AI The Raven’s Nest held the kind of quiet that felt like a held breath . It was early, just past five, and the only light came from the green neon sign outside bleeding through the front window and the low amber glow of the shelf lights behind the bar. The air smelled of lemon polish and old wood. Rory Carter sat at a corner table, her back to the wall, a half-finished glass of tonic water catching the neon’s eerie cast. She was still in her delivery jacket—a dark blue windbreaker with the golden embroidery of the Golden Empress on the breast—and her black hair was pulled into a messy knot at the nape of her neck. The day’s damp chill clung to her.
Behind the bar, Silas Blackwood polished a tumbler with a slow, methodical rhythm. The silver signet ring on his right hand caught the light with each pass of the cloth. He had a way of occupying space without imposing , a quiet authority in the set of his shoulders and the slight, deliberate limp as he moved from the sink to the till. He glanced at her once, his hazel eyes meeting her bright blue for a moment—a silent check-in—before returning to his task. She was waiting for him. There was a package, a delivery that wasn’t a delivery, to discuss. The hidden room behind the bookshelf felt more present than ever.
The door opened with a soft jingle of the bell. A wedge of grey evening light cut across the worn floorboards, followed by a man in a tailored charcoal overcoat. He paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness, then approached the bar. Rory looked down at her glass, tracing the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist with her thumb. A childhood accident, her mother’s voice always said, though the memory was fuzzy—a fall from a tree, a sharp rock. It had become a habit, this tactile reminder of her own solidity.
“A gin and tonic, please. Hendrick’s, if you have it.” The man’s voice was a low baritone, educated, with the rounded vowels of Cardiff. It was a sound that slipped past her defences like a key turning in a lock she’d forgotten existed.
Her head came up. He was leaning against the bar, one hand in his pocket, his profile sharp in the ambient light. Dark hair, shorter than she remembered, but the line of his jaw, the way he held his head—it was Daniel. Daniel Pryce. From Professor Hendricks’ torts seminar. From the library all-nighters fueled by terrible coffee and shared ambition. From a life that felt like it belonged to someone else .
Silas placed the drink before him. As Daniel turned to reach for his wallet, his gaze swept the room and landed on her. There was a moment of blankness, then a slow dawning. His eyes widened .
“Rory?”
The name, her old name, in his mouth. She felt a flush climb her neck. She offered a small, tight smile. “Daniel. Hello.”
He left his drink and his money on the bar and crossed the room. Up close, he was exactly as he should be and entirely different. The boyish softness was gone , replaced by a clean-shaven, angular certainty. His coat was expensive, his shoes polished. He smelled of rain and subtle, citrus cologne.
“My God,” he said, his smile genuine, warm, disarming . “I don’t believe it. What are the chances?”
“Astronomical,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Please, sit.”
He slid into the chair opposite her, shedding his coat to reveal a well-cut navy suit. He looked like a photograph from a solicitor’s brochure. She became acutely aware of her windbreaker, the faint smell of sesame oil and soy sauce that probably clung to her.
“How long has it been?” he asked.
“Five years,” she said immediately, then regretted it. Remembering so precisely betrayed how often she might have counted.
“Since graduation,” he nodded. “You vanished. Poof. No one knew where you’d gone. I asked your father once, at a court building in Cathays. He said you were travelling.” There was a gentle accusation in the statement, wrapped in concern.
“I did travel,” she said. “Ended up here.”
“In a Soho bar on a Tuesday evening?”
“I live upstairs.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly . He took a sip of his gin, his eyes never leaving her face. “And what… what do you do here, Rory?”
She shrugged, a gesture she hoped conveyed nonchalance. “This and that. I work delivery for a restaurant. Pay the rent.”
A beat of silence . She saw him processing it, trying to fit this information into the framework of the Aurora Carter he’d known: the one who argued circles around everyone in mock trial, whose essays were held up as exemplars, whose barrister father beamed with pride.
“Delivery,” he repeated, not unkindly, but with a disbelief he couldn’t mask .
“It’s flexible,” she said, a defensive edge creeping in . “And what about you? You’re clearly not slumming it.”
He gave a modest, practiced wave of his hand. “I’m in London for a case. Extradition hearing. I’m with Chambers now, in Cardiff, but we’re lead on this one.”
“Congratulations.” She meant it. The pang was a separate, private thing.
“It’s just work.” He looked around the bar, taking in the old maps on the walls, the black-and-white photos of a London that no longer existed. “This is quite a place. Not your typical haunt.”
“I like the quiet.”
“You were never one for quiet,” he said softly . “You thrived in the noise. The debate, the chaos of a packed courtroom.”
“People change, Daniel.”
“Do they?” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “I saw Gareth Hughes last month. He’s at a firm in Bristol. Married. Sarah Ellis is a judge’s associate. Everyone’s… on their path.”
The names were like stones dropped into the still water of her present. Each one created ripples of what-if. She took a sip of her tonic. It was flat.
“And your father?” Daniel asked. “He must be… wondering.”
