The wall clock at The Northern Bean Coffee House was already striking four-thirty when the reddish sunlight began to slant over the Northern District. The afternoon had grown quieter—fewer carriages on the street, more people leaving their offices with tired yet satisfied steps. Matt remained seated by the window, his back straight, his teacup already empty for the second time. He had ordered another half an hour ago, just to have something to do with his hands.
Why haven't they come out yet? he thought, though the idea didn't unsettle him much. Two and a half hours already. Lira and Sera had entered Harrington & Voss shortly after one. They should have been out by now if everything had gone according to plan: a quick consultation, a simple story about a stalker on Rosewood Street, and nothing more.
Maybe Sera got nervous and stumbled over her words.
Or maybe Lira decided to play along longer to avoid raising suspicion.
Or worse… someone inside the firm noticed something off and is holding them up with questions.
The thoughts came unhurriedly, intrusive yet natural, like the steady dripping he had left behind beneath the Old Bridge. Matt did not grow restless. He simply let them pass, one after another, while his eyes remained fixed on the firm's door. It wasn't concern. It was pure calculation: if something went wrong, he would have to improvise. And he hated improvising without information.
To pass the time, he raised a hand and called the woman at the counter again. She approached with the same kind smile as always.
"Another tea, sir?"
"Another black tea, please… and a Desi Pie, if you have one."
The woman's smile widened.
"Of course. It's one of our most popular items in the afternoon. I'll bring it right away."
Matt nodded with the tired office-worker expression he had maintained all afternoon. He had never tried a Desi Pie. He had heard of them—that baked wheat crust from Desi Bay, filled with a bit of juicy meat and bits of mashed apple to balance the richness—but they never made it to East Borough. Or if they did, they cost more than he was willing to pay for a small indulgence.
When the woman set the plate before him, the aroma rose warm and comforting: the golden, crisp crust, slightly oily from the meat juices that had seeped through during baking; inside, small pieces of tender meat mixed with apple, giving that sweet-acid touch that cut through the heaviness. Matt cut a piece with his fork. The crust broke with a soft crunch, and some of the rich, savory juice escaped, just as the stories described. He took the first bite.
It was good. Better than he expected. The wheat smelled like home, the apple gave it freshness, and the meat… well, the meat tasted like something someone had cooked with care, not like the food from the docks.
He took his time chewing, letting the flavor fill his mouth while he continued to watch the firm's door.
And then, at last, the door of Harrington & Voss opened.
It wasn't one or two lawyers who came out. A group of five or six emerged, all in well-tailored suits, leather briefcases in hand, carrying that relaxed end-of-day conversation. Among them, walking as if they had always been part of the group, were Lira and Sera. Lira spoke with a middle-aged female lawyer, gesturing naturally. Sera walked beside a young intern, nodding and replying to something Matt couldn't hear from here. Neither of them looked nervous. On the contrary—they seemed… comfortable.
Matt watched for a second. Then he let out a low chuckle, almost inaudible, heard only by himself.
Well, well.
He watched them approach the café, still chatting calmly with the group of lawyers. Lira lifted her gaze for an instant and spotted him through the window. She gave no signal. She simply kept walking as if everything were normal.
Matt took another bite of the Desi Pie and waited, with the same calm as always.
The group entered The Northern Bean Coffee House amid soft laughter and the faint clink of leather briefcases. There were six of them in total: four lawyers from the firm (three men and one woman), along with Lira and Sera. They moved with that end-of-day ease, as though the consultation had merely been the beginning of a pleasant conversation. The middle-aged lawyer walking beside Lira was saying something about "the state of the courts this month," and Lira responded with a soft, perfectly natural laugh. Sera walked a step behind, nodding with a shy yet composed smile, her dark green dress swaying gracefully.
Matt didn't even turn his head. He kept looking out the window toward the street, as if the group didn't exist. He took the last piece of the Desi Pie—the crust broke with a dry, satisfying sound—and chewed it slowly, letting the taste of juicy meat and tart apple linger on his tongue. He finished the black tea in one swallow, set the cup down, and took a few coins from the inner pocket of the borrowed suit.
He paid at the counter, saying nothing more than a polite "thank you." The woman in the white apron returned his smile, and he stepped out onto the street without looking back.
Are they gathering information… or just getting free food? he thought as the beveled glass door closed behind him. Good. Let them enjoy it.
He shook his head, slightly envious.
The afternoon air was cool and faintly damp, carrying that characteristic scent of the Northern District: wood polish, fresh ink, and a faint trace of pipe tobacco from passing gentlemen. Matt walked unhurriedly along the pale stone sidewalk. The elms planted at regular intervals cast long shadows beneath the reddish light of the setting sun. The three- and four-story buildings had façades of polished gray stone or dark red brick, with tall white-framed windows and gleaming brass plaques beside the doors. Private carriages passed from time to time, drawn by well-groomed horses, and an occasional nanny pushed a pram with rubber wheels.
Harrington & Voss was only thirty paces away. It was a three-story gray stone building, understated yet elegant, with a varnished dark wooden front door and a golden plaque gleaming beneath the gaslight:
HARRINGTON & VOSS
Attorneys and Notaries
Since 1324
Matt pushed the door open without hesitation.
The interior smelled of old paper, ink, and furniture wax. The vestibule was spacious but not ostentatious: polished dark wooden floors that creaked softly underfoot, walls paneled with oak up to mid-height and dark green wallpaper above. A large reception desk stood at the center, where a young intern in a black vest and round glasses looked up from a registry book. Behind him, a wooden staircase curved upward to the upper floors, and on either side were two closed doors with plaques reading "Consultation Room 1" and "Consultation Room 2." In one corner stood a brass coat rack and a porcelain umbrella stand. Light entered through tall windows with green velvet curtains, softened by gas lamps that cast a warm, even glow.
The intern smiled professionally.
"Good afternoon, sir. How may I assist you?"
Matt approached the desk with a calm stride, adjusting his gray vest as someone accustomed to such places would.
"Good afternoon. I'm looking for a lawyer available for a quick consultation. Preferably someone with experience in labor cases… or personal disputes. Is anyone free right now?"
The young man checked the registry for a moment, carefully turning a page.
"Mr. Harrington is in a meeting until five, and Mr. Voss is out of the city this week. Mr. Thorne usually handles these kinds of consultations, but he has already finished for the day and left about twenty minutes ago. If you'd like, I can schedule you an appointment for tomorrow morning. Would that interest you?"
Matt nodded with a faint expression of disappointment, exactly what a tired office worker would show.
"Tomorrow morning would be fine. Thank you."
The intern wrote down the false name Matt provided ("Mr. Harlan Reed") and handed him a small card with the time.
Matt slipped the card into his inner pocket, gave a courteous nod of thanks, and left the firm with the same calm stride with which he had entered.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
The afternoon continued to deepen, reddish and serene, and Matt now knew one more thing: Reginald Thorne was not there.