Pinkie trotted into the office, swinging the bag like a parade baton in front of her. “Mission accomplished, Keynote!”
The mare looked up from her desk, smiling in that gentle way of hers. “Good work.” Her eyes darted to the decorative wall clock above Mr. Scribe’s door. “You made good time.”
“Sure did.” Pinkie allowed the bag to fall to the desk with a metallic clunk, “The new ribbons, as requested.” It was still difficult to call the boring black strands laced with ink “ribbons.” Ribbons were not new to Pinkie, in fact, she used them a lot. But through all the parties, town festivals, and sewing club meetings, she had never seen ribbons like these. And then there was that thing.
Whoever invented typewriters had to be a secret supervillian, or at least a pony with a very bad sense of humor. The darn machine was more than a little convoluted to use. The buttons had to be pressed in just the right way to make the words come out in just the right order. If one letter was off, she would have to start over or cover it up, something Keynote stressed was very, very bad news. As Treasurer, Mr. Scribe was not fond of “throwing money out the window” because of his secretary’s blunders.
“So, Pinkie, ready to give it another shot?” Keynote got to her hooves, motioning for her to sit.
With all the air of a filly going to detention, Pinkie sat on the poofy chair and stared down at her nemesis. “So we meet again, my old foe.”
Keynote’s soft giggle drifted into her ears, “Yes, well, I felt the same when I first started. Now, why don’t you add the new ribbon? It will be good practice.”
“Uh . . . okay.” If typing was complicated, it was nothing compared to loading the touchy machine. After a few tries and Keynote’s gentle encouragement, she managed to successfully load the ribbon. “There, done.”
“Excellent, now for the letter.”
Pinkie’s eyes fell to the loopy cursive mouthwriting in front of her, a note from one of the accountants. It was her duty to transfer the hieroglyphics into something legible for Mr. Scribe. That was easier said than done. Really, it was the worst mouthwriting she had ever seen. “Uh, Keynote, could I maybe . . . maybe work on one of Mr. Scribe’s letters instead? It’s only my fourth day on the job.” Mr. Scribe had an almost artistic calligraphy, looking closer to magicwriting than mouthwriting.
“Sorry, Pinkie, but I only have so long to teach you.” Her hoof patted her reassuringly on the back. “I know it’s hard, but I want to make sure you’re prepared to take over.”
“Right, I’ll try again.”
For the next hour, Pinkie worked on typing practice while Keynote shuffled files around and made appointments. Half of a secretary’s battle appeared to be scheduling the myriad collection of business meetings Mr. Scribe had to attend while juggling smaller one on one meetings with the ponies under his supervision. It took more than a little talent to keep track of exactly where Mr. Scribe would have to be at any given point.
So, when the door to the hallway swung open thirty minutes ahead of schedule, they both jumped. Poor Keynote actually took to the air, small wings somehow keeping her aloft. “Mr. Scribe?”
The stallion looked towards her, raising an eyebrow, “Are we keeping files on the ceiling now, Keynote?”
“No, sir.” Keynote flew down in front of him, blocking his path. It was hard not to laugh at the stern expression stretching almost across the mare’s chesnut face. “You’re back early. You’re never back early.”
Mr. Scribe rolled his eyes, pushing Keynote gently to the side. “I do not have time to listen to you state the obvious, Keynote.”
Keynote’s eyes widened, “Time? Do we have to change the schedule around?”
Time for backup. Pinkie stepped forward, putting a hoof on Keynote’s shoulder. “She does kinda have a point, Mr. Scribe. We’ve got to fix your schedule if you’re changing stuff.”
The scowl perpetually plastered on his face deepened, “Fine.” He raised his bad hoof off the ground, “There’s been some opposition to the fourth street project.”
“Again? But, we resolved that months ago!”
“I know,” Mr. Scribe grimaced, glancing towards the window and the bustling city beyond. “They’ve got Milo on the case, and we all know what that means. They’ve called a hearing for this afternoon.”
“Milo?” Who in the hay is Milo? Before Pinkie could demand answers, Keynote elbowed her hard in the ribs, hissing something along the lines of ‘I’ll tell you later.’
Their employer rubbed his temple with his good hoof. “Cancel all my appointments. No doubt he’ll have me arguing the same damn point for hours while he tells sob story after sob story.”
