Audemus Dawnspark

3. Lunch

Lunch at the Legerdemain.

It sounds quaint. Like something you'd do on a first date with someone you don't know but would like to. Sensible entree that’s middle of the road in cost. Don't want to seem cheap, but not like a braggart either. Coffee.

Wouldn't know. Doesn't like dates.

Not in the mood for cappuccinos or conversation, either.

Lunch is to-go: shaved sprouts, julienned cucumbers, sweet baby spinach with an avocado and goat cheese mash, for two. Winning combination of nutritionally sound and thoughtful gesture.

In the time he waits, it’s only a short trip to less reputable establishments. Back before it’s even parcelled up and ready to take.

It’s a working lunch.

Chiseling out a brick from the outer hearth of the rarely used fireplace doesn’t take long with the aid of a vibroknife of Gnomish make.

Cleaning takes longer. Wet cloth to make sure there’s no residual mortar, dirty up the floor again to make it look like nothing had actually been tidied. The small wooden box — velvet lined but externally plain, full of glass needles and secrets — slots into the space perfectly, just as he knew it would. He completes his work at exactly three hours past noon, as expected, and takes the time to dutifully swallow down two more pills, drinks an entire eight ounces of water. It would be very easy to take more. Everything is in reach, nothing locked away. Is it because of trust, or because locks are useless?

It would be easy, too, to have just asked for his own space.

But sometimes, he just likes to take.