Calder had always been shrewd with his hope. He handled it with the thoughtfulness that most people gave to their finances. It meant that he planned his evening without special consideration to the possibility of a visitor. He marked essays and then bathed, dried himself and dressed in his usual black sleepwear and a long dressing robe, sashed about the middle in emerald. He indulged himself in a glass of wine. He took down an old textbook of medieval history, and retired to bed to read.
As dextrous as he was with his hope, he couldn\'t help but wonder. Would the boy show? It took quite some courage to proposition a teacher. Surely turning up wouldn\'t be quite as nerve-racking. It seemed pointless to secure a deal and then not follow through. Didn\'t it?
Stretching slowly, he flipped over another page and yawned into the back of his hand. He rather wanted the boy to come. That was impossible to deny.
\'Ren\'. He\'d checked the slip. It was always worth verifying the name of the student you\'d all but invited to your private quarters after hours.
Dimly he cast his eyes to the clock on the bedside table. Past eight. Not that he was hoping. He began to read again, petting the stem of his wine glass, and though his eyes followed the words, they did not register in his head.
