Page 46 of The Diamond in the Rough

And we all tell them to be careful, too,she replied.But?—

She didn’t finish what she’d started saying, but I could do it for her.But I’m more fragile.

You’re less experienced, she countered, although I could tell from the chagrin in her tone that she’d been going to say something closer to what I’d suggested.

I shot her a look over the rim of my coffee mug that said I knew as much.

You’re the baby, sunshine, she said gently.And after everything you’ve been through, we can’t help it. We’re going to worry.

Even as I resented it a little, I supposed it was nice, for once in my life, to have people who did worry about me—who cared enough to worry.

I could hearvoices from the conference room—Ward, Mason, Beck, Fiona, and Elliot—presumably talking about the design for the table. Or starting the process. I wasn’t sure exactly how Elliot was going to carve the table, whether he was going to use some sort of power tool or do it by hand, so I didn’t know if they were still talking, or if he’d started.

Not that it much mattered, although it was nicer to workto the sound of voices than it would be to the sound of some sort of drill.

I kept working, sorting through requests, slotting them into the schedule, replying to company emails getting more information from potential clients, checking inventory and placing orders. It was straightforward work that didn’t ask much of me, mentally speaking, even though I knew it was both helpful and important to keeping Beyond the Veil running smoothly.

A notification popped up on my screen—a reminder that Ward had an appointment with Rodney Buckley, the pushy man from a few weeks ago, in about a half hour. I liked to give myself some extra time to prepare for appointments, as people who were particularly nervous, or pushy, tended to show up early.

I walked over to the conference room, pausing in the doorway.

Elliot was, in fact, working by hand. He had a funny little tool that he was using to cut channels along carefully chalked lines, then inlaying them using long, thin strips of wood that he had soaking in buckets, pressing them into the channels, then using a small wooden hammer-thing to make them flat with the surface. Every now and then, he’d hand the hammer to Ward or Mason or Beck to tap. There were four different colors of strips—dark, red, gold, and pale—and I could tell from the small amount that was already finished that it was going to be stunningly beautiful.

“Do you need something, Rayn?” Ward asked, noticing me.

“Mr. Buckley has an appointment at two-forty-five,” I told him.

“Buckley?”

“Hart yelled at him,” I supplied.

“Oh, right.” He made a displeased face. “Great,” he muttered, then sighed. “I guess I’ll see him in my office.”

“Okay,” I replied, lingering for a few more moments to watch Elliot’s confident hands at work, then went back to my desk. I didn’t want to miss Mr. Buckley’s entrance.

Well, I did. But it was my job to be there when he arrived, and I assumed he’d be a lot more unpleasant if I wasn’t, at least based on the one encounter I’d had with him.

I settled back at my desk, keeping one eye on the door for Buckley as I entered receipts from Beck’s last exorcism for reimbursement. She enjoyed the fact that someone else would do the paperwork for her, and I didn’t mind the busywork.

I blinked, startled, when the door swung open emphatically, having—despite my intentions otherwise—gotten into a kind of rhythm with the financial spreadsheets and receipts. I tried to make my face pleasant as I pulled up my gaiter mask, despite the rapid acceleration of my heart rate. “Good afternoon.”

Buckley’s eyes flickered around the reception area, and I wondered if he was looking for Raj and Hart. Not finding anyone except me, he puffed up his chest. “Where’s the medium?” he demanded, then narrowed his eyes at me. “I have an appointment,” he declared, as though the words themselves were somehow magical talismans that would let him pass some kind of sigil or warding.

“Mr. Buckley, I assume?” I replied, trying to keep my voice even and polite, even though I mostly felt distaste.

He glowered at me. “I have an appointment,” he repeated.

“YouareMr. Buckley?” I tried again.

“Yes, I’m Rodney Buckley. Who the hell else would I be?” he snapped.

“Just making sure, Mr. Buckley,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even and calm. “I’ll just let Mr. Campion know that you’re here.”

“I can just?—”

“I will let him know,” I interrupted, refusing to allow Buckley to overrun me—or Ward.

We had gotten an internal phone system set up a few months ago so that I couldcallback, like in a fancy corporate office. So I picked up the handset—which, thank God, only I ever touched—and hit the button for Ward’s office.