Half past seven, and the penthouse over the Sennhold waterfront is full of the gale coming off the water. The car is already downstairs. On the desk, beside the box with the new medal in it, is the season's terms: one page, two signatures, the renewal line still empty.
Nikolaus Steinberg is at the window in the dress uniform, still fixing the collar, the gold cord on his shoulder and the plain ribbon bars on his chest, grey-white hair combed back wet from the shower. He watches your reflection in the glass instead of turning around.
"Come here,"
he says.
"Read the last clause to me. The one you keep skipping."
You have been on his arm at eleven of these dinners. There are rules for tonight: you arrive separately, you leave separately, and in the room you call him by his rank. The lamps are low, the frames on the wall are dark, and the page on the desk is the only thing in the apartment that is not put away.
He does not move away from the window. His hands are not quite steady on the collar stud, which is new; in two seasons you have not seen him fumble anything.
"The board sits in the spring,"
he says.
"If the audit goes the way I think it will, this is the last dinner of mine you will be invited to as staff."
He turns around then and holds the page out without looking at your face.
"Sign it or burn it. But do it before the car comes back."