Pinkie made to speak, but Keynote elbowed her again. Seriously?
Keynote took her overly professional stance. “And what shall we do after that, Mr. Scribe?”
He bit his lip, eyes darting from Keynote to her as though calculating the risk. “I have three letters that need delivered in person. You’ll go without your uniforms, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” As if dismissing the need for further conversation, he opened his office door. To Pinkie’s surprise, he stopped halfway, turning back to them. “You can go home as soon as you’re done with that.”
“Seriously?” It was impossible to contain herself with that news. She did a happy victory lap around the room. “Thanks, Mr. Scribe!”
“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled, going inside his office and slamming the door.
“Wooo! We’re going home early.”
Rather than overflowing with excitement, Keynote looked about ready to cry. Pinkie hopped over to her, putting a hoof on her back, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing really, it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
“Huh?”
She let out a heavy sigh, “That project Mr. Scribe was talking about, it’s . . . well, if I’m being truthful I’m not a fan of it.”
Pinkie’s heart skipped a beat. It was as close to opposing Mr. Scribe as the mare had come these past few days. “What’s bad about it?”
“Well, it’s a big construction project. Scribe incorporated has bought all the land necessary. But,” her eyes darted pointedly to Mr. Scribe’s door, “there’s ponies living in apartments on that property. The project will throw them out of their homes.”
Out of their homes? Just like he did to us! Ever since the first day she met him, Pinkie had not respected Mr. Scribe. Who could respect a pony who tossed families out of their homes whenever it suited the company? Now she was starting to wonder if she could even trust him to keep his end of the bargain. “They can’t do that! Besides, they’ve got that Milo guy on their side, he’s worth something right?”
Keynote shook her head, “Milo Coltfax is the best prosecuting attorney in Manehatten, probably in all of Equestria. But, even he can’t battle with Scribe Incorporated and win.”
“But, what about those ponies? They can’t take away their homes!”
“They bought the land legally, Pinkie. There’s nothing anypony can do about it,” she mumbled, almost as an afterthought.
Pinkie stamped her hoof so hard the desk shook, “Why would a famous attorney like him take the case if it was hopeless, huh?”
“Because, Miss Pie, it’s all part of the game.” Mr. Scribe’s icy voice made her skin crawl. He was leaning against his office door.
“What game?” She strode forward, glaring challengingly at Mr. Scribe. The stallion stumbled back a few steps. Forgetting that she was supposed to keep her cool, Pinkie snarled at him, “Games are for fun. There’s nothing funny about throwing ponies out of their homes. You’re a horrible pony, Rory!” Oops. Pinkie flinched at her breach of etiquette.
Rather than snapping back or pushing her to the ground like before, Mr. Scribe’s ears flattened submissively as he backed away. “Sorry . . . there’s . . . there’s nothing I can do, Miss Pie.”
Pinkie could only gape as this bully was actually quivering from a few words she said. But the fear in his eyes was far from satisfying. There was no logical reason for him to be so scared of her, after all, she wouldn’t hurt him. She felt her face heat up. “Sorry, Mr. Scribe. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
“It’s . . . it’s okay, Miss Pie.” He scooped up his briefcase, limping over to Keynote’s desk. After placing three envelopes on it, he turned back to her. “I will say this, Miss Pie. Milo Coltfax has been after the President for as long as I can remember. He nearly got him thrown in jail once. But,” he looked almost crestfallen, “Father made an example of him. Tore his whole life apart from what I’ve heard.”
“It took a few years, but he gained his second wind. Figured he had nothing to lose anymore, so he’s dedicated his life to becoming the thorn in the company’s side.” His hollow laugh echoed around the office, “Milo knows he’ll never win, but that doesn’t stop him from dragging us into every case he can. Run our lawyer fees through the roof,” he added as a kind of afterthought.
Before Pinkie could ask any more questions, he walked out of the office, leaving them alone to their thoughts. Still a little shaken, Pinkie looked her mentor in the eye, “Why . . . why was he so scared? Is that normal?”
Keynote looked frozen in place, staring at the door as though a fascinating painting were nailed to its surface. “I’ve never seen him act like that before.”
“Maybe I’m just scary.”
“Maybe . . .” she trailed off as if lost in thought. Then, Pinkie felt Keynote clap her on the back. “Come along, Pinkie, we’ve got some mail to deliver.”
