December seventeenth was Damien’s thirty-fifth birthday and he had not mentioned it once.
I found out from Mrs. Aldren, who found out from the birth certificate she had once been required to produce for an estate administration matter and had simply, with the accuracy of a woman who stored everything important, remembered.
“He doesn’t celebrate,” she told me over morning tea. “Hasn’t in years. His father used to make occasions of it in the way of a man who wanted credit for the calendar, and after a certain point Damien decided the day was easier unmarked.”
“What does he actually like?” I asked. Not as a party planning exercise. As a genuine question.
Mrs. Aldren considered this with the seriousness it deserved. “Quiet,” she said. “Good food he didn’t have to arrange. Being somewhere t
