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To Master James O'Neill, morning Saturday 17th

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The letter arrived written on creamy parchment. It was relatively brief, without the flowery language many associated with courtly missives, and written in a rounded, backwards-sloping hand that suggested a left-handed writer who didn't undertake the activity more than was strictly necessary. 


To Master James O'Neill,

I greatly enjoyed our meeting in the book store, and would appreciate your company again. I'm going to have dinner at the White this evening if you'd like to join me. I hear they set an excellent table. Their other offerings are entirely at your discretion.

Yours in Service,

Douglas FitzJames, Baron Dundarg

The Hen's toes did a perfectly fine meal, but Douglas felt like treating himself. Both to the White's fine catering, and to their other services as well. He would have been out all afternoon with three young women, and the knowledge that he could slake any possible frustration afterwards was a good insurance policy. He wondered whether the White had a blonde or a red-head. Plus he wanted to know how things had gone with Lily, and let James know what he had found out about the family. 

Edited by Douglas FitzJames
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James had only recently awoken by the time the letter from FitzJames had arrived - having slept in not as a matter of laziness or even catching up on sleep, for a scant five and a half hours had been the sum total of his tithe to Morpheus. Instead, he had accomplished overnight something of two minor miracles. Nosy old Fergal had been convinced (momentarily) to back down and know his place as a servant, leaving James to write uninterrupted, which in turn had resulted in a divinely-inspired frenzy of an epic.

Having found the letter on the desk whilst Fergal mucked about with a light tray of food and a cup of black tea (the manservant knew his master's phases well enough to know when coffee would be unnecessary), James grinned as he saw the name behind the chicken-scratch, and immediately penned a reply. Fergal would be tasked with bringing it to a servant who could locate Douglas, and then "staying out of my bloody hair until tomorrow, thank-you-very-much".

His own handwriting was not quite neat, but rather the practiced scrawl of one who needed his writing readable to publishers and lovers, but who also wrote in such a volume that taking his time was an impossibility. It was also distinctly less formal than Douglas's own address. James was quick to discard with formality and etiquette when he liked someone, particularly one that he viewed as roughly equal in  status.




It pleases me to no end that you hadn't forgotten our meeting the other day...although it couldn't possibly have anything to do with my offer to buy you a drink the other day, to be sure!

In all seriousness, my newfound friend, the White is indeed a fine establishment and I would be glad of your company.  Shall we say seven o'clock? That will afford me enough time to discharge my duties to His Grace the Duke of Ormonde today.

In friendship, service, and most importantly, anticipation,

James O'Neill


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