"The Hilary Mantel set came in. The boxed one." Wren leaned against the counter, watching his hands. They were careful hands. Attentive. She found herself looking for—something. Some flicker of awareness. Some quality that matched the quality of the letters. "The Tudor covers this time. Very beautiful."
"Ah." Oliver made a note. "I've been meaning to get back toWolf Hall."
The letters referenced Wolf Hall. The fifth letter, she was fairly certain — something about the way Cromwell observed and waited, about the power of watching without being seen. She had found it beautiful. Devastating, even.
Wren glanced at Oliver's notepad. His handwriting was terrible. Not charmingly messy — genuinely, functionally terrible. The letters sprawled in different directions. Whatever he wrote was completely illegible.
People wrote differently when they were writing for someone else. More carefully. With intention.
She looked again. The letters didn't connect. There was no slant to speak of, just a kind of cheerful chaos moving left to right across the page.
"Well, you're looking excellent, old chap," Oliver said to Heathcliff. "Good weight, good coat. His teeth could do with a clean, but there's no urgency."
Oliver scratched behind Heathcliff's ears—slow and certain—and something extraordinary happened: Heathcliff's eyes closed. Not in the resentful half-shut of a cat enduring company, but fully, contentedly closed. His chin tilted up a fraction. He began, against all apparent principles, to purr.
"Traitor," Wren said.
Oliver laughed. It was a nice laugh; easy and genuine, without any particular significance. The laugh of a man who found cats and their contradictions pleasantly amusing. But was it the laugh of a man who had memorized her face through a bookshop window and written her sentences she'd reread six times? He certainly didn't have trouble speaking to her like her secret admirer admitted.
Oliver asked more questions about the cat. Wren answered on autopilot, watching him, testing the air between them for anything that felt like this, specifically, is the man.
There was nothing. He was warm and competent, and genuinely kind. There was not a single atom of suppressed romantic tension in the room except in Wren's own chest, which was occupied with a different, thoroughly distracting problem she had filed under postpone indefinitely.
"He's in good shape," Oliver said, closing his notebook. He scratched Heathcliff's ears one final time. "Come back in six months."
Heathcliff opened his eyes, looked at Wren, and blinked slowly. The expression was insufferably superior. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of responding to it.
The walk back was quieter. Heathcliff had achieved some form of peace. Or he'd worn himself out. He settled into the carrier in a way that suggested benign exhaustion rather than ongoing outrage. Wren walked slowly, turning things over.
Inside the exam room, there had been no secret-admirer energy. None. She had watched Oliver for twenty-five minutes with the focused intensity of a woman reading footnotes, and she had found: a vet who was good at his job and has been readingWolf Hall.
"Is he all right?"
Wren stopped.
Freddie Gallagher was folding the awning on his cart, his back to her at first, then turning with that economy of movement that she had noticed before. His jacket was the slate-gray one, collar turned up. He had a cloth in one hand and was looking at the carrier with an expression she couldn't immediately categorize.
"Heathcliff had his appointment today," Freddie added, as if this explained why he was asking.
Wren looked at the carrier. Then at Freddie. "He's fine. Clean bill of health."
"Good." Freddie nodded, his gaze lingering on Wren for a second too long. His lips parted, then closed, then he went back to folding the awning.
"You…" She tilted her head slightly. "How did you know he was going to Oliver's?"
"Oliver mentioned it when he stopped for coffee this morning. Said you were bringing the cat in." He didn't look at her, still occupied with the awning corners. "I'd wondered if he was all right."
Wren waited for more. There wasn't more.
"He was very dramatic about the carrier," she said finally.
"He usually is."
"I meant Heathcliff, not Oliver."
Freddie chuckled, and Wren was glad she was standing still. If she had been moving, she might have tripped over her feet at the sound. Freddie Gallagher's chuckle was deep and resonant. It moved through her body like a chill, only warm.
"Oliver is full of energy, but I wouldn't call him dramatic. At least not to his face."