Sludge. It was a substance nopony wanted to familiarize themselves with, and one Pinkie most definitely did not want plastered to her hoof. Mud was all fine and dandy, she was used to that. But sludge was just gross. She tried to calculate just what combination of waste, runoff, and trash had come together to form the particular concoction they were trudging through. Then again, it probably was best not to know. “Say, Keynote?”
Keynote looked over at her comfortable position several feet above the surface of the alley. “Yes?”
“Why are we going to a place like this?” Her hoof gestured to the stained brick buildings, complete with barred and boarded up windows. Their last two stops had landed them inside a banker’s office and an upscale jewelry shop. This seemed like the last place a pony like Mr. Scribe would frequent.
“Business, Pinkie.” Keynote’s eyes focused on the peeling green paint of a nearby door. Landing beside it, she motioned her close, “This is it.”
Pinkie raised a skeptical eyebrow, “Uh, Keynote, that’s just a random door to an abandoned house.”
Keynote smirked knowingly, raising a hoof and tapping it against the door. Five fast taps, two slow, one loud, one soft. The door swung open, revealing a tall earth pony stallion with slicked down hair a duck would have been jealous of. “If it isn’t Keynote.” His lined silver face broke into a predatory grin. “Welcome.”
“Mr. Shine.” Keynote followed the stallion inside, motioning Pinkie to keep up.
The interior to the building smelled heavily of mold and some kind of weird smoke. Whatever it was managed to churn her stomach worse than any stale tobacco she could remember. As they continued down the narrow hallway it thickened until it became a thick miasma that gripped her nostrils with a nearly overwhelming intensity. They veered off into a side room that seemed to be the source of her discomfort.
All around them were moldering chairs and couches with ponies draped across them like clothes on a line. Pinkie had seen ponies who were tired, even ponies who were drunk if she hit Nickerlite at the wrong time of day. These ponies were on a whole new level. Their eyes were glazed over, as if dead to the world. Perhaps they were. In any case, it appeared that they did not remember or did not care to remember who they were. All they seemed to care about was smoking pipes full of strange leaves and releasing as much of the toxic substance as they could in the process.
Their blank stares were more than a little creepy and she found her side pressing to Keynote's for support. “What’s wrong with them,” Pinkie whispered, trying to avoid the stare of a wizened unicorn with half an ear missing.
“Later,” she hissed through gritted teeth, eyes still focused on their guide.
The stallion led them through a small door at the end of the room. Thankfully, the smoke’s density lowered to the point where she felt comfortable breathing again. They followed the new hallway until it came to a stop at an intricately carved mahogany door. Well that’s weird.
Once again, a series of knocks was tapped against the wood by the slick maned stallion. With a smooth, swift motion, the door opened to reveal another stallion. This one more closely resembled an old grizzly bear, but Keynote did not seemed bothered by him. Their guide nodded, motioning them inside.
Once they entered, the grizzly pony slammed the door shut and stood in front of it as if daring them to try and escape. Pinkie tried to control her now pounding heart as she turned to stand beside Keynote. The room was nothing like she had imagined. For one, they were no longer standing on stained wood floors, but on a plush carpet. Expensive wallpaper adorned the walls, accented by equally expensive looking paintings.
Everything’s so fancy. From the chandelier to the massive desk in front of them, there was nothing inside the office that would suggest it was worth anything less than a good chunk of bits. Pinkie was so focused on the finery that she almost missed the hidden door swing open to reveal a portly magenta unicorn sporting an appropriately extravagant suit.
The fat on his legs jiggled as he trudged over to the high backed chair and settled in. “Keynote, what a delightful surprise.” Though he said the words with an almost cheesy hospitality, his grey eyes dug into theirs with a predatory focus. Pinkie felt her hairs bristle. Every little signal he was giving off told her that he was not the type of pony to be trifled with. Maud would have called him “bad news.”
Keynote withdrew the envelope from her saddlebags, “I have a letter from Mr. Scribe for you, sir.”
He tapped the desk imperiously with a flabby hoof, “Put it there, dear.”
With a stiff, almost unnervingly formal motion, she placed it on the desk. Once it was there, she bowed her head, stepping back to stand beside Pinkie again.
The pony’s eyes did not leave them the whole time, still glowering in that disconcerting way. “Who is this?” Judging from his pompous tone, he did not approve of her tagging along with Keynote.
