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“Yes?” Hugh looked quite excited. “Have you finished the note, Finch?”
Finch shook his head. “I’m afraid not, sir. I’m finding it difficult to concentrate.”
Hugh sprang up, his expression morphing from pleased to concerned. “Is it your head?”
Unconsciously, Finch touched the place where he’d been struck. There was no knot swelling
and only the barest hint of pain. It must have been enough to make him wince, however,
because Hugh stood and came rushing over to his side.
“It is your head. I knew it!” Hugh laid his hand on Finch’s brow, and before Finch could protest,
utter bliss swept through him.
Finch had never been told in all his years at the cloister that dragon magic could feel so good.
He’d been taught it could burn and even kill, were a dragon to be disobeyed, but this was more
like sitting by a cheery fire while you sipped a hot cup of tea, snuggled in your favorite chair
while draped in a much beloved quilt.
It made Finch want to bask in his employer and that was entirely unacceptable. He pulled away
from Hugh’s touch. “Sir, I do apologize, but this might be easier if you didn’t… ah… hover.”
Hugh was affronted. “I wasn’t hovering. I was sitting clear across the desk, minding my own
business.”
Finch sighed. “Yes, sir. But do you think you might be able to find something to engage your
interest elsewhere?” At the hurt look that immediately formed on Hugh’s face, Finch hastened
to add, “You want this to be perfect. Let me do my best for you.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” Hugh stood, looking around the study at its dark wood bookcases filled
with old books like he’d never properly seen it before. “I’ll just leave you alone, then. I suppose.”
“Thank you, sir.” Finch again bent his head and went back to writing, trying to think of words
that were correct, but could also be believed as Hugh’s own. When he looked up again, Hugh
had gone, and while the room was no longer vibrating with his nervous energy, the air now felt
flat, like soda with no carbonation.
* * *
Finch finished the apology. He put his pen down and stretched. He was stiff from sitting in one
position and he also had a headache. Nevertheless, he’d accomplished his goal. Astrid would
have a credible apology and Hugh would not burn any Opal bridges. It was a balancing act, to
be sure, but one Finch thought had been achieved.
