Fane Heathcote took out a little cloth-bound book from the pocket of his coat, deftly removing the paper that stuck out between the pages and unfolding it to peruse it quickly for the umpteenth time. Whoever wrote it wielded their words with skill; it read smoothly and convincingly in spite of being a slightly unusual proposition. However there was that something he couldn't put his finger on, just the overall aura it gave off. Again and again, it gave him a premonitory feeling of jumping down a rabbit hole, and had him think twice.

He put the book back where it came from but still held the paper in his hands. From a deeper pocket he produced a pocket watch, bereft of its chain, and glanced at it, then overturning it to narrow his grey eyes at his tiny, distorted reflection in the gold lacquer. Fancying that his hair was windswept as though that could be gleaned from what he saw, he trailed his fingers through his black hair, just short of his shoulders, palming it to his head. He was tall, with a long, wan face and a shadowy grace. His knuckles hovered near the door. He was tired of researching and writing ancestral histories for aristocrat families. This was something different. And it wouldn't hurt to attend this meeting and see. He didn't have to decide until meeting this Lord Upton for himself.

He knocked. "I'm here to see Lord Upton about his advertisement. I wrote to him of my coming," he said to the staid butler, his hand half offering out the advertisement in question in case it was required. He ushered him in, and Fane felt slightly disappointed as he walked a house like many others he had been to. Whatever aura he'd got from the advertisement, he couldn't see it anywhere here. Perhaps it had been just him feeling words too much again, reading into their texture for something that wasn't there. The butler left to inform the Lord of his coming, and he took the chance to take a closer look at things. His opinion became more favourable when it became obvious the Lord was a collector, and that he had definite taste- one that was different from the usual. These were not chosen based purely on how priceless they were, how famous the maker, or how readily they could be showed off to impress company. There was a very real quest and interest at work here.

The butler returned to show him to a room with a lavish tea laid out and two people already seated. He bowed, but before he could introduce himself the Lord acknowledged him, and bade him sit and partake of the refreshments with them. Fane wasn't really hungry, so didn't look twice at the rich cakes and custard creams, but nibbled on a ginger nut biscuit because the dryness of it encouraged him to sip tea between swallows. He'd never had the best constitution, as a child he'd been called fragile, and he never had much of an appetite. If confronted with food, the quality of the food didn't trigger temptation manifest in his appetite as it did for some.

"Your advertisement had me intrigued, Lord Upton," he said, meeting the Lord's piercing eye. He went on to tell him of his impressions while reading it, even including his vague feelings he couldn't establish basis for. It wasn't that he didn't know how to conduct himself appropriately in the presence of aristocracy- he had come to be engaged by them one after another, which wouldn't have happened unless he were able to be faultless in that respect- but the Lord's demeanour was such that he knew his behaviour didn't matter.

Immediately, he addressed the other person at the table. He hadn't got to introduce himself before, so decided the Lord's response could wait; he didn't want to be drawn into a conversation with him when he hadn't paid proper attention to her. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Heathcote; Fane Heathcote. I'm a scribe by profession." He found her quite as interesting as the Lord. She was obviously a gypsy. There was a clarity about her that was attractive, that he envied. He himself was almost the opposite- his presence was shadowy, indistinct; he was overlooked unless he drew attention to himself in spite of his good looks, for while unconventional, they were withdrawn good looks. Aware that his gaze was growing wistful, he gave a quick smile and helped himself to a treacle tart for the sake of looking away.