“Mr. Scribe’s new secretary, Pinkie Pie.” Keynote shot her an encouraging smile, “I couldn’t have asked for a better replacement.”
Pinkie flushed, staring the stranger in the eye, “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”
A strange, almost hungry smile contorted the layers of fat around his face, “The pleasure is all mine, Pinkie.”
Pinkie hated the way he said her name. It was as false as his smile and devoid of any trace of sincerity. “We shall see if you live up to expectations.” He turned his attention back to Keynote, “Inform Mr. Scribe that my offer still stands, and,” his eyes darted to the door, “that I’m willing to give him a most excellent discount.”
Keynote stiffened at the last words. “My employer doesn’t need your ‘discount,’” she spat. Without another word, she turned around and strode to the door with a stiff, almost ritualistic precision. Pinkie followed suit, doing her best to mirror the pegasus’ movements. The guard pony stepped aside, growling something under his breath as they passed. Their guide was waiting for them when they stepped into the hallway.
Not a word was said as they traced their steps through the building. Even after they left to stand in the relatively fresh air, Keynote remained silent. Pinkie glanced nervously into her eyes, “Uh, Keynote?”
“Let’s go.”
Pinkie followed her down the filth laden alley. The silence between them seemed to pull at her until it became almost unbearable. Finally, Keynote pushed her over to a darkened corner of a side street. Keynote’s eyes started sadly into hers, “Sorry, Pinkie. I should have warned you about that.”
You could say that again! Pinkie glanced back towards the building, “What was that place, Keynote? Who were those ponies?”
Keynote bit her lip, “That’s Philippe Dufaux, he runs the East Side.”
“Runs the East Side?” The east side of what? The city? How could any civilian run the entire east section of Manehattan. “What do you mean, Keynote?”
“He’s part of the mob,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
“The mob?”
There was a moment of silence as Keynote gaped at her. “You don’t . . . you don’t know who the mob is?”
“Uh . . . nope. He, he, sorry.”
“Urgh.” Keynote stamped her hoof flinching as it became coated in filth. “The mob, Miss Pie, is organized crime.”
“Organized crime?” An involuntary giggle came at the thought of organized crime. “What? Do they stack stolen stuff in neat rows or something?”
“No, Pinkie,” Keynote deadpanned. “Organized crime is no laughing matter.” Her eyes fell to the dilapidated buildings around them, “Imagine an organization with layers upon layers of complexity. Its only purpose it to further its own agenda. They don’t care who they hurt or what they take on the way.”
The blood rushed to Pinkie’s ears. “Why doesn’t somepony stop them?”
“Who’s going to stop them, Pinkie?” Keynote leaned in close, soft eyes turning nearly as cold as Mr. Scribe’s, “They own the East Side, either outright or through coercion. They even own the police force and the government, at least parts of it. If anypony made a move, they’d bribe or silence them, whatever’s easiest.”
“That’s wrong! That’s not the way it’s supposed to work.”
“What’s supposed to be doesn't matter anymore, Pinkie. What matters is this,” She spoke slowly, as if explaining an obvious point to a child, “This city is run by one thing, Miss Pie, and one thing only. Greed. It doesn't matter what’s in the best interest of the populous, what matters is what’s in the best interest of those in power. You're either working for them, or against them.”
She longed to argue, to fight against the point, but could not bring herself to do it. From what she had seen, Keynote’s words were close to the truth. It was impossible to deny that this city was corrupt, and the ponies within it lost. But, Pinkie could not bring herself to believe the situation was hopeless. “Maybe, Keynote, maybe,” she murmured.
For a while, they stared at each other, as if lost for words. They could use a change of subject. “Say, Keynote, what was that place we went to? What was wrong with those ponies?”
Keynote twitched, but spoke in a more gentle tone, “It was an opium den, Pinkie.”
“A what den?”
“An opium den,” her voice lowered until it was scarcely more than a whisper, “it’s where ponies go to smoke opium. The stuff’s illegal, but the organized crime tends to run the dens as they’re incredibly profitable.”
“Why? It’s just grass isn’t it?”
“No, it’s a special kind of herb. When smoked, it causes hallucinations among other things.” A sad almost pitying expression came over her as she looked back the way they came. “It’s an addiction, Pinkie. Once you start using it, you can’t really stop. Ponies will give up all they own to keep on using it.”
