Father had been uncomfortable letting Simon leave the work on a work day. But since Mr. Meijer had already said he would be waiting, father let him go. With a sly smirk and pounding heart, he made his way past the river, looking out for the young man.

[ Listen >]

Had he been expecting to be followed? No, of course not.

… Maybe.

No, it was purely coincidence that he was choosing to read Oscar Wilde’s recently published Intentions on the balcony, feet propped up leisurely on the coffee table under the setting sun.

When he heard footsteps in the grass over the trill of birds and crickets, Zechariah looked over with a victorious grin.

Simon had been looking at the actual river side and it was pure chance that he looked at the house for a moment and spotted Zech.. He made his way over, trying not to grin and tapped his hat as a greeting. "Hope the fish was to yer taste, ser?"

Still wearing his tophat from earlier, he tipped it to Simon and used his thumb as a makeshift bookmark.

“Quite, thank you!”

The cook had not even finished preparing it yet, and there was the smell of breaded fish heavy in the air.

There were two other wicker chairs by the table, and Zechariah nodded slightly to the one beside him – subtly enough that it could be ignored as a stretch of the neck. There was a flicker of uncertainty across his face.

Simon was unsure of the gesture and so he remained standing, not wishing to offend his superior. Mr. Meijer was clearly nothing like Hurley. But rich people could still be easily offended. And so he stood there, hands by his sides. "What are ye reading, ser?"

“Intentions!” Zechariah called back dramatically, cupping a hand about his mouth to emphasize the distance between them. “Have you read it!” he continued in this manner.

"Whose intentions?" Simon said, not sure where the drama came from.

Oh no. Was his Jewishness scaring him off? Back home, while hardly egalitarian, there was more interaction between the staff and household what with sharing an oppressed faith. He had not had reason to notice how the staff scurried off like caught mice amongst his own peers, since he had the privilege of having his attentions elsewhere.

“Oscar Wilde’s!” he called back. “Intentions by –...” he paused, shook his head and untangled his legs from the side of the chair.

Zechariah started toward Simon with the book in hand, holding the cover up so he could read. He approached carefully, hesitantly, like one might in trying to investigate a wounded deer.

Simon remained where he was, clasping his hands behind his back, as he cast a look at the cover. "Any good, ser?"

“He has an interesting perspective,” Zechariah said, settling arms’ width from Simon’s side. “You were going to show me around?”