Page 104 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

Thaddeus, quiet on his left, finally spoke. “Those are not the same thing.”

“No.” Roman looked down at the table. “They are not.”

He had spent six weeks believing sufficient information, logically presented, must eventually produce the correct conclusion. He had written about the age of the structure and the history of the road beneath it, facts that he loved. He had found estimates for repairs, facts he respected. He had spoken with men who understood stone better than he ever would and men who understood traffic through Micklegate better still, facts he valued. He had anticipated objections and answered them before they could be raised.

He had believed, in some private and apparently foolish corner of himself, that facts, that being right ought to matter. Caring about something ought to matter.

Patchett had embraced something simpler. Men did not like inconvenience. They liked expense still less. And they disliked being told by a man who did not live under their authority how they ought to exercise it.

“I should have addressed the cost sooner,” Roman sighed.

Kettlewell made an exasperated sound.

He continued. “The estimates were too broad, I knew that. If I had found someone willing to commit to the lower figure⁠—”

“Hartwell,” Kettlewell grumbled.

“—or proposed the survey before the preservation motion rather than attaching one to the other, I might have⁠—”

“Roman.” Holly, his closest friend among them, used his Christian name—an occasion so remarkable that it brought Roman’s attention to the solicitor. Holly’s expression had lost its usual neutrality, his brow furrowed, his lips turned down. “You lost.”

Guilt sank into his chest. “Yes, I am aware.”

His friend shook his head. “I do not think you are.”

Roman’s fingers tightened again around his glass.

Phineas shifted in his chair. “What Holly means⁠—”

“I know what Holly means.” His voice was lower now, calmer.

“Good,” Holly said. “Save us all the boredom of listening to Phineas explain it.”

That made Phineas stick out his chin. “I explain things very well.”

That made Kettlewell chuckle. “You explain them at great length. It is not the same as doing so with any great talent.”

Phineas put a hand to his chest, wounded. “I have been told I am an excellent conversationalist!”

“By whom?” Kettlewell challenged.

Roman wanted to smile. The impulse had melted away before it reached his mouth.

He looked away from them, toward the clouded window. Beyond it the afternoon had already surrendered to darkness. Somewhere beyond the glass and the narrow streets and the roofs crowded one against another, Micklegate Bar with its bold barbican stood where it had stood for centuries.

For now.

“What will you do?” Thaddeus asked quietly.

There wasn’t an immediate answer. None came to mind.

There ought to be an answer. Another petition. Another letter. Some appeal beyond the council, perhaps, though he had already considered the possibilities and knew how thin they were. Writing to the York Herald had not swayed public opinion, though there was a chance he could make Patchett defend the decision publicly. Perhaps he might seek another estimate, or architect, or a man with expertise and a willingness to lend his name to the cause.

He could do… Nothing.

The realization arrived with such completeness that for a moment Roman stared at the wine in his glass without awareness.

There was nothing left for him to do.