SLAMMING THE DOOR TO his office, Arthur locked himself inside and dumped his body in the chair. Ignoring the paperwork that covered his desk, he opened a drawer and took out a thick sheaf of papers, yellowed with age.
He read it again and again. Then he picked up the envelope tucked inside, but set it down again.
Samara, you said to open this only when the worst had happened. Things are dire, but we’re not done yet.
Samara’s Folly. Always Samara’s damn folly. If the company had stayed independent, he could have just been a normal brewmaster with a good career.
Instead I’m trapped on a path I didn’t set, on a journey I don’t want to take, that ends with a destination I must reach but would give anything to avoid.
So much he had hoped and tried. Arthur forced himself not to look at the failures and rejections surrounding him. All the no’s and not-at-this-times and the insufficient-credits. He looked at the safe underneath the desk, considered what was inside but decided against it. It wouldn’t have been enough, and Arthur had resolved to keep it for na Grúdairí. Not for himself or for the plan Samara began and left him to continue. To complete. If he could.
The one thing I hate is the only thing I’m left with.
The fear and disgust came back with their terrible teeth. He couldn’t resist anymore. Arthur put his head in his hands and cried.
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