AI The cheap whisky burned a familiar path down Rory’s throat, a welcome counterpoint to the dull ache in her shoulders. Silas, from his perch behind the bar, polished a glass with the same methodical patience he applied to everything, the faint scent of lemon polish cutting through the stale air of The Raven’s Nest. It was a quiet Tuesday. Too quiet.
Then the heavy oak door swung inward, and the low murmur of conversation faltered, as if a spotlight had suddenly , unexpectedly, landed on the newcomer. Rory barely registered the face at first; it was the *aura * that snagged her attention. A sharpness, a tailored precision that felt alien in this comfortable gloom . It was a stillness that spoke of coiled energy, not relaxation.
The woman paused on the worn Persian rug, her gaze sweeping the room with an unnerving lack of hesitation. Straight black hair, styled with architectural perfection, framed a face that was both familiar and startlingly altered. Wider eyes, perhaps, or tightened skin. The kind of change that didn't come from a good night's sleep. As her eyes landed on Rory, a faint, almost imperceptible flicker crossed her features. Recognition? Or assessment?
The slight limp in Silas’s gait as he moved towards the newcomer was the only disruption in the room's sudden, collective intake of breath. He’d seen it all before. Rory, however, felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach . That coat. That posture.
"Evening," Silas said, his voice a low rumble. "Table for one, or...?"
The woman’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes . "Silas. Still holding court?" Her voice, once bright and hopeful, now held an edge of polished steel. "A table would be lovely. And a quiet corner, if possible."
Rory watched, rooted to her stool, the ice in her drink melting unnoticed. The name had been Eleanor. Eleanor Vance. They'd shared lectures, cheap student wine, and dreams of cracking futures that felt impossibly bright, impossibly far away. That was a lifetime ago.
"She always hated crowds," Rory murmured to herself, not even realising she’d spoken aloud. Silas glanced over, his hazel eyes giving nothing away, and gave a minute nod that told Rory he'd understood. He often did. She settled deeper onto her stool, her back to the main room, facing the patterned wall of antique maps.
Eleanor was shown to the booth farthest from the door, a shadowed alcove where the dim lighting seemed to absorb rather than illuminate. Rory found herself pushing off her stool, the half-finished drink suddenly tasting sour. It was an involuntary movement, a tug back through the years.
She approached the booth just as Eleanor was settling in, a perfectly manicured hand smoothing the dark velvet . Rory stopped a few feet away, suddenly acutely aware of her worn jeans, the faint smell of exhaust fumes clinging to her delivery jacket.
"Eleanor?"
The woman looked up. The polished steel in her voice was still there, but a different inflection now. A soft surprise. "Rory. My God. Is it really you ?" She tilted her head, appraising Rory from head to toe, and that flicker of something unreadable crossed her face again. "You haven’t… changed much."
It was a lie. A clumsy, obvious lie. Rory had. The careless grace was gone , replaced by a weary resilience. The spark that had once danced in her bright blue eyes was banked , overshadowed by a perpetual watchfulness. But Eleanor… Eleanor had shed her skin entirely. She wore her life like an armour piece – pristine , expensive, and utterly impenetrable.
"You have," Rory replied, her voice steady . "Quite a lot."
Eleanor gave a short, sharp laugh, a sound like ice shards. "Time does that, doesn't it? Makes its mark." She gestured with a long, elegant finger. "Sit. Please. Silas said a table for one… I didn't expect company. Especially not *you *." There was a beat of silence . "Last I heard, you were… somewhere else. London, wasn't it?" *Somewhere else * hung in the air , a deliberate vagueness that Rory understood. Eleanor had dropped out of their shared orbit years ago, fading into an abyss from which nothing concrete had ever emerged, until now.
Rory slid into the bench opposite Eleanor, the worn leather cool against her back. A waitress, not Silas, appeared almost immediately, her movements efficient and unobtrusive.
"Whisky for me," Rory said, her gaze flickering to Eleanor . "Neat."
"Champagne," Eleanor said, without glancing at the waitress . "The brut. And make it chilled . Very chilled ."
The waitress retreated. The silence that descended was thick with unspoken questions, a chasm carved by a decade of silence . Rory traced the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. A forgotten childhood tumble. Such small injuries mapped the contours of a life, or so she used to think.
"So," Rory began, breaking the quiet. "Since South Wales. That doesn't seem like the whole story."
Eleanor swirled the water in the glass the waitress had placed before her. The ice clinked softly , a counter-rhythm to the distant street noise. "What story? The law degree you abandoned? I heard you left Cardiff for London. Ran away, some rumoured."
