Chapter Five
CHAPTER
Five
SEVERAL DAYS LATER—several days too late—another letter arrives with its intended recipient, soggy from a recent downpour.
The address is virtually unreadable, and the wax seal at the back is the only clue to its origins.
It sits unopened for several hours, while the occupant of the pewter-coloured study busies himself elsewhere, unaware of the bombshell lying on top of his in-tray.
When he finally notices it, he immediately cancels all appointments that afternoon, despite the consternation of his assistant and several clients.
The recipient takes his favourite letter opener and slices open the envelope with relish.
Though the handwriting on the front is unfamiliar, he recognises the wax seal on the back: an open book, two crossed quills above it.
The paper is toothy, thick stock in a pale cream—as clear an invitation as they come.
He scans the letter several times over. Then he notices the date.
“Fuck.”