London wore its winter austerity like bespoke tailoring this year. No sooner had November timidly arrived than pewter skies commenced their ballet of errant snowflakes.
_Quite right,_ Rose mused with characteristic British understatement. _Hardly weather for gillyflowers when facing one's former beau._
Emerging from the Jaguar XJ, she cradled the A4 document box like Excalibur's scabbard. The door thunked shut with satisfying finality as she navigated the labyrinthine corridors of The Ting Club's members' wing.
There he stood, backlit by the club's Georgian sash windows - Jack in that infernally familiar cable-knit jumper, looking for all the world like he'd stepped out of a Burberry heritage advertisement.
—Bloody marvelous, how the man could radiate hearthside warmth while being colder than a banker's handshake.
"Been ages," Jack ventured, that Etonian drawl smoothing the edges like single malt.
Rose advanced with Waterloo Station commuter efficiency. His Adam's apple bobbed a futile protest. "Shall I ring for some Darjeeling—"
"Come to return your artifacts."
The archival box met mahogany with the precision of a Chancery Court filing. Their ending five years prior had been less "conscious uncoupling" and more Tube strike - abrupt, inconvenient, leaving loose ends dangling like Underground passengers.
Jack's gaze drifted to the tartan-ribboned parcel. Within lay the ghostly detritus of their shared history - Smythson diaries filled with unkept promises, that absurdly expensive Chelsea boots gift certificate, the dog-eared copy of _Atonement_ she'd never returned.
"About the circumstances..."