Good lord. Was this woman wearing dress robes? In Muggle London? It was a good thing she was a woman, and it just looked like a kind of eccentric dress. Still. He hoped she hadn’t apparated into his reception area. His secretary was long-suffering, but surely that would have given her a shock. He tried to remember if he had mentioned that this was a Muggle area in his letter. Possibly not. But among Wizards, it was fairly well known where the magical hotspots were. It was clear that she had not been in England very long, which made Nigel wonder what Nat was thinking. Did he really marry someone he had only known a short time? He knew that Nat had not been in America while he was off dragoning, or whatever he had been doing. And this girl was definitely not Australian. She sounded Deep South American. This was a Carrow?

His eyebrow rose a bit as she stumbled over herself, clearly forgetting that she was now ‘Mrs. Warwick’ and should respond to that name. He was using an alternate form of his name, and he didn’t bat an eyelash at being addressed by it. Clearly, she was not as used to lying or impersonating someone else as he was. Hmm. Even if this was Caitlin in polyjuice disguise (which he knew from experience that Nat was proficient in brewing), she would not have stumbled over being addressed as Mrs. Warwick. He was pretty sure she had written it in her schoolbooks a million times a couple of years ago. Also, her face was not that pleasant. Even with a different set of features, she would still not have been able to maintain an expression of cheerfulness and… pleasance.

Nigel looked at her hand for a moment before finally taking it. He wasn’t really a hand-shaker. After all, who knew where this strangers’ hands had been? Presumably on Nat. Hmm. “I am he,” he responded. “Can I get you some tea before we discuss business?” he offered, moving around to his little tea area. Taking advantage of his vacated seat, a sleek cream-coloured cat jumped up and settled himself into it, defying Nigel’s repeated commands as only a feline could. He returned with a gleaming silver teapot on a silver tray and some delicate china cups. “I also have mineral water, if you prefer. Carty, get out of here.” The last bit was directed at the cat, who was summarily ejected from the chair to make way for Nigel’s backside.

“Now,” he said, scooting a single sheet of paper across his desk to rest in front of him. On it were some precise, handwritten notes in a clean, neat script. He glanced at it, even though he knew exactly what was on it. It was a pretense. “There may be an opening for a singer at our upcoming event for Valentine’s Day. Should you be selected, you would be asked to perform a set of songs, probably ballads as it’s Valentine’s Day, for perhaps an hour. Probably broken up into two half-hour segments. It is an event for charity, so you would not be paid an exorbitant rate, but you can negotiate your fee later. Do you have a CV on you?” he asked, looking at her expectantly.