To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 3

It was at that fortunate moment that Lyman finally began the meeting. He let his chair down with a clatter that drew everyone's attention to the front of the room, and he made his leisurely way out from behind the desk. "Right, gentleman, what have we got?" he asked, taking his cigar out of his mouth long enough to pose the question.

A stiff silence followed Lyman's words in which Timothy sat down as quietly as possible, and then one young "gentleman" got to his feet. "There's been a murder at Chillingham Place," he announced, and Timothy dropped his gaze to the table. Of course he would know about a murder before anyone else.

Adrian Graham was Lyman's favorite, and everyone knew it. Blonde, well-built, charismatic, and two years older than Timothy, Mr. Graham had a knack for getting interviewees to open up—especially when they were of the feminine variety. Most days he had the inside run of whatever went on in Thameton, but when he couldn't find a good story of his own, he took Timothy's. Timothy usually only found out about this after he submitted an article Lyman now had no use for, because Mr. Graham had already turned in his.

When this happened Timothy nursed his wounded dignity by telling himself that it was because he was Mr. Graham's only competition. What stung was not the loss of the thaler or two the article would have earned him, but the fact that he was still too slow. That even though he'd grown leaps and bounds from the boy watching life pass his window, he couldn't even manage to stay ahead of one fast walker.

He was brought out of these uncomfortable thoughts by Lyman nodding. "Write it."

Mr. Graham left. Timothy waited as two or three others presented their ideas, and then presumed to assert his place in the hierarchy by standing. "Lady Lancaster is said to have recently taken a fancy to exotic animals. She's growing a menagerie that includes a parrot, a monkey, and an ostrich."

Lyman considered for a moment, then nodded again. "Odd enough. Now then, next?"

Timothy departed gladly. He had a good nose for the uninteresting interesting, and so Lyman usually let him write what he wanted to write about. Timothy had no stomach for topics like murders, as tempting as they were to the rest. He'd tried one once, and after the man's widow burst into tears when he tried to interview her, he'd given them up. He'd leave the scandals of violence to intrepid cheats like Mr. Graham.

After navigating the stairs and stepping out the door, he stopped for a moment to take a breath of air and release the tension in his shoulders. The dirty street of that morning seemed positively cheerful after escaping the dark room above, and he was almost able to look on the people bustling past with favor. The sun was shining. The idea-thief was distracted with a murder, and ears in pockets were but a memory. He even had two whole doors between him and the aspiring sawbones that wanted to make an acquaintance of him.

Timothy set out into the crowd, deep in thought. He knew very well what it was to be judged before he was known, so he tried not to visit the sins of others upon someone who wasn't even a doctor yet. But the nonchalance that Samuel treated the subject with rekindled all his old fears. He couldn't know why Timothy had reacted so violently to what he saw as a mere curiosity.

And he wouldn't know. Not if Timothy Wright could help it.

The first order of business was to head to Thebault's for a mid-morning coffee, an establishment that was part inn, part pie shop. He'd discovered the Elesolian habit sometime last year, and gleefully played traitor to his country's favorite hot leaf water. He liked his coffee black. The stronger the better.

The stump of his right leg was just beginning to protest against walking so much when he ducked inside the dim building. Along his left was a sturdy old-fashioned counter, and overhead stretched stout oaken beams that dated from the previous century. The place had the heavy atmosphere of rooms that had witnessed every passion of the human heart. Timothy immediately headed for one of the shadowy booths lining the right wall, and chose the one so oddly situated that there was only room for half of it. The opposite side of the table ran into the windows looking out on the street.

The inn was quiet at this time of morning, and a serving maid immediately brought him his coffee without being asked. Thus armed, Timothy cradled the hot drink close, breathed in the steam, and pulled a worn leather notebook from his pocket. Opening it revealed stained and bent pages filled with questions and answers. Some sentences were crossed out, others smudged, and still others boasted pristine lines written in Timothy's crazed scrawl. The things written in here had earned him the closest thing he could call to a living.

He was just settling down to work out the questions he'd ask Lady Lancaster, when a gruff-looking man entered the inn, followed by a snippet of a boy that might have been fourteen, but seemed much younger. Timothy glanced up as they passed, then stared at the boy, interview forgotten.

He put down his pencil and craned his neck around the end of the booth, trying to get a better look without being caught. It was his character, William. The height, the build, the ragged hair. He'd never seen someone who so closely resembled the main character from his newest story. He watched as the man paid for something at the counter while the boy waited meekly, and then the man turned.

Timothy whipped back around the booth and was in terrors for several moments that he'd been caught staring like an inexperienced kidnapper, but the man never showed himself. Gradually Timothy's heart rate slowed, and he relaxed again. For a long while he watched the steam wreathing its way out of the cup, lost to the realm of fantasy. He'd been daydreaming about this story for a while, and had recently begun writing it. But he was stuck. And with this thought, he fell back to reality with a bump.

He looked at the open notebook and sighed. Going back to putting together interview questions seemed more mundane than ever after seeing the child of his fancy walk through Thebault's.

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Elesol is Timothy's world's version of America, and literally translates as "free Solarium." (Solarium is Britain.)