant greenhouses or rare winter-blooming flowers organize such events to showcase their collections.”

“Flowers...”

Flowers certainly do not suit him.

Poisoned thorns would be far more fitting.

I bring the letter to my nose. The scent is subtle, but I recognize it: white musk. I have never smelled it on the Viscount.

Not that I deliberately tried to smell him.

Of course.

Why would I ever have needed to?

The calligraphy of the invitation is elegant and orderly. The signature, however, is another story.

Evander M. G. Rochefort

It is different, stiffer. I run a finger over the signature, slowly, following the trace of the ink. The pressure was excessive, the nib has incised the paper, gouging it. Someone pressed too hard. Or had a rigid hand. Or... something else.

“Laurence.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need you to retrieve something for me.”

I take a sheet of paper and dip the nib into the ink. The liquid slides onto the point, black and glossy. I write a few lines and hand him the paper.