41
London
Dr. Beatrice Cecil’s office
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
6:57 a.m.
“The weather is wretched,” Tavish said to Dr. Cecil as he hung his overcoat. He gave her a shopping bag before lying down. “For you.”
She opened the bag and undid the bow wrapped around the square golden box. A perfumed scent filled the room. “Ah. You remembered the candle.”
“Aye. You asked me to bring one last session,” he answered.
She handed the candle to him. “What led you to think it was for me?”
His lips twisted ruefully. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You’re too intelligent to play this game, Tavish.” Dr. Cecil motioned to a small table between her armchair and the divan. There was a plain silver tray along with a matchbox.
His lips thinned in anger; his shoulders squared back. “Is the game on me, Beatric
