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closing in on his third millennium. The only older dragon that Finch was aware of was Snorre
Jorgenson, and like Snorre, Atticus was a trifle eccentric. It came, perhaps, with age. Either
that or the odd ones lived longer. It was hard to tell, and not something Finch liked to dwell on,
because it brought his thoughts too close to Hugh, and that was a subject he tried not to dwell
on.
Being away from Hugh was painful—far more painful than Finch had predicted—but taking up
the post of Atticus Drake’s personal secretary was the correct decision. In the end, the only
decision he could’ve made.
Unlike Hugh’s household, Atticus had a large staff that was run with military precision by a
tartar of a butler named Willoughby. He was about as far removed from Hugh’s Francis as one
was ever likely to get. Willoughby ran a very tight ship, leaving Finch with only his secretarial
duties, such as they were.
Mainly, Finch wrote letters. Mountains of letters. By hand. On parchment. With a fountain pen.
Some dragons weren’t very good with technology, and Atticus hadn’t progressed much past
the seventeenth century in his daily living. The castle did have electricity, running water, and a
decent internet connection, but Atticus preferred candles, a drawn bath by the fire, and letters.
There was a full bathroom adjacent to Atticus’s bedroom, but Finch didn’t inquire into whether
or not the dragon used the loo or the garderobe. Some things didn’t need elucidation.
Other than writing letters and rearranging the dragon’s massive, and sadly misshelved, library,
Finch had little to do. There were no disputes among the servants to mediate, no household
to run, and worst of all, no Hugh to cater for. Still, as Finch reminded himself every day, this
was better. Safer. More secure. Working with Atticus was a superior position in every way. And
if he kept on repeating that, day after day, Finch might eventually come to believe it.
For an old and rather reclusive dragon, Atticus had a steady stream of dragon visitors.
Probably, Finch thought, because the old dragon refused to use a telephone, let alone email.
Willoughby had been the one to contact Finch, and once he had taken on the position, the job
of communication between Atticus and the outside world fell mostly onto Finch’s shoulders.
Even so, Finch often found himself bored and lonely. He dreamed of Hugh day and night, and
the wound caused by their separation refused to heal. Finch even thought, once or twice, of
contacting Hugh, but each time he stopped himself. The only thing that would do was bring on
