Anselme glowered at the memo on his screen as if it were a personal slight against him. Opposite him, his new partner’s desk remained empty, as it apparently would for the remainder of the week. The golden branch branded his breast from where it sat enrobed in a fresh silk kerchief the colour of thistle. He could not unsee the way he had dented it the night before, and he could only hope its owner would not be so observant and have its every curve memorised. What could he say to excuse himself if she did notice? He would have…