@peaceprose | {Marta & Miles}
Flora's voice was crystal clear in his head as he tapped the envelope against the edge of the desk to settle its contents and tore the short end open, that he had an entire collection of letter openers within arm's reach but still chose to tear into his mail like a wild animal. And somehow, the letterhead already had a sinking feeling weighting deep into his chest, that it was the consult he'd been dreading, the stipulations on the trust fund and his inheritance of the family manor having matured, bringing a responsibility to his name that Miles both wanted and dreaded. Wanted because it had been his childhood home, wanted because he had happy memories there with Flora, with Mrs. Grose, with Ms. Jessel even, and yes, with Quint. But that's where the boundary shifted and the memories became blurred, that fine line between happiness and fear. Memories of riding, of the harsh crack of the whip and the live, raw feel of the powerful creature beneath him, of hours in the stables flung on the warm hay, of walking with too much soreness and only some of it from riding, of avoiding Mrs. Grose, and even Flora. Of watching him, of watching her, and Kate. The polaroids, the pulse of her neck beneath his thumbs, and Miles shut his eyes, tossing the envelope to the desk and rubbing both hands down his face. He didn't have to go back, he reminded himself. There was nothing there to clean out that needed him urgently, but the appointment to the law office still stood.
He presented himself as punctually as he could, which is to say half an hour early, and followed the suite numbers to the second floor corridor, letting himself within the designated area and unfolding the dossier he carried with the scant assortment of other documents he'd been proffered. “Miles Fairchild,” he introduced, “I have the eleven-thirty.” He was told politely to take a seat and glanced at the clock, the time spelling scarcely eleven and took the dossier back with him, finding a place in one of the vinyl-coated waiting room chairs, looking about at the dusty fake plants in giant plaster urns, the various paintings hung up on the wall, anachronistic and glowering, and at the TV, on mute, flashing in the corner some inanity that passed for local news. Taking in and letting out a deep breath, Miles dared a further glance to the only other person in the waiting area, a young woman still wearing her coat, dark hair tugged back from a round, childish face, eyes cast down on the paperwork in her lap.
“Am I supposed to be filling something out too?” he began, gesturing toward her clipboard and offering what he hoped was a winning smile. And god, she was gorgeous even as she startled her gaze up to his, Miles wondering what the odds were that the pair of them had legal consults at the same time in the same city at the same firm, when nearly everyone else statistically in the situation of estate management was over fifty and balding. “I mailed in an enormous packet last week, but maybe there's more. Miles Fairchild.” He extended a hand over the two chair space between them. “This... isn't going to be any fun is it.”