There it was. The barb. Rory felt a familiar clench deep in her gut. "I left to build my own life, Eleanor. Not the one my father planned, or the one Evan tried to break apart." She met Eleanor’s gaze directly . "What about you ? You disappeared. Completely. Then suddenly you 're here, in Silas's discreet establishment, ordering the finest champagne. What happened in between?"
Eleanor took a slow sip of her water. "I learned to be pragmatic, Rory. To see the world not as it *should * be, but as it *is *. The law… it can be a blunt instrument, but it’s also a shield. Or a weapon, depending on whose hand wields it. I simply found a more… direct application."
"Direct application?" Rory leaned forward. "What does that even mean?"
Eleanor’s smile returned, sharper this time. "It means I understood, early on, that talent and ambition are worthless without leverage. Without understanding who holds the cards. And more importantly, how to *take * them." She traced the rim of her glass. "You always had the sharpest mind, Rory. The one that saw angles nobody else did. I envied that. And I learned from it. Taught myself to see the angles myself."
Rory felt a chill that had nothing to do with Eleanor’s champagne. "You sound like you 're talking about something other than legal practice."
"Perhaps I am." Eleanor’s eyes fixed on Rory. "You're still working for that Chinese restaurant, aren't you ? Delivering their noodles. Living above a bar in Soho." It wasn’t a question, but an accusation. A statement of Rory’s perceived failure. "Such a waste of potential . You could have been… so much more."
The whisky arrived, and Rory welcomed the burn again. "I do what I have to do. It keeps the lights on. It's honest."
"Honest," Eleanor scoffed, the sound barely audible . "Such a quaint notion. What does honesty buy you , Rory? A damp flat? A boss who watches you like a hawk?" Silas. He did watch her, in his own way, but it was different. Protective. Concerned. Not possessive.
"It buys me sleep," Rory retorted, her temper beginning to fray. "And it buys me the right to look myself in the mirror."
Eleanor leaned back against the velvet , a predator settling into its territory. Her gaze flickered past Rory towards Silas, who was, as she’d noted, watching them with an almost imperceptible stillness. Eleanor’s eyes narrowed fractionally before returning to Rory.
"You always were too sentimental, Rory," she said, her voice dropping, becoming conspiratorial . "Too afraid to get your hands dirty. But people like us, Rory, people who *matter *, we don't get to afford that luxury. The world doesn't reward caution. It rewards… initiative. Boldness. Taking what's yours by right."
The champagne arrived, a delicate flute filled with pale gold bubbles. Eleanor accepted it with a nod. She took a long, slow sip, her eyes never leaving Rory’s.
"I have a proposition for you , Rory," Eleanor said, the words delivered as smoothly as the champagne . "It's about leveraging that sharp mind of yours. The one I admired so much. There are opportunities… out there. Far beyond delivering lukewarm lo mein."
Rory felt a prickle of unease crawl up her spine. This wasn't just a social call. "What kind of opportunities?"
Eleanor leaned forward again, the expensive fabric of her dress rustling. Her perfume, something heavy and floral, cut through the bar’s usual scents of stale beer and polish. "Opportunities that require discretion. Intelligence. Someone who can think on their feet. Someone who isn't afraid to bend the rules… or break them entirely. The kind of work Silas probably used to do, but on a much grander scale. For people with truly significant… interests."
She paused, letting the implication hang in the air. Rory felt her heart beginning to pound. Silas’s glances were becoming more frequent, more pointed. He’d sensed it too. The shift. The immediate danger.
"Rory," Eleanor continued, her voice now a silken whisper . "They pay handsomely. Enough to silence any lingering regrets about Cardiff. Enough to buy you whatever you desire . All you have to do is say yes."
Eleanor reached across the small table, her perfectly manicured fingers hovering just above Rory's scarred wrist. "Don't you want a life beyond this dreary little bar, Rory? Don't you want what you always dreamed of?"
At that moment, the door to the secret room behind the bookshelf, a door Rory had only ever seen Silas use himself, creaked open an inch. A sliver of light, far brighter than the bar's dim glow, spilled out from the gap. Silas, without breaking his posture as he pretended to wipe a counter, subtly shifted his weight , blocking the view more effectively. Eleanor’s gaze, sharp and predatory, flickered towards the sound for a fraction of a second. Her smile tightened.
"Or perhaps," Eleanor purred, her eyes locking back onto Rory with unnerving intensity , "you 've already made your choice. And perhaps," she added, her tone dropping to a dangerous murmur, "that choice has consequences. For both of us."
The champagne flute in Eleanor's hand trembled , not from anything Rory had said, but from some unseen pressure emanating from the room behind Silas, or perhaps from the very air around them. The sliver of light from the secret room widened slightly , and a shadow detached itself from the doorway.