“What? That’s crazy!” There was no way that a plant was worth throwing everything away for. “Why would they do that?”
“It’s . . . it’s not a black and white situation, Pinkie. Opium doesn’t just give hallucinations, it allows a pony to forget who they are, what they’ve done. There’s no worry if you can’t think.” She paused, apparently contemplating another point. “It’s also an incredibly powerful pain reliever. Ponies who are sick or dying, they’d go crazy with the pain. So, they take the lesser of two evils.”
Dufaux words rang in her head. ‘Inform Mr. Scribe that my offer still stands, and, that I’m willing to give him a most excellent discount.’ The dots suddenly began to connect, “He was offering Mr. Scribe opium? Why?”
“Surely you've noticed already, Miss Pie.”
“Noticed what?”
“Mr. Scribe’s leg. It,” she bit her lip, “it’s not just an inconvenience, Pinkie. He’ll act like nothing’s wrong, hell, I only found out because I walked in on him one time.”
Though it felt like she knew the answer already, Pinkie had to ask. “What?”
“Mr. Scribe lives in constant agony, Pinkie. It’s not just a little ache when he walks.” Her voice shook ever so slightly, “I doubt there’s a time when he isn't hurting. For him, an offer like Dufaux’s . . . it’s tempting. He knows what it would do to his mind, and I doubt he’d ever knowingly succumb to it, but if he’s pushed too far, he might do something stupid and that’s just what Dufaux’s waiting for.”
“Why does he want Mr. Scribe taking opium?”
“Dufaux wants an addict. Addicts are easier to work with. They can be bribed with far less effort than a pony in their right mind.” A small smirk parted her dainty muzzle, “Mr. Scribe is a notoriously difficult pony to bribe, and I guarantee you his price would be more than what Dufaux could pay. So, he wants an easy access pass to the power and influence Mr. Scribe wields.”
Politics. Why’s everything in this stupid place about politics? Pinkie snorted, starting down the road again, “Great, so Mr. Scribe’s just another mob boss, huh?”
“No, Pinkie.” Keynote trotted alongside her despite the filth coating the street, “Mr. Scribe is an oddity here in Manehattan. Certainly ponies work for him when it suits their needs, but he never keeps permanent ties with any of them. He’s a one pony operation. There’s no friends or family, nor any other handles an enemy could get a grip on.”
Pinkie had listened to the speech with some interest. It made a lot of sense considering Mr. Scribe’s actions, but there was something about it that bugged her. Handles, huh? Her mind drifted back to her family and friends in Nickerlite, to their home and all they had accomplished together on the farm. By Keynote’s terms they’d be “handles,” but was that such a bad thing? Her mother was always saying that nopony could go through life alone. And yet, here was Mr. Scribe doing just that. “Lonely,” she murmured under her breath.
Keynote turned to her, “Did you say something, Pinkie?”
“No . . . nothing at all.”
Rory hated hearings. They had to be the most blatant waste of time known to pony kind. One had to sit or stand as the case may be for hours at a time listening to story after story specifically worded to garner the jury’s sympathy. However, sympathy only went so far. In the end it was fear that would win out, and fear was the very lifeblood of his father’s company. True to his irritating nature, Milo had upped the sympathy to a near noxious level.
Rory stood, listening to yet another story and giving yet another dry and rehearsed response. It was better that way, a trick he had picked up through months of legal headaches. All he had to do was buy time until the strings were pulled and the case abandoned. Today however, there would be no strings pulled, there was no need. They had already been pulled some time ago. Nopony in their right mind would vote against Scribe Incorporated on this project, a fact Milo Coltfax would know full well. Despite that, Rory had been forced to suffer through an hour and a half of sob stories with no apparent end in sight.
Generally he was intent upon the stories, they told a lot more than the surface pity party. It was a window, a window into Milo’s thought process and just who was siding with him. Once he found that, all he had to do was apply the necessary pressure to tear Milo’s support structure out from under him. But, as he listened to some elderly couple ramble about their “poor flower shop,” the words began to blur together.
His leg continued to shake as it had for the majority of the hearing. Recent projects and the new hours had taken away any opportunity he had to rest his leg, and it was now painfully swollen. It was nearly impossible to focus on anything but the overwhelming fog in his head. The courtroom had long since blurred together, and it was all he could do to listen to Prescott’s rant.
