4135.246 · September 3, 1815 AD
Where Wolves Gather
The hallway swallows them in warmth and light. William's name is announced to a room full of faces that turn to assess him—curious, evaluating, finding him wanting or worthy in ways he cannot yet read. Sir William Harding's handshake is firm but not aggressive. Henry Bradshaw's questions cut closer than comfort allows. Douglas Fitzpatrick watches from the fire like a weathered predator deciding whether to strike. And then the Lieutenant Governor arrives, and everything changes.
Bradshaw doesn't bother with pleasantries. He wants to know what William is hiding. When William pushes back—Every man hides something; the question is whether what he hides matters more than what he shows—something shifts in the merchant's expression. Grudging respect, perhaps. Or the recognition of a worthy opponent.
Fitzpatrick is gruffer still. He doesn't care about manners or diplomacy. He cares whether William can back up his confidence with substance. When William speaks about wool transport and infrastructure, the old man's pale eyes sharpen with interest.
And then Thomas Davey enters like a storm.
The Lieutenant Governor is nothing like William expected—unkempt, apparently drunk, deliberately provocative. He targets William immediately: fresh blood, clothes that don't fit, running from something back home. The questions circle too close to truths William cannot afford to reveal.
The colony doesn't care about effort, Davey says. It cares about results. And results require a certain flexibility that polite society prefers not to acknowledge.
Elizabeth Harding appears with brandy and deflects the chaos with practised grace.
The evening, William realises, is only beginning.
