When March moved around behind his desk and sat down, I stepped forward and took the chair he'd pointed out. I folded my hands primly on the edge of the desk and settled down to listen.
“I've lived a long life. I have a lot to say. I need a good scribe, someone with a decent head on her shoulders to write things down for me. Do you think you could manage to do that?”
“Quite possibly,” I said. “What happened to the last two people who tried?”
“They were idiots.” His hand waved away the question.
“If I don't know what they did wrong, how do I know if I can do better?”
“That's not up to you to decide.”
Maybe, maybe not. As far as I could tell, the jury was still out on whether or not March and I were going to be able to forge a decent working relationship. I sat and waited.
March frowned. Then he scowled. He seemed to have an entire arsenal of fierce expressions at his command. Idly, I wondered if he practiced in the mirror.
Finally, he said, “The first one . . . It turned out that she didn't like dogs. Now, how was I supposed to work with that?”
“Probably not very easily,” I admitted. Considering the book's subject matter, it seemed like a valid objection.
“You like dogs, don't you?”
“Of course I do.”
“You see? I knew any relative of Margaret's would have to be a dog person.”
Luckily, March hasn't met my brother.
“And the second candidate?”
“That was a problem right from the beginning. When he took notes, he wrote things down in that horrid shorthand that passes for conversation nowadays. What's it called? Textspeak?”
“Oh my.” My inner teacher cringed in sympathy.
“You see? Like I said, idiots. But I can already tell that this is going to work.” March leaned toward me across his desk. His hand slid along the polished surface, grasped my fingers in his, and gave them a squeeze. “You and I are going to get along famously.”
Gently, I disentangled my hand and put it down in my lap, out of reach.
That remained to be seen, I thought.