“A while,” he said flippantly. “A little while.”

Tristan understood and nodded. He leaned forward and added some more milk to his tea while he thought. Then he sat back. "Let me check your heart." He stood up and moved to the table, opened his bag. But he took his time looking for his stethoscope and casually nodded at the newspaper as if he had only seen it now. "And absolute disgrace, that arrest of Oscar Wilde," he commented.

Listen to his heart? Hashem, Hashem! Calming thoughts. Calming thoughts. Uriel’s marriage falling apart. That pushover Crane being in charge again.

God, Uriel could have all the illegitimate redheaded mutton he wanted if England just ceased its march on Zechariah’s kind.

His leg was shaking under the table. He propped a foot on his knee.

“Bad precedent for future justice-seekers,” Zechariah said, examining his nails.

He could see crescents of white growing in.

"A reversal of justice," he muttered. He took his stethoscope from his bag and moved to Zech's side. "If you'd just unbutton your waistcoat please," he asked, putting the plugs into his ears.

For the first time, Zechariah actually looked at Dr. Wells. What was his first name? What were his thoughts? What did he read? Did he read Oscar Wilde … or did he sympathize for other reasons?

He feared he was the only mandrake left in Whitby ever since the trial. Zechariah watched him from the corners of his eyes, weighing the pros, the cons, the pointlessness of renting a nice cabin just to keep pretending he was the same man who graced the courtrooms. Was this one handsome enough to die over were he wrong?

“I expect good wine and better weather for that.”

Apparently.

His hand swept out to snatch the diaphragm of the stethoscope, dragging his thumb loudly across it.

“Where were you, when you heard the news?”

"For wha-," there was no time to finish. Tristan quickly pulled the stethoscope from his ears and couldn't stop a soft curse from escaping his lips as the noise still rang in his ears. "What on earth are you doing!?"

Did he feel a teeny, tiny, thrill of power when this man with the authority and carte blanche to tell him to undress pulled the earpieces out as if Zechariah had burned him?

No. He felt alive again.

Zechariah rose from his seat, hands clasped behind his back. Dr. Wells was a tall man. He rested his hand on the small of the doctor’s back, gesturing down the hall to where he intended to guide him.

“The drawing room gets a much better view,” he said, pleasantly, as if he had not just launched a crude come-on and then shocked him with his own equipment. “Or we could take this conversation to the wine cellar.”

Tristan was thoroughly confused, and no small degree irritated. He didn't know what to make of this sudden change, but he knew that the man had just tried to damage his hearing and so whatever else he had in store couldn't be good. He could just go home and sulk on his own. Then he thought of actually going home and sulking on his own.

He grabbed his bag from the table but left his hat, and let Mr. Meijer guide him along. "The drawing room will do," he said, trying to sound composed and professional. "Mr. Meijer, is there still something I can help you with? If so, tell me."

“I have champagne,” he offhandedly – flirtatiously? – urged, though hardly gave Dr. Wells time to reconsider said offer.

As soon as the doctor’s hand was on his briefcase, Zechariah was using his arm against his back like a rider might drive a horse with their thigh. Even with his compliance, he only dropped his arm once the door was steps away.

He was not so confident he was right about Dr. Wells or his sympathies by the time he actually got him to the drawing room, but he was in too deep to walk it back entirely.

Zechariah gestured him to a lush couch (he had never lured Claude back far enough to justify vandalizing these) and took an upholstered seat across from it. He propped his feet on the ottoman by it.

“Yes,” he said firmly, elbows on his knees as he pressed his hands before himself. “Yes, there is. Give me your professional opinion: is Mr. Wilde guilty of the crimes he is accused of?”

Either this man was losing his mind, or... Tristan was very aware of the forceful arm on his back. Yet he complied and sat down on the indicated couch, crossing his legs and leaning back into it to feign composure.

And at last there was the revelation of what this really was about - hardly a revelation anymore. With that in mind, Tristan couldn't help considering him for a moment. If one imagined away the orange suit and stubble, Mr. Meijer was handsome. He was also his client.

And potentially mad.

"Unless Mr. Wilde has forced himself on anyone, man or woman, I see no guilt and no crime, whatever the law may say," Tristan commented. "And I do not see how what he does or doesn't do privately should be of interest to the state, or the public, or me." Oh but he was interested.