A man dressed all in black stood at the top of a tall building, holding onto a spire for support. His long, blue hair blew gently in the cold night’s breeze. “A cold wind is blowing,” he said forebodingly. He fought the urge to shiver and looked to the dark, westward sky. “It will be here soon.”
The sky’s white light intruded in Lord Chamberlain’s parlour through the open windows, sparing no corner in the room of the warmth the spring sun provided. An uncaring breeze strolled in through the windows, but relinquished any further destination when it came across a large wooden table, fit for no less than kings.
A blonde man, ethereal in stature, was wearing an honest smile when his butler intruded to announce that Lord Rupert Callaghan had arrived. He quickly rose from his seat and withdrew another for his long-time friend.
I woke up this morning to the blaring roars of police sirens. They were outside, not immediately outside my house, but somewhere in the city. Somewhere close enough to hear. Too close.