My first instinct was a joke. It always is.
I had known Augustus Evans most of my life. I'd watched him walk into hostile negotiations, family dinners, and one memorable shareholder revolt without a flicker.
And here he sat, both hands clamped around a coffee he hadn't touched, looking uncertain.
"Augustus Evans, afraid of something?"
"It happens occasionally."
"Should I alert the financial markets?"
"I'd appreciate your discretion."
But his knuckles had gone pale, and the joke died on my tongue. I put it down carefully, like something that might break.
"Why do you think that?" I asked.
He took a moment. Asking him to explain a feeling was like asking him to read a language nobody had ever taught him.
"My father always knew what was expected of him," he said at last.
"Did he?"
"He certainly appeared to."
"Appearing certain isn't the same as being certain."
"I know that now."
