Just a short scene I've been working on for the past couple weeks. Comments are appreciated!

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A long, dreary yawn rolled out of the griffon’s beak like a thick fog rolling through the stone rotunda of the town’s library. Evander wasn’t concerned that some of the other patrons gave him accusatory glares as his talons danced lazily on the tabletop ‘tiptipitaptap’; sitting on a raised cushion seat in the middle of a sea of rotting pages, staring at all the wrinkled, squinting faces was not how Evander wanted to spend the afternoon.

As was his habit for the last few hours, his eyes wandered toward the old clock on the wall beside him, one of the few things worth looking at in the building. “Tick-tock, tick-tock,” it went, the pendulum swinging lazily from one end of its arc to the other, moving the hands to their current position: 2:45pm. Evander almost moaned at the thing for doing its job; he did not want to see that he had been sitting there for nearly two hours, plucking his feathers out of boredom waiting for Sinclair. He was just about to hop out of his seat and leave when the crisp tap, tap, tap of fine dress shoes on tile broke the silence of the shelves around him.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, Evander," said an aged man as he walked out from behind one of the tall bookcases. James Sinclair was healthy for a man his age, walking confidently across the stone tile floor without a limp or hobble. His broad shoulders and full, greyed beard lent to him an air of authority and respect that few of his fellow financiers came close to attaining. "I’ll try to make this quick, since I know you’ve probably got things to do.”

“Take all the time you need, sir. Just remember you’ve got a meeting with the mayor at five,” Evander replied bluntly as the banker took a seat across from him, his talons ending their noisy tabletop waltz. For Evander, everything was about timeliness and following a schedule, and any deviation from a planned event, whether intentional or not, ruffled his feathers… Which is why James Sinclair hired the griffon as his secretary in the first place: Evander kept Sinclair’s rampant tardiness within tolerable boundaries.

“You’ve met my daughter, Rebecca, haven’t you?” James asked, scratching his beard as he leaned back in his chair.

“Of course I have, sir. I let her in every day when she comes to visit you at your office,” Evander replied, cocking his head to the side like a confused dog at the question, “is there something wrong, sir?”

All of James’employees have at some point or another met Rebecca Sinclair, the charming red-headed young lady with sparkling green eyes that was his only child. Born, raised, and educated as an aristocrat, she had the same fiery spirit and headstrong attitude as her father, with a radiant beauty and charm that rivaled Aphrodite herself. Very few of the damoiseaux in town got close to her, and the ones who enjoyed the honor of spending an evening with her had their advances and offers of love flatly rejected and their hopes of marrying Ms. Sinclair veritably and completely eviscerated. Part of this was that Rebecca herself found a lot of men to be one of three things: prissy, overly-manly, or just plain boring. The other part of that equation was her father; James scarcely spoke about his daughter with the younger men in town, and only in passing with the older men whose sons would certainly be interested. For James to bring up Rebecca in a conversation of his own volition was exceptional.

At present, however, the old man merely chuckled at his secretary’s response.

“No, no, nothing is wrong,” the banker reassured before his face became more rigid and professional as if he were negotiating a hard loan, “however, before we go any further, I need to know something: do you like her?”

“Sir…?!” Evander’s beak hung agape as a sudden upwelling of confusion, embarrassment and shock flooded every corner of the griffon’s brain, as if James’ question had destroyed any capacity of response to the topic of his daughter. The feathers on the back of his neck stood at attention as he shuffled nervously in his seat.

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Evander. Don’t feel shamed into answering one way or the other,” James calmly stated, his professional glower easing into a more inviting visage as he leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table as he patiently waited for an answer.

“Well, sir…” Evander responded quietly, looking down at the table as if he expected its wooden surface to speak for him. The few times the griffon had spoken with Rebecca at length, he had found her intelligent beyond her mere twenty five years, and her wit sharper than any other woman he had met. He swallowed hard as he forced the words off of his tongue, “Yes… I like her a little bit. She is a charming young lady with a mind matched only by her beauty.”

For what seemed like an eternity, there was not a word between the two. The silence at the table was nigh absolute, save for the rhythmical “tick, tock, tick, tock” of the large clock and its pendulum. James’ brown eyes remained fixed on Evander; Evander’s eyes remained fixed on the table. Then a long, deep breath from James signaled the resumption of their conversation.

“Well, Evander, it looks like you’re going to have a change of schedule this evening,” James finally said, a smile creeping across his face as the griffon looked up at him with a perplexed look that made him chuckle, “You won’t be coming with me to this evening’s meeting with the mayor.”

“What?! Why?!” Evander demanded, but any remaining protest in him was reduced to a slight flaring of his wings and a cross glare as James reached across the table and patted his secretary on the head.

“Rebecca’s taking a stroll through town this evening and wanted to know if you would be available. She likes you, Evander, and wants to get to know you more,” James finally replied after a moment’s pause, scratching behind the griffon’s ears.

Evander’s glare softened a little as he took in what Sinclair had just said. There was, perhaps, even a quaint smile forming at the corners of his beak. For a few minutes, not a word passed between them, only the exchange of pensive, thoughtful looks. Without warning, Evander rose and hopped down from his seat.

“Where are you going, Evander?” James asked, rising out of his chair.

“Home, sir, to get ready for this evening!” Evander replied as he disappeared behind the bookcases. The old man chuckled at the response as the clock on the wall rang to signal the next hour: 3:00PM.