“I am much obliged to you,” he said. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. If you do not find your aunt, my people will take you under wing until you can stand on your own. She could feel his eyes surreptiously scanning her backside. Once a thriving town before the Pestilence, most of the buildings and the piers had been destroyed or burned. Ennison’s signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. “Are you in the Service?” She asked him. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the stream towards the enemy. “Do you mind very much?” He shook his head. “I may go to Hatton House later, but you needn’t wait. I shouldn't care to express an opinion.
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