Page 27 of Finch

The unyielding look on Finch’s face suggested it was not.

“Finch!” Hugh despaired. “What do I do?”

“It’s a difficult situation, to be sure, sir.” Finch set the scrub brush he’d been using in the sink

and peeled off his rubber gloves, laying them neatly over the sink’s edge. When he was done,

he rinsed his hands and dried them thoroughly, then turned to give Hugh his full attention. Only

then did he continue. “Unfortunately, without being there in person to hear the words

exchanged, I’m of little use to you. In this case, context is everything. While I have a feeling

you may be giving poor Ms. Forsberg mixed messages, I can’t conclude that with any

semblance of certainty.”

“Is that all?” Hugh’s expression brightened. “So the message is the problem? Then not all is

lost.”

Finch looked taken aback. “Sir, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It’s simple, Finch!” Mood considerably uplifted, Hugh grinned and presented a hand to Finch,

who stared at it like it was about to bite him. Hugh didn’t let it deter him. “I may have botched

the delivery of my message face to face, but there are other methods of communication that

can and will fix this mess. We’ll write Ms. Forsberg a letter—a florid and sincere apology she

can cherish for all of time. Will you help me? I need you now more than ever. Without you at

my side, I’m sure to fail.”

Was it a trick of the light, or was that a flicker in Finch’s eyes? “I will, sir.”

“Excellent.”

Delighted at the outcome of their conversation, Hugh took Finch’s hand and led him away.

There was nothing more to worry about—with a little ink and Finch’s excellent diction,

everything would soon be well.

7

Finch

Another balled sheet of paper landed in the bin. Finch exhaled steadily, prepared a fresh sheet,

and set pen to paper once more. He’d been informed by Bella that the visiting Opal Disgrace

was crying her pretty little eyes out in her room, so drafting an apology should have been his

topmost priority, but he kept getting distracted by the dragon perched on the edge of his desk.

“Sir,” he said politely when yet another botched sentence forced him to start again.

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