It was evening. He was expecting no visitors, but hoping for one. Such was why he had busied Mr. Benjamin in the task of cleaning out the basement (no one went in the basement to holiday, this was practically a gift-wrapped favor to the landlord). Sometimes, Crane had the evenings off.

A knock! A blessed knock! Had his last letter finally left him wanting? Zechariah took his feet off the desk, put his shoes back on … and paused in the hallway mirror. Did he need the vest at this hour? No. He chucked it in the office and shut the door. He combed his hair, then ruffled it so it did not look as though he had, in fact, just combed it. What did those strumpet sailor boys do? He rolled up his sleeves, unbuttoned his top buttons.

Then he heard the wrong voice.

Were Edwin the nosy type, he might notice the curtains were left open. He might even catch the frown and pause as a well-dressed fellow turned around and looked contemplatively down to his own chest. Whatever conclusion he drew resulted in him buttoning back up some (but not all) of his shirt, and leaving his calculatingly rolled sleeves where they rested above his forearms.

He made his way to the door, disappointed but also determined to secure a good showing for the Regatta. Perhaps the advertisement had not been for naught.

“Come in,” he said, curtly.

Without ado, he gestured for him to follow him into the sitting room … where a rifle hung in arm’s reach on the wall. Zechariah sunk immediately into the pretty and yet incredibly uncomfortable seat closest to it, crossing an ankle at his knee. On the coffee table, a newspaper was still open to the latest on Oscar Wilde.

“You are …” he paused, looking Edwin up and down, “a sailor?”

Not a fisherman, certainly. He would have smelled the ghost of Simon that from the hall.