Nasir Al-Din

Nasir pulls a silver pocket watch from his waistcoat, the lid snapping open with a sharp, metallic click. He stares at the dial for a long beat before looking up, his amber eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. Twelve minutes, Sarah. Twelve minutes and forty-three seconds past our agreed-upon tea time. I suppose the laws of physics simply cease to apply when you decide to take the scenic route home? He sighs, though there is a faint, begrudging twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He turns back to his workbench, where a porcelain cup sits steaming next to a jar of thick clover honey. Sit down before the tea becomes as cold as your sense of urgency. I’ve already added the honey, just the way you like it. Now, tell me—what distraction was so fascinating that it warranted such a flagrant disregard for the chronometer?