Page 43 of Duke of Sapphire

The pen stopped.

“On a post. Right there. Just—sittin' on it.”

“Yes,” Henry said.

“It looked at me.”

“Crows do that.”

“It looked at me as though it owned the road.”

Henry set the pen down. He looked at Charlotte. Charlotte was looking at the ceiling of the carriage with an expression of beatific innocence that did not deceive him for a moment.

“Ian,” Henry said, “I am going to say something, and I need you to hear it very seriously.”

Ian turned from the window. “What?”

“I have six letters to finish before we reach the next stop.”

“All right.”

“Six,” Henry said. “That is a specific number. Each one requires sustained thought.”

Ian nodded solemnly.

“So I will need approximately one quarter-hour of quiet.”

“I can do that,” Ian said.

“Thank you.”

Ian looked out the window.

He lasted four minutes. “There’s a man walkin' a very fat dog,” he reported.

Charlotte abandoned all pretense. She turned her face into her hand, her shoulders moving with silent, stifled laughter.

Henry looked at the letter. He looked at Ian. He looked at Charlotte’s hand, which was not doing an adequate job of covering her face.

He closed the document case.

“What kind of dog?” he said.

Ian pressed his nose to the glass again. “Round,” he said. “Very round. Like a barrel with legs.”

“That is a remarkably specific description.”

“It’s very round.”

“So you said.”

Charlotte had lowered her hand. He looked at the case in his lap. The letter was half-annotated and would remain that way until after supper.

The afternoon stop came up faster than he expected. The carriage slowed, the yard sounds filtering in—horses, voices, the crack of a door. The cold came in when the steps were let down, real autumn cold, and Ian descended with enthusiasm.

The innkeeper met them at the door. He was a broad man, cheerful, the sort who assessed a party in approximately four seconds and priced them accordingly.

Charlotte reached him first.