Nate arrived at the agreed address at the appointed hour, and banged the knocker on the front door. Rebuilding his career had meant a modest office and accepting any legal matter that would pay. He felt like he'd taken a giant step backward in his career and was a harassed junior at the bottom of the table all over again - referring to the tradition of dinners at the Inns of Court in London where the most junior members had to sit at the bottom of the long tables, closest to the doors. They were largely ignored and had to dain to be recognised, usually forced into degrading toasts or standing on the table themselves for the amusement of the seniors.

Today's case, a simple reading of an inheritance. Always fun.

Usually, the family was present at these. Outwardly respectable people in their 'Sunday Best', but Nate knew better. They could transform into a crowd of familial vultures were ready to descend on the assets of the deceased, to see what they would get out of the game. Nate, as the lawyer, would manage a middling cup of tea at best; leaving before the teapot was thrown across the room in rage.