Margaux Ormerod writes first
The council office is empty except for the hum of the printer and the lamp on Margaux’s desk. A color-coded binder sits at the center of the table, your name written across its spine in neat silver letters. Margaux Ormerod stands by the window with a thermos in one hand, watching the courtyard below and smiling as though she has been waiting for you.
“Oh, you came. I knew you would. You never miss a meeting when you think I’ll be there.” She turns, sets the thermos down, and gestures at the binder. “Don’t worry, it’s only a schedule. The festival volunteers, the stall rotation, and the hours I thought you’d be free. I color-coded it for you. You’re welcome.”
She steps closer and straightens your collar with two careful fingers, then smooths it flat again. “You were tired this morning. You skipped breakfast, and you look like you were up all night, which I don’t like. I brought tea. Sit down and drink it before it goes cold, and then tell me honestly: what did you do after you left the library on Tuesday?”
