The Q

by Beth Brower

“Arch.” Quincy slammed the contracts on his desk. “I read through these before I went to sleep last night and wasn’t pleased with something I found.” He looked from the contracts up to Quincy’s face, doing his best not to smile. “What?” she snarled as she sat down. She was in a tempestuous mood, as she had needed to fire a Q boy for theft. She hated firing Q boys. “It better be good or else I’ll hang you in the square.” Arch shrugged and flicked open his hand. “The image of you, sitting down for a cozy tête–à–tête with Q contracts just before bed—nightclothes, a cup of tea, slippers, smiling eagerly as you dive into the paperwork before you—it’s almost,” he paused for emphasis, “Dickensian.” She opened her mouth, halted, and then closed it. An image that shouldn’t have been funny, as Quincy had been doing it for years—without the slippers, obviously—suddenly seemed lined with humor because of how he had said it. Blasted Arch.