Was she? He was fairly certain he would have recalled ignoring that invitation. It must have been small or abroad.

He had fallen behind some, but had begun to try and close the distance once more.

“Let me begin assisting you,” Zechariah said with a wary glance over his shoulder, “by reminding you the press can make mountains out of molehills. Surely there is a parlor? Wine cellar?”

He regretted the wine cellar suggestion as soon as he made it. How did that Edgar Allen Poe story go again?