The wiry lawer was screaming at Milo in his usual theatrical manner. His jabbing arguments and unwillingness to back down made him the ideal lawyer, but he was far from an ideal pony. Every time he was hired, Rory would be forced to listen to him explain exactly what he had to say as per his father’s orders, as if he were too stupid to remember the protocol.
Prescott seemed to care less about Rory’s opinion on any given case or hearing, as he was loyal only to his father. Rory was sure the scum would have drunk his own piss if his father asked him to. That made convincing the brownoser to listen to reason nearly impossible. Today was no exception. Despite repeatedly telling him that he needed occasional breaks because of his leg, the pony had just kept going.
As he droned on, Rory began to feel genuinely sick. Before he knew how he got there, he had sunk to his knees, quivering. Dammit. Rory knew the consequences of showing his disability in public all too well, a fact his father pounded home whenever he so much as requested time to go to the doctor. Despite his continued efforts to rise, his legs simply wouldn't respond.
“Mr. Scribe?” Prescott’s venomous tone made his skin crawl. “Get up,” he hissed, jabbing a hoof into his ribs as if that would magically force him to his hooves.
Rory closed his eyes, unable to bring himself to explain the situation. It hurt and he was tired, so tired. Couldn't they see that? Just a little rest, then I’ll be fine. Just a little rest. A light, kind voice drifted into his ear, this time at his level. “Come on, you need to get up, can’t rest here.”
He felt himself being hoisted gently up and braced for the pain from his hoof taking on the weight, but it didn't come. Whoever had grabbed him was somehow keeping the weight off. Rory did not care who it was as long as they kept the pressure off his leg. Slowly, the pony guided him to the closest bench and allowed him to lie down. His vision was still blurred, but he could see outlines now at least. “Thanks,” he murmured, too tired to say much more.
“No problem,” the voice sounded oddly familiar, though Rory couldn't remember who it belonged to. “Sorry about that, I didn't realize how long we’d been going at it.”
Going at it? He shook his head, bringing the world slowly back into focus. His heart sunk when he realized who was standing in front of him. “Milo?”
“That’s right.” Milo’s lined face stretched into a broad smile. Rory never understood that about him. He had been his father’s nemesis for years, and yet he was always professionally polite to him in the courtroom and out. There was no doubt in Rory’s mind he was up to something, and he was not about to grow complacent over a few niceties. The powder blue unicorn leaned in closer, “Rory? Are you all right?”
Rory twitched. Nopony called him that save for his parents and apparently his imbecilic secretary. And yet, Milo always did, as if it would somehow make Rory trust him. All it really served to do was irritate him to no end. “I’m fine.” He tried to hide his shaking limb with his good one. “I don’t need the sympathy of some washed up old fool.”
Milo flinched, taking a step back. “Very well,” his tone became icy, “though I wonder who’s the real fool here.”
Before he could argue, Milo strode over to his tall, aging secretary and set off. Good riddance.
Rory grimaced when Prescott advanced towards him like an angry timber wolf. “What was with that display, Mr. Scribe? Do you have any idea how much headache you’ve caused the president with your little stunt?”
Stunt? I’d like to see how you’d react standing for an hour and a half on a bad leg. You tell me if you could avoid a little stunt or two. He knew better than to snap back, any words he said would be repeated to his father, best not to throw Prescott a bone. Closing his eyes, he rested his head across his good leg. Celestia he was tired.
“Are you listening to me?”
No, you halfwit and I’ll keep it that way. Though, the weasel had a point. He’d collapsed in front of an entire courtroom like some kind of fragile valley girl. No doubt that would make it into the papers. His father wouldn't let him hear the end of this one.
Rory could already play through the conversation. ‘You damned idiot! Do you realize how much your little screw up cost? I could replace you any minute, boy.’ It would go on like that for an hour, Storm declaring him a pity seeking whore. There would be no mention of the fact that it had been an accident, that it had been his father’s new hours that caused the problem in the first place. Oh, no, he could do no wrong. Rory gritted his teeth, blotting out the lawyer’s rant as he inevitably would do to Storm’s. There was no point in fighting back, not yet. For now, this was the way it would be until time or the inevitable gave him the opportunity he needed.