Turnbull, Thatcher; Arch To The Sky; G; 258 words.

By virtue of his administrative role, Turnbull was aware of the birthdays of the people he worked with. He kept private information private, of course; he was nothing if not trustworthy.

That didn't mean he wouldn't use it privately, however.

Openly gifting Inspector Thatcher with anything was a dubious prospect. The Inspector had an understandable wariness when it came to such things, and the one time Turnbull had sent her flowers anonymously had backfired spectacularly, given attentions from other quarters. Still; on her birthday, he would try.

His art group was useful for more than the occupation of his off-time, occasionally, and the chance to work in other artistic mediums when it came could be quite stimulating. One gentleman had experience in jewelry-making; a delicate discipline, the closest to which Turnbull had ever gotten being childhood grassweaving. He had been grateful to expand the area of experience.

The hair slide was very pretty, if he did say so himself.

It was made of delicate silver wire, wound in a conservative curve and spot-welded in more silver to the slide frame.

There was a precise kind of satisfaction to having seen it come together, and another sort to having wrapped it. Thatcher could be unforgiving of jaunts into her office while she was not present, but he left it on her desk as he cleaned. Unsigned. Anonymous.

He wasn't there for her reaction, and neither did he see her wear the gift, but several days later he found a prim thank you note upon his desk and smiled.