Jeremiah’s eyes got wide. “But sir, we have hours of—”
Apollo stood, leaned into both his fists in his desk and rumbled, “Leave me.”
Jeremiah nodded, quickly gathered the large stacks of papers he had in his lap, and the ones on the edge of Apollo’s desk, and also the ones in the chair he’d pulled close. He shoved them in the gaping, battered case, grabbed it and hurried out.
Nathaniel was already gone.
Jeremiah closed the door behind him.
Apollo moved to the window that had a view to the front of the house and looked out, seeing Derrik on his horse galloping into view up the pine lined lane as he did so.
He took a breath in through his nose. This did not calm his temper so he took in another one. This, too, failed, so he stopped trying.
When Derrik halted at the steps in front of the house, Apollo turned away from the window and moved to his desk. He stopped beside it and leaned his thigh against its edge. He then crossed his arms on his chest and his boots at the ankle.
He stared at the door and as he did so, he didn’t bother himself with taking deep breaths to remain calm.
Moments later, it opened without a knock and Derrik came through, his cloak and hair dusted with snow, the former swirling around him.
He was taking off his gloves but doing this with his eyes to Apollo.
“Close the door,” Apollo ordered.
Derrik kicked it closed with a boot, took two strides into the room and stopped, gaze still locked with Apollo’s.
“You’re late,” Apollo uttered a vast understatement.
Derrik said nothing.
“By two bloody months,” Apollo went on.
Derrik still said nothing.
“War is pending,” Apollo reminded him.
Derrik remained silent.
Apollo held on to the frayed threads of his control and invited, “Would you like to explain why you’re late?”
Derrik finally spoke. “I believe that was explained in our missives.”
“Indeed,” Apollo bit out.
Games. Fayres. And Ilsa of the other world wanting to eat some fish cooked in a thick crust of salt, this descending, for some mad reason, into a two day cooking war where she tried to best a local chef in the preparation of seafood.
She won, Remi had reported with apparent jubilation, with some dish which included salmon wrapped in pastry dough.
At the reminder, Apollo clenched his teeth.
He unclenched them to ask, “Is she at The Swan?”
“She is,” Derrik answered and Apollo didn’t understand the emphasis on she.
He also didn’t care.
He pushed from the desk, dropped his arms and murmured, “Then I’m away to The Swan.”
“If you don’t want her, I’ll have her.”