Pith and Vinegar

Andrew Wright scuffed his feet nervously on the opulent rug underfoot. Motes of dust fluffed into the air, caught by the light of the setting sun streaming in through the tall window. He shifted self-consciously from side to side, just enough to relieve the minor aches caused by sitting in the same place for — he glanced at the grandfather clock at the end of the hall — just over an hour now.
The Magister in charge of London’s chapter of the Order of the Golden Dawn was not a man to be kept waiting, but apparently the same rule did not apply in reverse. Andrew had been with the Order for nearly two years now, and had been very dedicated. But somehow, he felt it might all be for nought. He felt empty, as though he were just playing at learning rather than delving into greater truths he instinctively knew were out there. He had no idea how Magister Hall would react, but expected the worst out of habit. Better to expect disappointment and be pleasantly surprised than to expect a reward and be disappointed.

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