A steady drizzle veiled the city the morning after the contract was signed.
The rain glistened on the pavements of Leicester Square, washing the colors of the neon lights into ghostly streaks. On the side of a cinema, the great poster for The Circus shimmered beneath the rain, its painted smile dissolving into a dreamlike haze.
Under a black umbrella, Shane Cassidy walked alone through the wet streets until he stopped before the glass door of a telegraph office. The rain traced long, trembling lines down the windowpane, blurring the reflection of passersby hurrying by in their coats and hats.
He removed his damp gloves and approached the counter. "A telegram form, please," he said softly.
The clerk handed him a pale yellow slip. Shane rested his pen against it for a long moment before beginning to write.
"Dear Mary,
It's raining in London today—it reminds me of that morning at Cork Harbour last year. It was raining then too."
The pen glided steadily over the paper.
"Do you remember the birthday shoes that gave you blisters? I told you to change them, but you only pouted and said, 'Big brother gave them to me—I must wear them.'"
A faint smile touched his lips. He reached into his inner pocket and withdrew a small velvet box. Inside, nestled in dark silk, lay a sapphire bracelet—the Starlight Melody. It gleamed softly under the dim lamps, as though capturing the very color of a clear Irish dawn.
"You said you wanted to be the best pianist in the world," he wrote, "so may this bracelet listen to your music when I cannot. Each note you play, it will hear for me.
When my work here is done, I'll return to New York to hear you play Moonlight again, just as we did in the attic."
He signed the telegram carefully:
"Happy Birthday, Little Firelight.
— Your brother, Shane.
London, April 11th."
He handed the telegram and the velvet box to the clerk.
"Please send this express," he instructed gently. "It must reach Brooklyn before the fifteenth."
The clerk nodded, copying the address onto the envelope:
Miss Mary Cassidy, 47 Ridge Bay, Brooklyn, New York.
Shane lingered at the doorway, watching the amber glow of the streetlamps flicker through the mist. He imagined his sister on the far side of the Atlantic, smiling as she touched the bracelet, her blue eyes bright with that same warmth he remembered.
The rain eased to a whisper. In the distance, the Savoy Hotel shone against the fog, its windows glowing gold. From the lobby drifted faint strains of piano music—perhaps Ivor Novello improvising again, or a guest testing a melody. The tune floated across the damp air, tender and wistful.
Shane did not look back. Somewhere beyond the river's curve, a ship's whistle sounded, low and haunting, like the closing line of a story.
Suite 506 smelled faintly of rain when he pushed open the oak door. The hinges creaked softly. He loosened his silk tie; his dark blue suit still carried the chill dampness of the London night.
Through the window, the lamps along the Thames flickered to life one by one, glowing like blurred halos in the mist. He stepped out onto the small balcony. The air was thick with the scent of the river—brine and wet stone mingling with the faint perfume of camellias from the Royal Botanic Gardens.
After a moment, he returned inside and seated himself at the gilded writing desk. His silver-grey waistcoat bore a small Pioneer Optics emblem on the breast. He drew a telegram form from his briefcase and smoothed it flat beneath the lamp's golden light.
Dipping his pen, he began:
"Mr. Henry Hill—
The London campaign is a complete success. The Circus has secured its European distribution rights, and the public response has exceeded all projections.
A three-year exclusive European agreement for the Three-Color Band technology has been finalized with Gaumont-British Picture Corporation.
Please instruct Klausser's engineering team to depart for London at once. A new project requires his supervision."
He paused. The words "German damper" circled in his mind. A recent Berlin paper had carried the headline:
"Opera House Acoustic Disaster—New Technology Sparks Panic."
The account described a soprano striking a high C when the hall suddenly shrieked with piercing feedback; pearls scattered across the floor as the audience fled in confusion.
Shane drew a thin line through the phrase, replacing it with: "Helmholtz resonator."
He recalled a recent debate at Cambridge. Professor Stokes—white beard trembling, glass of whiskey in hand—had slammed the table.
"Damn the damper! What you need is filtering, not suppression!"
A sketch of a resonant cavity flashed through Shane's memory. He wrote deliberately beneath the line:
"Using Stokes' modified parameters."
Then, after a brief hesitation, he added a postscript:
"Prince Albert has expressed interest in the Three-Color Band system. Consider donating a projector to Buckingham Palace's private cinema."
He signed simply: "—Shane."
A knock came at the door. Without glancing up, he said, "Come in."
A waiter entered to collect the telegram. Shane slid a sheet of blotting paper over the wet ink and handed it over. When the door closed again, he opened a drawer and withdrew a thick kraft folder. Inside lay three sheets stamped with the gilt letterhead of Pioneer Optics—each covered with dense wave diagrams and equations.
His fingertip brushed a faint coffee stain on one page, a relic of that heated exchange with Stokes in the Cambridge laboratory.
Moments later, Mikhail and William Catterson appeared at the doorway. Shane was sealing the folder with a drop of red wax. The brass seal left a perfect impression: PIONEER OPTICS.
"You'll remain in London," he told them. "Set up our local office and build an agent network. When Krause arrives, give him this."
He tapped the folder twice with his forefinger.
As Catterson's assistant accepted the file, the edge slipped, revealing a corner of the blueprint within—an intricate diagram of resonant curves. Shane's long fingers covered it in an instant.
When the room was quiet again, he looked toward the coffee table. Among the wilting white roses lay an ivory envelope, its gilt edges catching the light.
An invitation from Lady Diana Cooper's salon.
The date—April 16th—gleamed faintly in the lamplight.
Changed Klausser to Krause