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3
Hugh
The seconds passed in tandem with the click of Hugh’s soles on the hardwood. He paced the
front hall endlessly. Weeks had passed since he’d issued Astrid his calling card, and since
then, travel arrangements had been made and preparations for her arrival had begun. The
staff, under Finch’s watchful eye, had been charged with scrubbing the house from top to
bottom. Not a speck of dust was to be tolerated. Every wooden surface had been polished,
including the floors, which now shone like newly minted pennies. The windows, Hugh noticed,
had been washed to the point of being entirely clear, and every hanging picture frame had
been straightened until it was precisely parallel to the floor.
As was expected of a task overseen by Finch, the house was perfect.
Unfortunately, Hugh was not.
He’d stood in front of his bedroom mirror for hours that morning smoothing the wrinkles from
his shirt and adjusting his belt buckle. He’d burned off his outfit’s every loose thread with tiny
bursts of flame from his fingertips and styled and restyled his hair until it was so saturated with
product that he’d had no choice but to strip down and shower. Finch had hovered nearby the
whole time, sometimes fetching the things Hugh requested, at others insisting Hugh take one
more bite of his breakfast, lest his empty stomach make him irritable. But through it all, Finch
was a constant pillar of support. He’d been the one to slip the comb out of Hugh’s hand before
he could make a mess of it a second time and the one who’d chosen Hugh’s suit. It was him
who’d put Hugh’s mind at ease when Hugh had expressed concern over the potency of his
cologne, and the one who’d dropped to one knee to buff Hugh’s shoes to a shine. And now
that Astrid was minutes away from their lair, it was Finch who stood patiently to the side while
Hugh wore a groove into the floor.
“Do you think it possible George lost his way?” Hugh asked upon checking his wristwatch.
George’s estimated time of arrival had elapsed. He’d been due home five minutes ago.
Stomach tied in a knot, Hugh came to a stop in front of Finch, whose impartial expression was
unwavering.
“No, sir,” Finch replied. “George is quite competent.”
