[CW: Brief NPC sexual deviancy mention.]

Get your law degree and go into politics, like dear old Fater. That was what his father had hoped. As usual, Zechariah had cooperated... up to a point.

Instead of spreading the family prestige to a new world, Zechariah holed himself up in chambers. People were more likely to meet him by following the chasing crowd of court spectators and journalists than any sort of invitation to chat. Only the fear of Shabbat candles kept reporters out of his home on Shabbat, and even then some had ventured past his threshold in chase of a headline.

Whitby was pain in the ass enough to get to that he figured he would not be followed. It was tourist season, but it was still calmer than John the Peeping Tom’s court crowd. The birds sang, and the waves washed in on his cosy little coastal cottage. He blew on steaming tea, letting it wash over his face with a slow, cautious sigh of relief. He was hours and days away from anyone that might disturb him. It was going to be a beautiful day.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

His eyes flew open, mouth forming a thin, sour line.