ElizaWyatt

In which we meet two men of dubious character. Two men cut across a patchwork field of mud and snow, dead reeds as stiff as sticks snapping under their feet. Faster this way, Maxwell had said, and the next moment crushed a wild tulip through the bud with the tip of his heavy cane with an altogether unnecessary force. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon before him. Maxwell Gallows carried a cracked leather pack of his favorite tools in his left hand. His gentleman’s gloves had once been white. Now hard use had stained the palms and fingertips charcoal gray. He was past middle age and gaunt, his coloring bad, dark circles under his eyes. Ur...