The hackney left her on the corner of Meander and Doresse, just a block before the beginning of the newer wealthy neighborhoods at the outer limits of Amanthus. The office building in front of her was an imposing granite structure built with classical lines. It towered, making Zan feel like a gaunt shadow in her second-best mourning dress begging for alms. The neighboring buildings were as austere and the surrounding street was swept clean so that it appeared that the rot of Old Amanthus touched it not at all. Resolutely, she squared her shoulders and ascended the front stairs and rapped on the door.
A blank-faced woman with grayed haired answered the door and took in her black attire with matching veil and knitted reticule without comment. “Your business, ma’am?”
“I’m Miss Zan Hu. I have an appointment with Mr. Naupolis.”
The woman nodded and opened the door wide to admit her into the foyer. As she closed the door, she indicated for Zan to take a seat on a wine-red couch pushed flush to the green wallpapered wall. “Mr. Naupolis will see you in a moment.”
As the woman plodded down the hallway to inform the solicitor of her arrival, Zan stared through the doorway across from her seat. She had been to this office building once before when she had reached her majority. Then, it had been to set up her own account and to confer with Mr. Naupolis about how her business affairs would be handled. Then, she had to give some information to the secretary—a swarthy dark man with a thick mustache and a bright pink colored vest—sitting on that outer room and he had noted it in a large black ledger with gilt edges.
Today, the secretary sat at his desk using one of those new machines, a typewriter. Every time the man struck a letter, there was a grating metal slap against the paper that had been fed on the other end. Every so often, there was a loud ping and the secretary reached over to shove the carriage into a new line. Taken separately, it could have been annoying, but Zan found the regularity of the harsh noise remarkably soothing.
“Miss Hu?”
She stood up at the sight of a barrel-chested man strolling down the hallway. Mr. Naupolis had a ruddy complexion and thinning hair parted meticulously to cover the bald spot. His checkered violet and navy waistcoat was impeccably pleated although it showed signs of strain from his expanding waistline, and a shiny gold watch chain dangled from his pocket. A puffy white cravat decorated his throat—no doubt tied by a highly trained valet from the Continent. Certainly, this solicitor and lawyer had looked after his investments wisely. And his plump cheeks showed that he was well fed.
Zan shook his hand briefly. “Mr. Naupolis. You mentioned that there were still details from my uncle’s estate that still need settled?”
“A few details, yes. But nothing serious, I assure you. I would think that we shall be done with all the papers in half-an-hour or so. No more than an hour. In time for brunch, I should say.”
“Brunch?” Zan remembered the two slices of buttered toast and a cup of oolong tea she had consumed just prior to getting out of the house to summon a hackney to his office on Doresse Road. “Did you not have breakfast today, Mr. Naupolis?”
The solicitor gave a chuckle as he directed her down the hallway to his lushly furnished office. “As a matter of fact, I did. My wife, however, is holding one of her brunches for her late rising friends today and she has insisted that I attend.”
She gave a small smile. “And you oblige her.”
“Of course! The woman would have my hide if I didn’t follow her commands. Takes after her mother, dear God.”
“Hopefully, then, we shall not tarry with my uncle’s estate details.”
“It will not take long in any way. Have a seat Miss Hu. I have all the papers here in a file.”
Zan sat down in a plain high backed chair facing Mr. Naupolis across a wide mahogany desk. He opened a cream colored envelope and slid several papers and a fountain pen to her. Quickly, she scanned the documents and nodded. “This is the official transfer of my uncle’s property to me?”
“Yes. It includes the house on 42 Warden Street, his bank accounts, and his stocks and bonds. The second sheet includes his material assets which includes the furniture and such things. His research, however, has been written off to the Museum.”
She suddenly looked up as the crumpled Museum stationary from the previous night loomed in her mind. “The Museum? What sort of research?”
“Your things will remain yours,” Mr. Naupolis assured her quickly, “but your uncle drew up an agreement about a month ago to let the Museum archive his inventions and his research notes starting from the past year.”
“Do you have that agreement on hand? May I see it?”
“Yes, it’s here somewhere,” the solicitor said, as he turned to rummage in a nearby file cabinet. “But it is all legally binding. I was there when your uncle and the Museum director signed the papers. Ah! Here it is.” He handed her a piece of thick paper.
She narrowed her eyes as she read the legal jargon. Indeed, what Mr. Naupolis had said was true. And the signature at the bottom was certainly her uncle’s signature. A bit of anger and disbelief pushed her to cry out, but she ruthlessly stifled it as she bit the inside of her cheek. “So it is,” she said finally, handing the document back to Mr. Naupolis. “I was not aware of this agreement. Strange thing that Uncle Elliot didn’t tell me.”
“Perhaps he meant to tell you but it slipped his mind. Your uncle was a genius. And he certainly had other more important things to think about.”
But this was important, she silently argued. It was his work, for crying out loud, and someone had somehow convinced him to archive it. Instead, she replied, “Perhaps so. Do I sign at the bottom?”
“Yes.”
As Zan scratched out her signature to the bottom of the documents authorizing her ownership to her home and her uncle’s monetary assets—or what was left of those at any rate—Mr. Naupolis put Elliot’s agreement with the Museum back into the filing cabinet and pulled out a manila envelope. He handed this to her as she pushed the signed documents back in his direction.
“Your uncle also wanted you to have that.”
She untucked the envelope flap and took out a remarkably heavy iron key the length of her index finger. On the inside of the flap was an address. 3 Merrill Street. Box No. 802. “Three Merrill Street,” she repeated. “The National Bank. I wonder what this is to.”
The solicitor shrugged. “No doubt, someone at the National Bank would know. That is all that I have for you today.”
She nodded as she tucked the envelope with the key into her reticule. “Thank you very much, Mr. Naupolis. I hope you will manage to enjoy yourself at your wife’s brunch.”
He gave her a warm smile as he shook her hand. “And even if I don’t, at least the cook will outdo herself at the occasion. Nothing like a full stomach to erase all your cares away.”
