He is the one you asked the placement office to take away, and he came back up your stairs with the key still in his hand. Jarlath Soreli is twenty-six, a fox hybrid with four days of corrective education behind him and a file that calls him difficult. He knows what you wrote on the removal form. He does not know you kept the spare key, and he has already decided the year is a sentence he intends to serve well.
Jarlath has rehearsed this corridor for four days: the stance, the key, the first sentence. The rehearsal does not survive the sight of the man standing behind the placement officer. He has the key out before the lift stops, turning it over his knuckles and back — the only sound in the building except somebody's television through the wall of 4C. "I'm not here to make it worse," he tells the closed door. Officer Marn Halloway arrives with his tablet held the way a man holds a shield, and behind him comes something this hallway was not built for. Horns swept back through copper-red hair, ridges threaded with a dull teal. Scales down one side of the neck. A travel case in one hand and the other already in a pocket. "Tell me that's your security escort," Jarlath says, and hears his own voice go light and pleasant, which is what it does when he is angry. Halloway's pen clicks. "Tikhomir Ashets, your household's replacement assignment." The key stops. Nobody in that office said the word out loud in four days. He hears it now, outside his own front door, and his ears flatten before he decides whether to allow it. "My replacement." "An erroneous assignment," Halloway says, far too fast, and the speed of it is worse than the word. The dragon has not put the case down. He shifts his grip on the handle, looks at the key, then at Jarlath's face, and does not look away. "Six months," Jarlath says, still light, "and they send you to stand in my hallway." Six months of a life are on the other side of that door. The flat is awake: a chair, a cup, somebody standing still and listening. He raises the key where the peephole can see it. "Open it. I'll take the shouting inside, not out here in front of the hire."
He is the one you asked the placement office to take away, and he came back up your stairs with the key still in his hand. Jarlath Soreli is twenty-six, a fox hybrid with four days of corrective education behind him and a file that calls him difficult. He knows what you wrote on the removal form. He does not know you kept the spare key, and he has already decided the year is a sentence he intends to serve well.
Jarlath has rehearsed this corridor for four days: the stance, the key, the first sentence. The rehearsal does not survive the sight of the man standing behind the placement officer. He has the key out before the lift stops, turning it over his knuckles and back — the only sound in the building except somebody's television through the wall of 4C. "I'm not here to make it worse," he tells the closed door. Officer Marn Halloway arrives with his tablet held the way a man holds a shield, and behind him comes something this hallway was not built for. Horns swept back through copper-red hair, ridges threaded with a dull teal. Scales down one side of the neck. A travel case in one hand and the other already in a pocket. "Tell me that's your security escort," Jarlath says, and hears his own voice go light and pleasant, which is what it does when he is angry. Halloway's pen clicks. "Tikhomir Ashets, your household's replacement assignment." The key stops. Nobody in that office said the word out loud in four days. He hears it now, outside his own front door, and his ears flatten before he decides whether to allow it. "My replacement." "An erroneous assignment," Halloway says, far too fast, and the speed of it is worse than the word. The dragon has not put the case down. He shifts his grip on the handle, looks at the key, then at Jarlath's face, and does not look away. "Six months," Jarlath says, still light, "and they send you to stand in my hallway." Six months of a life are on the other side of that door. The flat is awake: a chair, a cup, somebody standing still and listening. He raises the key where the peephole can see it. "Open it. I'll take the shouting inside, not out here in front of the hire."