“He knows where I am.” It was a lie of omission. Her communication with Brendan Carter was a series of brief, careful texts, avoiding specifics. Her mother’s worried voice on the phone, asking if she was eating enough.
Daniel’s gaze dropped to her hands, to the scar on her wrist. “I remember when you got that. You fell out of that oak tree in Bute Park, trying to rescue a cat that didn’t need rescuing. You needed seven stitches. You cried because you thought it would ruin your chances of being a barrister—you said no one would take a clumsy lawyer seriously.” He smiled at the memory. “You were fifteen.”
She curled her hand, covering the scar. “I was dramatic.”
“You were passionate.” He paused. “What happened, Rory? Really?”
The directness of the question winded her. She looked past him, to where Silas was now studying a ledger, his presence a solid anchor. “Life happened. It didn’t suit me, in the end. The law.”
“That’s rubbish,” he said, but gently . “You were the best of us. It suited you perfectly . Something else happened.”
The air between them grew thick with all the unspoken things. The years, the distance, the ghost of Evan that still sometimes made her check the locks twice. She could tell him. She could say, *I fell in love with a man who liked to break things, including me, and I had to run so far that even my own ambition got left behind.* But the words stuck in her throat.
“I’m happy here,” she said instead, the statement brittle.
Before he could challenge it, Silas approached the table, his limp subtly pronounced. “Rory,” he said, his voice a low rumble . “We should talk soon. About that… delivery for Yu-Fei.” His eyes flickered to Daniel, polite but assessing.
“Of course, Silas. This is Daniel Pryce, an old friend from university. Daniel, Silas Blackwood, my landlord.”
The two men nodded at each other. Silas’s gaze, sharp and knowing, rested on Daniel for a second too long. “A pleasure. I’ll leave you to it.” He retreated back behind the bar.
Daniel watched him go. “Your landlord is a bit… MI5, isn’t he?”
Rory almost smiled. “Something like that.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble, Rory?” Daniel’s voice dropped, earnest . “You can tell me. I can help. Hell, I’d give you a job tomorrow. We’re always looking for sharp researchers. You could have your pick of chambers.”
The offer was a lifeline, thrown from the deck of a ship she’d willingly jumped from. It was generous, and it tasted of pity. “That’s kind,” she said, her voice formal, distant . “But I’m not looking for a job in law.”
“Why not?” The frustration finally broke through his polished veneer. “This isn’t you. Sitting in a dark bar, hiding from the world. You were meant for more than this.”
“You don’t know what I am,” she snapped, then immediately regretted it. She took a breath, uncurling her fist. “I’m not hiding. I’m living. It’s just a different life than the one you imagined for me.”
“I imagined it because you did,” he countered. “We all did. You were going to change things. You were going to be brilliant.”
The past tense hung in the air , a verdict. *You were.* The girl he was talking about felt like a character from a novel she’ d read long ago.
“Maybe I found a different kind of brilliance,” she said, but it sounded hollow even to her.
He looked at her for a long moment, his expression shifting from confusion to a sad, dawning understanding. “It was that boyfriend, wasn’t it? Evan. I met him once. He had cold eyes.”
The mention of the name was a physical shock. Her composure, carefully maintained, cracked. She looked down at her hands, at the pale line on her wrist. “It’s complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” He reached across the table, as if to touch her hand, but stopped short. “You don’t have to let him win by disappearing.”
“I’m not disappearing. I’m right here.” She met his eyes again, and she let him see a fraction of the truth—the fear, the resilience, the hard-won peace of her current obscurity. “This is me now, Daniel. Maybe it’s not the portrait you wanted to paint, but it’s the real one .”
He sat back, defeated. The silence stretched, filled with the hum of the neon and the soft clink of glass from the bar. He checked his watch , a sleek silver thing. “I have a dinner. Colleagues.”
“Of course.”
He stood, putting his coat back on. He pulled a card from his breast pocket and placed it on the table. “My number. It’s the same. In case you… in case you need anything. Or just want to talk.”
“Thank you.”
He hesitated, looking at her as if trying to memorize her face, to reconcile the woman before him with the ghost in his memory . “Take care of yourself, Rory.”
“You too, Daniel. Good luck with your case.”
He gave a final, small nod, then turned and walked out of the bar. The bell jingled, and the grey light swallowed him.
Rory let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She picked up the card. *Daniel Pryce, Barrister-at-Law.* The embossed letters were sharp under her thumb. She slipped it into her jacket pocket, knowing she would never call.
Silas appeared again, this time with a fresh glass. He set down a neat whisky in front of her, amber and deep. He didn’t ask questions.
“He meant well,” Rory said, more to herself than to him .
“Most people do,” Silas replied, his voice gravelly . “It doesn’t make the past any lighter to carry.”
She took the glass, held it up. In its dark reflection, she saw her own face—the bright blue eyes, the straight black hair, the tired set of her mouth. And just visible on the wrist clutching the glass, the small, pale crescent of a scar. A reminder of a fall, long ago. She drank, letting the heat of the whisky spread through her, a small defence against the chill of time and all the things left unsaid.