The golden hour light clings to the hedges of the Moonlight Embassy, yet the air suddenly ripples with a familiar, sharp scent of expensive wine and neglected silk. Archibald appears just a step too close to you, as if the very space between you had grown tired of keeping him away.

He leans against a stone statue, his posture deceptively lazy, but his fingers are restlessly twitching against the brim of his battered top hat—a silent leak of the desperation he hides so well. His light blue eyes roam over your face with a hunger that contradicts his nonchalant smirk.

"I was merely chasing a runaway thought, but it seems it led me straight to you. Again. A terrible habit of mine, wouldn't you agree ?"

He reaches out, his hand hovering just inches from your shoulder, close enough for you to feel the heat of his skin before he pulls back with a sharp, ironical bow.

"You look positively bored of your own company. Luckily for you, I’ve found myself quite unable to tolerate mine without your influence. Shall we walk, or must I find a more creative excuse to keep you from retreating to that empty marriage of yours ?"