I knew the second I was assigned to his project that there would be trouble. I'd never worked closely with Daniel Sutcliffe and never wanted to. Of all the architects in our firm, he was the worst; not that he was lacking for talent, goodness knows he had that in spades, which was half the problem. But Daniel's issue was that he knew how good he was, and his standards were superhumanly exacting.
He'd been working for Maddock for almost twenty years and either felt the sting of a stalled career or a large sense of entitlement; at any rate, the chip on his shoulder was roughly the size of Texas. None of the junior architects or draftsmen liked him; behind his back we called him "the Dragon".
The venerable, elderly Mr. Maddock, of Maddock Architects, had assigned me personally to the restoration project, assuring me that although I was still relatively new to the firm he felt I was capable of handling the pressure, that and I was the only architect he knew under the age of forty who specialized in historical restoration and could draft by hand.
"Those new-fangled computer programs just boggle my mind," Mr. Maddock had teased, watching out the corner of his eye as I stood nervously in his office. "The client is anxious to have this property restored to original, historical condition as accurately as possible. She wants hand-drawn plans, so that's what we'll give her. You'll be working under Sutcliffe, but I want to you deal personally with the client as much as possible. Mrs. Kendall is a bit temperamental and demanding, but I just know she'll like you."
I tried my best not to look disappointed. Dragon Sutcliffe as a project partner
and
a bitchy client? Just what I freakin' needed. Still, I was aching to prove myself at Maddock Architects; their reputation was stellar, and simply getting hired was already a huge accomplishment in my fledgling architectural career. I didn't want to let the old man down. Smiling, I accepted my role in the project with as much grace as I could muster.
Back at my desk I leaned my head against my drafting table and tried not to cry. I could feel the panic rising in my belly already and I hadn't even started work. Around me the other junior architects went about their business, but couldn't hide their curious glances; I just couldn't bring myself to meet their inquiring eyes and see pity reflected back. I was still the new girl at Maddock and the only woman architect they'd ever had on staff; I wasn't going to show any more weakness than absolutely necessary.
A shadow fell across my drafting table, and looking up I saw Dragon Sutcliffe towering over me.
"You're Clara Kovacs?"
I nodded, my mouth suddenly too dry to speak. Around me the usual din and chatter of the junior architect bullpen died completely.
"My office, now." The Dragon walked away without even waiting to see if I followed.
Gathering up a pad of sketch paper and a few pencils I hurried after his retreating form, moving past the desks of my fellow junior architects without making eye contact.
The offices of Maddock Architects are located in an old industrial space; the lobby and reception areas are situated in the front of the building and lead into the central, open "bull pen" where my work area and those of the other underlings take up more than half of the building; along the deep mezzanine on the second floor are offices for the higher-ups, Daniel Sutcliffe being one of those. His office was in the east corner of the building where morning light filtered hazily through the original factory windows. I sat down uninvited in the chair directly across from the Dragon's desk and tried not to stare.
"What the hell kind of name is 'Kovacs' anyway?" He growled, looking up from the messy spread of papers on his desk and examining me with cold, grey-blue eyes.
"Hungarian." I replied automatically; it was a question I'd heard a million times.
"Born there?" The question was clipped, unfriendly.
I sighed, trying not to sound defensive. It was entirely possible he was trying to be nice, but somehow I doubted it. "Second generation. My father immigrated to Canada in the late-fifties."
Sutcliffe nodded curtly, and I couldn't help but get the impression he was giving me his permission for something; existing perhaps? Not knowing how to respond, I sat expectantly, pencil poised over a fresh piece of paper. The Dragon ran off a rapid list of jobs for me which I jotted down as quickly as my hands were able; he didn't stop for breath or to see if I was getting everything, he just arrogantly assumed that I did.
My mind was spinning when he dismissed me only minutes later and I stumbled back to my desk to make out more legible notes before I forgot everything he'd told me. I took deep, calming breaths, trying to remind myself that this project should be approached just the same as any other. Somehow, the Dragon had me so terrified I felt like falling to pieces. Sensing eyes on me, I looked up to find him watching me coldly from the balcony of the second floor.
Shit
, I thought, trying to keep my face calm and reveal nothing to him,
they don't pay me enough for this crap.
-------
Less than three weeks later and my work station was so crowded with photos, sketches, and notes that there was hardly room for my cup of tea. As awful as the first day had been, I was enjoying working on the project; Mrs. Kendall had bought the dilapidated old Victorian farmhouse with the intention of fixing it up and preserving it as a landmark. I'd spoken to her several times over the phone and despite her prickly exterior, found myself liking her very much; we shared the same concern for the preservation of historically significant architecture.
She'd already commended me on my passion and drive, and had encouraged me to spare no expense; it had been hard not to gasp out loud when she'd said those magic words. Every architect dreams of a project with an unlimited budget.
There was no denying that the house needed significant and expensive work. It had been lying uninhabited for more than ten years, and on first impression seemed little more than fodder for the wrecking ball. I'd driven myself out to the site one morning to explore what I could and found myself entranced. Sure, the house needed a lot of work, but the bones of the architecture were breathtakingly good.
The original woodwork was all still intact, everything from crown mouldings to a staircase so wonderful it took my breath away. Beneath the flaking layers of bad linoleum and mouldy carpets were hardwood floors in need of little more than refinishing. The plaster was damaged in a myriad of places, but the structure was sound and the fieldstone foundation practically perfect, astounding in a dilapidated house circa 1860. I'd snapped a whole lot of photos to take back to the office, even dropping off a second set of prints for the Dragon, who'd said nothing about my effort.
We hadn't had a project meeting since the first brief one, although I'd occasionally come in in the mornings to yellow sticky-notes of instructions written in Daniel's scrawling hand and stuck to my drafting table. But with these lists of tasks completed, I wasn't sure what the Dragon was intending for the next step.
I'd taken it upon myself to make a file of Mrs. Kendall's demands and to start a few basic sketches, nothing which could be called a definitive plan, but something which I felt gave me a jumping off point once Daniel did get around to speaking to me. I was working on just such a sketch, an exterior detail of the vergeboarding on the veranda, when the familiar shadow towered over my drafting table.
Looking up I mustered up a bright smile as Daniel loomed over me, a scowl on his face.
"What's this?" He asked bitingly, frowning at the half-completed drawing.
The hostility in his voice had me taken aback. I gestured towards the reference photos tacked around my drafting table. "Mrs. Kendall expressed an interest in seeing initial sketches of our ideas before we started on the working drawings, so I was just putting together a few things to show her."
"
Our
