Septimus Pike had looked exactly as Freya had expected, as if he’d deliberately taken on the attributes of dry legality once he’d taken on the profession of solicitor. Probably somewhere in his sixties, he had the manner of a much older man, and the physical aspect. He was tall and thin, with a permanent stoop, and gave the impression that if he wasn’t actually dusty it was only because his housekeeper had neglected to apply it that morning. He wore a frock coat and –

(“Do we need to know this, ai ren?”

“Yes. I’m setting the scene.”)

– striped pants over highly polished shoes. His shirt was white and crisp, the collar starched so much that it kept his chin from resting on his chest. Only his black bow tie drooped, in keeping with his expression.

“Of course, from an evidentiary viewpoint we are bound by legal process, but as soon as due diligence has been met –“

“Mr Pike.”

Pike blinked like an owl at Freya. “Miss?”

“Mrs. Mrs Reynolds.”

“Pardon me?”

“My name is Mrs Reynolds. As I explained when we came in. Only a few minutes ago.”

“Yes, of course. I was just –”

“I know what you were ‘just’. And long words aren’t going to intimidate me like you are attempting to do to my friend.” She glanced at Hank sitting next to her, whose face had the glazed expression of a rabbit caught in Jayne’s cross-hairs.

“I wasn’t attempting to –”

“No?” For once and possibly the only time in her life, Freya allowed herself to channel her mother waiting for an explanation as to why the vase wasn’t on the pedestal but in a hundred pieces on the floor. A thousand years of utter belief in Rostov superiority went into that one word.

Pike blanched noticeably, and pulled at his collar as if it were strangling him. “My apologies. Perhaps I was …”

“Perhaps you were. Now, what, exactly, are you saying? Preferably with as few due diligences and legal processes as possible.”

The solicitor swallowed, making his bow tie quiver. “Why, only that Mr Mills is the heir apparen