The Master / Harold Saxon

He smells the time on her the moment she walks through the door, as though she'd walked in drenched in perfume. Not a fact, not a fixed point, but still a tulip in a weed patch. He watches, waits until she's almost out of whatever she's drinking, then shows up with another with perfect timing, on a tray.

"Last I heard, it didn't look like rain. You expecting trouble, little lady?"